Hidden Scars (10 page)

       “For fuck’s sake. Seriously? I should have punched him. His face is undoubtedly a lot softer than the wall.”

       He chuckled. “Not worth it. Sooner or later the president will step in, and he’ll probably can both of them. Jeremy for sure. Larry for letting it slip by for so long. You have a log of client complaints?”

       She snorted. “Of course.” She’d been told it was a requirement. Otherwise, how would they know what needed to be improved upon?

       “Let me see it.”

       He followed her to her desk, and she flexed her hand. “Ow. Remind me to never do that again.” She brought up her spreadsheet and stood up, allowing him to take over her chair. Already sucked into the file, he absently handed her the ice pack and she held it to her hand, wandering over to the window.

       “How many clients do you handle?”

       “About twenty.”

       “And how many do you work with Jeremy on?”

       “Most of them.” She smiled as he cursed.

       “You mind if I email this to myself? I might be able to help you with some.”

       “Fine,” she said. Keys clicked, the chair rolled, and he came up behind her. When she thought he’d slip his arms around her waist and pull her back to his chest, though, he placed his hands on her shoulders and dug in instead. The moan of pleasure that escaped would have been embarrassing if his hands hadn’t felt so good.

       “Wound up,” he murmured. She nodded once, a soft yelp escaping as he found a particularly nasty knot.

       The job search had scarcely begun, and already she was discouraged. There wasn’t a lot out there. The pundits could crow all they wanted, the economy sucked balls. She’d be searching for a while, and she wasn’t sure she could handle working with Jeremy for as long as it would take. “Blame Jeremy.” It sounded breathless, and she could imagine making the same sounds as Taylor’s hands swept over her.

       Wholly inappropriate thoughts for work.

       With a sigh, she leaned back, a smile ghosting her lips as he took the hint and his hands moved down her sides to her waist. “I need to get back to work. Mr. Tanner needs his proposal by the end of the day.” She’d be skipping lunch. Great. Her stomach rumbled in protest.

       “I’ll go grab a couple of sandwiches. Ten minutes.”

       His words sank in, and she jerked out of his arms and turned around. “I wasn’t dropping hints there, Taylor. It’s my client. My problem.”

       He caught her chin in his hand, his grip gentle. “Ten minutes, Sara,” he said quietly.

       True to his word, ten minutes later he was pushing his desk chair through the door of her office. He rolled the chair around her desk, nudged hers out of the way, and positioned it in front of the keyboard. She lifted a brow. He lifted one right back. “You can’t type with that hand.” He sat, opened the paper sack he’d been carrying with him, and drew out a sandwich.

       Turkey, with avocado and bacon. Sometimes his powers of observation were downright creepy.

       “I’ll be right back.” He hadn’t bothered to procure any beverages. She headed for the break room, and the vending machines. She stared at the soda machine. Crap. He’d outgunned her here, cataloguing all her favorites. She couldn’t very well dash out and get him a Jameson’s and water. Closing her eyes, she flipped through images of their lunches.

       Water.

       She grinned, feeling a bit foolish. He’d always had a bottle of water. She pushed buttons, pleased with the solid
thunk
as the water bottle hit the bottom tray. Grabbing a soda for herself, she detoured by the first aid kit and snagged a few ibuprofen before hightailing it back to her office.

       Taylor was eating his sandwich when she stepped inside. Leaving the door open, she handed him the water bottle, set the can on the desk top, and popped it open. The rush of sugar flooded over her tongue and she sighed.

       “You know how bad that shit is for you, right?”

       She sneered. “And? This is my caring face.”

       He gave her that little half-smile, and her heart fluttered. She really should have pushed him out of here. Except he was right, and she couldn’t move her hand without inflicting some severe pain on herself.

       She tore open the packet of ibuprofen with her teeth, tossed them back, and chased them with soda. “Tanner wanted a proposal for the performance tracker. I guess Jeremy didn’t do a good enough job selling it to him when they met the last time, because it’s perfect for what he needs it for.”

       “Tanner’s in what? Marketing?” He reached for his water bottle, his eyes never leaving hers.

       “Yeah. He wanted something to use to keep tabs on his staff, how well they were doing and whether they were meeting quotas.” She told him where to find the statistics she’d compiled on Tanner’s company, and kicked off her shoes. Thankful she was wearing slacks today, she adjusted her pant legs and settled cross-legged into her chair. If she wasn’t doing the typing, she was going to be comfortable.

       Taylor glanced at her feet, a quick grin playing across his lips. “I like the birds.” He picked up a sandwich half and turned his attention to the computer screen. “You’ve got a template for proposals stored on your hard drive, right?”

       She blew out a breath. “Yeah. In the file called ‘Proposals.’”

       He found it, clicked it open, and started filling in the blanks. Unlike Jeremy, Taylor focused on the task at hand, and she fell into the easy rhythm they’d developed the last time they’d worked together on a client.

       They worked steadily, debating numbers, pulling in bits of information, discarding others. She got up and retrieved more drinks and ibuprofen for herself, and frowned when Taylor abandoned the keyboard, returning with more ice for her hand. She took it, grimacing at the cold seeping through the cloth.

       The afternoon sped up and dragged by turns, the proposal proving to be more difficult than she’d initially thought. She’d have never finished it by her self-imposed deadline without him. It burned. She shouldn’t have allowed her temper to get the best of her.

       They finished with an hour to spare. Though she hadn’t been the one manning the keyboard, she was worn out. Taylor was rolling his shoulders. “Five minutes. I need to shut down and grab a few things, and then we’re getting out of here.”

       “I can’t. I put off everything else to take care of this.”

       He bent down until they were nose to nose, his gaze fierce. “Sara.”

       “What? And don’t go all alpha male on me. I really can’t leave right now.”

       She yelped as he clasped her swollen hand. “And you really can’t work right now, either.” His eyes softened to their usual intensity. “Let me give you a ride home. More ice and pain killers will hopefully bring it down so you can use it tomorrow.”

       It was hard to argue with that. Her fingers were stiff and red, though pain was no longer shooting through her hand in rapid jolts. “You’re right,” she admitted. She hated that he was right. But going home and curling up on the couch with the BBC miniseries she’d recorded the night before sounded like a damn good idea. And Chinese. This day called for Chinese takeout.

       Maybe she could talk Taylor into sharing her takeout.

       With Taylor’s help, she shut down, slipped on her coat, and collected her purse. Her hand throbbed, and she started to worry if she’d done something more serious to it. She followed him into his office. “Taylor?”

       “Hmmm?” He was busy clicking through his email.

       “Could you…” He had to have experience with this sort of thing, because of where he grew up, didn’t he? “Are you sure I didn’t like, break my hand or something?”

       “Doubtful. C’mere.” He waved her around the desk, and she scooted her butt up on the edge while he ran his fingers over the knuckles. “Wiggle your fingers for me?” She did, the slightest movement making her cringe. Gentle pressure had her gasping, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes. “Doesn’t feel like anything’s broken. You’ll need more ice. Might not be able to work tomorrow, either.”

       A day off in the middle of the week didn’t sound too bad.

       A noise from the doorway had both their heads whipping around. Kaylin’s mouth was rounded in an exaggerated “O”.

       “Um. Sorry. Hope I wasn’t interrupting anything.” Even from this distance, Sara could see the gleam of excitement in her eyes. She bit off a groan. As if there weren’t already enough gossip flying around. “Sara, Mr. Tanner sent an email through to the president, says thanks for being so prompt with the proposal. I thought you’d want to know,” Kaylin said. Emails to the company president were routinely forwarded to HR if they included complaints or accolades for the employees. Score another one for her file.

       Sara held off on the fist pump and nodded. Kaylin lingered in the door, obviously hoping to see more. She finally gave a tight smile and walked off.

       Sara slumped forward. “Shit.”

       “So what?” He tipped her chin up. “They talk about us more. Who gives a flying fuck?”

       “Me,” she said ruefully. “You. I’m ruining your reputation here, bud.”

       “Does it look like I care?”

       She studied his face, noting the mild amusement of his expression. “No.” Kissing him in the office was one thing she was not going to do.

       His gaze dropped to her mouth, flicked back up to her eyes. “Let’s go.”

       He wasn’t about to get an argument out of her. The elevator ride stretched on, finally depositing them in the parking garage. The click of her heels over concrete as they walked to Taylor’s car chanted
go home go home go home
. She didn’t bother to squash the sigh as she collapsed into the passenger seat. Getting a ride home after a day like today was far better than having to deal with the bus. “Oh!” She dug through her purse, found her phone, and pulled up the number for her favorite Chinese restaurant. “Do you mind swinging by Jade Garden? I was going to place an order.”

       “Depends. Do I get some?”

       She pictured the two of them on her couch, Taylor sprawled beside her as she happily ate her way through a carton of sweet and sour chicken while watching
Bleak House
. She liked it. A lot. “Only if you like BBC period dramas.”

       He groaned, and the sound was so unlike anything she’d heard from him before she gaped at him. “One of these days, you’re going to discover the joys of watching shit blow up for no reason,” he said.

       “Fine. We can watch
Die Hard
on Saturday.”

       He slid a glance at her. “Deal.”

       She placed the order, and had to stop herself from digging in immediately when they picked it up. He dropped her at her house, rolling down his window and beckoning her to come to him. “I’m going to run home and change out of the monkey clothes. I’ll be back in about twenty minutes.” His hand snaked out and around the back of her neck, tugging her down. The kiss was fierce, and not nearly long enough, leaving her breathless. “Back soon.”

       All she could do was nod as she watched him back out onto the street. A simple, brief kiss, and she wanted a hell of a lot more. Trouble was not a big enough word to encompass what she’d gotten herself into.

       The phone rang while she was attempting to put the Chinese food down without having her purse slip off her shoulder. She failed. The annoying electronic jangle sounded from the depths of her bag and the food slipped out of her grasp and onto the counter. She managed to right the bag before the contents spilled everywhere.

       By the time she fished her phone out of her purse, it had stopped ringing. The ID gave her a blocked number. She waited for it to ding with a voicemail. It didn’t. Shrugging, she set the phone on the counter next to the food and headed down the hall to change.

       Inside her bedroom, she stared at her closet. This was ridiculous. Taylor had already seen her without makeup, in her pajamas. He didn’t care what she wore. She pulled on a pair of yoga pants and her favorite sweatshirt, the hem coming well below her butt.

       She was hunting for a pair of thick wool socks she could have sworn she’d washed when her phone rang again. The socks were buried in the back of the drawer. She grabbed them and dashed back to the kitchen, dropping the socks as she snatched up her phone. “Hello?”

       “Sara Andrews?”

       “Speaking.”

       “This is Detective Chris Milan of the Sacramento Police Department. I was calling to let you know Samuel Thibodeaux has been paroled.”

       The floor beneath her dissolved. She was floating, her hand swollen and throbbing, the only thing keeping her tied to this world.
Paroled?
Her throat tightened and closed. She was being strangled. Sam was out.

       Words. She needed words. Speak. “How—” Her voice broke, and the crack annoyed her enough to center her. “How is that possible? He was supposed to serve fifteen.”

       There was an uncomfortable silence. “Ms. Andrews, I’m sorry. When we told you it wasn’t necessary to come and speak at the parole hearing, we honestly believed a letter would be enough. According to the warden, though, he’s been a model prisoner and he’s been complying with his court order therapist. She firmly believes he’s changed and is ready to return to society. The order of protection still stands. He’s not allowed to contact you in any way.”

       The order was a joke waiting to happen. Sam had never displayed stalker-ish behavior before, which is why the attack in Sacramento had been unexpected.

       That didn’t mean he wouldn’t start now, order of protection be damned.

       “Ms. Andrews?”

       “I’m here.” Cold seeped in, starting at her bare feet and working its way up and out. “Thank you for informing me.”

       “I know it’s a lot to take in. You have my number; call me if you have any questions.” He waited a beat, giving her a chance to respond. She couldn’t think of anything to say. “Have a good evening.” Detective Milan hung up before she could bark out a short, bitter laugh. A good evening. Her plans for a quiet night of Chinese and Dickens had been replaced by disbelief. Sam was on parole.