Dreamy-eyed and counting the hours until they met again, Esme was amazed she got anything accomplished at work the next day. It wasn’t easy when her mind kept replaying the scene, and Finn’s utter mastery of her body. And another steamy, long goodnight in the parking lot, this time with him plastering her body against the car while kissing her senseless before tucking her into her car. She’d been so flustered, he’d had to help her buckle in, and hadn’t closed the door until she had recovered enough to drive.

She laughed to herself because even now, hours later, she still hadn’t recovered.

If he’d asked, she’d have been perfectly happy spending the night in his apartment, but he hadn’t. They both had to work the next day, and he seemed determined to take things slow. Proving he had self-control and priorities other than instant gratification made him even more appealing, and she added these traits to a growing list of things she liked about her deliciously dominant Master Finn.

With little choice except to wait until Saturday, she tried to focus on organizing her case notes and preparing for the deposition scheduled for Friday morning. Although it was only Wednesday, it had been a hell of a week with Mr. Reinhart as erratic as what was shaping up to be his norm. If this kept up she’d be looking for another job; the stress wasn’t worth it.

As she reviewed the few notes he’d given her, about half a page of scribbles which weren’t all that helpful, she noticed the corner of a post-it note—the fluorescent green Gerald always used—sticking out from the middle of the dog-eared legal pad. It blended in with the yellow paper, so she must have missed it the first round.

She flipped to it, then stared in confusion at her boss’ barely legible scrawl. He’d scribbled two large dollar amounts, $30,000 and $50,000, listed next to two names she didn’t recognize, and next to each one, a twenty-one-digit alphanumeric reference number.

They could be clients, she didn’t work on every case, and they’d had an influx of new ones lately. Bradley handled at least half, and Mr. Reinhart had taken on a few he handled exclusively. If they were payments, they should have gone to Jasmine, their legal secretary/receptionist/billing clerk rolled into one, not scribbled on a sticky note.

She thought to chalk it up to strange behavior to go along with everything else, but something about this didn’t sit right and added to her suspicion that something was going on with her boss. His odd business hours, including working evenings which he’d never done before, and the mystery surrounding his secret clients, another new twist, gave Esme the uncomfortable feeling he was doing something underhanded. And now she discovered what looked to be account numbers for either payments or deposits.

They weren’t the eight-digit client account numbers used at the office or the nine-digit ABA routing numbers used for US banks. Curious, Esme opened a Google browser and typed one in. A listing popped up for an IBAN Validator. Having no idea what that was, she took the next step, transferred the number into the search box and hit submit. Immediately, it brought up information on an international bank, with a physical address in Switzerland.

A sick feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. Having foreign accounts wasn’t illegal, but their primary use, like hiding assets from the IRS, led to hefty fines and serious jail time. Why was Gerald funneling money into a Swiss bank? Had he set it up for these two mysterious clients? Or were these sums payment for his services? Again, not illegal, but her boss wasn’t an international lawyer. He was a criminal attorney licensed to practice in the U.S., specifically in California. If the source of the payment was for legitimate business, why would it originate overseas?

And, if above board and lawful, it was unlikely he’d have scribbled the information on a sticky note and tucked it inside a legal pad. Further, he would have made Jasmine handle it rather than troubling himself.

She had way more questions than answers, but bottom line, the whole thing stunk to high heaven.

A knock interrupted thoughts of tax evasion, the Feds raiding their offices and shutting them down, and worse, what kind of shady clients had Gerald, and by extension, everyone in the practice, mixed up with.

“Miss Spade?”

When she glanced up, her lips parted in surprise at the sight of a courier standing in her office door holding a huge vase of exquisite blush roses.

Coming to her feet, she smoothed the creases of her linen skirt with her suddenly damp palms. “I’m Esme Spade,” she breathed.

“Then these are for you.”

Brimming with curiosity she took a step forward. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten flowers. Abruptly, she stopped. The man would expect a tip, but when she bent to get her purse out of her bottom desk drawer, he set the vase on her desk.

“The gratuity was already taken care of, miss,” the grinning young man explained, “quite generously, too. Enjoy them.”

When he left, he had to turn sideways to squeeze by Jasmine who peered into her office from the hall. The woman, who readily admitted to a bad case of nosiness, must have followed on the courier’s heels to get there so fast.

“Who are they from?” she asked eagerly.

“No clue,” she replied as she put her nose to a half-open bloom and inhaled. This wasn’t exactly true. She had a suspicion but was afraid to hope and be disappointed.

“There’s a card. Read it and find out!” she demanded.

She pulled the small envelope from the cardholder. The handwritten note inside was in a bold masculine script.

I couldn’t resist. The color reminded me of your sexy dress, and the way your beautiful skin blushes pink all over.

Heat swept through her like a flash fire. Why she didn’t spontaneously combust on the spot, she couldn’t say. Aside from being devastatingly handsome, commanding in his dominance, and the best kisser ever—sorry Andrew, but it was true—Finn was also a romantic, though naughty for sending such a racy note to her at work.

What if someone else had opened the card?

To hide her flushed cheeks and giddy grin, she bent to smell another barely open bud, which meant she would enjoy these beauties for days.

“Well?” Jasmine asked impatiently.

Esme remained silent. Telling her anything was like taking out a billboard on Wilshire Boulevard.

“There’s more on the back,” she informed her huffily.

The warm feeling intensified when she turned the card over and read the rest, in much smaller print.

I’ve seen you in leather and lace. You looked lovely in both, but for a hayloft? Perhaps braids, a suede vest, and a short denim skirt might be better, and as last night, nothing underneath.

I may be delayed, but I will be there and come find you in the lounge. ~K

“What’s going on?”

Esme looked up, her good mood evaporating with Gerald’s sudden appearance. She had seen no one practically all day. Now, when she wanted a moment alone, suddenly, it was Grand Central Station.

He sounded surly, and looked more stressed than usual, which was saying something. His tie was askew, he hadn’t shaved, and even though they kept the office cool, which prompted her to wear long sleeves in the summer, he was sweating.

“Esme has an admirer. He’s a secret one, evidently, since she won’t tell me who he is.” Jasmine wasn’t very observant and hadn’t keyed in on their boss’ bad mood or she wouldn’t have gone on chattering needlessly disclosing things she shouldn’t to someone who obviously didn’t care.

“Do I pay you to gossip, Miss Myers?” he snapped. “The answer to that is no. I’m paying you to type, specifically the contracts due on my desk by the end of the day. Are they finished?”

Jasmine’s head jerked at his angry tone. Surprised and visibly hurt by the sharp and surprising criticism. Gerald Reinhart could be impatient but was usually civil, and rarely outright rude. There was an hour before they closed; technically she hadn’t missed her deadline, yet. Jas could be nosy, and a gossip, but she always got her work done. Esme sympathized with her at the unwarranted censure because when he’d left at midday, he told them he didn’t intend to return. Popping in and demanding work done earlier than expected wasn’t fair.

“I’ll have them ready in about thirty minutes, sir.”

“Get to it then, I’m not paying overtime for gossip.”

She glanced at Jasmine, head down, cheeks red with embarrassment, as she hurried out the door. Her boss’ foul mood left Esme with a dilemma. Did she mention the account numbers she’d found? Or let it slide out of self-preservation because he looked as irritable as he sounded. What’s more, if her suspicions were correct, it was probably safer for her if he didn’t know. But where did that leave her? Did she go to the police when she had no real proof? Ask Brad, and put them both in danger? Or do nothing, burying her head in the sand and possibly risk becoming an accessory to a crime?

She liked none of her options.

“Since you’re mooning over roses,” he snapped, “I suppose the briefs I need for Thursday aren’t ready yet either.”

“If you mean for the Morales case, it’s on your desk. The Westbrook file,” she turned and picked up the file she’d been reviewing before this latest series of interruptions, “I have it right here.”

She handed it to him which took the wind out of his grouchy sails. Looking to do some ass chewing since the moment he arrived, he’d have to move on to an employee who wasn’t doing their job.

On Thursday, while she was preparing documents for yet another pro bono intent to distribute case, the phone rang. She tuned it out because the receptionist usually answered within three or four rings. When it kept going, she reached for it.

“Reinhart and Shoemaker, how may I help you?”

“You can break up a hellacious week by having lunch with me.”

“Mast… uh, Finn? This is a surprise.”

“Were you expecting another man to invite you to lunch, one I’m unaware of, perhaps?”

“No. Never. Well, sometimes Pax will call if he’s working in the area, but he’s still out of town.”

“Darlin’, I was teasing. Sort of.”

The rather brusque way he tacked on the sort of made a ribbon of happiness uncurl inside her.

“So, lunch? Are you free?”

“Yes, but my car is in the shop being serviced today.”

“No problem, I’ll pick you up at eleven-thirty. We’ll go to Guerrilla Tacos on 7^th street. I’m hooked on the place. Basically, if it can be put in a tortilla, they do. See you soon, a stór.”

After the disconnect, she stared at the phone. Ah-store. The way he rolled his r gave the foreign word a soft, sensual quality. A tingle shot down her spine and sent a pleasant warmth rippling across her belly and spreading lower until it set up a little vibration between her thighs. He’d said it Tuesday, only she’d been too spaced out to remember her name, let alone ask what it meant. That he’d gotten her to that state twice now, was shocking.

The number of times Andrew put her into subspace in their entire five-year relationship, she could count on one hand. Her husband was an excellent lover, but in terms of dominance, Finn had him beat hands down. From the start, he seemed to know what she needed, how hard he could push her, and the skill with which he controlled her body, drove it to the brink and kept it there until he was ready to send her hurtling over the edge, was breathtaking.

And they’d only begun to explore, which scared her as much as it excited her. If his expertise went beyond what she’d experienced when they got to the main event, he would surpass her husband in that arena as well.

Esme struggled with how that made her feel, as though she were betraying Andrew and the love they shared. Her rational mind knew she shouldn’t think that way, but she couldn’t help it. Countless times Pax had told her he would have wanted her to move on, to find someone else, to love again. Finn had asked that first night, as well.

She was twenty-five to Andrew’s thirty-two. They’d never discussed what the other should do if the worst happened. Not even in practical terms of a will and finances, which would have made things easier. But they still reveled in the invincibility of youth and tragedy hadn’t been a blip on their radar, despite his job.

Pax, who knew him, and Eric and Finn who didn’t, felt sure they knew his mind because as dominants they understood how much a true submissive needed a Dom on levels beyond sex and discipline. Pax described a sub being alone like a ship without a rudder, churning hard to move through the water, but without direction and control and a firm hand guiding it through, getting nowhere.

She’d heard of Doms who knew the end was coming, like in the case of terminal illness, selecting another to step in if only temporarily. Not sexually, necessarily, but to be there to steer, to weather the storm, and keep the ship, which in her case was listing badly, from capsizing or running aground.

Ryan Paxton had fulfilled that role for her, thank goodness. Early on, while dealing with his own grief, he’d been there for her, helping her with day to day life, and taking bigger hurdles when they popped up in front of her, even when some turned out to be twenty-foot high concrete barricades. Maybe now, since she’d found Finn, he could be relieved of his duties and go back to being her friend.

She glanced at the clock. In less than an hour, she’d see him again, two days earlier than expected, and outside the club. This was a huge step. Their budding relationship spilling over into real life had to mean he saw her as more than a play partner, or a sub in need of fixing.

But what if she was wrong?

No. Expecting the worst was too often a self-fulfilling prophecy for her. After being with Finn so few times, she knew he was something special. Already, she felt tendrils of hope creeping into her heart. And Lord knows she hadn’t experienced hope in what seemed like forever. She wouldn’t jinx it with what-ifs, and her negative self-talk. Instead, she planned to move forward with optimism that this connection she had with Finn could turn into a lot more.

The low clearing of a throat drew her eyes to the doorway. In jeans and a light gray button-up shirt, the long sleeves cuffed to his elbows, Finn looked better than ever, especially since the lighting was so much brighter here than at the club.

“Hey,” she said in greeting.

He smiled in return.

“Just let me close this document I’m working on.”

With a few clicks of her mouse, she saved the discovery list she was updating and closed the program. Purse in hand, she walked toward him, feeling as much as seeing when his gaze skidded down her body. Instead of a skirt, she was in linen trousers and a teal blouse. When she reached him, she had to look up, like while in the dungeon because she was also in flats.

“All ready,” she announced.

He said nothing, hadn’t since he arrived, but tapped his lips with his index finger in a silent demand for a kiss.

She grinned, having no problem obeying, since they were inside her office and the one across from her was Mr. Reinhart’s and, as usual, he wasn’t here. Standing on tiptoe, her hands on his chest for balance, she reached for his lips. He helped by bending his head and his arm slid around her waist holding her in place when she would have pulled away. His tongue slipped into her mouth, tangled with hers briefly, then he raised his head and affirmed quietly, “Now, we’re ready to go.”

Taking her hand in his, he led, and she followed, out the door and to the right toward the lobby. A loud bang from behind them had them both twisting around.

Gerald stood in the hall outside his office head turned toward the rarely used exit door with the rickety stairs out back—which is why they were rarely used. Esme was surprised to see the automatic closure slowly drawing the door shut.

“Mr. Reinhart?”

He turned when she called his name, a rather strained expression on his face. His gaze landed on her briefly, then shifted to Finn. Then he stiffened, leaning away slightly as if on the verge of following whoever left by the back door, rickety stairs be damned.

“Is everything all right?” she asked.

“You’re leaving?” Though he was speaking to her, his eyes remained locked on Finn.

“Yes, for lunch. Let me introduce, my, um—” Crap, what did she call him? My dominant? My Master? My soon-to-be lover in the hayloft Saturday night? Introducing him as her friend didn’t seem right either.

“I’m Keiran, Esme’s boyfriend,” he supplied in her stead, taking a step toward her boss, his hand extended.

“Keiran Finnegan of Rossi Security,” Reinhart replied, taking his hand, and pumping it once. “I know. I saw you on the news. Quite a feather in your cap, considering you’re a new agency.”

“Not our usual case, but yes, it has started our phone ringing, not that we needed it to.”

She listened to this back and forth as if from a distance, still marveling over Finn having referred to her as his girlfriend. It could have been tact, but he still gripped her hand, and she let the happy warmth that was becoming a familiar companion when he was around, bubble up inside her.

“Perhaps I can send work your way.”

Gerald’s offer snapped Esme out of her pleasant haze. She glanced his way, puzzled why he’d think Finn would need drug dealers as clients.

Equally at a loss, he inquired, “Aren’t you a litigator?”

“Yes, in practice for twenty-two years here in LA.”

“Most of our clients are interested in home security, anything else is domestic in nature, which in Tinsel Town keeps us very busy. But thanks for the offer.”

“Ah…” was his vague reply.

“If you’ll excuse us,” he told Gerald, efficiently yet politely halting any further chit-chat. “I made reservations, so Esme won’t be late getting back.”

“I appreciate that but take your time. Esme puts in long hours and deserves a little break.”

She tried to keep her jaw from hitting the floor or saying something rude considering he had recently put her on salary, so he wouldn’t have to pay her overtime. Fortunately for her continued future employment, he turned and disappeared into his office. Turning to Finn, needing to say something, about the odd encounter and Gerald’s sudden benevolence, but she stopped, watching as he wiped his hands on his pants.

“Sweaty palms,” he explained with a grimace. “Is he always that jumpy?”

“Lately? Yes. Can we go?”

He considered her for a moment, keen eyes narrowed and brows gathered in concern, but nodded, and led her out the front door. “Now, you seem jumpy. What gives?”

She took his hand and pulled him further down the block out of view of the office windows. “I’m not sure, but the man you just met has been on a holy tear for three months but in front of you was suddenly as sweet as pie.”

“He isn’t normally nice to you?” he asked in a hard voice.

“He isn’t mean, per se, but I give him no cause to be. But something isn’t right. He’s always been demanding, more so recently, but his irritability is off the charts, and he’s never, ever, told me to take a long lunch. And… maybe I shouldn’t say.”

“You can trust me to keep a confidence, Esme.”

“Well, it’s not something I deal with every day, but it made me—suspicious. Like, maybe, my boss is doing something…” She stopped as a couple passed by, laughing. When they turned the corner, she looked the other way before moving closer to Finn and crooking her finger. When he dipped his head, she whispered, “Illegal.”

“What makes you think he is?” he whispered back, turning toward her so his face was next to hers. His green eyes were up close and bright, a lighter color when outside than she’d noticed in the club.

“Esme,” he prompted.

Realizing she was staring, she cleared her throat and murmured, “Right. Well, the other day, I found a notation of payment amounts totaling $80,000 in Mr. Reinhart’s legal pad.”

He nodded, his expression not nearly as concerned as she expected it to be. “I imagine legal fees can get pretty steep, darlin’. Does that strike you as an unusually large amount?”

“It’s not how much, but where they were from.”

“Where were they from, Esme?”

She looked around again, saw no one around, but leaned closer, her hand curved around her mouth when she replied, “A Swiss bank.”

Finn’s head jerked back, his expression entirely changed, now deadly serious. “How do you know they’re from a bank in Switzerland?”

“I Googled it. Is it normal for a U.S. attorney to get paid from foreign accounts?”

“Mmm…” This response, which she noticed he did often, usually meant he was mulling something over. “I don’t deal with this kind of thing every day, but I can do some checking.”

“I thought about going to the police, but it could be nothing.” She bit her lip for a moment, then her eyes came to his and she said with more conviction. “It probably is nothing. See, that’s why I didn’t want to say anything. I’ve got no proof of any wrongdoing, just a boss who’s acting… off.”

“Don’t do or say anything until I get back to you.”

“What are you going to do?” He was in security, not banking or law enforcement. She told him more for an opinion and to get it off her chest.

“I’ve got friends in finance, darlin’.”

“You do?” Her voice raising an octave in surprise. She flushed, afraid she’d offended him.

Finn chuckled. “Yeah, I’ve got a diverse group of friends. But these finance guys will know the laws on international transfers.”

She breathed out and nodded. “Okay, like I said it’s probably nothing. And I probably wouldn’t think anything of it, really, if Gerald wasn’t acting so strange lately.” She laid her hand on his forearm, which was nicely muscular, and squeezed. “I don’t want to ruin what little time we have talking about Gerald Reinhart.”

“Me either,” he said with a grin, and moved her down the street to a black SUV with a prime parking spot. On Wilshire. Midday! Which was a feat in itself.

He bleeped the locks and opened the door for her. “Do you like hot and spicy?”

She looked at him, her gaze automatically running over his handsome face then dipping down his very impressive form. He really was a gorgeous man.

“I meant food, lass.”

Her eyes shot up to his, seeing the green orbs dancing with delight. “I know you did,” she replied in a rush. “I like everything. I’m super easy.”

He laughed, spontaneous and unreserved.

“I meant easy to please,” she explained only making things worse before she choked out, “when it comes to food.”

She slid in front of him and with one foot on the running board hauled herself in while muttering, “I’ll just shut up now.”

His grin didn’t lessen when he shut the door and was still as broad when he came around and got in on his side. After starting the engine, which came with a cool blast of air, he hooked his hand behind her neck and pulled her toward him. Her ribs dug into the console, but she didn’t care, not when his mouth covered hers in a smoldering kiss. And unlike the brief one in her office, he didn’t break away until her mind was muddled, the air had evaporated from her lungs, and her pulse pounded in her ears.

“You’re delightful, a stór, and I don’t want you to hold back with me. Got me?”

“What does that mean? Ah-store. You said it the other night.”

“’Tis a Gaelic endearment that suits you. It means treasure, or the way I use it, my treasure.”

A warmth, triple what she’d been feeling before, invaded her chest. She blinked as his image wavered slightly. His next kiss wasn’t much more than a light brush of his lips but was as stirring as the last, and just like that one, took her breath away.

“Buckle up,” he ordered softly, not yet releasing her. “I’ll get you fed and back to work on time, so the boss man can’t complain, no matter what he claimed earlier.”

When he sat back, his hand gliding along her jaw before falling away, she nodded. Then, with trembling fingers fumbled with her seat belt, before it clicked into place.

He put the car in gear and pulled out, reclaiming her hand with a firm squeeze before he commented, “This isn’t the best of neighborhoods. Do they have security in your building, cameras, or an alarm system at least?”

“There aren’t any cameras and the alarm system is outdated. When I first started, Mr. Shoemaker was in the process of getting bids on an upgrade. When he retired, Gerald put an end to that. His two divorces in five years have been a financial hit, which might explain his surly behavior though he shouldn’t take it out on us. Or it could be from lack of sleep. The alarm has a hair trigger. It goes off several times a week, all false alarms. If it happens at night, the security company calls him. Lately, it’s been off most mornings when I come in.”

“I’m not liking the sound of this, Esme. If he’s a jerk, and lax with his security and the safety of his employees, maybe you should think of looking elsewhere for work. Somewhere safer.”

“I’ve considered it. In fact, me and the new attorney have been dusting off our resumes. Something is up with Gerald. He’s changed drastically and not for the better, which doesn’t make for an enjoyable work environment.”

“I’ll put out some feelers.”

“Really? You’d do that?”

“Lass,” he replied, reaching over to capture her hand and bring it to his thigh. “If it keeps the worry off your pretty face and keeps that gorgeous body out of harm’s way, there isn’t much I wouldn’t do.”

With Finn, it didn’t sound like a line—she believed he meant every word. The shields around her heart melted further. If he kept this up, it would soon be laid bare, his for the taking. Something she swore would never happen again.

Lunch went by much too fast. The food was amazing. She had fish tacos of the Gods which was tempura-battered local cod, chipotle cream, and their signature Pico de Gallo, while Finn ordered the short ribs with chilies, and fresh cilantro. He was charming, attentive, and regaled her with stories of growing up in Ireland. True to his word, despite the crowded restaurant and the noontime traffic, he had her back to work on time.

Bonus—she got another kiss in parting before they left the car and he held her hand again, something she liked a lot, as he walked her to the office door.

Mr. Reinhart was absent the rest of the afternoon. It was the best workday she’d had in weeks, though not the most productive. Thoughts of a gorgeous Irish Dom kept intruding, and they weren’t exactly safe, or appropriate, for work. When she got lost in a fantasy featuring a worn leather saddle, piles of fragrant hay, lots of straps, and a whip-wielding Keiran Finnegan dressed in black leather pants, his chest bare, tan, and glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, she had to get up and splash water on her face—twice.