Defending Pacer - Hamilton T. J. - Страница 5

“Bail remains granted, all conditions to continue as listed, with the addition of Mr Fratelli to report to police, daily. An ankle monitor is to be fitted within twenty-four hours. Hearing adjourned until July the twenty-fourth. A new QC is to be appointed to the prosecution for this case. That is all.”

Two loud thumps from the judge’s gavel sees the first hurdle over with. Pacer is still out of prison. I gather all the paperwork that’s spread across the bench in one swoop and shove it into my brown leather bag. I’m more excited than I should be about telling Pacer the good news. Both Jackson and I wait standing while Judge Nolan exits the courtroom. We both bow to the code of arms above the judge’s chair as he leaves.

The moment the magistrate’s little door is shut, I make a dash for the exit at the back of the room but am stopped when Jackson catches my arm. “What do you think you’re playing at, Chelsea?” His eyes are wide and wild. “You think you’re some hot shot now that you’ve got these pieces of shit bank-rolling your income? You are running with the wrong bulls, girl.” His grip slightly loosens and he shakes his head. “It’s a shame. I thought you were a good girl. Guess I was wrong.”

I pull my arm from his grip and stare into his brown eyes. He would be handsome, if I didn’t know him. His jaw is wide and sharp, and his features are similar to Matt Damon’s—all clean-cut and respectable looking. But he’s a dirty player, both in the courtroom and out.

“This is work, Jackson. Do I need to remind you of that again? You’re losing your grip. Ever since your car bomb scare, you’re hell-bent on putting the Legano’s and everyone associated with them behind bars.”

“Because they are all criminals, Chels.” He says my name through gritted teeth.

“Let’s leave that up to the courts to decide.” I continue towards the door without so much as a glance behind me.

“I really thought more of you. You had so much to offer back in university.” I hear him call just as the door swings shut.

I know you thought more of me, asshole. You told me every time you’ve been drunk, and tried hitting on me … since university.

Scratching at my hair through my barrister wig, I pull my phone from my purse and scroll through it to find Pacer’s newly added number. Stupid, itchy horse hair wig. The damn thing always itches the hell out of me. Our courts have such annoying traditions.

CHELSEA: Mr Fratelli, I have some good and bad news. Meet me at my office in half an hour? – Chelsea Tanner.

PACER: Busy with my ma until noon. How about I meet you at my Uncle’s restaurant on Stanley Street? We can eat some good Italian food while you give me the news.

I smile at the message. Why am I smiling? This is business. I write the reply and close my eyes while I press send.

CHELSEA: I know the place. See you there at noon. –Chelsea Tanner

PACER: You don’t need to keep reminding me who’s sending the message Chelsea

Still smiling, I put my phone in my bag as it buzzes again.

PACER: And please call me Pacer.

Stop smiling. You’re a professional barrister –Chelsea Tanner.

***

As I walk into the restaurant, a short, typically olive-skinned Italian man in a chef’s uniform comes out from behind the bar. His smile is both warm and welcoming; his arms open wider than the Christ the Redeemer statue in Brazil, ready to greet me.

He leans in and kisses me twice, once on each cheek. I always forget Italians do this, so the second kiss is awkwardly stuttered as usual.

“You must be young Pacer’s new lawyer, eh?”

I look around the empty restaurant and nod bashfully, the heat of my embarrassment about to take over my cheeks.

“He said a beautiful blonde would be coming in at noon to see him. You’re cosi bella and it’s noon on the dot.” He winks. “Bravo. Very efficient.”

The jovial presence of the tubby man quickly rubs off on me and my tense shoulders relax a little. The idea of seeing a client outside the office has me unusually wound up. It’s not the first time I’ve had a meeting with a client at a restaurant, but there’s never been the added feeling of God-knows-what that’s currently rolling around inside me. The amount of times I’ve masturbated over Pacer since our initial consult over two weeks ago is a new record for me. The images of his tattoo-covered body have been perfect for my spank-bank material. I try my hardest not to allow the heat of my silent obsession spill out over my cheeks. This is the first time I’ve seen him since then, so I don’t know how cool I can really play this.

Pacer has similar features to his high-profile Uncle, however unlike Pacer’s lack of care when it comes to his criminal vocation, his Uncle now claims to be out of the game, quietly running the restaurant.

“I’m Carlo, Pacer’s Uncle.” He smiles as he directs us out of the main room and down the stairs that lead to the cellar.

The restaurant is renowned for having part of its dining in the old cellar down below. Dust particles rest upon some of the older, more expensive wines within the extensive collection. The cellar is like a rabbit warren of rooms with white-clothed tables and walls of wine bottles.

“Okay. Set it up. I have to go.” I hear Pacer’s voice before I see him.

He throws his mobile phone on the table in front of him and grins wide when he sees me. He’s impeccably dressed. This I can work with in the courtroom—not that he wasn’t poorly dressed before, but ripped jeans are not a great look during a trial. Now this … this is exceptional. Shirt and tie, coat hung over one of the seats. His sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, enough for me to see the writing down one arm and a cross on the other. An image of a scorpion is tattooed on his right hand, the sight of it reminding me that I need to confirm the story why he has it. The rumours aren’t good. He needs to cover his tattoos in court, but right now I’m okay with this view. His hair is perfectly rolled to one side, as if he’s just stepped out of the barbershop.

The rolling thunder that’s replaced my heartbeat makes my head feel light. My fingertips tingle as I reach out to shake Pacer’s hand, pulling off professionalism as best as I can. Pacer, on the other hand, leans in and pulls me to him, kissing me on either cheek. The sensation of his rough, stubbled skin against me almost gives me cause to start panting like a bitch in heat.

“Well a warrant hasn’t been issued for my arrest, so I can only assume the hearing this morning was a success?”

His hot breath blows past my ear as he speaks. I straighten up and smile weakly, ignoring what that actually felt like. My ability to speak, however, still hasn’t connected my mouth with my brain.

“Zio Carlo, could you bring me out one of my special bottles of red from the back?”

“Sure thing. Here. Let me take your coat.” Carlo reaches out and I slide my thick woollen coat off. I smile and wonder why he didn’t take Pacer’s jacket like this. Must be because he’s family.

Pacer waves off Uncle Carlo and pulls out a seat for me to sit.

Old school chivalry.

I clear my throat. “I can’t drink anything. Sorry, Pacer. I have to get back to the office after this,” I smile politely. “But by all means, enjoy a glass for yourself. We have some changes to your bail restrictions to discuss.”

The usual hard stare has softened to disappointment. I feel a pinch of guilt. With any one else I would agree to a glass of wine, but with Pacer, I just don’t trust myself. Not with the unwanted God-knows-what feelings I have.

“I won’t take no for an answer, Chelsea. My freedom is something to be celebrated. I want to enjoy it while I still have it. So you’re having at least one drink with me.”

Nodding before I regret it altogether, I give in far more easily than I usually would. None of that was a question. It was a demand. And being ordered around by him is kind of hot.