by Shelly Bell
Destiny? What did Cash know about destiny? Before the accident, he’d been so sure he knew what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. Now he didn’t even know what he wanted to eat for lunch.
Before Maddie, Cash had had his whole life planned out. He wanted to go to Michigan State University’s veterinarian school, work for someone else for five years, and then open his own practice. He’d imagined himself married to a woman sweet and wholesome on the outside but dirty and kinky on the inside. He’d wanted a house in the suburbs filled with kids and dogs, preferably somewhere near his family.
The idea of attending vet school didn’t appeal to him like it had before the car accident. His parents were both dead and his fantasy wife had turned out to be a mirage. He was a widower and had lost a child. Everything he’d once envisioned for himself had crashed and burned eight years ago. He was no longer that naïve young man.
There was only one thing he was certain he wanted, and it was the one thing he couldn’t have.
Dreama.
TWELVE
Dreama felt like a teenage girl waiting for her date to arrive. She’d seen parolee after parolee this morning, but there’d been no sign of Cash. He was on the schedule, but the last time she’d glanced at the computer, he hadn’t checked in yet. Every time she opened the door to the waiting room, she expected to see him sitting there in one of those uncomfortable chairs, legs spread with his elbows on his knees. And every time, she was disappointed.
Disappointed.
She couldn’t ever recall a time when she’d been so eager to see someone. Cash Turner wasn’t a date. He wasn’t her boyfriend or her Dom.
He was her parolee.
She shouldn’t be this excited to see him, and yet adrenaline was pumping through her blood, making her heart race and her palms sweat. It was absolutely ridiculous.
As the hours passed, she began to worry he wasn’t going to come. Her mind started to wander as she led one of her other parolees to her office. Maybe Cash had changed his mind and decided to ask for a new parole officer. Maybe he was uncomfortable with the fact that she’d seen him naked.
Maybe she needed to get a grip.
Finally, at eleven-thirty, his name appeared on her computer. She saw two more parolees before she called him back. It took everything she had to act normal.
She avoided eye contact, and even though they wouldn’t be shaking hands, she wiped her palms on the sides of her skirt. “Follow me, Mr. Turner.”
Walking beside him, she didn’t speak or even look at Cash. She was afraid that if she did, one of her coworkers could pass by them in the hall and deduce immediately how she felt about him. Sometime between the waiting room and her office, her pulse had skyrocketed to the moon and all her female bits had woken up as if she’d mainlined a double shot of espresso to them. It was a good thing she was wearing a suit jacket over her blouse or everyone would know the exact size of her nipples.
Cash’s scent tantalized her. He smelled delicious. Sweet with a hint of spice, like a warm, fresh apple cider donut. When she was younger, she’d suffered from a bout of iron deficiency that made her crave non-edible items like laundry detergent and gasoline because of their scents. Luckily, she’d been old enough to know not to eat them. That’s how she felt now, only she craved Cash.
She led him to her office and closed the door behind them. He stood in the middle of the room, eating up the space with his magnetic presence and filling it with the scent of baked goods.
Heart pounding, she rested her back against the door. “Hi.”
Cash rocked back on his heels. “Hi.”
His sneakers looked brand-new, a clean white with the logo in black. They were a vast improvement over last week’s grungy ones. Again, he wore jeans, but this time, he’d matched them with a long-sleeved gray Henley that accentuated his eyes. Her hands tingled with the desire to explore all the muscles hidden underneath.
And that wasn’t the only thing tingling.
She rolled her bottom lip into her mouth. Seriously, she needed to get it together. “How was your Sunday?”
His sexy lips curled up at the sides. “Good. Yours?”
“Good.” She nodded way too many times to be normal. “This is weird. Don’t you think this is weird?”
On the desk, her cell phone buzzed with an incoming call. Deducing it was probably her mother calling, she ignored it. She’d already spoken with her this morning on the way to work. Anything she had to say could be left in a voice mail.
“It’s only as weird as we make it.” He took a giant step closer to her. If some other man did that, she’d probably be curled into the fetal position. She wasn’t sure when it had happened, but she trusted Cash to keep the boundaries. “We’re just talking, Dreama. Nothing about Friday night should change that.”
“Right,” she said, catching herself nodding again. She gestured to him to sit and took her chair behind the desk. “Right. I got the results from last week’s urine test.” She slid it over to him. “It came back clean.”
He perused the paper and returned it to her. “How does the random testing work?”
“You’ll receive a text requesting you visit the lab that day for the test,” she said, sticking the results in his file. Her phone buzzed again, and this time, she confirmed it was indeed her mother calling. She opened her desk drawer, dropped the phone inside, then closed it. When was the woman going to accept that Dreama was an adult with adult responsibilities?
“And now that we’ve gone over your test results,” Dreama said, “we can move on to more pressing matters. I spoke with my friends over the weekend. Ryder agreed to meet with Browner about offshore investments, and Finn, his attorney brother, is going to look into Browner’s cases to see if anything unusual pops out at him.”
While discussing their plans to look into Browner last Friday night, Dreama had told Cash all about her friendship with Ryder McKay, heir to the multi-billion-dollar McKay Industries, and his marriage to her best friend, Jane.
Cash chuckled. “I can’t believe your friends are a bunch of billionaires.”
Neither could she. Money wasn’t a big deal for her. As long as she had enough to live comfortably, without her parents’ help, she was satisfied. She was pretty certain that if she did have billions, she wouldn’t spend it on herself. She’d use the money to help others. But like having the ability to eat her weight in chocolate and not gain a pound, being a billionaire would never become a reality.
“Trust me, they don’t live like billionaires,” she said, thinking of their modest home. “If you met them, you’d understand. They’re some of the most down-to-earth people you could ever meet.”
“I believe you. I’m a complete stranger with a criminal history and yet they’re willing to help. That says more about them than anything else could.” He leaned forward, placing both hands flat on the desk. “Anyway, you’re not the only one who’s been busy. I ordered my medical records from the hospital. It was surprisingly easy. The woman on the phone said I should have them in a week.”
With them practically begging to be ogled, Dreama studied his hands. His long fingers tapered to clean, clipped nails and the tops of his palms were covered with a light dusting of fine brown hair. She could almost feel his hands between her thighs, forcing her legs open and dipping into where she throbbed for him. He wouldn’t be gentle or treat her as if she were made of glass. He’d use his physical strength to demonstrate his dominance over her and leave purple fingerprint-shaped bruises on her skin. That way, his mark would remain with her even when they were apart.
She crossed her legs to quell the rising arousal, but it didn’t help. “And then we’ll know. But in the meantime, we should still talk to the witnesses who reported you’d been drinking to help your legal case if you’re going to get the conviction overturned. I read through your file again this morning and jotted down the names of the other witnesses,” she said, looking at the notes she’d taken. “Kevin Sanders and Jay Moran. Do you know
them?”
Cash squinted as he sat back in his chair. “Yeah. Sanders was the research director at Lundquist Animal Health and Jay Moran owned a chain of veterinary clinics throughout Michigan. But…”
“What?”
“Sanders and I worked in the same building, but I don’t remember meeting Jay Moran. I just know his name because he did some of the clinical trials for the company.”
From what she’d read in her online research about the celebration, Lundquist Animal Health had rented out the zoo’s events pavilion, which held up to five hundred people. It seemed odd that out of everyone at the event, a stranger would give a statement about Cash to the police.
“Is it possible you met him the night of the accident?” she asked.
He ran his hand over his scalp. “Yeah. I guess.”
“What was the last thing you remember from that night?”
“I remember driving to the Detroit Zoo. I don’t recall arriving.”
“The notes in your file indicate the accident occurred just after ten p.m. and that the event at the zoo began at eight,” she said. “So, that gives us a two-hour gap to fill.”
“I spoke with my old boss yesterday. He said he thinks I only drank two glasses of champagne, but he couldn’t be certain.” Cash shifted in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “Dreama, I don’t see why all of this is important. If my blood test shows I wasn’t intoxicated, wouldn’t that be enough to overturn a conviction?”
“Apparently, no. Finn McKay told me it’s really difficult to do it.” Difficult was putting it mildly. Finn had used the words nearly impossible. “The first hurdle is that you pled guilty. The court asked you if you comprehended your rights, which included waiving the right to appeal the conviction. Your new attorney would have to prove that Browner withheld vital facts about the evidence against you. It would be Browner’s word against yours and Browner is never going to cop to malpractice. We’re going to need as much proof as possible to help win your case. But even if the toxicology report and all the evidence still point to your guilt, don’t you want to know what happened during those missing hours?”
“Honestly?” Cash covered his face with his hands and dragged them down. “Maybe I don’t.”
She understood his apprehension. There was a part of her that wished she’d blocked out all her memories of her attack. Sometimes, it was better off to remain in the dark. But in Cash’s case, she couldn’t see how the truth could hurt him worse than not knowing. “There’s a therapist. Her name is India and she specializes in treating crime victims. My cousin Isabella went to her for a while, and after my attack, she counseled me in the hospital. I could call her and see if…I don’t know…maybe there’s something she could do to help you remember.”
Before he had the chance to respond, Candice’s voice came through the phone’s intercom. “Dreama? I’m sorry to interrupt, but there’s an urgent call for you on line two. It’s your mother.”
Grr. If it was anyone other than her mother, she might be worried there was an emergency. But she’d jumped to the wrong conclusion too many times in the past to consider it a possibility. Her mom had probably watched a show about this season’s flu epidemic and wanted to make sure Dreama had gotten her immunization.
She rolled her eyes. “Can you tell her I’m in with a client, Candice, and I’ll call her back on my lunch break?”
“She already said it can’t wait,” Candice said, familiar with Dreama’s mother’s frequent calls.
“Okay. Thanks, Candice.” Dreama sighed. I’m sorry,” she said to Cash. “My mom…” She’d already briefed Cash about her mother’s anxiety. Now he was witnessing it in person.
She picked up the receiver and pressed line two. “This better be an emergency.”
“Dreama, baby,” her mother said quietly. “I didn’t want you to hear it from someone else. Are you sitting down?”
Shit. She’d never asked her to sit down before. Dreama let out a shaky breath. “Oh my God. Is Dad okay?”
“Everyone is fine. At least in our family.”
Dreama sighed in relief. Thank goodness.
“There was a story on the news,” her mom continued. “A young woman was murdered in your city.”
Frustrated by her mother’s dramatics, Dreama raked her fingers through her hair. “That’s terrible, Mom, but what does that have to do with me?”
“This girl. She was beaten to death with a baseball bat.”
Dreama didn’t hear anything else her mother had to say. She wasn’t even sure if her mother was still talking. It was all just static in her ears. She thanked her mom for the information and hung up.
Acid rose in her throat as her mind flashed to another time and place. She could see herself lying broken like a china doll on the carpet and the man in the ski mask above her, a bloody baseball bat in his hand.
It wasn’t him. The man who’d attacked her was gone. Ryder had seen the dead body. The police confirmed it. But what if they were wrong about the identity of her attacker?
What if the man who’d almost killed her was still alive? “Dreama? What is it?” Cash asked, his voice sounding as if it were coming from the far end of a tunnel.
Still, his voice was enough to jar her from memory and to bring her back to the present. She blinked away the black dots swimming in her vision and focused on Cash sitting across from her. “Nothing. Just my mother being her typical overprotective self.”
He stood and rounded the desk, then crouched beside her chair. “Yeah, I’m not an idiot, Dreama, so don’t take me for one. Talk to me,” he said gently.
“That was my mom. I wasn’t lying about that. She called to tell me that someone died.”
Her mother probably thought telling her about the murder was the right thing to do, but like Cash with the night of the accident, Dreama wasn’t sure if she would have been better off not knowing.
Cash’s eyes expressed sympathy. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
She swiveled her chair to face him. “I didn’t know her.”
“Then…I’m confused.”
Cash had already witnessed three of her anxiety attacks. He’d proven himself worthy to know why.
“Just over a year ago,” she said, her voice wobbly, “a man broke into my apartment. I wasn’t supposed to have been there, but I’d stayed home from work that day with the flu. I was in my bedroom, my cell phone dead, so I grabbed the only thing I had on hand to protect myself…a baseball bat. He snatched it out of my hands and used it on me.” She waved a hand up and down her body. “All of this. My scars. My pain. My panic attacks. It’s all from the attack. If Ryder hadn’t found me when he had, I might have died.”
Cash’s face turned red and the corded muscles in his neck grew taut. “I hope that fucker is in prison,” he said on a growl, “so I can tell my buddies still in there to teach him a lesson on what happens to men who beat on women.”
“He’s dead,” she informed him. “Or at least, I thought he was. My mother told me a local woman was murdered with a baseball bat.” Her chest tightened and it became harder to get air into her lungs. “What if the police were wrong and someone else was responsible for my attack? What if he comes back to finish the job?”
“Don’t panic, sweetheart. Chances are, it’s probably a coincidence. There’s no reason to think this attack has anything to do with yours.” He looked her right in the eyes. “Friday night, I promised I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you again. I intend to keep that promise.”
Her rational side agreed that it had to be a coincidence.
But she couldn’t discount her intuitive side, which whispered in her ear that this attack had everything to do with her.
The office door flew open. Still crouched beside her, Cash vaulted up to full height and leapt backward, clearing as much space as possible between himself and her chair. Meg took one step into the room, her lips pressed tightly together and her arms folded over her chest.
If a parole officer had a good fai
th belief that another parole officer’s life was in danger, she didn’t require permission to enter the room. In all the years Dreama had worked there, only once did a situation require a supervisor to forgo the common courtesy of knocking.
Meg had no right to barge in there and she knew it.
But she also knew how to cover her ass. “Dreama, I was concerned something was wrong since you’ve been in here so long with this parolee.” Her brows rose. “Did I interrupt something?” Meg spoke the words as if they were a statement of fact rather than a question.
Although her limbs were shaking and the panic still had its tentacles wrapped around her lungs, Dreama got up from her desk. “We were just finishing up. It ran over because I had to take a phone call.”
Meg didn’t hide her sneer. “Personal phone calls are not permitted during work hours,” she reminded her, suggesting to Dreama that she knew the identity of the caller. “You have a room full of parolees who have better things to do than wait for you, and I’m sure Mr.…” Meg looked at Cash. “I’m sorry. What is your name?”
He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Cash Turner.”
“Mr. Turner,” Meg continued, “deserved to have your full attention and not have his time wasted while you spoke on the phone. I’m sure it won’t happen again. Am I understood, Ms. Agosto?”
“I apologize, Ms. Wilson,” she said, pasting on the most insincere smile she was able to muster. On the bright side, her resentment toward Meg reduced some of the lingering anxiety over her mother’s phone call. “Since you’re so concerned that I not waste my parolees’ time, I think I should accompany Mr. Turner to the waiting room and call back my next appointment. Don’t you agree?”
Dreama squared her shoulders and took a step toward the door. She didn’t buy Meg’s lame excuse for charging into her office without permission.
