“Uh huh. Mr. Pierce, what do you have to say?” the judge asked.

“Your Honor, nobody discards twenty-seven HD flat screen TVs.”

“You know, Mr. Pierce, I'm inclined to agree. All charges held for trial.” Judge Channing banged his gavel and Tiny was escorted away by two rather wary-looking deputies. I was fairly sure Tiny wasn't anybody's bitch in the jail. I headed back to the defense table again.

“You were right. That was pretty good,” Mr. Pierce said, handing me the order again. His hand brushed against mine this time and I jumped like I had just stuck my finger in a socket. He looked at me like I might be really be dangerous after all. Nice, Gabrielle – very subtle.

“I predict that I'll be breaking out the 'right to a trial defense’ again,” I said, trying to not act any weirder than I already was.

“You don't think he'll be willing to plead guilty?”

“Probably not. He firmly believes that claiming to be a complete idiot will get him off.”

“You're very funny,” he said, leaning against the defense table right next to me again.

“Mr. Pierce, in my line of work, one either laughs or cries and I would rather laugh.” Oh Jesus H. Christ! I sounded like a country western song.

“You can call me Braden.” He was looking at me kind of intently like he was curious to see how I would react. I felt my cheeks getting warmer and my heart started pounding like a drummer on speed. I was starting to wonder if I had high blood pressure or something. This couldn't be normal.

“You can call me Gabrielle then,” I said, staring directly into those incredible blue eyes and hoping that my face didn't look as pink as it felt. We were only inches away from each other and I could feel the heat from his body. I was looking up at him and he was looking down at me and I felt that tension there again, but just then the judge called out.

“Mr. Pierce, I hate to break up your conversation with Ms. Ginsberg but we need a prosecutor to be involved in this prosecution.” I looked over at the bench and saw that there was already another case waiting.

“Goodbye, Gabrielle,” he said with a smile. Why did my name sound so damned sexy when he said it? I placed my wheeling briefcase full of files on the floor. My toned muscles didn't just come from walking everywhere. I could probably bench-press a Buick.

“Goodbye, Braden,” I muttered and made my escape.

* * *

It was Friday and I wouldn't get to see him again for at least two days. I headed back to my office, probably the only one of the two hundred plus attorneys who worked there who wasn't thrilled that the weekend had finally arrived. I contemplated my plans for the next day. I could rearrange the kitchen cupboards, maybe catch a matinee, slit my wrists. The possibilities were endless. Jess was already at her desk when I got back and I unpacked my files as I thought more about my little exchange with Mr. Pierce — Braden.

“Mr. Pierce told me to call him by his first name and he also told me that I was funny.”

“Oh really?” she asked, spinning around in her chair and sounding diabolically intrigued like some evil genius in a James Bond movie. “So admit it, maybe I was right.” She had the “I told you so” look written all over her face.

“I don't want to hear it until I have some proof. Thanks to you planting your dubious theories in my head, I've gone from just lusting for him to pining for him too. I'm like Pepe Le Pew on Acid every time he gets near me now,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“We could go out to O'Malley's with the other public defenders later,” she suggested. “A lot of prosecutors go too on Fridays. Maybe he'll be there.”

“And what then? I can gaze at him from afar over a pitcher of beer?”

“You can flirt with him. Maybe you could get something going that way.”

“Because you know that picking up a guy in a bar is the best way to start a healthy romantic relationship. I’m not looking for a one-nighter Jess.”

“You don't have to go home with him. Just flirt with him and see what happens.”

“Just flirt with him and see what happens – those are famous last words if I ever heard them.”

CHAPTER THREE

O’Malley’s managed to seem upscale and still feel like the fun dive bar that every lawyer everywhere had hung out in when they were in law school. There was a large old-fashioned, central bar area, surrounded by tables lining the walls. When the place started filling up and the jukebox was playing, people tended to crowd into the open space between the bar and the tables to socialize and dance.

We had just walked in, and were navigating through the crowd, when we passed near a table surrounded by prosecutors laughing and drinking. We were en route to a table surrounded by public defenders laughing and drinking. After a week in the criminal justice system, laughing and drinking were necessary components for maintaining one's sanity. We had almost passed the prosecutors’ table when I heard Mr. Roth call out.

“Well if it isn't Ms. Albright and Ms. Ginsberg!” We paused and moved in closer to them. My stomach started contortions that would have made the U.S. Diving Team proud when I saw Braden sitting there, leaning back in his chair with his jacket off, his sleeves rolled up, and his tie and collar loose. You could sell postcards of that sight, baby.

“Hello, Mr. Roth,” Jess called out above the noise. “Drowning your sorrows?”

“Celebrating my victories, Ms. Albright. Perhaps you don’t recall my impressive courtroom performance earlier?” Mr. Roth was also a very handsome guy but in a different way than Mr. Pierce. Braden was a golden boy but Adam had dark good looks – dark hair, brown eyes, and always just a touch of five o’clock shadow. He was one of those guys who always looked like he may have come directly to work from some woman’s bed. And in Adam’s case that was a definite possibility.

“Someone catch me. I'm going to swoon,” I shouted dryly. And one can actually shout dryly – trust me. Mr. Roth needed to occasionally have a woman fail to worship him and I was happy to oblige.

“Such a saucy mouth on this girl,” he said with a laugh, looking over at Braden. Their colleagues paused in their revelries to pay attention to this little exchange. Two attractive public defender women had ventured close to a table full of semi-drunk male prosecutors. That didn't happen every day. It was like one of those scenes from a wildlife documentary. You know, the ones where the baby gazelle decides to drink from the nice cool stream right next to the pride of hungry lions.