becoming empty and meaningless. She wanted her father to be proud of her, too, and that would have never happen if she’d continued living her life the way she’d been living it. He’d threatened on more than one occasion to cut off her endless funds if she didn’t get her life together.
It was her older sister, Lee Ann, who had helped her to explore some of the ideas that had been running around in her head. If there was anything that Dominique was good at it was shopping and clothes. Her first thought was to open an exclusive boutique and use her many contacts to supply one-of-a-kind items.
“That’s wonderful,” Lee Ann had said, “but who needs another exclusive boutique? Who is that helping? What about supplying quality clothing for women who can’t afford them?”
That was the seed of the idea that materialized into First Impressions. It was a top-of-the-line clothing establishment that provided clothing to low-income women that were returning to the workplace or needed that special one-of-a-kind outfit for an event. It started off small, but after less than six months in business she could barely keep up. She had a full staff that screened all of the applicants, stocked the racks and kept up with inventory.
Dominique’s sense of style and understanding of what each woman needed to make them feel special was an integral part of the company’s success. Now, with a bit more than two years in business, she was ready to expand and include a training program for women as part of her services. To do that she needed more space.
For the past month she’d been reviewing applications from contractors and had finally narrowed down her search to one: T. Jackson Contracting. She’d heard great things about the company, and was impressed with their proposal. She had a meeting scheduled with the owner in less than an hour.
* * *
Trevor Jackson maneuvered his Range Rover down the narrow street, slowing periodically to search for the address. He stopped in front of the building with the teal-blue awning and plate-glass window. “First Impressions” was emblazoned in bright white letters. He turned the corner and found a parking space. He draped the strap of his camera around his neck, took his iPad to take notes and walked back to the entrance.
He opened the glass-and-wood front door and a bell chimed. From the outside the size was deceiving. It was much larger than he expected and everywhere that he looked there were racks and shelves of women’s clothing, shoes, purses and accessories in glass cases.
“May I help you?”
He turned toward the sound of the voice. A good-looking middle-aged woman in a crisp navy-blue suit and pale pink blouse approached him.
“Hi, I’m looking for Ms. Lawson. We have an appointment.”
“You must be Mr. Jackson.”
“Yes.”
She smiled. “I’m Phyllis. Dominique is expecting you. Let me show you to her office.”
They walked around the racks of clothing to the back of the showroom and then down a narrow hallway. The walls were lined with framed photographs of women in a variety of settings and outfits.
“Those are pictures of our ladies,” Phyllis said by way of explanation. “Most of them are single mothers getting back to work, or women who had been incarcerated and are starting life over again. Some are high school seniors that needed a prom dress. I was one of them,” she added.
Trevor didn’t try to guess which category she fell into.
Phyllis stopped and knocked on a closed door.
He faintly heard a voice from the other side say to come in.
Phyllis turned the knob and opened the door. “Mr. Jackson is here.”
“Thanks, Phyllis,” Dominique said from behind the frame of her computer screen. “Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Jackson,” she said and continued typing. “I’ll be right with you.”
Phyllis eased out and Trevor stepped inside. He took a quick survey of the small, totally feminine office and crossed the room to view the framed photographs on a chrome wall unit.
He’d seen pictures of the Lawson family in the newspapers and on television for years that spotlighted the high-class parties, the politics, the weddings and even the scandals that swirled around the oldest son. He’d had some doubts about bidding on the job. He’d had his share of rich folk and their “issues,” their demands and fickleness. It was his business partner, Max Hunt, who finally convinced him that it was worth doing. The work that the organization did—according to its brochure—fit into Trevor and Max’s sense of service to the community. Although he preferred to work in low-income neighborhoods and help the families in the 9th Ward rebuild, this would be his one corporate project for the year.
Dominique swerved her chair from in front of her computer screen and slammed her knee into the desk when she caught her first glimpse of Trevor’s broad back, lean waist and tight behind. White-hot pain shot up from her knee and exploded into tiny stars in her head. She gripped the edge of the desk and bit down on her lip to keep from screaming.
But the real cause of the heat that flooded her cheeks and set her heart racing was when Trevor looked over his shoulder at the sound of the collision.
For a moment, she couldn’t think beyond the pain in her knee and the vision before her. Trevor Jackson was not the stumpy, balding, cigar-chewing, dirty-under-the-fingernails contractor that she’d expected. He was an Idris Elba look-alike, with the build and piercing dark eyes to cinch the deal. If he opened his mouth and out spouted the King’s English, she was done. His right eyebrow lifted and she only wished her lashes were as naturally thick as his.
Concentrating on standing up without wobbling on her aching knee, she made it to her feet as he turned fully around. Her stomach fluttered.
“Mr… .” Her mind went blank.
“Jackson.”
She forced a smile and wondered if she looked as suddenly unnerved as she felt. “Yes, sorry. Mr. Jackson. I’ve seen so many people this morning.”
Trevor let the comment go. Maybe she got a very early start, seeing that it was barely after nine. Either that or she was no different from the rest of the elite that he’d dealt with in the past who didn’t care enough to know the names of the people that they employ.
Dominique’s knee was pulsing in time to the thudding in her chest. She finally had the presence of mind to extend her hand in his direction. And what did she do that for?
Trevor’s large work-roughened hand enveloped hers. His long fingers wrapped around her palm and gently squeezed.
Heat sluiced through her veins, filled her body, loosened her inner thighs and made her tiny pearl stiffen and twitch.
He was a full head above her, even in her heels, and she was forced to look up at him to make contact with eyes that were framed with thick lashes and orbs that were inky black, almost bottomless. There was a slight squint to his gaze as if he was staring into sunshine.
“Is it okay if I sit down?”
Damn, was she staring? Only the flickering light of good home training kept her from snatching her hand away. “Of course.” She smiled and extended her scorched hand
