by J. Kenner
But it was when she bent forward to take a magazine off the table that his heart almost stopped. Her blouse rose, revealing her lower back in the process—along with an intricate tattoo of chain link dotted by individual roses. Some blooming. Some buds. Some dying on the vine.
His skin heated. And he was suddenly in desperate need of a glass of water.
He knew that tattoo.
Like hell this woman was Jean Rockwell. As if he’d spoken aloud, she turned around, and he found himself looking into the cunning green eyes of Selma Herrington.
“Hello, Easton.” Her voice, husky and sensual and dangerously familiar, rolled over him, and he felt his cock go hard as effectively as the most potent aphrodisiac. “It’s been a very long time.”
Chapter Three
Never had Easton been so happy that he’d appeared in so many courtrooms in front of so many judges in so many different situations. Not only did those hours upon hours give him the experience to make him into the lawyer he was today, but they also helped him to develop an almost perfect poker face.
And that was an asset that came in pretty damn handy at the moment.
“Ms. Rockwell,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m so glad you left your name. I don’t think I would have recognized you.”
“Really?” Selma was the kind of person whose bright smile was almost radioactive. She flashed that wide grin now, and for a moment he simply basked in its warmth. “Because you don’t seem to have changed at all.” Her gaze roamed over him, so slow and deliberate he had to fight the urge to pull her close and dare her to use her hands instead of her eyes.
She paused her inspection at his crotch, and he almost lost it when her teeth dragged over her lower lip before she lifted her face to his, her gaze positively smoldering. “I take it back,” she said. “You’re still the same. Only better.”
Oh, holy hell. All he could think was that he was damn glad that his back was to Sandy and that he was blocking the receptionist’s view.
That, and the pressing urgency of getting her out of the reception area before he said or did something stupid. He’d forgotten how hard it was to behave normally around Selma Herrington. Probably because all the blood in his head had raced to more southern regions.
He cleared his throat and forced himself to be professional. He also took a step back. “It’s wonderful to see you again, but I’m sorry to say I’m not taking on any new clients. I’d be happy to walk you down, though, and we can catch up on the way.”
“Or maybe we could chat in your office, and you can recommend someone else? I’ve got a time-sensitive deal brewing.” She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing a bit as if she was taking his measure. “Unless you can’t handle the pressure?” Her lips pressed together, and he was certain she was holding back laughter. “Of recommending someone to replace you, I mean.”
“Ms. Rockwell, I assure you. No one can replace me.” It was his turn to smile. “But I can help you find second best.”
He nodded to Sandy, who thankfully seemed oblivious, then led Selma down the hall and into his office, shutting the door behind him
“A corner office.” She walked to the window behind his desk, stepping casually into what he considered his personal space. “And with one hell of a view.” She turned to face him. “You really have come up in the world.”
He moved closer, intentionally encroaching on her personal space. Selma, however, didn’t seem to mind. “I’ve worked hard,” he said. “It’s paid off.” He crossed the room until he stopped right in front of her. So close he could smell a hint of vanilla, and the visceral memories the scent inspired almost had him thrusting her back against the window and crushing his mouth to hers.
Thankfully, he had more self-control than that. Instead, he said, “I may have a corner office, but you’re not doing too badly yourself. I’ve read about Free-Tail. That’s quite a business you’ve built.”
“It is.” She started to take a step backwards, as if she was uncomfortable, but there was no place to go. She was mere inches from the wall of glass overlooking downtown Austin.
Easton wondered briefly if her discomfort was because of his proximity or the mention of her distillery, but right then he didn’t need an answer. He pressed on. “I’ve seen you around a few times since our night. But it’s only been in recent years. At The Fix. Once on Congress Avenue. One time at Herrington’s Gym. But never back then. I didn’t catch one glimpse of you for years after that night.”
Before, they’d spent almost three consecutive nights chatting and flirting in a local bar that had gone out of business years ago. But then he’d offered to drive her to where she was housesitting, and they’d ended up naked on the couch, never even making it to the bedroom until almost dawn, when they both got a spectacular second wind.
And then she’d ghosted him.
“Somehow, you managed to disappear from my world without a trace. Handy trick.”
“Not really a trick,” she said lightly. “After all, I bet you didn’t try too hard to find me. A hot shot law student who went on to be an assistant district attorney and then a powerful lawyer. I bet even back then you had access to a slew of investigators. If you’d wanted to, you’d have found someone to turn over the right rock. But you’re a man who had other things on your mind.” She met his eyes defiantly, and he had to admit she’d earned points. He’d been watching her face. Looking for regret. For guilt. He saw only a woman as tough and polished and unreadable as himself.
She was right, too. He hadn’t looked hard. He’d regretted it when he realized that she’d meant what she said about no second date. No more casual get-togethers. But he’d been determined to graduate at the top of his law school class. Sex was the last thing on his mind. And, honestly, if Selma had been around, sex might have been hard to ignore.
“Probably true,” he admitted. “And I have to admit, it was easier to study with no distractions.”
“Was I a distraction?”
He took one more step toward her. “I think you know the answer to that. We knew each other for what? Thirty-six hours? You were the wildest, fastest, hottest time in bed I’d ever had. And then you pulled the plug and walked away.”
She tilted her head, and when she spoke, her voice was breathy. “Sounds like you still want me.”
Hell, yeah, he did. But all he said was, “I’m not the man I was back then.”
“No?” She leaned closer, and he could feel her heat. He remembered that about her. How her skin had burned against his. Selma Herrington ran hot as a furnace, the walking definition of a hot-blooded woman. “Then why don’t you tell me what kind of a man you are now?”
He took a deliberate step back. “One who knows the distinction between want and willpower. Right now, the only thing I want is to know why you walked away.”
“And the only thing I want is your help.” Her smile was flirty. “I wonder if we’ll both get our heart’s desire.”
He studied her, but there were no clues to who she was now or what she was doing there. If he wanted more, he was going to have to ask. “All right. You can tell me why you’re here. I’m not promising I’ll help, but I’ll hear you out.”
“Thank—”
“But on one condition.”
“I don’t do conditions.”
“Then we’re at an impasse.”
She looked at him, apparently decided he meant it, and shrugged. “What’s your condition?”
“I just told you. I want to know why you walked away.”
The tilt of her head was almost imperceptible. “I’m surprised, counselor. I didn’t think it was wise for a lawyer to reveal too much of himself.”
“Like I said, the man you slept with doesn’t exist anymore. But that doesn’t mean the man who remains isn’t still curious.”
“I tell you, you help me?”
“I said I’d hear you out,” he clarified. “That was the deal.”
This time when her lips pressed together, there was nothi
ng flirty or contrived about it. She was thinking. Finally, she spoke. “Honestly? I liked you too much.”
That wasn’t what he was expecting to hear. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Exactly what it sounds like.”
“Why would you have to leave because you liked me too much?”
Now, she laughed. “Sorry, counselor. Quid pro quo, remember? I gave you quid, now I want my quo.”
He considered arguing, but he’d set the rules. She was only playing by them. “Fair enough,” he said as he took a seat behind his desk, then gestured for her to sit in a guest chair.
She hesitated, then complied. “I’ve had an offer to buy my distillery. A very nice offer,” she added, and when she told him the number, he whistled. “I’d like you to negotiate the deal for me.”
“Why me?”
“I want the best. Your name keeps popping up.”
“I’m flattered, but I’ll be honest. If that’s their initial offer, you don’t need the best. You just need someone competent. Because that company wants your brand, and they’re willing to give you pretty much anything you ask for to get it.”
“Maybe. But I don’t like to do things half-assed. When I’m in, I’m all in.”
“Bullshit.”
Her eyes went wide, and even Easton was surprised that he’d said it. “Excuse me?”
Shit. He debated what to say, then decided to be all in himself. “You and I were half-assed.”
Her mouth quirked into a sideways grin. “From your perspective, but from mine I was doing exactly what I wanted the way I wanted.” She met his eyes. Held them. “Fast and hot and dirty. And don’t think you were the only one. Sometimes for a night. Sometimes a week. Sometimes a month. Maybe you got the short straw, but I already told you why. Honestly, you should be flattered. But if you thought there was going to be more than a fast, fun time, then that was your misinterpretation. Not mine.” She tilted her head. “But considering it’s been over ten years, you seem kind of hung up on the subject.”
She was right, dammit. From the moment he’d seen that familiar rose and chain-link tattoo, he’d felt the shift in the air. The awareness. Like the electricity that precedes a lightning storm. Only in this case, the storm was Selma. And if he wasn’t careful, she’d sweep him away.
“Just trying to figure you out,” he said, masking the real answer under a patina of truth. “I like puzzles. And you qualify. But going back to half-assed, I wasn’t trying to analyze you and me. I was offering evidence in contradiction of your statement. You say you don’t do anything half-assed, and yet you’re walking away from Free-Tail just as it’s on the rise.”
“Yeah, well, think what you want, but you’re completely off-base.” This time, the heat in her voice wasn’t seductive.
“I touched a nerve. Sorry.”
Immediately, her shoulders sagged. “Look, let’s pretend like you just graduated law school. And your grades were stellar and you were nine kinds of hot shit and you could totally write your own ticket.”
“Sounds good so far.”
“But what if it didn’t sound good to you?”
He tilted his head, homing in on the serious note in her voice. He had a feeling that for the first time, he was about to see a glimpse of the real Selma. About ten years after he stopped caring.
“I mean, what if you’d only gone to law school on a whim? What if you were good, but by the time you got out, you didn’t really care? It wasn’t what you wanted to do, and you knew it?”
He shifted in his chair, suddenly not so comfortable with the conversation. “That would be a damn shame.”
“If you stayed—if you did it anyway—to my way of thinking, that’s half-assed. Because you’re not being true to yourself. I’m selling now because the distillery isn’t my thing.”
“What is?”
She shrugged, then flashed a sunshine-filled smile. “I’m still trying to figure that out. And I intend to have a damn good time doing it.”
As he considered her words, she stood up, then came around to lean against his desk. He lifted a brow, watching her, but didn’t urge her away. Slowly, she eased to the middle, so that she was standing right in front of him, her rear pressed against his desk, and her breasts about eye level as he tilted back in the leather chair.
She wore bright blue stiletto slides with perfectly matched toenail polish, and now she lifted one foot and placed it on the edge of the seat, right between his thighs. There was no contact between them, but even so, his balls tightened. He looked up and their eyes locked. “A damn good time,” she repeated.
“Is this what you’re looking for?” He slid her foot free, then tossed the shoe to the ground. Slowly, he moved her bare foot to the crotch of his designer slacks. “Negotiations with your buyer during the day? And more intimate negotiations with me at night?”
“Would that be so terrible?”
“You walked away from me once. Why come back now?”
“Same answer.” She curled her toes, and he almost came right then. “I like you.” Her grin turned impish as she focused on his cock, now very evident under the silk blend material of his slacks. She raised a single eyebrow. “And I think you like me, too.”
“Under the circumstances, I won’t even try to deny it.”
“Good.” She flexed her foot, and it was all he could do not to rise up and push her back onto his desk. A few buttons and zippers, and he could be buried inside her in seconds. He couldn’t deny he wanted it—hell, he practically craved it—and unless he was delusional, she wanted it, too.
If she’d walked into his office a few years ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated. He would have locked the door and fucked her senseless on his desk, his conference table, against the floor-to-ceiling windows with the cityscape looming behind them. He would have spread her wide and buried his face between her legs, his hand over her mouth to muffle the sound of her moans.
But that was the Easton who spent his days working his ass off toward his goal of opening his own firm. And in those days, he’d been more than happy for a wild time to take the edge off.
Today’s Easton, however, had to watch his back. And even if she was all about a repeat performance, a steady relationship, and a ring, a wild child like Selma was not the woman a judicial candidate needed to have in his bed. Or on his arm.
Gently, he eased her foot away. “I do like you,” he repeated. “But like isn’t the issue.” He pushed back his chair and stood, not meeting her surprised, wide eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just not taking new clients right now.”
Chapter Four
With only fifteen minutes to the start of the Man of the Month contest for Mr. April, the noise level in The Fix on Sixth had reached almost epic proportions. So loud, in fact, that in order to be heard, Selma had to lean sideways and practically yell into her brother’s ear.
“Do you have any idea what possessed Landon to strut across the stage?” Their friend, Detective Landon Ware, was currently in the smaller back bar that served as a staging area during the bi-weekly Man of the Month contests. Soon, though, the emcee would call his name and he’d stride down the red carpet and onto the stage, where he’d rip his shirt off, flex his muscles, and generally try to garner votes.
“It’s really not like him,” Selma said. “Has he told you what’s up?”
“Not a word.”
“Weird.” She cast a sideways glance at Matthew, wondering if he was keeping Landon’s secrets. Secrets were something they were both good at, but that was about where the similarities ended. Because where she’d gone a little wild after their birth mother ditched them, Matthew had played by the rules even more. That probably made sense. He’d always been an introvert. And Selma was about as extroverted as a person could get.
Still, she wished a little of her personality had rubbed off on her brother. Despite his naturally hot body that had been enhanced by gym ownership,
Matthew hadn’t had a steady girlfriend in ages. Not that he didn’t attract female attention—he did. He never lacked for a date, though he rarely got serious, always claiming he was too busy working or training.
Maybe that was true, but Selma thought it went the other way, and that he worked and trained to avoid dating. A genuinely nice guy, he’d always been shy around women. And while he dated on and off, he’d never settled down. Neither had Selma, of course. But she had no intention of settling any time soon. Matthew, however, longed for a family. And she wished there was a way to hug some of her crazy vivaciousness into him.
Then again, he was probably sitting beside her wishing he had a way to pass off some of his calming influence to her.
“You’re coming to the gym tomorrow morning, right?” he asked, his voice raised over the din.
“Are you buying me breakfast?”
“Sure.”
“Then I’m there.”
“Cool. I wanted to run something by you, and—hey, isn’t that Easton? Did you talk to him about selling the distillery?”
She turned to follow the direction of his gaze, only to find her stomach curdling in what could only be jealousy when she saw his head bent close to Taylor’s. She couldn’t see his face, but she didn’t need to. That chiseled face was etched in her mind. And there was no mistaking the thick, dark hair or those incredibly broad shoulders, strong enough to hold a woman tight.
What on earth were he and Taylor discussing so intently? Were they involved? Was that why he’d turned her down?
She was pondering that unpleasant possibility when Cam, the bartender, sidled up. With his sultry blue-gray eyes, it was no wonder he’d won the title of Mr. March. Now, though, he just wanted their orders.
“A shot of Bat Bourbon,” Selma said, with absolutely no ego. It just happened that her bourbon was the best.
“You got it,” Cam said. “And by the way, thanks for letting me buy that case at cost. Mina loves it,” he added, referring to his girlfriend, who Selma had met once or twice.
