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‘No.’ It’s over, though. He’s sullen and scathing once more.
‘You didn’t want anything to drink?’ I say when the waitress returns with mine.
‘Don’t think this place serves my kind of drink,’ he drawls, and I surmise he’s referring to alcohol.
‘Do you drink every day?’
‘Some days,’ he says with a lift of his broad shoulders. ‘Some nights.’
‘Is that why you asked to meet me?’ I prompt. ‘Do you think you have a drinking problem?’
His laugh is short and sharp. ‘If I say yes, can we end this charade and both go home?’
‘No one’s forcing you to be here. It’s just a “conversation”, remember?’
He looks at me with barely concealed impatience and I am curious as to the reason for that.
‘You work mainly with veterans,’ he continues, and the knowledge that he’s researched me does something strange to my gut.
It shouldn’t. Most people research a doctor like me before making an appointment. There are myriad specialties amongst psychologists, countless ways to practise what we do. For Noah Moore to be here, he must know that I’m his best shot at help.
He’s still researching me, though, in a way. Interviewing me before deciding if he wants to commit to a treatment protocol.
I think of the awards that line the walls of my office. They’re just shiny statues, but to me they mean so much more. I can remember all my patients. The hurts in their eyes, the traumas of their souls. Those awards are the acknowledgement that I have helped some of them.
‘I work with people who need me,’ I say, returning my gaze to Noah’s face. ‘People who need help.’
‘And you think I’m one of them?’ There’s fierce rejection in the very idea.
‘You called me.’
He presses his lips together. ‘This is a waste of fucking time.’
It takes more than a curse word to make me blush, though Noah Moore curses in a way that is uniquely interesting, drawing out the U.
I don’t react as I want to. To be fair to myself, it’s been a long time since I’ve felt anything for a guy and suddenly all of me is responding to all of him; my cells are reverberating on every level. ‘You’re free to leave.’
His anger is directed at me. Resentment too. It reminds me of the way he reacted minutes earlier when I told him no one was forcing him to be here and he simmered with that same angry rejection.
My mind ponders this as I sip my coffee. Our eyes are locked over the rim and my pulse ratchets up another notch. His eyes drop to my breasts and I feel an instantaneous zing of awareness. My nipples harden against the fabric of my bra and my stomach squeezes. I press my knees together under the table.
I’m used to this kind of attention. I’ve dealt with it all my life. I’m on the short side, slim with breasts that are out of proportion to my small frame. They seemed to grow almost overnight when I was only twelve.
It’s one of the reasons I wear dresses like this. Plain colour, dark, thick, demure. It falls to my knees and to my wrists, and the neckline is high. I’m not ashamed of my figure, but I don’t want the nickname I had just out of university to catch on. ‘The Sexy Shrink’ is hardly the business pedigree I seek.
‘I’m here now.’ He shrugs as though he doesn’t care, but I know otherwise. I know because it’s my job to read people and I’m good at it, and I know because I have a sixth sense that’s firing like crazy in my gut. ‘Might as well let you sell yourself to me. Go on. Work your magic.’
I fight the urge to tell him there is no such thing as magic when it comes to trauma therapy. It takes hard work, long hours and dedication from both patient and physician. I’m willing to put in the hard yards, but is he?
I come back to the suspicion I have that he feels compelled to be meeting with me. Obliged might be a better word. Like he ‘has’ to go through with this appointment, not because he ‘wants’ to heal.
Usually, I would follow a more traditional form of approach to tease the answers out, but Noah Moore is not going to respond to traditional therapeutic means. It’s why he insisted we meet here, in a coffee shop, rather than my office. I lace my fingers together, leaning forward slightly, elbows propped on the table. ‘I get the feeling you’re here against your will.’
‘Yeah,’ he grunts. ‘Didn’t you see the guy with the gun to my head when I walked in?’ He laughs it off.
‘You seem reluctant to accept my help,’ I say softly. ‘You keep stressing that this isn’t an appointment, that we’re just “talking”. You refused to come to my office, because you feel safer in a neutral setting like this café. And yet while I’ve said you may leave, you’re choosing to stay.’
There’s a wariness that steals over him at having been called out. Good. Unsettling him is going to be crucial here. ‘You think anyone could force me to do what I don’t want?’
It’s a good point. Noah Moore, even without the billions in the bank, is a man who would be impossible to intimidate. He is brawn, brains and beauty, all in one.
‘You tell me.’
He expels a sigh. ‘I contacted you, didn’t I?’
‘That doesn’t mean someone wasn’t holding a gun to your head.’ I force another smile. ‘Metaphorically speaking.’
He holds my eyes for a fraction too long and then reaches forward, wrapping his fingers around one of the water glasses the waitress brought and sipping from it. I wait while he swallows, impatience breeding frustration in my gut.
I’m not used to this degree of resistance. A little, sure. It comes with the territory. But generally there’s some sense of apology for it. People know that my time is worth a lot of money. That usually encourages a compulsion to cooperate, even if only to a small degree.
‘In a manner of speaking.’
It’s an admission I don’t expect and I can’t suppress an outward display of surprise. My lips, painted a bright red, form an ‘o’. I cover it as quickly as I can, but his grimace shows that he saw my response. Understands my surprise.
‘Well, I’m glad.’ Glad we are getting somewhere. ‘In my experience, therapy works best when I have a willing participant on my hands.’
I swear I don’t mean anything by it, but the speculation that grows on his handsome face shows he’s analysing my words for a hidden meaning. For a sensual insinuation that should have stayed buried deep in the recesses of my brain.
Fortunately for me, he doesn’t capitalise on the error, though he leans forward when he speaks so I catch a hint of his fragrance. Woody and alpine, masculine and strong. ‘Are you saying you’re not able to help me?’
A glimmer of disappointment pings in my chest cavity. Did I want him to volley back my unintentional double entendre? To tell me he’d be very willing to be in my hands?
He’s looking at me, waiting for an answer. For almost the first time in my career, I’m struck mute. I run my eyes over his face, so handsome, and wonder at the secrets he’s hiding. At the life he’s lived that caused him to phone me. At the fact he’s making me want to throw caution to the wind and make him mine.
‘No,’ I say finally. ‘I think I can help you. If you want to be my patient.’
‘I don’t have time to be a patient,’ he says, and it’s so scathing that a shiver runs down my spine.
‘Well, unfortunately, it takes time,’ I point out firmly. ‘There’s no quick fix for whatever has led you to me.’
‘You’re confident saying that when you don’t have the faintest idea why I organised this meeting?’
‘Yes.’ I glare at him. ‘You know why, Noah?’ God help me, the taste of his name on my lips is addictive. ‘Because I do this all day, every day. People like you walk into my life, wearing your issues like a coat that only I can see.’
He narrows his eyes.
‘It’s in the set of your shoulders, the depths of your eyes. I see it.’ I lean back and feel my heart pounding hard against my forearms. ‘Trauma isn’t something that can be drunk away. Nor is it something I can wave my magic wand and cure. The only way to get beyond it is to work through it. It’s not a pleasant process, I won’t lie to you. Sometimes the healing can feel worse than the original pain. But I can promise you that if you don’t work through your problem you’re going to come unstuck one day. I wonder if that hasn’t already happened. Is that why you’re here?’
‘This is a load of bullshit.’
I can’t help it. The woman might be hotter than Hades, but she’s spouting psychobabble crap out of that beautiful red mouth of hers and it makes my skin crawl.
I hate this shit. I’ve heard it all before. If it hadn’t been for Gabe’s ultimatum, I’d never have arranged to meet her. But I’d do just about anything for Gabe, even without the threat to stand me down from the company while I ‘sort myself the hell out’—his words. I don’t want to see a shrink, and I have no intention of seeing Dr Scott-Leigh—hell, I don’t want to see anyone. I’m going through the motions, that’s all. But I didn’t come here expecting her to get under my skin like she is. I didn’t expect to find her utterly fascinating.
‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ she murmurs, and I wonder how she’d feel if I were to slip my hands under her dress, finding the softness of her thighs, the heat between her legs.
I drink the water again, thinking I really should have chosen a bar instead of this busy central London café. I replace the water glass and prop my elbows on the table, enjoying the way her eyes flare a little wider as my body looms closer, before she tamps down on the response and is all businesslike professionalism again.
Is there a Mr Dr Scott-Leigh?
No wedding ring, and you’d bet her husband would be smart enough to make sure she wore one. With a body like hers, she’s no doubt got a never-ending queue of men at her door. Hell, if she were mine, I’d chain her to my bed. At least until the novelty wore off.
My lips twist at the missed opportunity. Yes, I definitely should have suggested a bar after-hours. Somewhere I could actually do something about the fantasies I’ve had about her since she walked in, aching to dispel all professionalism and aloofness.
I heave out a sigh, returning my attention to her face. It’s a face that is objectively beautiful. Huge blue eyes, a nose that can only be described as cute, with a neck that is elegant. Her hair is as fair as sunlight and it’s plaited in a way that tells me she’s trying to tame herself but, in contradiction to that, she’s wearing little red earrings that I see now are Christmas gifts with glittering green ribbon.
She’s what my nine-year-old self would have called fancy. All perfectly groomed and sweet-smelling, flawless and poised in a way that a ballerina would envy.
I know lots of women now, fancy and not. Fancy women tend to throw themselves at me, and it doesn’t matter if their lingerie is high-end or from a supermarket, they’re all just as eager to strip it off their bodies at the smallest encouragement.
They all scream with pleasure just the same.
She’s watching me patiently, waiting for me to speak, and I can only guess it’s a tactic taken from Therapy for Beginners. But it has little to no impact on me.
I watch back, my expression impassive, my lips curled with the derision I am famed for.
‘Well.’ She concedes defeat by speaking first. ‘I suppose we can always talk about the weather.’
‘Or we could talk about you.’
‘Me?’ I’ve surprised her. Again. Her lips open into a circle that is distractingly erotic. ‘I’m not on the agenda. Sorry.’
Her manner tells me she’s anything but apologetic.
‘So I’m supposed to bare my soul and you give me nothing?’
Her smile is tight. She’s pissed off. It’s the first time I realise that I like riling her up; definitely not the last. ‘Well, if you decide you want to undertake therapy, then I give you peace of mind in due course,’ she murmurs.
But she’s got no idea what ghosts run through me; what shadows fill my being. I am a wraith of my past’s creation.
‘Holly, I highly fucking doubt that.’
CHAPTER TWO (#uf0821147-2abb-55dd-8bc1-0853bbc354d5)
HER HAIR IS longer than I realised. And so much softer. Up close as I am, it smells like vanilla and honey.
I know it’s a dream but, for the first time in a month, a woman has chased her from my mind and I am free from the cursed hauntings of my past. I clutch at the fine threads of this dream, refusing to let it slip from my mind.
‘I love it when you kiss me,’ Holly murmurs, her lips a perfect red. I reach for her, pulling her to me, my hands large against her fine frame, my fingers splayed wide on her hips.
Her body is pliant at my touch. Easy to control.
Surrendered completely to me, and what I can give her.
I yank her—hard—against my chest, enjoying the soft exhalation that brushes my jaw. Her breasts feel so much better than I imagined. They’re firm and soft at the same time, so big and round. I lift a hand and palm one, my thumb brushing over her nipple, my fingers possessive and demanding.
She looks at me on a tidal wave of confusion and uncertainty. This is new and different and she doesn’t know how to respond.
She doesn’t need to worry.
I know enough for both of us.
I lift her easily—she’s light and I’m strong—and wrap her legs around my waist. I don’t know how I want her but, God, I know I need her. Her dress is floaty, it moves easily over her hips, granting me the access I need. Even though it’s my dream and I should be able to control this shit, she’s wearing underwear—a barrier I don’t want.
Her hands wrap around my neck, drawing my head closer to hers, and she’s kissing me, her tongue seeking mine, duelling with me, her eyes swept closed against the assault of this passion.
But I don’t want to kiss her.
Kissing is romance and reward—fucking is not. Fucking is passion and need—a primal, physical act that is over when it ends.
I break my mouth free and stride across the room. I don’t know where we are. Dreams are funny like that. I push her back against a wall and, with her weight supported by the wall and my hips, I rip her dress open at the front. She’s not wearing a bra—thank you, dream gods—and I crush my mouth to her breast, rolling my tongue over her nipple until she whimpers, and then I move to the other, this time pressing it with my teeth so her back arches forward and her fingernails dig into my shoulders.
I’m naked now—in a dream, clothes are capable of simply disappearing—and I slide her panties aside with my fingers, my eyes mocking her, teasing her, as I nudge my cock to her entrance, hitching myself at her seam, feeling her moist heat before sliding deep inside her.
She groans, a sound that comes from the base of her throat, and I laugh.
‘This is just the beginning, baby,’ I promise.
And because I’m pursued by demons that seek to punish me, I wake up at that moment, sweat beading my brow and a cock that’s harder than stone. I drop my hand to it, rubbing my fingers up and down my length, curving my palm over my thickness.
It’s no good.
Having dream-fucked Holly, I need the real thing.
I reach for my phone and check the time. It’s midnight. I’ve been asleep only forty minutes. For Christ’s sake.
I scroll through my calendar, going back to Tuesday last week when I met Dr Scott-Leigh in that café.
Her contact details are in the appointment file. I click on her email address:
Holly,
I need to see you again. Tomorrow.
I consult my calendar once more—these sleepless nights are playing havoc with my short-term memory.
Four p.m. is my only free time.
