It wasn’t that he was anxiously awaiting a verdict. He knew what it would be. Guilty. And that didn’t bother him, because his success could be measured by the very fact that the jury needed time to deliberate at all. When the case hit the papers, it was presumed his client would plead guilty. Anything else would be a waste of taxpayers’ money since the outcome was inevitable.

It was the idiot’s own fault. Dissolving a corpse in quicklime? Any fool with a basic knowledge of chemistry knew quicklime was a preservative, and it could only be used to destroy a body if done with extreme care. His client had not taken extreme care. The result was a corpse that was only superficially burned. His client was guilty and would go to jail, but Gabriel had given him a hell of a defense, one that would bolster his own reputation better than any easy victory.

So what was keeping him from his work? That box of cookies.

Damn Rose. She swore she wouldn’t meddle, but she always found a way. If he confronted her, she’d snap back, “I told the girl you like cookies. Is that a state secret?” It wasn’t, of course. It had been a very thoughtful thing for Olivia to do. But under the circumstances, such a show of appreciation was a direct jab at his conscience.

He had nothing to feel guilty about. If he knew one thing about life, it was this: look out for yourself. No one else would do it for you. If you were cheated or tricked, it was your own fault, and a lesson best learned before the world devoured you. So he had done nothing wrong. And yet . . .

He eyed the box. He should just throw the damned thing into the trash. But he couldn’t, because it would suggest he felt that prickle of conscience. So he should eat them. But if he did, and he couldn’t get them down, that, too, would suggest guilt.

Or it might suggest inedible cookies. Olivia had said it was the first time she’d baked. She’d seemed so pleased with herself, too. Perhaps that was what really bothered him. The smug joy she’d taken in doing a task that was for many a chore.

His efforts to mask his annoyance with Olivia’s “life choices” had been less successful than he’d like. That irked him. His clients routinely made decisions he found repugnant. Olivia’s choice was, in contrast, a minor thing, but he found himself unable to hide his response.

He suspected that Olivia’s particular life choice hit a little too close to home. Olivia “giving up” her life of privilege reminded him of his mother and Lent. They’d never set foot in a church—he didn’t even know if they were Catholic—but every Lent, she gave up something, just for fun. While one could argue there were many things Seanna Walsh could give up that would improve her life—and her son’s—it was never any of those, but something frivolous, like chocolate. A meaningless sacrifice. She’d made him do it, too. He’d cheated, sneaking candy bars into his room, but those stolen snacks had been as bitter as a guilty conscience, made all the more stomach-churning by the conviction that he had nothing to feel guilty for.

Olivia giving up her life of privilege was just as meaningless. She should accept her advantages and be grateful for them. But no, she’d voluntarily walked away, taken a smelly apartment and a menial job, and it was, for her, a grand adventure. Like a suburbanite roughing it in a cabin without electricity or running water. If it got too rough? Pack it in and go home.

Real poverty was not a choice. If you knew what that was like, then you would look at Olivia Taylor-Jones and you wouldn’t be impressed. She had everything she wanted. Turning her back on that was the foolish act of an immature, spoiled child.

Except that Olivia was not particularly immature or spoiled. Which, he could argue, only made her decision all the more repugnant.

Still, it wouldn’t last much longer. One of these days, she would wake up, go to ring the bell for her cappuccino and croissants, remember that she’d voluntarily chosen a life without cappuccino and croissants and maids, say “What the hell was I thinking?” and hightail it home to Mommy.

When she did, he would convince her that she still wanted the Larsen case investigated. Then there would be no waiting for her trust fund—he’d be paid up front. While she hadn’t proved as incompetent as he feared, he worked better alone. For Olivia, the allure of playing detective would wear off soon, taking her enthusiasm and commitment with it.

The intercom buzzed. “Mr. Walsh?”

“Yes?”

“There’s a Mr. Morgan here to speak to you.”

He hesitated. No, it was a common enough name.

“Morgan?” he repeated.

“James Morgan,” his secretary, Lydia, said. “Olivia—”

“Yes, I know who he is. Tell him I’ll be out in a minute.”

Olivia’s ex-fiancé. Coming to see him. What the hell for?

His gaze shifted to the pile of newspapers on his desk.

The article. Morgan had seen Gabriel’s name, looked him up, and asked around. Now he was riding to Olivia’s rescue, to free her from Gabriel’s clutches—and cut Gabriel loose from her employ.

Damn. This could be inconvenient.

He crossed the office and hit the button on the camera that fed into the reception area. Sometimes it was advantageous to watch waiting clients, judge their mood, decide exactly how long they could or should be kept waiting.

With one glance at James Morgan, Gabriel knew that ignoring him was not an option. The man hadn’t even taken a seat. He was important, damn it, and he would not be kept waiting. The white knight, on his feet and prepared for battle.

Very inconvenient.

Gabriel sized up the man. He had doubtless seen photographs of Morgan before, but when he’d learned whom Olivia had been engaged to, he’d been unable to pull up a mental image. Now he knew why. Because there was absolutely nothing memorable about him. Oh, he cut a dashing enough figure. Handsome, trim and fit, well groomed, custom suit. But walk down the Loop and you’d see a dozen men like him. Corporate Ken dolls with just as much personality as the plastic version.

Before Gabriel had met Olivia, he’d have doubtless thought James Morgan was a good match for her—Corporate Ken and Debutante Barbie. But now he looked at Morgan and thought, What the hell does she see in him?

The answer came quickly. An easy life. That’s what Olivia would see in a man like James Morgan. Good genetics. Deep pockets. Political aspirations. And dull enough that she could wrap him around her finger or pin him beneath her heel, depending on which served her purpose. Olivia might like to think she was a decent, well-bred young woman, but there was a streak of ruthless survivalism there, and Morgan was further proof of it.