As Mick straightens to his imposing six feet five inches, I watch his gaze leisurely climb up my body—past the ample curves of my thighs and hips to the fullness of my breasts. I’ve worked hard to weed self-consciousness out of my system. Yet picturing myself through Mick’s eyes, my efforts fail and I come up lacking.
I didn’t follow his former NBA career; I made it a point not to. But unless I had become a hermit, a once-tempting proposition, I couldn’t have avoided the occasional run-in with his photos splashed across the tabloids, most often with superbeautiful women with supermodel bodies. Photos that never failed to do a number on my psyche. But I’d sooner walk buck naked through Lincoln Park on the Fourth of July—a fate I’d rank right up there with facing a death squad—than allow Micah Peters to witness my lingering insecurities.
I thrust my chin up, ease my hand away from the lapels, and extend it toward him. “I’ll take that.”
He looks at the can and laughs. The cynical sound rumbles low in his chest. “Do you greet all your visitors with sparkly weapons?” he asks and sets the gaudy pink canister on Lena’s desk, out of my reach, as if he doesn’t trust me not to open fire. If ever there were an occasion to pull the trigger, this would be it.
“Only visitors who make cryptic phone calls and then show up without warning.” I would congratulate myself on matching his sarcasm, except the bravado gets stuck in my throat when he takes another step forward.
“Would you have agreed to see me if I’d identified myself?”
“Assuming I was available.”
He stalks closer and leans in low—eight inches low—until his mouth is a hairbreadth from mine. In another time, I would have kissed his lips or lovingly traced the faded scar across his right cheekbone. But those days are long gone.
Grinning smugly, he says in a cocky, declarative whisper, “Liar. You would have avoided me like the plague.”
He’s right. But admitting as much would be weak. And I hate showing weakness to anyone. Instead, determined to brazen out his unnerving presence, I hold his gaze and my ground. “Since you went to so much trouble with your cloak-and-dagger act, I assume this visit has a purpose.”
Something indiscernible slices through the cockiness as he backs off and reaches into his jacket pocket. “Will four grand cover your retainer?”
I blink at the crisp stack of hundred-dollar bills he tosses onto Lena’s desk. “You want to hire me?”
“Why else would I be here?”
His biting comment stings a lot more than it should. Not that I have any romantic illusions about Mick coming here to pledge his undying love. He professed that sentiment years ago, and it turned out to be as worthless as the dirt on the bottoms of his designer shoes. But hiring me? It doesn’t make any sense. Unless…
Oh, God… I grip the doorframe. “You have a ch-child?” I’m stammering, shaking on the inside, but I can’t help it.
His level stare turns to stone. I don’t understand his anger, but the curtnoexpels from me a breath of relief that I hide behind an impatient huff. “Then what exactly do you need my services for?”
He lets the question hang in silence before saying, “It’s Victor’s son who needs your help.”
Victor Torres—my former foster brother and Mick’s accomplice. Too quickly for me to defend against, visions of that summer night fifteen years ago come crashing back, and with the memories I feel the brutal slap of betrayal and the piercing pain of loss all over again.
I long to hurl the ugly truths in his face. Of course I don’t. I didn’t let Mick see the angry hurt then, and I won’t let him see it now. From an arsenal of practice, I pull out an indifference that belies my quaking insides. “I’m busy with a full caseload at the moment,” I say, my blood running cold. “But I can suggest another attorney.”
IF TURNING TO FIND DEE framed in the doorway felt like I’d taken a fisted blow to the chest, hearing her sayI’m busyin that ice water tone was like getting a steel-toed boot to my gut.
Beyond her surprise at my sudden appearance, the least I expected was concern. Hell, an inkling of interest.Something.But as our eyes stay connected, mine in anger and confusion, hers register hardly any emotion. Those big amber eyes, which I fell for long ago, now chill me to the bone. Where is her fucking remorse?Shewas the one to leave, not the other way around.
My impulse is to fire a scathing missile that will thaw her icy front, but I remind myself that I’ve come here for reasons that have nothing to do with us. Or with noticing how Dee’s generous body spices up an otherwise dull gray suit.
In high school, she wore mainly loose, dark clothes in an attempt to disguise the voluptuous curves she hated. Curves that I found soft and sexy. And damn her, I still do.
Frustrated with my errant thoughts, I ruthlessly tamp down memories of all the ways in which I enjoyed her silky body and redirect my mind back to why I swallowed my pride and hostility to come here.
“I don’t want another lawyer,” I say, mirroring her cool. “I’m asking you to take the case.”
Dee shakes her head stubbornly, sending the sable curls, which she used to wear longer, bouncing around her shoulders.
“Think about the reason you became a child advocate,” I push. I’m not above using knowledge of her childhood to my advantage. “You know what that lack of stability feels like, Dee. That’s why helping kids stay in good homes is what you do…is what you always wanted to do.
“For the past three years, Victor and his wife have been providing Dwayde with a secure, loving foster home. They were in the process of filing for adoption when his biological grandparents showed up, threatening to take him away from the only stability he’s ever known. Dwayde wants to stay with his foster parents. He’s scared, Dee. Victor and Isabelle’s lawyer is good, but she doesn’t have experience representing children. Dwayde needs his own attorney to look out for him. He needs you.”
Her expression remains impassive. My appeal seems to have no thawing effect on her whatsoever, as she crosses her arms and adds another layer of frost.
“If the situation is so dire, why isn’t Victor here?” she demands.
