Shattered Dreams (Vegas Dreams Book 2) (5 page)

A few months and more than a dozen therapy sessions later, the divorce I swore I’d never get was about to be granted. All that remained were a few signatures. Thanks to the life-size photos of my bruised and battered body we planned to enter as evidence and agreeing to give my sworn testimony, Damon would be on trial for second-degree attempted murder, soon to be sentenced to what I hoped would become a long stint in the Nevada State Prison.

To add even more icing on the cake, Damon was disbarred, but not before reaching out to his peers in desperation. Imagine his surprise when he was betrayed. All the high-end contacts he’d spent years finessing, slipping inside his sleazy back pocket, developed sudden cases of amnesia. They didn’t know him. They never had.

My life was different now. The house I once shared with Damon was on the market, pending a sale at the end of the month. I hoped the buyers, a couple of perky, naďve newlyweds, would find happiness in their new abode—the same place where I’d endured so much pain.

Thanks to Rae’s position as a real estate broker, I had a new house
and
a new job. I was halfway through real estate school, and for the first time in years, I felt like myself again. I had a new life, new memories, and a new attitude. Well, I was working on the new attitude, at least.

I sat inside my car in the parking lot of Gideon O’Shea’s law office, pondering why pulling the door handle and stepping outside seemed like such an impossible thing to do. I had jitters like a freshman schoolgirl at her first high school dance. Ever since my unforgettably hideous first impression at the hospital, we’d spoken several times by phone, discussing the details of my divorce and the upcoming court case. We hadn’t seen each other in person again. Until today.

During our conversations, Gideon had always been pleasant, polite, and to the point, the consummate gentleman. It should have made me feel great. It didn’t. I was terrified. For all the confidence I’d gained, I’d also gained something else: man-phobia, the feeling that no man could ever be trusted again.

A knuckle tapped on the outside of my car window. I glanced over, struggling to draw breath. It was Gideon. In the flesh. And there I sat, car turned off, seatbelt unfastened, slouched in my seat like a nervous stalker.

“You look great,” he said when I lowered the window.

Of course I did. I’d spent two hours prepping to make sure of it. After flinging every article of clothing I owned from its hanger, I’d finally decided to yank a few tags off my newly purchased real estate clothes. In a black pencil skirt and a semi-sheer silk tank top—and about ten pounds lighter than I was the last time he saw me—I was going to make damn sure there
was
a second chance to make a good first impression.

He stuck his head through the window, folding his arms over the ledge. His face was so close to mine, I could feel the softness of his breath on my cheek. “Were you going to get out?”

Of course I was going to get out. Eventually.

“I just got here.” I said.

“Really? Because I watched you pull up about ten minutes ago.”

I didn’t believe him.

“From where?”

“My office window.”

If I’d had something to crawl under in that moment, I would have.

“I was ... I needed to make a call.”

Staring at the myriad of office windows in front of me, I had no idea which one was his. I prayed it wasn’t close enough for him to realize I was lying.

“Why are you out here anyway?” I asked.

“I left something in my car when I got to work this morning.”

I glanced at his hands. They were empty.

He seemed to notice what I noticed. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his cell phone, and, for added effect, jiggled it in front of me.

Humiliation complete, I focused on the matter at hand. “Well, should we go inside?”

He opened the front door, and I got out.

Today there was no ball cap, no distressed jeans. He wore a fitted suit and a perfect pair of dimples, a feature I’d missed before.

“I’m on the top floor,” he said. “Stairs or elevator?”

We stepped into the elevator. Alone. The door closed, and the rapid fire began.

“How have you been doing?” he asked.

“Fine.”

“I heard you moved into a new place.”

“A couple weeks ago, yes.”

“And you’re preparing to take your real estate exam?”

I nodded.

Some conversationalist I was turning out to be.

The elevator stopped on level four, two floors shy of our final destination. Four women and one man entered, pushing the two of us to the rear. As I slid back and over, I could have sworn a hand brushed across my ass, but Gideon was the only one next to me, and his disposition remained stolid, unchanged. He hadn’t even looked at me.

I managed a sideways glance without moving my head, but not at his face, at his finger. No wedding ring. Why was I even looking? Why did I care? He was my lawyer. He was also a man, something I didn’t need in my life right now.

When the doors opened on the top level, Gideon stretched out his arm, indicating the way to his office. Once inside, he closed the door. He tapped two fingers on my shoulder, almost catapulting me into the air.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes, why?”

“You jumped when the door closed, and again just now when I touched you.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You did.” He reopened the door. “I thought you’d prefer some privacy while we go over everything one last time, but we can leave it open if that makes you more comfortable.”

I walked to the door, closed it again, and tried not to focus on the confused glances coming our way, courtesy of his nosey staff. “Like I said, I’m fine.”

I lowered myself into a chair. He sat across from me at his desk, opened a white folder, and slid the paperwork in my direction. He removed a pen from a drawer and handed it to me, his thumb brushing over the tops of my fingers in the process. Our eyes met, engaging one another for a few seconds. His mouth opened slightly, as if he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. He flashed the same go-to expression I’d seen before, a presumptuous smile that said:
You’ll never know what I’m really thinking.

Man-phobia or not, I wanted to know.

I signed where indicated and handed the stack of papers back to him.

I was done. Free. At long last.

“Do you have any questions before you go?” he asked. “Is there anything you’d like to discuss?”

I shook my head. “I’m good. I’m ready to put it all behind me.”

He shook my hand, cracked a small smile. “I’m glad I could help you through this.”         The line sounded scripted and rehearsed, like something he felt obligated to say to all of his clients at the end. He seemed to sense my assumption, adding, “You deserve to be happy, Sasha. One day you’ll find it. I know you will.”

Not knowing how to respond to his earnest comment, I mumbled a terse “thank you,” followed by, “I doubted you at first, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.”

“It doesn’t matter now. You weren’t feeling well. I understand.”

“Still, I should have had more faith in you. So far you’ve done everything you said you would, and a lot sooner than I imagined. It means everything to me to be free of him. You made that happen, and I’ll always be grateful.”

Someone rapped on his office door. It opened. A female’s head craned around the corner. “Meeting in five, Gideon” She noticed me in the room, and her face paled. “Oops, sorry. I didn’t know you were with someone. My bad.”

“I better get going,” I said.

“I’ll get a copy of the documents to you. If you need anything else, please call me. Otherwise, I’ll brief you again before trial begins.”

I stared at our hands, still pressed together in what was becoming an eternal handshake. He seemed to have no interest in letting me go.

I pulled back, and he released me. “So that’s it? We’re done?”

“We are—until trial begins.”

Done.

I was so close.

It still didn’t seem real.

I passed my real estate exam three weeks later, on the first try, thanks to Rae, real estate drill sergeant to the stars. In an hour, she was throwing me a celebratory party at a house that was to become my first listing. Following the tour, we were to hit up Vegas’s newest hot spot, a nightclub called Rapture. I’d purchased a special outfit for the occasion, a backless, navy cocktail dress and sparkly, five-inch heels, designed to take all five foot four inches of me to a whole new level. 

Taking in the sheer grandeur of the house as I drove inside the iron gates, I had to admit, I was surprised Rae had trusted me with such a high-end listing for my debut. I figured she’d throw me a bone, toss a few dead-in-the-water unsold condos my way to get me going, but the spectacle in front of me was unexpected and pricey.

I parked on the cobblestone driveway, tapped my phone to life, and glanced at the time. I was fourteen minutes late, which, for me, was right on time. Problem was—I was the only non-punctual female in our group, and yet I appeared to be the only one there. No other cars were parked outside. I fumbled around in my bag, pulled out a yellow slip of paper, and checked the address I’d been given again. Yep, this was it all right. So where was everyone?

I walked to the front door, pausing when I heard a voice on the other side, someone whistling the tune of a Frank Sinatra song.

I knocked.

The door opened to an unexpected surprise.

Gideon?

I took one rather large, scissor-step back. “What are you doing here?”

“Celebrating. Would you like to come in?”

He swung the door all the way open, bracing it with his hand.

I craned my neck, glanced inside. He was the only one here. “I don’t understand. Where’s everyone else?”

He grinned. “It’s just us.”

“What about my friends? I thought we were meeting here?”

“They’re not coming.”

“Rae said we’d meet here to celebrate my first listing.”

“You
are
celebrating your first listing.”

“But I thought she was throwing me some kind of party.”

“Is that what she told you?”

It
was
what she’d told me. Clearly something was off. 

“If this is my listing, and Rae isn’t here, why are
you
here?”

“This is my house.”

“
You’re
the seller?” No wonder I’d been granted such a sublime listing. It must have been Gideon’s way of getting me to pay up. “Did you request me because I owe you money?”

I felt like a jerk for asking, but it was the only logical explanation.

“I wasn’t aware you owed me anything,” he said.

“I haven’t received your bill yet. I meant to call you. I’ve been wondering when it would come.”

“It won’t be coming.”

“Why not?” I asked. “Do you want to work it out in trade?”

He stared at me for a moment before offering a response. “I took your case pro bono. You owe me nothing.”

“Why?”

 “Are you coming in, or are you planning on standing on my porch all night?”

I guessed he was avoiding the question.

I sized up his attire: a thin, V-neck shirt that accentuated his athletic, freckled body, and a pair of cargo shorts. His biceps were tight, so tight I wanted to press my fingers against them and squeeze. I looked down, suddenly reminded of what I was wearing—nightclub attire. “I don’t usually dress like—”

“You’re dining in a five-star restaurant?”

Or working my sexual frustration out in the club later, if
that
part was even happening. At least he hadn’t said high-class hooker, because I had to admit, I looked a wee bit trashy.

He visually took me in from top to bottom. “I like it, the dress. It’s very nice.

“Umm ... thanks.”

“Turn around.”

“What?”

“Turn. Around.”

My backless dress had a slit that extended almost all the way to the top of my bum. Bottom line: I wasn’t wearing any panties. An hour earlier, this fact had no bearing on my clothing selection. Aside from my girlfriends, the packed room of people I’d planned on dancing next to wouldn’t notice, and even if they did sneak a peek, they wouldn’t ever see me again. Gideon, however, would.

I did a quick twirl and prayed the back of my dress didn’t catch too much air in the process. The last thing I needed was for him to reconsider. The profit I stood to make from this listing alone was enough to live on for a year. Pirouette complete, I slipped off my shoes. He had yet to utter a single word post-twirl, and it was making me nervous. “I guess I should see the house.”

“You will
after
we have dinner.”

“You cooked?”

“Tonight I did.”

He placed a hand on the small of my back as we walked, my skin prickling, responding to his touch. The probability of him not noticing my heightened sensations was near impossible. As we walked, he pointed out a few of the home’s features, but he wasn’t looking at the features when he talked—he was looking at me, eyeing me with a kind of curiosity that made my palms sweaty.

The house had a seraphic aroma, like pasta drenched in a rich cream sauce. It wasn’t just the food though. It was him. He smelled amazing, and I found myself turning in his direction just to drink him in.