Shane was her probation officer, and he was just her type. Tall, bulging muscles, dangerous features—she felt her mouth water.
“Personally, I hope you do. I would love nothing more than to bust your ass and send you back,” Shane barked, his brows pinched tight.
“Please tell me that’s a promise,” she asserted, winking at him.
He was so hot, and she loved rough talk.
“Soliciting sex from an officer, you return to jail,” he deadpanned, then stomped out of the apartment and slammed the door behind him.
Thethudof the apartment door closing, followed by the definitiveclickof the deadbolt, was the only sound. The probation officer was gone. Kim stood motionless for a second, feeling the hard, alien weight of the ankle bracelet. A constant, humiliating tether. She took a long, shuddering breath, the air thick with the smell of stale cigarettes and old grease. She smoothed her greasy hair back, her nails digging into her scalp. Her gaze swept over the dingy space—peeling linoleum, water-stained ceiling, a single, flickering bulb. This was her cage.
A bitter, silent laugh escaped her. Shecouldhave demanded that Maureen have her sent home to New York, back to civilization. But that would be retreating. That would be lettingherwin. LettingLanawin. No. She needed to be close. Close enough to watch them. Close enough to dismantle, piece by piece, everything thatbitchhad stolen from her. She was nowhere near done. This was just an intermission.
Her eyes landed on the ugly, brown, stained couch. It was ripped in one corner, spilling yellowed foam. She wrinkled her nose but walked over and lifted the center cushion. A slow, triumphant smile split her chapped lips.
The laptop and a burner cell phone, nestled in a plastic bag. Just as she’d requested. Her smile widened into a grin.Maureen followed directions beautifully when you had her by the throat.And Kim had that old witch clamped in a vise. She snatched the machine, carried it over to the wobbly Formica dining table, and flipped the top up. The screen remained black. Dead.
No bother,she thought, her mind already racing, calculating. She bent over, found the power cord in the bag, and plugged it into the grimy wall outlet. A small, red charging light flicked to life. Kim sat down, her eyes fixed on the device, and thought of everything she would have access to once it sprang back to life.
As soon as she tracked down Clint, he would help her figure out how to remove herdog leashand could finally get to work. Kim stood and stretched her arms above her head. She was exhausted from the long process of being released and was also starving. A few feet from her, an old refrigerator sat in the grimy kitchen. She opened the door and, as she demanded, the stocked interior had her favorites, courtesy of Mrs. Capshaw.
At this rate, she could probably ask anything of Maureen now. Maybe even Kayden, finally. She grabbed a bowl of huge black cherries from the fridge and flopped down on the couch. As she crammed a few into her mouth, the tangy, sweet juice burst on her tongue, and the first thing Kim had eaten she considered edible in weeks. Jail was not a place she planned ever to find herself again. With that thought, she propped her feet up on the rickety coffee table and finished the bowl before passing out on the couch.
LANA BOUNCED INTO thehouse,but inside was dim. The last time it looked like this was the night she caught Kayden inhis boxers back when she couldn’t stand his guts. She flipped the light switch on near the door, flooding the house with light.
“Hey, hey, now, don’t ruin my atmosphere,” Kayden called from the dining room.
She lowered the dimmer switch, and when Lana stepped further into the house, a warmth that had nothing to do with the thermostat enveloped her. The living room, usually bright and open, was now a sanctuary bathed in the soft, flickering glow of dozens of candles. Their gentle light danced across the walls, casting intimate shadows. The aroma of something delicious and savory, distinct from the mustiness of Arthur Spence's office, wafted from the dining table, where a meticulously prepared dinner awaited.
And Kayden... he was dressed to kill, a vision that momentarily stole her breath. A bottle of her favorite Cabernet sat chilling in a bucket of ice beside the spread, a final, perfect touch. Everything looked beautiful. So utterly, heartbreakingly perfect. For a fleeting second, her lips curved into an unbidden, genuine smile—a rare visitor lately.
The harsh fluorescent glow of her recent discoveries about Maureen began to recede, just for a beat. She looked around her and took it all in—the romance, the care he took to do this—and smiled as she walked toward him, her footsteps soft on the hardwood.
He was a picture of effortless elegance in black slacks and a rich black cashmere sweater that fit his broad chest snugly, emphasizing the powerful lines of his shoulders. His arm was still in the sling, a stark reminder of his recent trauma, but save for the lingering sling and the faded bruising around his collarbone, he was looking like himself again. More than himself.
As she got near him, his eyes, glowing and tender, swept over her face. He pulled her close, his good arm wrapping around herwaist, and planted a soft, lingering kiss on her lips. She returned the gesture, pressing her own lips to his, feeling the familiar comfort of his embrace. But the smile, the fleeting warmth, vanished, replaced by a hollow ache. Beneath the surface of her automatic response, she wasn’t feeling very romantic. Not after what she'd just uncovered. Not when another storm was brewing.
“What’s wrong?” he sighed.
Lana pulled away and sat in a dining chair, and he followed. She couldn’t smile and pretend everything was OK. She had to tell him what was going on with his business so that they could try and salvage the project.
“I went to the Spence Hotel to ask about the contract.”
“Oh? And what’d he say?” Kayden asked, twirling the bottle in the ice bucket.
“Pretty much, that no one’s gonna work with us, if you want me to be blunt,” she replied and reached for the wine.
“That makes no sense,” he said, sinking into a chair.
“No shit,” she replied, struggling with the cork.
He reached but remembered his arm was mangled and dropped his hand.
“It’s OK, hon, I got it.” She winked, pulled the cork free, and poured them both a glass.
“He signed off on the plans weeks ago. I don’t get it,” Kayden puzzled.
He reached into his pants pocket and grabbed his phone.
