The Season to Sin

by Clare Connelly

  His eyes drop to my fingers. He’s wondering what ‘family’ means to me. I don’t elaborate on that score. That’s common sense as well as training. Ivy is not a part of this world. She’s mine—and she’s all that is sweet and innocent.

  ‘I make a pudding—my grandmother’s recipe—we sing carols. The usual. Do you have any Christmas traditions?’

  He knows I’m relaxing him and yet perhaps he also knows he has to give me at least something to justify the fact I’ve moved my schedule around to see him today. ‘Yeah. Getting hammered.’

  I arch a brow.

  ‘It’s just another day for me, Doc.’

  ‘No family?’ I prompt.

  I get the strangest sense that he wants to say something. That the temptation to open up is pressing against his back, pushing him forward, but then he just shakes his head sideways once. A curt dismissal.

  It’s normal for patients to clam up around me, but I don’t generally take it personally. Intense frustration zips through me now and, against my usual therapeutic practices, I say, ‘Noah, I really want to help you and I think you want that too, but you’re giving me nothing to work with.’

  He stares at me belligerently and I stand up, hoping that will dispel some of the frustrated energy that’s firing through me. I move towards the window, looking out at London, and I don’t know if I’m imagining it but heat warms my spine as though he’s still watching me.

  I habitually deal with soldiers who’ve come back from war zones—men and women who’ve witnessed and perpetrated unimaginable crimes. People who have done what no human should ever have to do, who have seen first-hand the bleakness and despair of utter destruction. I understand their hauntedness and I know how to help with it, generally. Every patient is different, but at least I’m operating from the same wheelhouse. Not now, not with Noah. I need to tease information out of him gently. But I do need to get some information. Without it, I’m flying blind.

  ‘When did you decide to seek help?’

  He expels a harsh breath that has me turning slowly to face him. I was right. He’s watching me. Blood jolts through my system as though each cell has been subjected to an electrical shock.

  ‘Noah.’ I say the word quietly but with a firmness that shows I’m serious. ‘I moved my day around for this. Are you wasting my time?’

  He seems to withdraw from me even further. Not in the way many of my patients do, by becoming visibly upset or distant. Now he is looking at me as though he wants to eat me—and my tummy is in knots.

  He stands and moves towards me. Every single fibre of my being is vibrating on high alert, but I don’t withdraw. Maintaining control of the session is vital. He is right beside me, at least a foot taller than me, and close enough that if either of us were to sway forward slightly we would be touching. Crazy thought! Where did that come from?

  He looks down at me, so dominant, so strong and somehow so broken.

  I stare at him for a long time, waiting for him to speak, determined not to break first.

  Finally, his throat bobs as he swallows. ‘I don’t need therapy,’ he says gruffly, as though I’ve dragged him here kicking and screaming.

  ‘I see.’ I nod, not wanting to mock his assertion, nor to question why he emailed at midnight if that’s the case.

  ‘I just...’ He drags a hand through his hair and shakes his head. ‘This is fucking ridiculous.’

  ‘What is it?’ I urge and, damn it, I step closer. Stupid, stupid move, because now there’s barely a whisper between us and I can’t surrender the strength of my position by pulling away. If I do, he’ll know how he affects me, and that would be a disaster.

  ‘I’m not sleeping.’ He turns away from me and takes a step towards my desk, pressing his fingers against the wooden corner.

  It is highly irregular for me to have people on this side of my office and I feel the invasion of Noah in every way. This is my space—my personal space. But the moment he’s started to open up to me, I can’t make him feel at fault. I move towards him and put a gentle yet professional hand on his elbow.

  Tension is radiating from his bulky frame, as though this small admission of a perceived weakness has offended every iota of his hyper-masculinity. He flinches when I touch him and glares down at me.

  Not with anger, though.

  The desire that has me hostage is of a mutual kind. I feel him shift and it is all the confirmation I need that this crazy, dark lust surges through us both. My fingertips are still pressed lightly to his elbow. I nod towards the chair he’d been sitting in.

  ‘Please, sit down.’ It’s a quiet murmur and for a moment I think he’s not going to do as I say. He continues to stare at me and I find myself staring back, wondering what it would be like for those lips of his to drop to mine.

  Temptation is thick in the air. I could push up onto the tips of my toes and kiss him... Would it really be so wrong? I step back just as he reaches for me, his fingers curling into my hair, wrapping it around his big masculine fist. ‘Is this real?’

  The question catches me utterly off guard. I take in a deep breath that barely reaches my lungs and stare at him with a sense of helplessness. I have a thing for bad boys, remember, yet I’ve never known anyone quite like Noah Moore.

  I force myself to remember several things, and to remember them quickly. He is waging a battle against demons I don’t yet comprehend; he has come to me for help.

  And I don’t do this.

  I don’t let men, no matter how sexy, make my pulse race and my knees knock.

  That kind of thing was a million years ago for me.

  ‘Is this real?’

  The words are husky from his mouth and all my certainties and good intentions quiver inside me.

  ‘What?’

  Step away, step away! my brain is shouting at me, but I don’t move. Instead, I swallow and his eyes drop to my mouth, then lower, to the column of my throat, watching the convulsive movement, before resuming their fascination with my lips.

  Moist heat slicks between my legs and I clamp my lips together. My nipples press against the bra I’m wearing, little arrows darting through me from each hardened nub, radiating heat through my body. There is a fine tremble that passes over my spine.

  ‘This. Your hair.’ And his fist moves higher, towards my head, so his palm curves around my skull, his fingers still tight in the blonde lengths. He angles my head upwards and our eyes are locked. Our bodies are separated by inches and yet I feel the essence of him pulse into me, throbbing inside my gut. This is, hands down, the most intimacy I’ve ever felt with a man.

  ‘Yes.’ It’s a word weakened by desire and my temptation to surrender to it completely. ‘It’s real.’

  He nods but doesn’t otherwise move. If I don’t do something, anything, to grab control of this situation, I’m going to be in serious trouble.

  ‘Noah.’ I clear my throat and step away. For a second he doesn’t relinquish his hold on my hair, and then he drops his hand to his side. His expression is knowing. As though he understands that I am now fleeing what we just shared.

  ‘Please, sit down.’ The words lack conviction and yet he complies, moving back to his seat and owning it with his body. I don’t sit behind my desk, though. Instead, I cross to the other side of it and perch on the edge, crossing my legs at the ankle.

  It’s dangerous because I’m quite close to him, but I feel we need to maintain some of the connection he just established.

  ‘You’re not sleeping?’ I prompt softly.

  ‘No, Doc.’

  ‘Not at all?’ I frown, reaching around behind me for my pad and pen.

  He shrugs, like it doesn’t matter. ‘I sleep a bit. Ten minutes. Twenty.’

  ‘Then what?’ I write 10...20 in the corner of my paper.

  ‘I wake up.’ The words are droll, bordering on sarcastic. My cheeks
warm, but I dip my head forward to write a note.

  ‘Do you have dreams?’

  The wry sarcasm fades from his features. He focuses on a point behind me. ‘No.’

  Liar. I don’t challenge him, though. It’s too soon and, for the moment, he’s made some admissions, which is a huge thing for a guy like Noah. I need him to trust me, and that’s going to be a tough sell with him.

  I scrawl no dreams and underscore it, which is my way of reminding myself that I suspect it’s not the truth. ‘Have there been any changes in your lifestyle recently?’

  ‘Besides seeing you?’ he says thoughtfully, his eyes shifting back to mine, all confident, charismatic, sexy bad boy again.

  My heart leaps.

  ‘I mean changes that could affect your sleep.’

  ‘Oh, you sure affected my sleep last night.’ The words are so far from what I expect that I lose my mask for a moment and show my surprise. I’m sure my face must pale visibly, that he must see the way I react. My stomach swoops and, briefly, I allow temptation to cloud my clarity.

  But only briefly.

  I’m a professional. I need to remember that.

  ‘Perhaps we need to try something new,’ I say, my smile an attempt at coolness that I suspect I don’t pull off.

  He lifts a brow, obviously teasing. ‘I’m game if you are.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘I SET ASIDE a full hour, but I can already tell there’s no sense keeping you here that long.’ She pushes off the edge of the desk and walks back towards the window. The afternoon light shimmers across her, backlighting her in a way that makes her look like an angel. A very sexy angel.

  ‘Sick of me already, Holly?’

  Her eyebrows knit together and I can see her cogs turning, analysing me. This is one of the many reasons I like to hook up with women who’ve got a drink or three under their belt. None of this psycho mind-reading bullshit.

  And Holly Scott-Leigh is, I suspect, very good at this.

  ‘You don’t want to be here. And yet you came.’

  ‘I was curious about where you worked,’ I say lamely. Stupidly. She’s too smart to fall for that kind of bullshit.

  ‘So...’ She lifts a hand to her thick blonde hair and scrapes it back from her brow. A sign of frustration? The action pulls her sweater across her breasts, and everything inside me jerks. She speaks as though I haven’t. ‘We’re going to do five questions.’

  ‘Five questions?’ That’s easy. Relief is palpable.

  ‘But...’ She lifts her finger, her lips twitching with barely suppressed amusement. ‘You have to answer me honestly, and promptly. No faffing about trying to make something up and no dodging the questions.’

  I can hear my blood throbbing in my ears like a fucking tsunami. There’s a high-pitched noise too, like air from a balloon being pinched to release.

  There was one summer I spent with a family who used to surf. They took me out with them, taught me how to ride a board. There is an art to keeping your balance; it’s a constant seduction. Every tiny movement shifts your power and one wrong breath may mean you tumble into the ocean.

  If I allow Holly to have this power over me, she will roll me into the sea.

  I won’t let that happen.

  I stand, my eyes pinning her to the spot so I see the effect I have on her. She tries to cover it, but you can’t hide desire. Not really. There are markers that I have seen often enough to recognise easily now. Her cheeks flush along the ridge of bone, her pupils swell to cover almost her whole eye and her breathing is rasped, her chest moving up and down, so that her round breasts push forward. Jesus, that shirt sweater thing looks soft. My fingertips itch to reach out and touch it. To scrunch it against her skin, to feel her through the fabric.

  I stand just a couple of inches away from her and she keeps staring up at me, her big red lips parted, her eyes whispering seduction even when I know she’s doing her best to hold the professional line.

  I wonder how long she’ll keep that up.

  ‘On one condition.’

  Her frown is infinitesimal. Her eyes drop to my lips and my gut jerks, wanting to pull me forward, begging me to kiss her.

  Nah, not to kiss her, that’s far too sweet a word for what I want to do. I want to pull her lower lip between my teeth, I want to push her back against that window, I want to fucking own her.

  ‘What’s that, Mr Moore?’

  It’s an attempt to put us back on a professional footing. Her own surfboard is tipping.

  I lift a finger, touching her cheek lightly. She flinches with surprise and her eyes lift to mine slowly. She’s in the water; it’s threatening to consume her whole. ‘For every one of your questions, you answer one of mine. Same rules.’

  Her breath is soft, warm. I feel it on my inner wrist. Imagining it elsewhere on my body, I throb with heat and need.

  ‘I told you last week.’ The words are uneven. ‘I’m not on the agenda.’

  It’s an intentional reproof. My smile shows amusement at her attempt to put up barriers. ‘Oh, I think you are, Holly.’ But I drop my hand and step backwards. ‘Do we have a deal?’

  She swallows, her throat bobbing. She’s torn. Drowning and trying not to—drowning and asking me to save her all at once.

  ‘I suppose it’s fair,’ she says after a beat.

  Fuck, yeah, it’s fair. If she expects me to pour out my heart, then she’d better believe I want my pound of flesh along with it.

  She nods, as if to reaffirm to herself that she’s going to go through with this. ‘Shall I start?’

  I ignore the twisting in my gut. I’ve agreed to this and I’m not afraid of much, least of all having a fucking conversation.

  She is, though. She weighs her words carefully, studying me as she thinks. Her eyes are crazy beautiful. Huge and bright blue with a dark black rim around the iris and flecks of black close to the pupil. She has a tiny scar above one brow—like a line about half a centimetre long. I want to run my tongue along it—the certainty that one day I will fills me like cement.

  ‘Did you have a favourite toy as a child?’

  Of all the questions I expect, it’s not this. I laugh—a dry sound that cracks from my throat.

  ‘No. My turn. Did you think about me after I left last week?’

  Her eyes widen and her throat jerks as she swallows. Her gaze darts to a space on the wall behind me. ‘Of course I did,’ she says, the words thready and soft. She darts her tongue out, licking her lower lip. ‘You’re my client.’

  ‘No, I’m not. So far, I’m just some man you know.’ My smile is wry and I lean closer, my words mocking. ‘And you know that’s not what I meant.’

  ‘That’s the question you asked,’ she volleys back, fire and spirit firing in her eyes. ‘My turn. What’s your favourite thing to do?’

  I stare at her for a second, a sense of discontent rifling through me. A hobby? She wants to know what my hobby is? I drop my head close to hers, and when I whisper it’s right in her ear, low and soft. ‘Fuck beautiful women.’

  I pull away so I can see her reaction. She’s looking at me with something close to pity, though, and that fires me up. ‘My turn.’ I skim her face thoughtfully, then purposely drop my eyes to her rack. Jesus Christ, they’re great breasts. ‘When did you last get laid?’

  Another swallow. ‘Noah.’ The word is half scold, half plea.

  I shake my head, my eyes locking her to the spot and her intention. ‘No lying.’

  The room pulses heavily with silence.

  ‘A long time ago.’

  ‘That’s not a precise answer,’ I push, a thrill of something like triumph turning my blood to lava.

  She expels a breath. An angry breath. ‘Five years ago,’ she snaps and then pulls herself together with effort.

  ‘What’s your mother’s name?’


  I don’t bat an eyelid—not so much as a blink. ‘Alison Parker.’ She might have birthed me, but calling her a ‘mother’ is a step too far. I’ve spent thirty-six years wishing her name wasn’t even in my mind, let alone her blood in my veins.

  ‘Are you close to her?’

  I shake my head. ‘It’s my turn, remember.’

  A look of panic colours her spectacular eyes. She moves away to grab a glass of water from her desk. I follow her automatically and my eyes drop to the picture to the right of her. A little child, so exactly like Holly that it must surely be a relation, sits in a frame. ‘Who’s that?’

  She looks at me and catches me looking at the frame. For a second I think she’s not going to answer, or that she might lie, but then she shrugs. ‘My daughter.’ Her hand lifts betrayingly to a necklace she wears. A locket?

  ‘Are you close to your mother?’

  I was expecting this question. ‘No.’

  ‘You don’t like her?’

  I move my body closer—she braces her hands on the desk and looks up at me, and the air cracks like a whip as tension tightens between us.

  ‘No.’ Her expression flickers as she analyses this. ‘Have you thought about me, other than professionally?’

  Once more her eyes dart away from me. Such a giveaway gesture for a woman as smart as she is. I would have expected her to have a better poker face. ‘I...’ A very faint peach colour spreads over her cheeks.

  ‘It’s a yes or no question, Doc.’ I brace my hands on the outside of hers, bending my body forward so that I’ve effectively caged her on her desk. She closes her eyes and inhales deeply, drawing in a breath like she wants to draw me with it. When she speaks, it’s with a courage I admire. A strength and determination—a fearlessness.

  ‘Yes.’

  I tighten all over and it takes every ounce of my willpower not to push her back on the desk and rip that leather skirt off, to make her mine.

  ‘You weren’t raised by your parents, were you?’