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PART ONE
It was the same as always, or so it seemed. She sat in her overly large, tufted-leather chair that made her look small when, in fact, she wasn’t. Her hair was pulled back in a chignon, tucked loosely under itself and secured by a Celtic-style barrette.
He knew her lashes were long and feathery, even through her unattractive, serviceable eyeglasses. He wanted to believe she only wore them to enhance her professionalism. He liked to think she wore contacts when she wasn’t working.
Her deep honey skin was clear except for the small mole on her left cheek. She had the barest hint of a dimple when she smiled. She wore no makeup except for a pale mauve lipstick that she didn’t, in fact, need. Her large gold hoop earrings were typically Hispanic, but weren’t the only things that gave away her Latin heritage. Her lips looked succulent and had a puckering movement that had intrigued him from the beginning. She always did it when he said something that had a sexual connotation. No one really would notice it, unless really looking for it, and he’d been looking at her a long time now.
Her dress was a deep purple matte jersey, with a pointed collar that came to a V and exposed the depth of her round breasts.
It had been a hot summer, but when her office cooled sufficiently, he’d seen her nipples pop and jut through anything she’d been wearing at the time. She’d never caught him looking—at least he thought she hadn’t.
“How are you today?” she asked in that husky voice a little higher than Kathleen Turner’s in Body Heat.
It was the same question each time, and he answered the same way all the time.
“I’m good.”
Had she caught his double meaning?
“Then let’s begin.”
She crossed her right leg over her left and perched the writing pad securely on her knee. The dress was long but the jersey hugged her legs in such a way that it was impossible to miss the length of them or the change in shape where her leg met her thigh.
Her shoes were plain, black with a thick heel, and would not have been sexy on anyone else, but the high, sensual curve of her arch would make any man want to caress it against his hardening cock.
He talked, she listened. Every now and again she jotted down a note or two.
“And what do you think the dream means?” she asked, after he’d spent twenty minutes explaining his slumber reveries.
“Isn’t that what I pay you to tell me?”
Her brow arched. She always did that when he answered her question with one of his own.
“You pay me to help you sort through your confusion, to help you to understand the why’s, and to try and fix what might be broken,” she answered evenly.
He grinned. He liked her answers. They were never really here nor there. His mind wandered for a moment as he daydreamed of her hair being loose and spiraling around her head, with one of her errant curls coiled lazily around his finger.
“So this woman that you run after, the woman with no face, is there anything recognizable about her?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Why are you chasing her?”
“I don’t think I want to know.” His eyes didn’t leave her when he’d said it.
She wrote on her little pad.
“Perhaps,” she began, “your dream is about something you need to face, and are just afraid to, which is why you can’t catch her. Maybe the her is you.” Her demeanor was triumphant, as though she’d been the only one to answer the final Jeopardy question.
He threw his head back and laughed, his small locks hugging his head gently.
