Hands clasped together on the table and one knee dancing beneath my pencil skirt, I desperately try to control the hummingbird that has taken residence inside my ribcage as I wait for the secure prison door to open. Despite a small air-conditioning unit humming from the ceiling, the small, sterile room is considerably warm and stuffy as the state of Florida doesn’t find it necessary to cool the rest of the facility. As trickles of sweat roll through the valley of my breasts beneath my blouse, I begin to question my sanity with bile rising in my throat.

This isn’t my first time representing an inmate on an appeal. And I’ve dealt with low-life criminals since birth. However, this is the first time I’ll be face-to-face with a murderer.

Alleged murderer, I correct myself firmly.

When I glance at the file I brought along, recalling the facts of the case that I’ve reviewed dozens of times, coldness seeps into my bones. The victim was stabbed to death in his sleep. And repeatedly stabbed more than a dozen times post-mortem. Although they never found the murder weapon, my client’s hair was found on the victim, and he couldn’t produce any reliable witnesses to substantiate his weak alibi.

It clearly wasn’t only a murder, it was an act of uncontrollable rage. If my client is truly guilty, he’s undeniably dangerous. But even if he didn’t commit this murder, he still possesses an extensive criminal history of considerably violent crimes. As the enforcer for a notoriously dangerous biker club, his reputation can’t afford to be anything less than savage.

Once again, I question myself for requesting this case. Aside from my legitimate reasons, a part of me worries that my best friend Tatum is right. Maybe I really do spend too much time trying to prove that I’m not a worthless foster care case unworthy of adoption, or that I’m nothing like my parents who were too strung out on heroine to raise a child. Or maybe I’ve finally lost my shit.

My eyes drift over to Officer Smith, the stout guard who brought me back to the private room. He stands rigid at the doorway with an assault rifle held firm in his hands. Although not much taller than my five foot nine inches, his big-boned frame swallows up any resemblance of a neck. Aside from the slight graying at his temples, he looks to be considerably young and slightly naive, possibly due to a pudgy baby face. Thankfully he’s the only one witnessing my bout of insecurity since security cameras aren’t allowed in attorney-client rooms. When he catches me studying him, his thin lips bend with a tight-lipped smile.

“You can relax,” he assures me with a cocky wink. “No one will hurt you in here. I won’t let the bastard lay a finger on you.”

Snapping my gaze back to the plain white door separating me from the inmates, I mentally roll my eyes. The warden insisted that I have guards present when I first meet with my client. Like I’ve ever needed a man to protect me. When I was young, the only men I knew were intent on harming me in one way or another. And when I entered the Army as an officer, I had to work alongside sexist assholes who didn’t think I deserved my ranking. If I didn’t enjoy a real cock so much, I would’ve given up the fight ages ago and become a lesbian.

With the sound of a short, irritating buzz, I jolt in my seat. There’s no time to recover from the jarring noise when the door clicks open. At first all I can see is a guard and two massive arms the size of my thighs handcuffed together. Fuck me, this guy is larger than I could’ve imagined.

Then my client shuffles inside the room, the chains around his ankles jingle, and the hummingbird in my chest slams into a brick wall. Time stands still as my breath becomes lodged in my throat.

In the flesh, Michael John Harrison, known to his club as “Mad John,” is even bigger than the reputation that precedes him. He’s easily six foot five, if not more, and a solid two hundred fifty pounds of blinding muscle. Though the two guards flanking him look to each be around six feet tall, they appear child-like in his mammoth shadow. The way his prison-issued shirt stretches across his chest, exposing slivers of skin around his buttons makes me wonder if he’s put on more bulk since he was first issued the uniform. Then again, maybe he’s just that massive.

My brain struggles to process everything about the giant standing in front of me all at once. Crooked nose that’s been broken a time or two. Hulking, square jaw. Dark, wavy blond hair hanging down to his chin. Smooth, rosy lips that are nearly as thick as they are wide. Angular eyebrows with a natural arch as if raised in perpetual question. Sharply intense green eyes that are impossible to look away from once they lock with mine.

A tingling warmth stirs in my lower regions. He’s every bit as beautiful as he is terrifying.

And dangerous, I quickly remind myself. Don’t forget dangerous.

He’s been in prison less than six months, but there’s something off in his dark gaze and his shoulders slump forward like he’s already given up hope. The desperation of his situation sucks me down a path I hadn’t anticipated. Suddenly, for whatever insane reason I may have after seeing the guy for a whole ten seconds, I’m not solely in this for my own reasons. I’m one hundred percent vested in proving his innocence.

As he captivates my open stare, his wide lips twist with a smirk that sends a flush shooting down the back of my damp neck. “Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me,” he says with a snarl in a deliciously low, rumbling voice. “Tell me this is some sick joke.”

I don’t react in any way, only hold his annoyed glare. I’m all at once irritated with myself for letting a convicted criminal get under my skin, though a little voice in my head insists that I’d like him to do other things to my skin.

“Sit down and shut up, Harrison,” the Latino guard tells him, nudging him in the side. “You have fifteen minutes. Best not be wasting time.”

My client slumps into the chair across from me, slamming his cuffed hands onto the table and snickering. Why can’t they lock his handcuffs to the table like they do in the movies so I don’t feel so unnerved? Thankfully I’m already clutching the sides of my chair and manage not to jump with the loud clank. If this guy thinks he’s going to intimidate me, he has another thing coming.

Squaring my shoulders, I offer my hand over the table. “Alexa Darrington. I’m with the Not Guilty Initiative. I’ve been assigned—”

“Are you even old enough to be in here without a chaperone, baby girl?”

Dear God above. The sensual way he says ‘baby girl’, although obviously intended with malice, has my heart racing and other parts of me way too excited for the situation at hand. And there’s something about his scent—clean and undeniably masculine—that coils along with the confusing sensations already taking residence in my stomach.

But everything about his smart-assed comment has my insides vibrating with irritation. Collecting myself, I narrow my gaze and lean over the table, stabbing the center of it with my pointer finger the way I’d like to poke him in the chest.

“I’d suggest you take me seriously, Mr. Harrison. Considering you’ve been sentenced to spend the rest of your life here without parole, you should be grateful that I was asked to investigate your case. I’ve already filed a notice of appearance. If you have a problem with me, you’ll have to file for a substitution of counsel, and that will use up precious time that you quite frankly don’t have. I may be your only option, but I was at the top of my class in law school and I’m a damn good attorney. I’m not going to give up until I find a way to prove your innocence.”

Harrison’s shoulders lift with a silent chuckle as he leans back in his chair and pushes a strand of dark hair behind one ear. “Well shit. If you’re my only hope, I may as well go back to my dorm and hang myself with a bed sheet.”

“Fourteen minutes,” one of the guards growls out.

I grind my teeth together before continuing, barely containing myself from chewing out his gorgeous ass. “If you’re done acting like an immature asshole, I’d like to go over some of the facts of your case with you.”

“That’s a considerably dirty word for such a pretty mouth. You talk to all your clients like that?” One corner of his lips tilts upward as he waits on my answer.

“Only those unable to appreciate a good opportunity when it’s sitting in front of them,” I snap. His eyebrows rise higher and his lips part, but I don’t give him a chance to say anything more as I open his thick file, scanning the legal documents spread out before me. “The night the victim was stabbed, two officers found you breaking into the Four Brothers clubhouse in Tampa, correct?”

“Are you asking because you don’t know?” he sneers, crossing his thick arms over his chest. “Did you even bother going through my case before you came here?”

His button-down pulls open enough to expose an eye-full of artwork near his collarbone. I pause for a moment, lost in the detail of his ink. I got my first tattoo at twenty during a near blackout, and the second after I was promoted to Major. They’re both relatively small, and were nothing more than a minor skin irritation. I can’t imagine sitting through something as elaborate as the thick black lines running all the way up to his shoulder. In his file it said he served nearly five years in the Marine Corps, so I wouldn’t be surprised if the symbols were somehow a representation of his former life. Pretty much everyone I know who served caught the tattoo fever at some point while enlisted.

When Harrison clears his throat in a way that makes it clear he caught me ogling his chest, I splay my fingers over the paperwork and take a calming breath. He’s clearly determined to push every last one of my buttons until I break. I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

“I know every detail of your case like I know the back of my hand, Mr. Harrison. I’ve spent countless hours pouring over your file. I’m asking because I want to hear the facts from your point of view.”

“I didn’t do it,” he states plainly, shrugging one shoulder.

“How do you explain the strands of your hair found at the scene of the crime?”

“I’ve pissed off a lot of people. This time I pissed off someone with deep connections.”

I roll my hand through the air, irritated that I’m forced to prod him to elaborate. Does he really not take this appeal seriously? “And who might that be?”

“Forget it. I’m not going to tell you anything that will put your pretty little ass in danger, baby girl.”

It’s easy to let the dig roll off my back because it’s the same type of derogatory comment I’ve heard a thousand times. Leaning forward, my eyes volley back and forth between his beautiful pools of green. Up close they’re surrounded by a thin haze of brown, reminding me of a reversed Andes mint. Dark and delicious. Just like the rest of him. “How can I help you if you’re not going to be straight with me?”

He meets me halfway over the table until our faces are uncomfortably close, making a point of holding my gaze as if letting me know he’s in charge. The insane idea of his lips covering mine sends a not all-together unwelcome shiver rippling down my spine. Holy shit, I have to get a grip before I leave a wet spot on the chair.

“That’s the thing, sweetheart,” he whispers harshly. “You can’t help me.” Then a borderline vile sneer settles over his features as the veins in his neck stand out. “So you may as well march that sweet little ass of yours back to your cushy office and tell your boss that from now on he should assign you to shoplifters and delinquents skipping school. Someone like you has no fucking business in a place like this.”

One of the guards snickers behind him, but I don’t bother throwing them a glance. I can’t see anything beyond the red haze coating my vision anyway. My hands dart out on their own accord to grab the lapels of his shirt and Harrison’s lips part with a sharp gasp. Despite being fed up with his behavior, my heart races when I get a real whiff of his scent. Why the hell can’t he stink like B.O. and cigarettes?

“Let me make myself perfectly clear,” I snap. “I get that you’re skeptical of someone who looks like me having any sort of intelligence worth putting your faith in, because all my life I’ve run into Neanderthals who apparently share the same brain cell as you. But I’ve worked my ‘sweet little ass’ off to make it this far, and I’m not going to let some repeat offender from a biker gang treat me like I’m some cocktail waitress in a strip joint.

“I plan on devoting myself to your case, whether you like it or not. I found some discrepancies in the DNA offered as evidence at your trial that your attorney completely overlooked, and I’m eager to expose them. If not for your sake, in the name of justice, because I believe in doing what’s right. So either start showing me the respect I deserve or shut your goddamned mouth. Because if you mention my ass one more time, I’m going to help you set that crooked nose of yours back into place.”

Harrison and I glare wordlessly at each other, his eyes laced with a silent warning, until one of the guards snaps, “That’s enough, Miss Darrington. Hands off the inmate.”

When I release his shirt, Harrison’s lips turn up with a slow, gorgeous grin. “We’re done here,” he calls to the guards over his shoulder. “You can take me back to the dorms.”

“Think carefully before you make any hard and fast decisions,” I warn without backing down from the intensity in his sharp stare. “I could be your only hope of getting out of here.”

“Hard and fast,” he repeats in a monotone voice, bobbing his head. “Got it.”

The hidden implications of his comment send a shiver through me as he’s escorted from the room, stopping to throw me a wink before he’s out of sight. With a deep exhale, I reach up to touch my military-regulation bun and realize my hands are trembling. He unnerved me in so many ways that I’m not sure my legs will cooperate when it’s time to walk away.

As I’m stuffing the file into my satchel, Officer Smith closes the distance between us. “Don’t let that smug bastard get to you. There’s a good reason guys like him are in here. They don’t know how to act appropriately in society.”

“I can take care of myself,” I promise, flashing a confident smile.

But it’s a miracle I make it out the prison and into the safety of my car without spewing the crab salad I ate on the long drive over. “Mad John” most definitely got to me, and not necessarily in a good way. He was an arrogant prick with no manners. I should’ve slapped him after the crude things he had to say. But instead of removing myself from his case, I made him a promise to “devote” myself to him. Er—his case.

Without a doubt, I’ve lost my mind.

* * *

Nearly five hours later, as I’m tipping back a shot of whiskey on Miami Beach in my favorite bar down by the water, my meeting with Harrison still occupies my predominant thoughts. With the flip of a switch he had gone from coy and playful to disconcertingly angry. Though it should’ve proved his instability, I was mostly intrigued by his determination to protect the name of whomever he claims set him up. And in addition to the warm burn of booze spreading across my belly, there’s still a lingering want that formed the moment I first looked into those beautiful green eyes.

Slamming the empty shot glass down, I motion for another.

There’s a snicker behind me before the familiar scent of designer perfume reaches my nostrils. “Rough day at the office,” my oldest friend asks, “or just building up the confidence to ask the cute bartender for a quickie out back?”

“Just because you have a hard-on for the guys in brown doesn’t mean everyone gets turned on by guys in the service industry.” Spinning around, I flash her a mocking smile.

Tatum cackles, whipping her golden mane over her shoulders and crinkling her freckle-dusted nose. “A quick romp with one guy in brown doesn’t make it a thing.”

As always she’s impeccably dressed in a trendy suit that accentuates her curves, making my outfit resemble a potato sack. Sometimes her natural beauty irritates me, even though her bubbly personality makes up for it. She works out but doesn’t watch what she eats and still manages to maintain a perfect size zero. And since her tiny body couldn’t grow a decent pair, she also has the best breasts money could buy. I, on the other hand, have a naturally large chest that sometimes gives me back aches, and in addition to hitting the gym on a regular basis, I’m forced to count every calorie to keep from becoming overweight. I quickly learned that the first year out of the Army when I gained 20 pounds.

On paper, we shouldn’t be friends. She was raised by rich, loving parents in southern Florida while I pin-balled my way through the foster care system in the Midwest. I went through hell and back before I pulled myself together and accepted a partial scholarship to play volleyball in Miami while almost literally working my ass off to pick up the rest. Tatum and I met one fateful night our freshman year, and have become inseparable since. Though she should’ve been appalled by what she saw, I guess her heart was too big to turn away. Our personalities just naturally mesh, becoming as comfortable as an old pair of sweats.

“Hey, be-otch, sorry I’m late.” She bends in to kiss my cheek. “For real, though. The new bartender is cute. You should get his number.”

“Be my guest,” I offer as she’s waving him down. “He’s not my type.”

“What exactly is your type, ‘Lex? I swear every guy I’ve tried to hook you up with since you got out of the Army has some minuscule flaw that only you can see. They’re too short, or too pretty, or can’t give you a proper orgasm. Can you maybe admit for just a second that you’re single because you’re too much of a perfectionist? I mean what kind of guy is it going to take to float that boat of yours?”

When an image of Harrison comes to mind, I break out in a full body flush. For the love of God, I can’t be having these kinds of thoughts about a man sentenced to a lifetime behind bars. Even if I’m somehow able to overturn his conviction, he lives the kind of reckless lifestyle I’ve spent years trying to avoid. I need continuity. Order. The only thing Michael Harrison has to offer is total chaos.

I wave my hand to get the bartender’s attention. “Can we get some drinks over here?”

“What’s this about?” Tatum asks, cocking her head to the side. “Are you…blushing?”

“It was hot as hell in that prison. They don’t have central air.” I pull on the neckline of my sleeveless blouse to accentuate the half-lie. “I need a frozen drink to cool off.”

“Hmmm…would it have something to do with a cute guard, perhaps? Or maybe the warden? You impossibly serious military types always seem to flock together.”

I quietly wince to myself. Like Harrison, having served in the Marines.

“It was just hot, okay?” I snap.

Relief sweeps over me when the bartender finally comes to take our order with an expression similar to that of a hopeful puppy. I give him a thorough once-over. He’s probably a few years younger than me and possibly not going any further in life than this shit-hole bar, but he is considerably cute. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt anything to have a little fun with someone like him. Innocent. Uncomplicated. Safe.

I’m done fantasizing about someone as dangerous as Michael Harrison.