“I’ve been with Ms. Rachel for twenty-five years.” She gives me a curt nod. “Where is this Mr. Iain? I don’t want to be late for my Raven.” She looks at her watch. My mouth twitches at her audacity. She’s starting to grow on me. Clearly Rachel is a shit mom, and her kid needs Maria.

“He’s waiting outside. I’ve told him to take you wherever you need to go.” I grin again at her. If it’s possible for her to frown more, she does.

“Thank you,” she mumbles and walks over to one of my original Chippendale tables for her purse.

“Maria?” My voice stops her.

“Yes?” She turns.

“Please put Raven in the guest room that faces the backyard. The view is beautiful.” She blinks at me, but nods.

Turning, I move toward the back of the house and grab the key fob for my Tesla.

For a split second, I wonder what this Raven looks like. Is she tall and reconstructed by plastic surgery like her mother? Christ, Rachel doesn’t even have a picture of her daughter anywhere. Isn’t that some kind of requirement for a mom? My parents’ house is piled with photos of my brother and me.

Whatever, with Rachel as her mother I’m sure she’s either a spoiled brat or a scared mouse. Either way, none of it concerns me. The girl is here for the summer; then she’ll be back in New York. To be honest, I’ll be surprised if I say more than ten words to her while she’s here.

My phone vibrates as I start up my Tesla.

“Talk to me, Rebecca.” And all thoughts of Rachel and her kid vanish as I start my day. There’s a reason I am the best defense attorney in the world, and it’s not just because of my personality and looks.

No. I live, breathe, and eat my job. The more demanding and challenging a case is, the harder it makes my cock.

I don’t lose.

I don’t believe in chance.

And I make my own fucking luck.

I love my life.

Chapter Two

RAVEN

LAX Airport

“I hate my life,” I gripe at Cher, my bestie and the traitor who’s leaving me to go to Florence, where she’ll spend the entire next month with her family in their incredible château. Drinking wine, sunbathing nude, and—knowing Cher—meeting some hot Italian guy who speaks no English but doesn’t need to because his giant cock says it all.

God.

“Take it easy. And stop throwing me the death glare. I’ll be back in no time. Besides, you need to deal with Brody.” She points at me, then turns to flash the barista at the Starbucks a million-dollar smile.