Pretty Broken Girl

by Jeana E. Mann

  Our encounter at the coffee shop had caught me off guard. I’d been prepared to meet her. I hadn’t been prepared to find her so damned attractive. What really pissed me off was how completely fuckable she looked. A straight blue skirt hit her mid-thigh, showing toned legs, and a tight white blouse covered breasts larger and perkier than I remembered.

  Her frustrated sigh brought a smile to my lips. I covered it with a scowl and dropped my gaze to the report in my hand. Data swam across the pages in a nonsensical blur. I’d been preparing for this merger over the past six months. I already knew everything I needed to know about the company. In truth? I was just fucking with her. It was petty, I knew. I couldn’t help myself.

  “Is there anything else I can get you?” she asked after I’d left her standing there for another couple of minutes. When I didn’t answer, her eyes narrowed. “Shine your shoes, maybe? Or would you prefer some lemonade squeezed by tiny elves with lemons from the Enchanted Forest?”

  “Did you say something?” I lifted my gaze to find her staring at me with eyes the color of the Mediterranean Sea—not blue, not green, but some exotic mixture in the middle.

  I’d forgotten about those eyes, the way they could reach down inside me and twist my guts with a flutter of lacy black lashes. They were my Kryptonite. I had to blink away from them and focus on the view outside the wall of windows to shake their hold. When I looked back to her, she’d gone pale and sank into a chair.

  “Are you okay?” I might be petty and juvenile, but I wasn’t a complete asshole. By the expression on her face, something was terribly wrong.

  “I’m fine,” she said in a thin voice. “I just need to sit for a minute. I’m feeling a little dizzy.”

  “Pregnant?” I asked and immediately regretted it.

  Her expression twisted and her gaze dropped to her lap. Children had been a hot topic for us. I’d wanted lots and she’d wanted to wait, a point made moot by our divorce. “I twisted my ankle last night,” she said. “And it hurts like a mother.” As she spoke, she lifted her foot and propped it on the empty chair between us. The ankle had turned a yellowish-purple, swollen to the size of a grapefruit.

  “Jesus, Dakota.” At the sight of her injury, my asshole persona slipped away, forgotten. Before she could protest, I lifted her foot from the chair and eased her shoe off. She winced. I dangled the stiletto in the air by one of the delicate straps. I had a quick mental image of Dakota in those shoes and nothing else. Always a sucker for a pretty girl, my traitorous groin tightened. “Maybe you should’ve worn more sensible shoes.”

  “I didn’t realize I’d be walking all over town for the better part of the day,” she huffed.

  “You need to get some ice on this.”

  “I’ll be fine.” She moved to reclaim her foot, but I clamped a hand around her calf.

  “Sit tight. I’ll be right back.” I stepped outside the office and shot orders at Valerie for an icepack and aspirin.

  When I returned, her head rested against the back of the chair, eyes closed, and lips parted. A picture of her asleep on the sofa of our apartment, lashes fanned across her cheeks, hand curled beneath her chin, flashed through my memory. I used to love watching her sleep, tracing the lines of her upturned nose and the short bow of her upper lip with my fingers, holding my breath so I wouldn’t wake her.

  “Fuck,” I muttered.

  “What?” Her eyes fluttered open.

  “Nothing. Here. Ibuprofen.” I set the caplets on the table, alongside a glass of water. She eyed them warily. “Oh, for goodness sake. I’m not trying to poison you.”

  “Can you blame me?” she asked, but tossed the pills into her mouth and chased them down with a gulp of water.

  “You’re not getting off that easy,” I replied, only half joking. “I need to keep you around so I can torture you.”

  I eased her foot from the chair and into my lap then placed the icepack on her ankle. Her foot weighed nothing in my hand, the bones small and fragile, flesh warm and firm. Pink polish tipped each of her delicate toes. I resisted the urge to run my hands over her arch, remembering how she loved a good foot massage.

  “I couldn’t get that lucky,” she muttered. An expression of sadness shadowed her face and faded away as quickly as it came. Empathy squeezed my heart.

  Oh, no. No, no, no. I would not feel sorry for her, no matter how bad or how sad her life might be. Whatever strife existed in her life had been her own doing. Karma was a bitch. And I hoped it bit her in the ass.

  “You need to see a doctor.” I released her foot and pushed my chair to a safe distance where I could no longer feel her body heat or smell her perfume. What was it? Something sweet and citrusy, clean but spicy. I drew in a second, longer sniff to better analyze the scent.

  “If I see a doctor, he’ll just put me off work and my new boss won’t like it.”

  “He must be a dick,” I replied.

  “He’s not,” she said. “He’s a very nice man and a friend of my mother’s. He’s been our family doctor for years.”

  One corner of my mouth tugged up, and I bit back the smile. Such a smart ass, my little Dakota. “I meant your boss.”

  “Oh. I don’t know about him. He didn’t used to be.” The weight of her gaze drew my eyes to hers. “I thought he was a great person once. Maybe he still is underneath all his ass-hat tendencies.” She gave me a one-shouldered shrug.

  This revelation sat me back in my chair while I scanned her face to judge the sincerity in her expression. I’d been nothing but mean to her. Cold. Aloof. Unyielding. I wanted her to hate me the way I hated her. Yet, she continued to hold on to the boy I’d once been instead of the man I’d become. The walls of my chest constricted until I had to look away and calm my racing pulse. She always saw me for who I was and not what I represented. It was what had drawn me to her in the first place all those years ago.

  “Take a few minutes and get yourself together.” I stood and straightened my tie, disconnecting my gaze from hers. “I need you to go through all the files in my office and sort them by date and company.” She sighed through her nose, an exasperated snort that would’ve been cute on any other female. “Before tomorrow.” With those parting words, I turned and headed toward the door. “I’ll be out the rest of the day.”

  I didn’t really have anywhere to go, but I couldn’t spend another minute in close confines with her. My lingering attraction to her pissed me off. In my mind, I’d turned her into a three-eyed troll with warts. I didn’t expect to find a doe-eyed, voluptuous knockout with a shrewd intellect. At the curb in front of the building, I passed a hand over my face and waited for Rockwell. I needed to get over this or it was going to be a very long six months.

  CHAPTER 8

  Samuel - Then

  INSIDE THE LIMO, Dakota sat on the gray leather seat across from me. I tried not to stare at the way the hem of her skirt rode up a little too high on her thigh. She wore the requisite school uniform—plain white blouse with a black tie, navy blue skirt, and white knee socks. The ambiguous cut of the clothing hid most of her curves, but the smooth stretch of her legs captured my eighteen-year-old mind. Catching the trajectory of my gaze, she frowned and tugged her skirt down to her knees.

  I’d started offering her a ride home after school. She always had us drop her a few blocks from her house. I wasn’t quite sure why. Maybe she didn’t want her friends or parents to know about us. Maybe she still felt the disparity of our social classes. All I knew was that I enjoyed her company, and I didn’t give a shit where she lived or who her mother was. She didn’t ask anything of me or use me for my money. The few times I’d tried to buy her something, she’d tossed my debit card back at me. In a world where everyone wanted something, it was refreshing behavior.

  On this particular afternoon, we were going back to my house. My mother was having another one of her insufferable dinner parties and needed help with the setup. The idea of Dakota in my house had me oddly excited. Although I was pretty sure Mother wouldn�
��t approve of transporting hired help in the limousine, I used it as an excuse to keep Dakota as a captive audience for the duration of the thirty-minute ride.

  I broke the silence with a question that had nagged me for weeks. “Seaforth is an expensive school. How can your family afford for you to go there?”

  Color rushed into her cheeks. It started as a pale pink at her collarbone and blossomed into rose red. She had the prettiest skin, translucent and smooth. My fingers itched with the urge to stroke the column of her neck and feel the pulse beating at the curve of her jaw.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” Too late, I realized my gaffe and felt the gap widen between our socio-economic standings.

  “It’s a fair question.” She turned her gaze from the window to meet mine and smiled. Her smiles were rare, and the sight of even one warmed my insides in a way that reminded me of sunshine after a rainstorm. “I got a scholarship.”

  “So you’re a brainiac.”

  She shrugged and brushed her hair back from her shoulder. Usually she wore it in a ponytail, but today it hung in kinky spirals down her back. “Every year, your family offers assistance to public school students with exceptional skills. I applied last year and won,” she said with a certain amount of pride in her voice.

  “I knew it,” I replied, captivated by the way the afternoon light shimmered in her eyes.

  “Knew what?”

  I had her full attention now. She turned her shoulders toward me, facing me fully, rewarding me with a full view of arched eyebrows, high cheekbones, and a small, pouty mouth.

  “That you were exceptional.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Dakota - Now

  WITH A SIGH of resignation, I eyed the endless files in front of me and recognized the task for what it was—retribution. Most of the documents deserved to be shredded. They were out of date and obsolete. The majority of the information existed online. But if he wanted me to sort through the junk, then sort I would. If only to show my determination and willingness to make this work.

  Hours passed. The other employees powered down their computers and made their way to the elevators. The fluorescent lights of the office extinguished, and the low murmur of voices dissipated until I was left alone with massive stacks of paper and my dangerous thoughts. The more I worked, the more painful memories returned. While the sun lowered in the sky outside, my spirits lowered inside the office. Samuel hated me. I hated myself even more. It was going to be a long six months.

  The office door opened, startling me from introspection. I squeaked and dropped a document folder, spilling pages over the plush carpet. Samuel looked up from the threshold, his features displaying momentary shock before schooling into cool ambivalence. My pulse skipped a beat. Attraction sparked inside me, while my intellect steeled for battle.

  “You’re still here.” His deep, rich voice held a note of flat disappointment.

  My spirits sank another notch, and my shoulders slumped a little. “Uh, yes. You said to have this done today, and I’m not finished yet.” I scanned the stacks of untouched papers. “There’s enough work here to keep me busy for a week.”

  He tugged his tie loose and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt then sank into his chair, his movements uncoordinated and choppy. His gaze rested on me. Although his features remained expressionless, his eyes were turbulent, assessing, and angry. The chair squealed in protest as he leaned back, perilously close to tipping, and propped his feet on the desk. The room filled with his masculinity and the scent of liquor. I tried not to notice the way his shirt stretched over his abs or the bunch of his trousers over his hips.

  “You’re drunk.” Despite my best efforts, I sounded like an accusing wife.

  “I’m shit-faced.” He scratched his chin, the stubble of his beard rasping against his palm.

  “Must be a personal problem. Have you thought about counseling?”

  “Been there, done that.”

  The matter-of-fact honesty in his tone twisted my guts. Had I driven him to psychiatric intervention? The idea of wrecking this beautiful man hurt me more than I cared to admit. I covered it with anger. “Sounds like you need some more.”

  “More working. Less talking,” he slurred. “Don’t mind me. I’m just going to sit here and think about all the ways you’ve fucked me over.”

  I’d been gathering up the scattered documents and stopped short at his words. With slow, deliberate movements, I straightened and stalked to his side. I dropped the folder onto the desk and scowled down at him. A dark growth of afternoon beard shaded his cheeks and jaws. He smelled of bourbon and cigars. The Samuel I knew—my Samuel—never drank or smoked. He abhorred self-destructive behavior. This bleary-eyed man seemed the antithesis of that boy.

  “I’ll save you the trouble,” I said. “I’m a lying, deceitful bitch who broke your heart for a few bucks. Did I leave anything out?”

  My heart lurched as he rose to his feet and stared down his nose at me. A muscle ticked in his jaw. His hand captured my chin and held it, forcing my gaze up to his. The pad of his thumb stroked over my lower lip in a gesture all too gut-wrenchingly familiar but lacking its former gentleness. When his eyes dipped to my lips, every fiber in my being trembled. Kiss me. No, wait. What was I thinking? Damn. Now I couldn’t think of anything but how he would taste, the slide of his tongue over mine, the heat of his sigh against my mouth, how good it had been between us. My fingers curled in rebellion, wanting to fist in his hair.

  “You have no idea, Dakota,” he said in a hoarse voice. Was it my imagination, or had his voice gotten deeper, throatier?

  “Then tell me, Samuel. Let’s get it all out on the table. I can’t take six months of this.”

  His hand slid from my jaw, wrapping around the column of my neck. I felt the power in his grip, barely leashed and dying to escape. Would he strangle me if he could? My pulse fluttered beneath his thumb. Our eyes met, and a sense of calm descended over me. Somewhere inside this raging man existed the boy I’d married, the one I’d loved, the one who’d loved me back.

  “I’d like to wring your pretty little neck. Shake the life out of you.” Eyes closed, he ran the tip of his nose alongside mine, not touching me but close enough to raise all the tiny hairs on my skin. “Throw you over my knee and spank your sweet round ass.” His free hand rested on the small of my back. It drifted down to squeeze a handful of the body part in question. The span of his chest lifted and fell with a deep inhale. “Or maybe I’ll just bend you over this desk and fuck you into oblivion.”

  I’ll take fucking, please. The space between my legs developed a sweet ache. I had a quick mental image of my cheek pressed against the cool wood of the desk, his hands sliding my skirt up over my bare bottom, and his legs spreading mine wide. I dragged in a frustrated breath. “Maybe you should.”

  “Which one?” He drew back enough to give me a glimpse of the brown flecks in his irises, edged by thick, dark lashes.

  I placed a hand on his chest to push him away but got lost in the sensation of my first contact with him. Beneath my palm, his chest was warm and hard. His heart beat against my touch, strong, vital, and insistent.

  “Strangle me. Spank me. Fuck me.” The last words left my lips on a whisper, but he heard them. His eyes narrowed.

  “It was always good between us, wasn’t it?” His voice cracked on the question, as if he was parched. “The sex?”

  “It was better than good.” That wasn’t an exaggeration. In my mind, I’d built it up to be epic.

  “So you remember?” he asked, searching my eyes.

  I nodded. How could I forget? For the first six months of our marriage, we’d barely left the bedroom except to work and eat. We’d had sex on every horizontal surface and some of the vertical ones.

  Without releasing me, he walked me backward until my butt hit the edge of his desk. The pressure of the hand on my neck increased, pushing me down until I reclined on my back. My breath stuttered in short pants. He spread my thighs, pu
shing my skirt up to my hips. One hand lifted my knee to his waist. Right or wrong, I wanted him. The desk was cold and hard beneath me. The man between my legs was also hard, but more heated and more unforgiving.

  Samuel dragged his gaze to my lips. His shoulders blocked out the sight of everything beyond him. The fabric of his shirt pulled taut over his biceps. His hand slid from my neck, over my chest, and came to rest on the placket of my blouse. I heard the rending of silk and the ping of buttons on the floor as he ripped the shirt open to my waist and yanked the cup of my bra down. His fingers sought my breast. My skin buzzed beneath his touch, the nipple tightening into a tense peak.

  “Go ahead. Do it,” I taunted. He answered by pressing his cock against my panties, the long, rigid length of it obvious despite the layers of cloth between us. “You know you want to.”

  His hand released my knee. I heard the jingle of his belt buckle, followed by the growl of his zipper. Unable to look anywhere but up, I focused on his eyes, vibrant and stormy. Our harsh breathing shattered the silence. The tension in his jaw renewed the ache between my legs. He might hate me, but he wanted me more. I arched up, dying to feel him inside me. Not because he loved me, but to punish me for everything I’d done to him. I wanted him to take all the frustration, resentment, and anger out on my body, to fuck me until nothing remained but the empty shell of the traitorous woman I’d become.

  Suddenly, he pushed away from me, leaving my legs dangling over the desk edge, and ran a hand through his hair. He turned his back and spoke in a rough, cold voice. “You’re not worth it.”