Page 18 of Into These Eyes
I look like a scary motherfucking criminal.
The door swings inward. Janson enters first, eyeing me as he holds the door open and waits.
Then in she walks, heels clicking on the lino floor, shoulders squared, her gaze focused on Janson. I devour her in an instant. That fiery auburn hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, the professional pencil skirt and silk top hugging the curves of her figure to perfection. I avoid her legs, because, hell, I’m already losing the ability to think. But I might be too late.
Even from here, her scent wafts over me, filling every cell with the sweet, flowery fragrance of her perfume, awakening something deep inside me that’s been dormant for a long damn time. That distinctive feeling of comingalive.
Jesus. I’d forgotten all about the amazing scent of a woman, and my body’s responding like a fucking freight train.
As I sit there, drawing in a deep breath, she turns.
The moment her eyes lock with mine, I know I’m fucked.
Chapter 10
Jamie
When I step past the guard and lay eyes on Gavin Lake for the first time in fifteen years, I freeze.
That nineteen-year-old boy isn’t here, sitting in this cold, sterile room.
The man before me is truly terrifying.
Then he stands, by way of being polite, I think, but it only reinforces his menacing presence. At around six-two or three, the combination of his bald head, unkept beard and the musclesstretching his prison shirt, reveals an ominous beast born of nightmares.
I fix my gaze on the table separating us and stride toward the chair waiting for me, the click of my heels on the linoleum completely out of place. I probably should have worn jeans and runners. But, of course, I’d needed to make the lie I’d told my father about going to work convincing. He most definitely would not approve of me being in the same room as the man who killed his wife.
Determined not to let Gavin Lake see my reaction to his appearance, I greet the counsellor sitting at the head of the table, slide out a chair and take a seat. Only then does the monster sit.
Does he think he can fool me by acting like a gentleman? Not a chance in hell. Though, by the looks of him, he might have come straight from there without a trace of bother.
Avoiding his eyes, I notice something out of place. Or, more accurately, the absence of something. I can’t see a single tattoo on his bare head, neck or arms. Everything else about him screams cliché prisoner. Except for that little detail.
Maybe he’s scared of needles.
I almost smile at the thought, then remind myself why I’m here and who it is I’m looking at.
As he settles in his chair, I meet his steady gaze.
The strangest sensation I’ve ever had washes over me. Those deep blue eyes seem to penetrate right through the steadfast walls I’ve erected around myself. His stare leaves me completely and utterly exposed. If that isn’t startling enough, I’m not uncomfortable at all. The intensity he’s directing at me isn’t hostility. In stark contrast to his appearance, it’s filled only with kindness.
In fact, as I gaze into the depths of the monster I hate, a wave of calmness blankets me. I should shake it off, but I don’t wantto let it go. I want to hold onto it and wrap it around my whole body. Snuggle into it and fall into a deep, undisturbed sleep.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
And then I realise, it’s simply because he's familiar. I may not have seen him in fifteen years, but those eyes haven’t changed since the weeks I spent looking at them in that courtroom. That’s all it is.
Placing my hands on the table, I clasp them in front of me. I’ve thought about how I should sit in this setting and decided on the partially closed off position. Plus, this way, he can’t see my hands shake. Though, strangely, they’re not doing any such thing.
With a slow, measured movement, he mirrors me. I feel like I should pull back a little, to keep more distance between us, but I don’t. I won't give him the satisfaction of believing he’s intimidating me.
His gaze finally breaks from mine, but he doesn’t look away. Instead, he takes in my forehead, my hair, my nose and cheeks. I watch his eyes move lower, to my chin and throat. To my breasts. And up to my lips.
I suppress the urge to ask him if he’s getting a good look, because I’m not so sure he’s even aware that he’s checking me out in the most obvious way.
Then he’s looking into my eyes again and I discover that his previous compassion has been replaced with what I can only describe as a war of conflict so strong, it’s almost tangible.
Something in me wants to calm him, wants to reach out and cover his hands with mine. I literally have to clench my fingers tighter to prevent them from doing just that.
