by Shelly Bell
And his lips…Oh man, those lips. His bottom lip was plumper than his top. It was another slight imperfection that somehow worked on him.
Yeah, he was fucking gorgeous.
Not in the movie-star, pretty-boy kind of way, but in a Dreama-falling-to-her-knees-and-kissing-his-feet kind of way.
She couldn’t stop herself from zeroing in on his lips, not because of their unique shape, but because of the way he spoke with them. Quiet, but commanding. A voice you couldn’t help but obey. Like top-shelf whiskey, hand-rolled cigarettes, and dirty, kinky sex all rolled into one. Three of her favorite vices. It had been far too long since she’d indulged, months since she’d even been tempted.
This man was temptation personified.
Her gaze dropped to his hands. They were a working man’s hands. Large…blunt fingertips…a little dirt under his nails…large.
What could she say?
Some girls got off on a guy’s chest or their eyes, while others liked their butts.
Large hands pushed all her buttons.
Large hands and all the wicked things they could do to her. At least what they could have done if she could tolerate a man’s touch.
She realized the stranger had stopped speaking.
And the guard was looking like a kid who’d just learned there was no Santa Claus. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said sheepishly. “After my shift, I’ll speak with my superior about finding an alternative to the metal detector.” He stepped out from behind the conveyor belt. “I don’t have a wand, so for now, I’ll just pat you down and you can be on your way.”
“Don’t touch me!” she shouted, losing her balance and falling to her knees as she recoiled from him.
All the oxygen expelled from her lungs. Her chest felt as if it were being crushed by a heavy weight and her heart jackhammered behind her breastbone.
The room spun and the edges around her vision blackened.
She had to get it together.
Couldn’t allow the fear to drown her.
Breathe, damn it. You’re better than this.
Focus.
“Back up,” said a firm male voice.
Not to her, but for her.
“Focus on my voice,” he said in her ear. “No one’s gonna touch you. You’re safe.”
Her eyes were closed, but she recognized the speaker. It was the man with the large hands. He was crouched beside her. Not touching her. Just talking in that low, calming voice of his. A voice that both demanded and crooned.
Following her old therapist’s advice, she breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth. She smelled something citrusy, reminding her of the time she went to an orange grove in Florida. Her heart rate slowed from a gallop to a steady pace, easing the pressure in her chest and vanquishing the vertigo.
She opened her lids to the sight of concerned gray eyes.
Her entire body flushed warm.
God, how embarrassing.
“Thank you,” she whispered to him. “I’m good now.” Still a bit shaky, she got up from the floor and turned to the security guard. “Maybe you could call my supervisor.” She sensed her rescuer standing right behind her as if he was there to catch her in case she fell again. “Meg Wilson can verify—”
“That’s okay,” the young guard blurted. His throat worked over a swallow. “No need to call her. You can go on ahead.”
Ah. Apparently, he was familiar with her boss. Dreama wouldn’t have wanted to call her either.
Collecting her purse and coat from the end of the conveyor belt, she gave her gray-eyed giant one last nod to show her appreciation. His expression was stony, almost severe. Another time, another life, she would’ve flirted with him. Now all she wanted to do was run from him.
Her hands shook as she pressed the buzzer to be let inside the employee entrance of the parole office. She looked up at the camera in the corner of the ceiling and waved. Upon hearing the click of the lock, she pulled open the door and stepped into the hallway beside the receptionists’ area.
Suddenly, Candice barreled into her, knocking her backward onto her heels before wrapping her arms around Dreama and squeezing. Fire shot down her right leg, and it was all she could do to keep from crying out. Her friend had no idea how much a hug like that hurt her.
And she never would.
“It’s so good to see you,” Dreama said. And she meant it. Although Candice was twenty years older, they’d started working at the parole office around the same time and had developed a friendship.
Candice took a step back. “Even better to see you, darlin’. I know you probably don’t want to talk about it, but we have all missed you around here. I tried to see you in the hospital but—”
“I wasn’t up to seeing anyone but family.” Or more to the point, her family hadn’t allowed her to say no to their visits. Dreama squeezed Candice’s hand. “But my mom made sure to pass along your well-wishes.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Now that you’re back, we’ll have to catch up. Wait until you see how much my grandbaby has grown this year.”
“We’ll do lunch.” Dreama smiled, ignoring the phantom ache where her womb used to be. “Is Meg in her office?”
“She is and she’s expecting you.” Candice mouthed, “Good luck,” and bounced back to her desk.
Dreama focused on not limping as she walked down the hall to her supervisor’s office. The last thing she wanted to do was give any more ammunition to Meg Wilson to use against her. It had been hard enough to convince Meg to rehire her.
Had this hallways always been this long?
In front of Meg’s closed door, Dreama gritted her teeth and massaged the tight muscle in her thigh. This might have been Dreama’s office if not for her attack. She knocked on the door and opened it upon hearing Meg’s forceful “Enter.”
For such a no-nonsense, never-let-them-see-you-sweat kind of woman, Meg was unusually short and petite, reaching only Dreama’s nose when standing—and Dreama was five foot five. But Dreama had learned not to underestimate her boss. Because she managed to compact a giant amount of meanness into her tiny frame.
“You wanted to see me?” Dreama asked from the doorway.
Not bothering to look up from her computer screen, Meg waved her in.
Dreama closed the door behind her and waited for Meg to acknowledge her. To tell her to take a seat. Something.
Clearly, nothing had changed in the year Dreama had been gone from work. Meg was as passive-aggressive as ever. It irked Dreama that Meg was still competing with her. Didn’t she realize that she had already won? She’d gotten the job Dreama had wanted and was now the boss. Couldn’t she let go of whatever petty jealousy she had for the good of the office?
Five minutes later, Dreama’s right thigh was cramping, and sweat was trickling down her jawline. She eyed the empty chair in front of Meg’s desk, almost desperate to take the weight off her legs. But she wouldn’t give Meg the satisfaction.
Finally, Meg raised her gaze from the computer and looked at Dreama, pursing her lips and wrinkling her nose in distaste as if Dreama were something smelly on the bottom of her shoe. “I’m going to be honest with you,” Meg said. “I looked over your employee file, and while previous supervisors praised your work, I expect more from my employees. If I had my choice, I wouldn’t have preserved the position for you. But fortunately for you, the law was on your side. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
That you’re a patronizing, sadistic bitch?
Yes, she understood. As a state employee, Dreama had been able to take a yearlong medical leave and still have a job to return to. If she hadn’t been, Meg would’ve fired her. Which was bullshit because despite Meg’s claim, Dreama had been more than adequate at her job. Stellar was the word her regional manager, Meg’s present boss, had used to describe her work. Meg knew that if the attack hadn’t happened, this office might have belonged to Dreama. And Meg hated her for that.
Dreama literally had to bite her tongue to keep herself from
responding the way she wanted to. “I do. And I won’t let you down.”
All she wanted was the chance to get some part of her old life back.
“I hope you won’t allow your”—Meg’s lips twisted into a sneer as she zeroed in on Dreama’s legs—“imperfections to prevent you from doing your job duties. Being a field officer might prove too much for you now. Due to budget cuts, we’ve had to eliminate several positions, which means your caseload will be a bit larger than it was. I’m not certain you’ll be able to keep up with it. Of course, if you need accommodations, I’d be happy to find you a suitable position within the office. Maybe the front desk would be more comfortable for you.”
There wasn’t a chance in hell that Meg gave one fig about Dreama’s comfort. This was all an attempt to intimidate Dreama into taking a demotion and eliminating the perceived threat to her own job as supervisor. Meg had never cared about the parolees. They were all just ex-criminals and case numbers to her. Maybe it was because Dreama earned her degree in social work rather than criminal justice like Meg, but Dreama saw the men and women beyond their criminal histories. She did whatever she could to help ensure they successfully completed their parole and became a productive member of their community, whether that meant requiring them to go to group therapy, anger management classes, or twelve-step meetings, or having them work at a soup kitchen. Every client—she preferred the more dignified word client over parolee—was unique and required different interventions to put him or her on the path to success. Meg hadn’t bothered to get to know her clients, which meant she’d been able to fit more parolee appointments into the day.
Dreama gave Meg one hell of a smile and ignored the burning cramps in her thigh. “My imperfections, as you call them, will in no way affect my ability to do my job. But thank you for your considerate offer. Now, unless you have anything else to say to me, I believe I have a full caseload today and I’d hate to start the day already running behind.”
Meg returned her attention to the computer screen, silently dismissing Dreama.
Okay, then.
Dreama got out of there before Meg could think up some other way to insult her.
The parole administration was set up almost like a square with the office staff up front behind bulletproof glass and three hallways of offices surrounding it, with the longest hallway in the back. Currently, they only had a staff of thirty or so, including supervisors, officers, and support staff, for the entire county. Dreama’s office was the last one in the back to the right. Normally, she relished having the office farthest from Meg’s, but right then, every step was agony. By the time she made it to her desk, the back of her neck was wet with sweat.
One glance at the clock on the wall told her she was going to run late today thanks to the fiasco at security and Meg wasting time with her attempt at intimidation. It was already past nine, and she had a waiting room filled with people waiting to see her, but she at least needed to go through her morning files to quickly familiarize herself with her clients.
Rather than making appointments, the parolees were seen on a first-come, first-served basis, scheduled only for a morning or afternoon on a certain date of the week or month. She met with more than a dozen clients every day, in addition to her responsibilities of documenting the visits and other paperwork, making phone calls, doing home and work visits, and going to court and the prisons for hearings. Unlike Meg, she didn’t believe in rushing through her client meetings. They deserved her full attention and respect. If that meant working more hours, then that’s what she’d do.
After hanging her coat on the back of the door, Dreama spent a few moments in her chair and turned on her computer, reacquainting herself with the office’s software and checking that day’s calendar. Thankfully, there were no internal meetings scheduled. She wasn’t ready to see the collective pity in her coworkers’ eyes or answer their questions about her welfare.
She popped a couple ibuprofen into her mouth, swallowing them down with the help of a bottled water she’d brought in her purse, and then turned to her morning’s pile of files. Glancing at the check-in screen, which alerted her to those who were currently waiting in the lobby and to the order in which they’d arrived, she pulled her first client’s folder from the stack.
Cash Turner. Thirty years old. Spent the last eight years in prison for involuntary manslaughter. She read through the pages, the facts of the case hitting her hard. An intoxicated Cash had lost both his wife and unborn child in a car accident when he’d plowed into the highway’s concrete wall and flipped the vehicle twice. In lieu of a trial, he had pled guilty and had been a model prisoner during his time behind bars.
It wasn’t her job to judge his past actions, but it wasn’t always easy to avoid, especially when children were involved. Still, Cash Turner had served his time and deserved a second chance.
His previous parole officer had visited him in prison a month ago to make sure Cash had arranged a place to live and employment upon his release.
At half past nine, she stood up from her desk and made the trek down the long hallway. Tomorrow, she’d make sure not only to take her ibuprofen before work, but also to arrive extra early. At the end of hall, she opened the door to the waiting room and called her first client of the day.
“Mr. Turner,” she said, resting her back against the door.
A closely shaved head immediately snapped up at the call of his name, and she gasped as startled gray eyes met hers. Hunched over with his large hands spread out wide on his knees, the man slowly uncurled his body and stood to full height.
Her sexy stranger from the lobby.
Well, shit.
THREE
Cash should have been surprised that the woman from the lobby would wind up being his parole officer, but then again, when had anything in his life turned out the way he’d expected?
He’d started the morning off with the same goal that he’d had every day for eight years: to keep his head down and stay out of trouble. Bad things tended to happen to those who brought attention to themselves in prison.
But for some reason, he couldn’t keep himself from getting involved in that little situation out in the lobby.
He’d observed her walking into the building when his sister had dropped him off for the appointment, and his eyes had gone directly to her backside.
He couldn’t help himself.
Sure, there was a limp to her gait and she was wearing a long navy winter coat that covered her ass. But, man, that woman worked it with every step she took. Like a metronome, her hips swayed from side to side. He’d been mesmerized.
He hadn’t planned on doing anything about it. He certainly hadn’t planned on coming to her defense when that kid who called himself a security guard denied her entry into the building. Or that he’d find himself crouched on the floor beside her to bring her back from the edge of an apparent anxiety attack.
She was attractive. He’d give her that. Just the type that got his blood revving. Curvy with those sexy wide hips and small waist. Almond-shaped eyes with dark lashes. Shoulder-length hair that started out black at the roots and progressively turned to light brown at the ends. It was neither straight nor curly, but somewhere in between. Long enough to hold on to and play with but short enough not to get in his way.
Except her looks had nothing to do with why he’d opened his big mouth. Truth was, he never could resist a woman in need. Hell, that was exactly how he’d found himself married to Maddie at the ripe old age of twenty-one, and look how well that had gone.
He couldn’t go down that road again. In the end, not only had he failed to save Maddie, but also his reckless actions had killed her. He might have served his time in the eyes of the law, but that didn’t mean he forgave himself.
He crossed the waiting room and strode toward the woman, noting the way her eyes greedily ate him up as he moved closer and the spasm of her slim throat as she swallowed hard.
The force of his desire to see this woman on her knees in front of
him in submission nearly bowled him over. Back in the lobby, she’d seemed brazen and confident but at the same time a bit fragile. Exactly the kind of woman he’d preferred to top in the past. But those days were over. After making the mistake of confusing fragile for broken in Maddie, he no longer trusted his instincts to know the difference.
The woman let him pass her before closing the door, and he caught her scent, a tease of strawberries and sunshine in this frost-covered state of Michigan.
As the door clicked behind them, she looked up at him. Even with her womanly curves, she was petite. Probably a good foot shorter than his six-three frame.
“Mr. Turner?” she asked in a businesslike tone, completely ignoring their previous encounter. At his nod, she continued. “I’m Dreama Agosto. Your new parole officer.”
“You’re a woman,” he blurted before stopping himself. His last parole officer had been a man. He had just assumed the parole office made assignments along gender lines. Wasn’t it dangerous for her to work with male parolees, especially the rapists and murderers? He didn’t like the thought of her risking her life every day.
“Thanks for pointing that out.” She gave him a weak smile. “Let’s go to my office.”
Shit. He’d offended her. Not a great way to start with the person who had the power to send him back to prison.
That was twice now he’d worried about her well-being, and he didn’t even know her. Normally, he had more control over his mouth, but something about her made him forget to stay quiet.
He walked beside her down the hall and noticed her limp was more pronounced than out in the lobby. “I just…I thought I’d have a male parole officer since I’m a—”
