Chapter 1

Satan's minion stormed into Dr. Simone Beaupre's office right before lunch and, with no prior warning, blew up her life.

She'd been sitting in her leather armchair, finishing a fifty-minute session. Her middle-aged clients, Gerald and Krystal Jackson, sat on the sofa, facing her. Simone closed her notebook and recapped her pen. "We're making progress, Krystal, but I think maybe next time we'll focus on why you're still so hostile toward Gerald now that we know his impotence is tied to his heart disease."

Krystal shot her husband a malevolent sidelong glance. "We don't need another session for that. I can tell you why I'm so pissed off. He's still smoking. That's why he can't get it up."

Gerald's chest puffed out. "I am not—"

Simone quickly held up a silencing hand; if these two got started again, she'd never make her lunch appointment. Hurrying to her desk, she sat and pulled up her appointment calendar on the computer. "I have some time a week from Thursday, or I—"

Loud, angry male voices on the other side of her closed office door broke the peaceful silence. Simone and the Jacksons exchanged puzzled glances and then turned to the door as it crashed open. A large, strange man surged through it with the force of a tsunami hitting a beach. Simone's wide-eyed assistant, Freddie Reynolds, scurried in after him, wringing his hands and mouthing sorry to Simone. The Jacksons emitted a joint frightened squeak.

Alarmed, her heart thundering, Simone leapt to her feet and watched as the man stalked inside and surveyed his surroundings with all the arrogance and authority of General Patton storming a hill. Well over six feet tall, he wore a charcoal suit with red tie. Short, wavy black hair framed his deep brown face. Heavy dark brows slashed over his eyes. A well-trimmed goatee and mustache emphasized his sharp cheekbones and full lips. Broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist that gave way to endless legs. With his sharp, severe features he looked like his name should be Lucifer or, at the very least, Damien.

Simone braced for the worst. He didn't look like a murderer, but these days who could tell? His glittering, disdainful gaze slid over—and dismissed—the Jacksons in the little seating area in front of the windows, the coffee table with lit lavender aromatherapy candle, and the overflowing bookshelves. Simone had always loved her cozy little office—she liked to think of it as a living room where she and her clients could settle down and talk—but at this invasion the khaki walls suddenly seemed too close, the office four sizes too small.

Finally he turned to her and she flinched as if a sniper had drawn a bead on her forehead. She couldn't see any weapons on him but, again, who could tell? Squaring her shoulders, she waited. If he planned to kill her, she at least wanted to go out standing tall and proud.

"Can I help you?" she demanded.

His lips curled into a sneer. One hand lifted and she realized for the first time that he held a copy of Queen City magazine, the glossy monthly for which she wrote a column. "D-did you write this crap?" He flung the magazine at her and it skidded across the desk.

The low, deep baritone of his voice, as dark and rich as hot fudge, startled her, as did his stutter. She opened her mouth to answer, but before she could Freddie hurried around to her side of the desk. Behind his tortoiseshell glasses, his eyes glinted with what looked like equal parts fear and anger. Always faithful, he flung himself in front of her, pushing her back. "I told you to get out of here," he cried, his short dreadlocks quivering with indignation. "Before I call the police."

The man stared at Simone, never deigning to look at Freddie. "Call off your attack dog," he told her. "We don't need the police. I'm a lawyer and I'm not about to do anything to get myself disbarred."

Reassured, but also annoyed, Simone stepped forward until she and Freddie stood shoulder to shoulder. She put her hands on her hips. "What do you want, Mr.…?"

"Greene. Alex Greene. I want to talk to you."

As yet unmurdered, Simone began to feel a little braver. She raised her chin and glared up at him. "Normally when people with manners want to talk to me, they call for an appointment. If you'd done that, I could have told you now isn't a good time." She waved a hand. "You can see I have clients—"

The Jacksons, their mouths open in identical astonished Os, leaned forward on the sofa and nodded, apparently happy to be both still alive and included in the action.

"—and I have a lunch meeting with my lawyer. So you can make an appointment—"

Greene snorted, which Simone did not take to be a good sign. "I'm not leaving until I say what I came to say. Five minutes."

Freddie moved toward the door. "That's it! I'm calling 9-1-1 right—"

"Wait, Freddie." Unwillingly intrigued, Simone studied Greene for a moment. "Go ahead," she told him. "You've got something important to say, go ahead and say it. To all of us."

The Jacksons, heads bobbing in agreement, scooted to the edge of the sofa. Freddie crossed his arms over his chest and stared down—or, rather, up, since Greene towered over everyone—his nose at Greene.

Greene's lips thinned, but then he smiled crookedly, revealing the long deep grooves of dimples on either side of his mouth. "Fine," he said. "I want you to know that I do not have a tiny, ah, member."

Simone and Freddie exchanged perplexed glances. Simone's overwrought brain could not process this announcement. "Member…?"

Copyright © 2007 by Sally Young Moore.