THE CLICK OF THE FRONT door, followed by the report of heavy footsteps, breaks my concentration.
My first thought: definitely male. My second: I’m not expecting anyone and walk-ins are rare. As I begin to rise from behind my desk, the thud of leather soles on the hardwood comes to a halt.Ah.My heart settles. Whoever is out there must see the toy box and Wii console in the waiting area, and realize he’s wandered into the wrong office loft. It happens sometimes. Even with Deeana Chase, Child Advocacy Services, embossed on the glass.
Lowering myself back into my chair, I’m about to return to the case I’ve spent the past hour prepping for mediation, except there are no sounds of retreat. I cock an ear and listen. Nothing. My nerves begin to buzz again as my mind swings back to something Lena, my assistant, said before she left for the day. A man called to ask if I would be in this evening but wouldn’t disclose his name or purpose. Strange for sure and I should have locked up. A rule I set for both Lena and myself when either of us was working alone. But, true to form, preoccupation with a case took over and I forgot. Now I wish I’d been more vigilant.
Imagination racing in time with my rapid pulse, I pull a can of pepper spray out of my purse and, slipping off three-inch heels, silently move across my office. I’m cautious by design, though rarely this jumpy. The only logical explanation is that last night I stayed up late watchingThe Deliberate Stranger, an old movie about a notorious serial killer who lured his victims with charm and good looks. In hindsight, probably not the type of program a woman living on her own should watch. But having worked in Chicago for all of my adult life without encountering a problem, I feel relatively safe here.
Still…
I angle my head and peer around the doorway into the reception area. The man standing with his back to me is partially concealed by a giant leafy ficus, but the parts of him I can see are impressively built. He has to be more than six feet, judging by the bit of dark hair peeking just above the leaves. And he’s broad and muscular, if the way one shoulder fills out half of a black leather jacket and one rounded butt cheek flatters blue-washed denim are any indication. Under different circumstances I might enjoy the view, but all I’m thinking is his fine ass isn’t going to matter much if he’s another Ted Bundy.
In sheer masculine volume, this Adonis would have no trouble taking me and my extra weight down without breaking a sweat. I tighten my grip on the metal trigger with a good notion to spray first and ask questions later.
Fortunately, logic kicks in before my imagination spins further out of control. Would any man intent on harm stand there all this time studying the corkboard on which I proudly display cards and drawings from my young clients? The rational answer is no.
I take a deep breath and chide myself for being ridiculous. “May I help you?” I ask, moving into the open doorway.
There’s a pause—a noticeable hesitation—before he steps from behind the plant and slowly pivots.
I know even before our eyes meet.
My breath stutters.
I freeze.
And the can falls from my numb fingers.
“Hello, Deeana.”
His voice, deeper with age, packs an unfair sexual punch. Just like the rest of him.
As handsome as he was at eighteen, it didn’t come close to his appearance at thirty-three.Peoplemagazine has called it right. Micah Peters is the Sexiest Man Alive. No amount of shock or disdain could deny him that.
Partly Brazilian, on his mother’s side, he is blessed with exotic good looks. Short black waves carelessly styled, caramel skin that doesn’t pale even in winter, and espresso-brown eyes fringed with the darkest, thickest lashes I have ever seen.
Like his body, his facial structure is harder—more masculine, more defined. And the inky stubble framing his strong jaw and full, gorgeous mouth only adds to the instant, powerful impact.
But I’m not that naive girl anymore. I’ve taken my knocks and know all too well that the quality of a man’s character doesn’t lie in the quality of his looks. The fact that time has been unjustly charitable to him only fuels the resentment I’ve kept secret and locked away for fifteen years.
It takes every ounce of my trained composure to push civility past the bile rising in my throat. I lean against the wood frame for support and manage to say, “This is a surprise.” The fake calm of the words burns my tongue.
If he’s affected, it doesn’t show in the easy strides that move him toward me. The delicious aromas of leather and earthy cologne fill my senses. As he comes closer still, I struggle not to breathe him in. Mustn’t let him think he has any effect on me either.
Without smiling, his dark gaze slides over my every feature, studying them one by one, as if comparing them with his memory. “It’s been a while,” he says.
Not nearly long enough to forget or forgive. “Several years,” I reply.
Now he smiles. A mocking grin that tells me he knows I remember just how long it has been. That I remember the very night I left him—and everything else that mattered to me—behind.
“I see you didn’t run very far.”He’s good at reeling me in, but this time I’m not taking the bait. Rehashing the past would only conjure up memories I have tucked away, nice and tight. “Chicago U had a good child and family studies program,” I say, as though that were reason enough to flee only two hours away.I didn’t even get running away right.
“Humph.” He puts a lot of judgment into that one breath and studies me hard for a moment longer.
Under his scrutiny, I tug the lapels of my jacket together. I haven’t done that in a while—tugging my clothes to cover myself.
His gaze lowers to my fidgeting hand and then to the floor. “You dropped something.”
He bends down to pick up the bejeweled canister at my stocking feet. A tongue-in-cheek gift from my two girlfriends that affectionately pokes fun at my conservative nature. My friends are good for me because I tend to take myself too seriously.
