Sophie realized she was holding her breath. Not only was a four year old treated like an animal, but a nine year old was forced to witness that treatment and experience brutality himself. Involuntarily she reached out and rested her hand on his forearm, steadying and stilling him beneath her warm, caring touch.
Suddenly Logan was kissing her. It happened so fast, so uncontrollably, so head-spinningly fervently, that she didn’t have time to think. Those perfect lips were caressing her own, and she felt she had no choice but to accept his desperate, passionate advance. He had flayed himself open in front of her, he had prostrated himself, and now he needed comfort—comfort she was more than willing to provide. His kiss comforted her, too. She closed her eyes and melted into him, his strong arms grasping her and his tear-stained cheeks transferring wetness to the smooth skin of her face.
“And things were never the same between you,” Hunter surmised, bringing her back to the present.
“What?” Sophie continued to feel disoriented by the wounded, haunted blue eyes burned into her memory.
“That was the first major boundary-crossing. There was no going back after you let him kiss you like that.”
She tried to remember to breathe. “I guess not.”
“Did you think about telling someone? Consulting with a colleague?”
“I thought about it. I thought about consulting. I thought about referring him.” She averted her eyes. “I could have done any number of things, but I think I didn’t want it to end. But it did finally end. With me in prison.”
Hunter listened to her guilty confession and gave silent thanks that he’d never fallen in love with a client.
“I almost went back to prison today,” Sophie informed him ruefully.
“What happened?”
“You know how I was supposed to get a job by today? Well, I didn’t find one. My PO had me cuffed and ready to go. We were waiting for the police officers when he decided to give me another chance, as long as I, um, begged my father for a job. But then I lucked out and a man I met, another parolee, got a job for me on an architectural cruise. He was incredibly kind.”
Hunter frowned slightly. “We are out of time, Sophie, but it sounds like we have a lot to discuss in our next session.”
“You probably want to know about my father,” she said.
“Yes. And this man that you met—it doesn’t seem like such a good idea to be fraternizing with another parolee. I want to talk about this further.”
She rose, silently disagreeing with his warning about Grant. Of course it was a good idea to “fraternize” with a man as handsome and kind as Grant Madsen. Her psychologist didn’t realize that yet, but he would.
As she left the office, she mulled over the session in her mind. Boundary violations, self-disclosure, hot kisses, Logan, Grant. If Hunter ever had Logan or Grant as a client, perhaps he would be heading down the slippery slope as well. Those particular men just seemed irresistible.
11. Taking a Gamble
From the ship’s bridge, Grant gazed at the pitter-pattering raindrops splashing into the river as the architectural cruise made its way through increasingly choppy waters. He loved the suspended hush at the start of a storm, the skies emitting tiny drops of condensation before unleashing a torrent of water.
It was the five o’clock Wednesday cruise, and the sunshine of the morning had morphed into a cloudy afternoon. Grant hoped the storm would pass through completely before Sophie’s first day at work tomorrow. Storms meant sparse crowds and meager drink tips.
“Straight ahead is the Trump International Hotel and Tower,” Roger’s gruff voice explained to the few passengers huddled amidships on the lower deck, seeking cover from the impending weather. The captain sat just a couple of feet from where Grant stood, and his ridiculous microphone headset continually made Grant chuckle. He looked like Madonna in concert, and Grant kept waiting for Rog to Vogue.
“Construction of the tower began in 2005, and they’re making the finishing touches as we speak. The hotel portion opened in January.
“Initial designs for the building were not well received, but they finally agreed on the stacked boxes concept, which evokes an image of a commerce ship steaming through the city. The various tiers were designed to match the height of neighboring buildings, helping the new building fit in nicely with the skyline.”
As expected, the rain began falling harder, partially obscuring visibility from the bridge. Grant powered down the engines to a safer speed in the storm.
Sensing the change in knots, Roger, ever the adept performer, stretched out his commentary. “As I was saying, the level of each tier in the Trump Tower matches the height of neighboring structures. That’s probably one of the first times in his life that the shark, Donald Trump, has tried to get along with his neighbors.”
It was a lame joke, and Grant was glad he was unable to hear the groans from the passengers. Some of Rog’s jokes hit the mark, but others fell flat with a resounding thud.
They continued their journey on the Chicago River, and Grant was mesmerized by the sound of steady drizzle and water lapping on the ship’s hull. Entering a melancholy trance, the sound drew him back to a summer day when the rain had similarly cascaded down on Chicago.
He had knelt beside her grave numbly, barely aware of the pelting raindrops on his shoulders and back. His khaki Navy uniform had become drenched, but the military forbade the use of umbrellas. Not that he cared anyway. It seemed fitting to match his emotional misery with the physical discomfort of getting soaked to the bone.
Grant placed a bouquet on the wet grass—jasmine, a flower that signified grace and elegance. There was no better way to describe Karita Ann Madsen. His mother had a noble air about her, carrying herself with poise and refinement.
Karita’s parents had immigrated to the States from Denmark, and they had been thrilled when their children immersed themselves in American life—their son joining the Navy and their daughter attending an American university. Karita’s bachelor’s degree in education parlayed nicely into a job teaching history in a Chicago high school, where she met her dashing future husband.
She had surrendered many of her dreams upon discovering the brutality and manipulation inherent in Enzo’s character, but one thing she had insisted upon was the naming rights for her sons. Instead of Italian monikers, Karita had demanded they celebrate Illinois history by naming their sons after two influential Civil War generals from the prairie state: John A. Logan and Ulysses S. Grant.
Karita’s fair Scandinavian coloring stood in sharp contrast to the dark Italian features of Grant’s father’s side of the family. Grant recalled watching her brush her long, silky blond hair with fascination. He also remembered that same hair matted with blood after his father came at her one night. Soon tears mixed with the raindrops sliding down his face as he knelt by her tombstone in the cemetery north of Chicago.
Grant wasn’t sure how long he’d been there, quietly mourning, before he heard a rustling behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he gasped. Standing in the pouring rain was a tall, chiseled man with cropped black hair and a scowl.