Page 44 of Dare to Love Again

But things had changed in recent months. Gerald had gone from a rational, business-minded, motivated boss to a high-strung, often ill-tempered, unpredictable mess. And his behavior had become increasingly more erratic in the past few weeks. He was jumpy, arriving later and later each day, if he came in at all. When he deigned to make an appearance, he’d hibernate in his office, insisting no one disturb him for hours on end. A few times, after hiding out half the day, he’d rushed out in an even more agitated state, not speaking a word to anyone.

Whatever was going on with him was taking a physical toll. He wasn’t getting any younger, and his face appeared flushed every time she saw him lately, as though his blood pressure was up. She’d asked about it, but he’d attributed it to a family tree full of ruddy-faced German ancestors. But the gray at his temples was showing, past due for an appointment at his salon which he never missed, and no matter how finely tailored, his suits couldn’t conceal his growing paunch which meant he’d curtailed his gym visits, another thing he rarely missed until lately.

In the mornings, she’d find a pile of work dumped on her desk. According to the state of California, she had to be supervised by a licensed attorney with a fancy diploma hanging on the wall. This left Bradley, a junior associate who had passed the bar only six months earlier, to sign off on all her work.

As an ABA certified paralegal for eight years, with her experience in litigation, domestic relations, and tort law, she knew a heck of a lot more than him. It didn’t matter she did the bulk of the research, pored through case law in the same software program attorneys used, interviewed clients, collected and organized evidence, prepared the documents for trial, and coordinated everything on a case for a fraction of the pay. In two seconds, he scrawled his JD on the dotted line and got all the credit.

Still, it was interesting work, and she enjoyed it. Until Mr. Reinhart went off the rails a few months back. And before he started issuing deadlines for work already completed.

But sitting around grumbling wouldn’t get the work done or pay her bills. The latter didn’t amount to much. She had paid off her car, and she didn’t have a house payment. Andrew’s two-million-dollar life insurance had left her enough to pay cash for it, even in LA County, and she still had a nest egg left over. It wouldn’t last forever if she didn’t manage it carefully, especially with the cost of living through the roof in Southern California and, if Master Eric let her stay, the hefty club membership fees.

Monday turned out to be a productive day. She worried Tuesday would blow up at the last minute like Friday when Mr. Reinhart made a late appearance. He ran in a little after three o’clock, red faced and perspiring, and without a word to anyone, went straight to his office and slammed the door. Not a minute later, Bradley showed up in her doorway with a worried look on his face. Before they could commiserate over the shitstorm brewing, Gerald slammed back out and strode through the front door.

“This is getting old fast,” Brad grumbled.

“I know. Any idea what’s up with him?”

“Me? You’ve been here longer. I was hoping you did.”

She shook her head. “All I can say is it gets worse by the week, and please don’t take this the wrong way—” She stopped short, sure what she was going to say would absolutely be taken the wrong way.

“The clients are getting worse, too,” he finished for her. “That’s what you were going to say, right? I’ve noticed that, too.”

“I’ve never seen so many drug cases, and pro bono work. I’m surprised he can make payroll. What about you?”

“The same.” Brad had a wife, a baby on the way, and a brand-new mortgage on a pretty expensive townhouse which he’d purchased after starting with the firm, and he looked scared to death. “Between you and me, Esme, should I update my resume?”

“I can’t answer that for you except to say I plan to.”

Hurricane Gerald passing through quickly allowed Esme to leave at four o’clock as planned with plenty of time to get ready for the evening. She arrived at the club thirty minutes early and found a quiet table. The only reason this was possible was because they had live entertainment and most of the early crowd had congregated around the small stage and the alternative rock band playing.

From her vantage point, she had a good view of everything happening around her. She’d skipped this experience before now and found that the music was excellent, the atmosphere upbeat, the dancing seductive, and like the rest of the club, everything lush and top quality.

Except for being more upscale, there wasn’t much difference in the lounge than any other club she’d been in. Her gaze strayed to the next booth and over the brunette who sat there alone. Her eyes were closed, and she had both arms stretched over her head. Esme glanced upward, noting the cuffs around her wrists then followed the chain connecting them to the high ceiling above. Okay, maybe the differences were a little more striking.

She looked around, thinking it odd someone had left her restrained and unattended. She didn’t appear in distress. In fact, looking at her more closely, she noticed the pink in her cheeks, that her crimson tinted lips were parted, and her chest rose and fell faster than it should have. The reason became apparent when a hand with fingers splayed wide appeared from below and slid up her belly. It was masculine, the thick wrist and muscled forearm making it obvious. But Esme couldn’t see the man attached to it.

Fascinated, she couldn’t look away, not when it veered off its straight path and cupped the underside of her breast. With his thumb and forefinger working in concert, he plucked, rolled then pinched the already hard nipple. The woman leaned into his touch and her head fell forward. The loud music couldn’t drown out the groan of abject pleasure or the name she cried, “Andrew!”

Esme stiffened, shock knifing through her when a head covered in closely cropped sandy-blond hair appeared from under the table. Her focus shifted back to the hand, and the gold band on the third finger, and up to his tattooed biceps. It couldn’t be her Andrew; he’d died in her arms.

When the man turned his head to take his sub’s other nipple into his mouth, Esme saw his profile. Sharper more angular features and a thick scruff of beard broke the shock that gripped her. Glancing back at the tattoo on his arm, she realized it was all wrong, too. Not the eagle, globe, and anchor she’d traced with her fingers so often, but a falcon.

Suddenly, being here felt wrong. What was she doing? Hadn’t she decided the club, and the charmingly seductive Master Finn was more than she was ready for?

As if her thoughts had the power to make him materialize, he slid into the empty side of the booth. His gaze swept over her, and his approving grin sent her pulse racing. She’d met his condition of clingy with the simple sheath. It was also sexy, and feminine, which she could tell pleased him. Made of a spandex blend with a feminine lace overlay, it had a deep center cutout which showed the entire inner curves of her breasts. It was short, although with the table in the way, he couldn’t see the amount of leg it exposed. Without panties, she had to sit carefully or risk providing a floor show that rivaled the band.

“Pale pink looks lovely on you, lass. Much better than done-to-death black leather.” His smile faded when he got a good look at her face. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t stay.”

He looked at her closely then around the bar. “What spooked you?”

His search paused on the couple at the next table, now much further along. The dom sat on the bench seat with her on top of him, the chains still affixed to her cuffs clanked rhythmically over her head as she rode him.

Keiran turned back. “That’s tame compared to what you’ve seen inside.”

“I... It’s not—” She stopped to collect herself before she started babbling. “I would have sent word, but I had no way of contacting you.” She paused again, swallowing hard before she blurted out, “I don’t want this.”

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