Her husband, Larry, was shaking his head, his own color growing darker. “Shut up, Jos.”
The room fell silent.
Colin blinked. It was the first time Larry had said something of that nature before. Normally quiet, he nodded and probably didn’t pay attention to half of what was being said by either his wife or Colin. Not that Colin could blame him. Jocelyn didn’t so much as speak with you as she spoke at you.
Colin took in Jocelyn’s shocked appearance, spotting all the signs of a major outburst on the rise. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger against his closed eyelids. That was it. He was never getting married.
A brief knock on the door, then it opened. Colin frowned. The temporary receptionist that an employment agency had provided to fill in for their regular receptionist was not the brightest bulb in the string.
He squinted at the female figure that had come to a halt just inside his door. Definitely not the mousy temp he’d expected to see. Long, long legs encased in sheer black stockings. A short, short skirt that hugged her curvy hips in all the right places. A tight, tight white tank top that looked small enough to fit a six-year-old. Flame-red hair fell to the middle of her back and would no doubt tickle the dimples at the curve of her bottom when she was stripped down to her bare, creamy skin.
Mary Magdalene and the Virgin Mary all wrapped up in one provocative package.
His body was making it all too clear it didn’t like his self-imposed temporary celibacy.
His mind told him to hold up on the decision never to marry.
“Ooops. Sorry,” the walking advertisement for everything a man ever wanted in a woman said, then twisted her full lips. “Wrong room.”
Colin lifted his pencil and pointed over his shoulder. “Rest rooms are the next door up.”
She seemed to take her time as she sized him up, then smiled. “Thanks.”
Such a simple word.
Such an unexpected reaction as his groin and his throat tightened farther.
The door closed and Colin reluctantly returned his attention to Jocelyn and Larry. Only Larry was still looking at the closed door, his tongue nearly lolling out of the side of his mouth. Meanwhile Jocelyn looked an inch away from smacking her hand against his chin and shearing his tongue in half with the help of his own teeth.
“My, look at that,” Colin said before round ten of the Hansens’ weekly boxing match could begin. “Our time is up.”
He rose to his feet and put his notepad on the chair behind him. “I think we’ve made some good progress today,” he lied. “Same time next week?”
Jocelyn was still glaring at her husband while Larry shook Colin’s hand and thanked him. Before they were even through the exit door on the other side of the office, Jocelyn had already begun her next verbal attack. Colin closed the door, hoping they didn’t get into an accident on the way home. Not that he was particularly concerned about their well-being. Rather he was more worried about the unsuspecting drivers around them. Never mind the three children that waited at home.
As an only child of older parents, his upbringing differed greatly from what he guessed the Hansen children endured. Discussions at the McKenna dinner table had tended to evolve around page three of The Wall Street Journal or a novel one of them had recently read rather than whether his father’s inappropriate appreciation of a woman’s physical assets had been a shade beyond decent.
He edged around his desk and sat down. He wasn’t cut out for this couples-counseling gig. He fared a little better at group therapy sessions—like the addictive personality disorder one that was on tap next, and the monthly sessions he sat in on at a local runaway shelter—but still he preferred the one-on-one approach that allowed him to make significant progress in a patient’s psychological development.
He made notes on the Hansens, put the file aside, then pulled the five other files for the group he was due to meet in ten minutes. He fingered through them. He was familiar with four of the members, but the fifth was new. He opened the file on one Lucky Clayborn and sat back in his chair. Court-ordered therapy for two D.U.I.’s in a year and a half.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, silently praying that Lucky Clayborn wasn’t the woman who had walked in during his previous session.
Unfortunately, the way his luck was running he fully expected that the sexpot and the drunk driver were one and the same.
FEW THINGS were hotter than a gorgeous guy who had no idea how appealing he was.
Lucky Clayborn sat back in the soft leather chair, her gaze focused on sexy Dr. Colin McKenna while he listened to one of the other group members.
As accidental as it may have appeared, her walking into his office during his previous session had been anything but. After getting no farther than Step Two in the Twelve Step Program on three previous occasions, she’d been curious as to what the court-approved Dr. Colin McKenna was all about. She wasn’t an alcoholic, her court-appointed attorney had pointed out to the court during her last time in front of the judge. And while her word against the arresting officer’s the second time around hadn’t held much sway, she hadn’t been drinking when she’d been charged with the last count—she’d been on cold medication. But it seemed ever since the lowering of the legal intoxication limit, a generous tablespoon of cold medicine before you got behind the wheel was enough to set off the Breathalyzer.
And if every now and again she liked to blur the edges of her life with alcohol, that was between her and the vodka bottle.
The problem was she hadn’t gotten through the Twelve Step Program because she had, admittedly, been uncooperative. So the judge had restricted her driving privileges for six months and ordered her to six weeks of counseling (as an aside she’d also suggested Lucky stay away from any cold medications that contained alcohol).
So Lucky had wanted to get a look at the guy who had the power to have her license taken away altogether.
And she’d liked what she’d seen.
She slowly recrossed her legs, watching the sexy doc’s gaze slide to watch the movement even as he focused on the other patient’s progress report.
“Miss Clayborn?” he said a moment later, startling her. “Would you like to go next?”
Go where? She almost asked.
Then she realized she was being asked to introduce herself.
She glanced over the four other group members—two men and two women—who had all shared their stories. Two admitted alcohol was their stimulent of choice while the other two claimed prescription drugs were to blame for their addictions.
She quietly cleared her throat then crossed her legs again. “I’m Lucky Clayborn and I’m here to get help for my habit of taking cold medication when I’m sick then getting behind the wheel of a car and going to work.”
There was a heartbeat of silence, then one of the women laughed, the other three members smiled and Dr. Colin merely continued gazing at her with those rich dark-brown eyes without blinking.
“Cold medication was to blame for both counts?” he asked without consulting notes or a file or even looking away from her.
For the first time in a long time, Lucky broke a challenging gaze. “You’ve done your homework,” she said quietly. “I’m impressed.”
“And you’re avoiding my question.”
She folded her hands in her lap, trying to ignore how damp her palms were. “No. No, cold medication wasn’t to blame for both counts.”
She looked for something else to focus on rather than his face and found his hands an intriguing substitute. They were large and thick and it