Page 2 of Overruled

One

Dani

“Objection. Leading the witness.”

I bite my tongue, quietly seething as I resist the urge to look back at the owner of the deep, honeyed voice calling out in a bored tone.

“Let me rephrase,” I say as evenly as I can manage, keeping my attention on the man in front of me. “You said in your statement that you would often see a visitor coming to the house while Mrs. Johanson was home alone. Is that correct, Mr. Crane?”

The man nods, peeking warily at the woman in question. “That’s correct.”

“And during those visits, where was Mr. Johanson?”

“He was usually at work, ma’am.”

“And this visitor, was it a man or a woman?”

“It was a man.”

I bite back a grin. “I see. How long would this man stay?”

Mr. Crane reaches to scratch at his thinning hair, shifting in his seat. It had taken me a hell of a lot to get him on the stand; in the end it was only because of Mr. Johanson’s promise that he would keep his gardening job regardless of the outcome of this trial that he finally agreed.

“It varied,” Mr. Crane said. “Sometimes an hour. Sometimes more.”

“So it’s safe to assume that Mrs. Johanson knew this man…well, correct?”

“Objection.” I hear a sigh behind me. “Speculation.”

“Rephrase,” I say tightly, still refusing to look at him. It’s clear he’s only objecting to trip me up at this point, since the basis is ridiculous. “Did you ever see Mrs. Johanson and the man interacting when he would visit, Mr. Crane?”

Mr. Crane shakes his head. “No, ma’am. He always went straight inside the house.”

“But it was always the same man?”

“Yes, ma’am. As far as I could tell.”

I know any other attempts to steer this conversation to the obvious truth of Mrs. Johanson’s infidelity will only result in more bullshit objections from my opposing counsel.

“Thank you, Mr. Crane.” I give my attention to Judge Hoffstein. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

I try not to look at him when I return to my table, I really do—but that pull is there, the one I so desperately wish didn’t plague me anytime we’re in the same room together.

I can feel his eyes linger on me when I’m finally able to avert my gaze, feel them like the weight of his fingers along my skin as I retake my seat.

He stands slowly, one hand reaching to fasten the button of his suit—a deft, practiced motion that makes the tendons in his too-large hands flex—and I can’t help the way my eyes are drawn there, remembering the warmth of them on my body hardly even a week ago.

I catch a hint of a smirk when I turn my face to meet his eyes, feeling warmth creep up my neck as I clench my teeth.

Fucking Ezra Hart.

I train my eyes forward, keeping them on the nervous older man on the stand, in quiet support.

“Mr. Crane,” Ezra starts. “Did you know Mrs. Johanson’s visitor?”

“No, sir,” Mr. Crane answers. “I was told that—”

“That’s hearsay,” Ezra cuts him off. “What you heard is irrelevant.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, strolling casually to the side and flicking his gaze to mine for the briefest of moments. “I’m asking if you ever actually met Mrs. Johanson’s visitor.”

Mr. Crane’s eyes dart to mine, looking unsure. “Well, no, I didn’t.”

“So there’s no possible way for you to know the purpose of that man’s visits. Correct?”

Mr. Crane is quiet for a moment, and my heart thuds in my ribs. There’s no way that Ezra can possibly suggest—

“No, sir,” Mr. Crane answers. “I could not.”

“I see.” Ezra’s mouth turns up in the ghost of a smile. “Just as you couldn’t know of Mrs. Johanson’s recent interests in spiritual direction?”

“I…” Mr. Crane blinks with confusion, and I can feel the same emotion playing on Mr. Johanson’s and my faces. “No? I didn’t know that.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Ezra practically coos.

“It’s not something she advertised. The only people who knew this were her close friends.

Well, and her husband, of course.” Ezra looks back at our table.

“Although I very much doubt Mr. Johanson would recall this, given that he rarely took note of Mrs. Johanson’s interests. ”

“Objection,” I call. “Speculation.”

“Withdrawn,” Ezra says with a grin. “Mr. Crane, did you know that the man you saw coming in and out of Mrs. Johanson’s house was her spiritual advisor?”

Oh, what a load of horseshit.

“Objection, Your Honor.” I almost laugh. “This is irrelevant.”

Ezra directs his attention to the judge. “This is completely relevant, Your Honor, I assure you.”

Judge Hoffstein nods minutely. “Overruled.”

“Thank you.” Ezra inclines his head. “You see, Mrs. Johanson’s visitor, a Mr. Jacobs, had been contacted several weeks prior by Mrs. Johanson to oversee her spiritual direction.

There was nothing nefarious about their encounters.

If you’ll be so kind as to take a look at Exhibit 13, which was already admitted into evidence—you’ll note the credentials I’ve provided to prove Mr. Jacobs’s involvement with the local church. ”

Son of a bitch. How did we miss that?

Ezra looks smug as the judge peruses the bit of evidence in question; to an outsider, Ezra would simply look contemplative, but I’ve seen that look on his face too many times. In and out of the courtroom.

“Mrs. Johanson was simply exploring her new faith,” Ezra continues. “There is no evidence to suggest that she and Mr. Jacobs were meeting under false pretenses, and she paid him for his time. Therefore this line of questioning isn’t relevant to this alimony hearing.”

Ezra waits until the exhibit has been passed to the bailiff before he turns back to the witness. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Crane.” He looks to the judge. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

Ezra takes his seat on his side of the courtroom, a small smile on his lips, practically laughing at the way I’m nearly incandescent with rage right now. I feel Mr. Johanson lean into me, whispering, “She can’t seriously pull this shit, can she?”

I want to tell him no, that cheating spouses get what they deserve—that doesn’t include an overly fat alimony check—but I know that without any concrete evidence of infidelity, which we haven’t been able to unearth no matter how hard we’ve looked, it’s likely Mrs. Johanson will be milking her soon-to-be-ex-husband dry for years to come.

Fucking Ezra Hart.

···

I pinch the bridge of my nose as I wait for the elevator to open, trying to stave off the headache forming behind my eyes.

It had taken weeks to find out about Mrs. Johanson’s little spiritual advisor who came twice a week like clockwork, unbeknownst to her husband while he was at work, and it had felt like an ace in the hole.

Until Ezra swooped in and plugged it right up, that is.

I’ve heard him called “the Heartbreak Prince” at several legal mixers I’ve attended, and even in a city as weird as Austin, I find it a stupid fucking moniker.

One that he absolutely eats up, I’m sure.

His win record is astounding, and every time I have to be in the same courtroom with him, I know I’m in for a world of bullshit.

Not to say I haven’t won against him, because I have—but not nearly as much as I’d like, today included.

The elevator dings, and I climb inside, grateful to find it empty as I settle against the back wall to let my head thunk against the cool metal. I close my eyes as I wait for the doors to close, only snapping them back open when I hear something nudging between them to force them apart.

“Room for one more?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “You could always take the stairs. Get a workout in.”

Ezra laughs as he strolls into the elevator, leaning against the bar at the back wall as I scoot away from him. “You’ve never had any complaints about my body.”

I glare up at him as the elevator doors slide closed, trapping us inside.

He always knows exactly what to say to push my buttons, just like he knows that his stupid face and body are lethal distractions when it comes to remembering how much I dislike him.

It’s not the dark blond hair that always looks like someone just ran their fingers through it, not the full mouth or the piercing green eyes or the amazing bone structure that makes his face look carved—it’s all of it, really.

The broad shoulders that fill out his tailored suits a little too well, his long fingers that stir up wicked memories, even his stupid cologne makes you want to lean in closer to get a better whiff.

At least he only has four to five inches on me—I’ve always been on the taller side, and not having to crane my neck up to his six foot three from my five foot nine gives me an ounce of satisfaction. Especially in my heels.

“Yeah, well, that’s just about the only good thing you have going for you,” I mumble back, facing forward to watch the numbers tick by and mentally urging them to go faster.

There’s a contrast between us in the reflection of the shiny metal doors—my inky black hair to his golden brown, my pale skin to his bronzed, his brawn to my lithe figure—looking at us side by side, one would never think to put us together.

Which we aren’t, I mentally correct. Together. Because we aren’t.

Except…

“Really?” He inches a little closer. “I’m told I’m pretty charming.”

“Are those people on your payroll?”

“I can think of a few times when you’ve found me charming, Dani.”

I roll my eyes. I’m used to people calling me Dani; when you have a name like Danica, I guess it’s easy to jump to the nickname—but something about the way Ezra says it always makes my stomach do something funny.

I’m sure I’m not the only one Ezra amuses himself with.

There’s no doubt in my mind that Ezra’s easy playboy act comes from vast amounts of real-life experience—but I can’t help but wonder if anyone else in what is surely a very wide net of his sexual conquests succumbs to his annoyingly effective charms quite as often (albeit begrudgingly) as I do.