Bedroom Therapy

by Rebecca York

  Changing the direction of the interview, he asked, “How do you get to be a sex therapist?”

  It looked like the question had hit a nerve. She squared her shoulders. “I’m not strictly a sex therapist.”

  “What are you?”

  “A psychologist.”

  “So how did you get this job?” he asked, although he already knew the answer to the question. He simply wanted to find out how honest she would be.

  “I guess it’s a case of being in the right place at the right time. Beth Cantro, the editor of Vanessa, is a friend of mine. She knew I was on leave from Harmons College, and she asked me to take the column after Esther died.”

  “And you feel you’re qualified to give out sexual advice?”

  He knew he’d made the question sound confrontational when he saw her place her fisted hands on her hips. “Of course I’m qualified! I know the anatomy and physiology backwards and forwards. I have a PhD in psychology. My specialty area is human sexuality. And my reading in the field is wide-ranging.”

  Her complexion had taken on a rosy hue, and he liked the effect. He wanted to ask her how much personal experience she had with the subject—or if she’d gone in for any interesting clinical research of the Masters and Johnson variety. Like every other kid he knew, he’d thumbed through their books in the library stacks. He’d been very interested to find out that they’d had people come into their laboratories, stuck electrodes all over their bodies and then watched them perform sex.

  Ever done anything like that, Dr. O’Neal, he wondered. He decided it was prudent to keep that question to himself. And prudent to stop focusing on his own reactions to the woman and the situation.

  One thing he knew from her answer; she wasn’t entirely sure of herself in the role of Esther Scott, sexual advice columnist. Was that why she was nervous? Was she afraid that he’d challenge her authority?

  “Are you expecting to keep this job permanently?” he asked.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Were you personally acquainted with Esther Knight?”

  “Yes. I was her graduate assistant when I was working on my PhD. But do you really need to know that kind of stuff to write a magazine article?”

  A magazine article. That’s what she thought he was doing here? Hadn’t Beth Cantro explained it?

  Probably he should set Dr. O’Neal straight. But not yet. The editor had given him too good an opportunity to get information he might not acquire if the good doctor realized why he was here.

  “I try to get as much material as I can,” he said. “I never know what I’m going to use.”

  She answered with a tight nod.

  “Why don’t we sit down,” he said, hoping that both of them could relax a little bit.

  “How long are you going to be here?” she asked.

  “It depends.”

  Making sure there was no chance he could sit beside her, she crossed to the wingback chair and sat down stiffly.

  With a mental shrug, he took the sofa.

  “Did you get this throw in Latin America?” he asked, fingering the bright fabric.

  “Ecuador. I spent one summer doing research with Indians in the Andes.”

  “Related to uh . . . your area of expertise?”

  “No. That was when I was researching my master’s thesis. I was writing about the culture of work in that country—how quickly children were expected to assume adult responsibilities in the family.”

  “And?”

  “On market day, there were eight-year-old girls who walked around with babies strapped to their backs while their mothers sold fried bananas from street carts.”

  He nodded, thinking he didn’t much like the answer to that question. He was also thinking he should ask her if she knew anyone who had a grudge against Esther Knight. But that wasn’t a question a reporter was likely to focus on.

  Instead he leaned back against the cushions, crossed one leg over the other in an attempt to look comfortable, and fished in his pocket for his notebook. Flipping it open to a blank page that he knew she couldn’t see, he pretended to study the blue lines.

  “So, how did you go from the Andes to sexual research?” he asked.

  “I don’t do sexual research.”

  The word research had just slipped out. “Um, right,” he answered. “I meant—what did you call your field—human sexuality?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how did you end up working for Esther Knight?”

  “When I entered the PhD program, Esther asked if I wanted to work for her. She suggested that I help her with a paper she was writing on teenage girls. She was doing interviews, trying to quantify the reasons why girls gave in to pressure from their boyfriends to have sexual intercourse.”

  Suddenly, he could remember being a horny teenage boy anxious to get his girlfriend to go all the way. It hadn’t been one of the noblest episodes of his life, as he recalled. Stifling the impulse to run his finger around the inside of his collar he asked, “And?”

  “If you’re really interested in the details, I can give you a copy of the paper. It was published in the Journal of Applied Human Sexuality.”

  Applied Human Sexuality. He wasn’t going to ask what else they published. “No. That’s all right,” he answered, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He was feeling more on edge than he had when he’d walked in the door. Physically as well as emotionally.

  Somehow he didn’t seem to be able to get off the topic of sex. Probably because he was fascinated by the frank answers Dr. O’Neal was giving. And fascinated with the woman herself. Her dewy good looks and no nonsense answers made an interesting combination. One that he’d like to explore more fully.

  He canceled that thought immediately. He wasn’t here to get to know her. He was here because he had a job to do. To introduce a little distance from her, he asked, “Do you mind if I borrow your bathroom?”

  “Not at all.”

  Glad to escape, he stood up.

  “It’s through the bedroom. Down the hall.”

  “Thanks.” He made a quick exit, thinking that it would be a good idea if he finished his assignment here as quickly as possible. But leaving the room gave him an opportunity he couldn’t pass up.

  When he reached the bedroom, he glanced over his shoulder. He couldn’t see Dr. O’Neal from the doorway. Perhaps he could get away with a little snooping. If he were here on a social visit, he would have felt guilty about invading her privacy. Actually, he still felt an unsettling twinge as he opened a dresser drawer and looked down at a very nice selection of ladies’ lingerie. Then he sternly reminded himself that he was here for a very specific purpose.

  After feeling around under her silky panties and bras, he opened another drawer and reached under a pile of neatly folded sweaters. He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for, of course. He just knew that people tended to hide incriminating evidence among their personal belongings.

  ###

  Amanda had watched Zachary Grant’s broad shoulders disappear down the hall. He was personable and intelligent, and Beth was right. Under other circumstances, she might have been attracted to him.

  No, that was a lie, and she made it a rule never to lie. Especially to herself. She was attracted to him. She liked his looks, and she’d actually liked a large part of the conversation. There weren’t too many man who were comfortable talking about sex. But Mr. Grant had held his own in the discussion.

  Held his own. She couldn’t hold back a grin at her unfortunate choice of words. That wasn’t what she meant, of course. He’d kept his hands where she could see them at all times.

  As soon as he stepped into the bedroom, she took the opportunity to cross to the desk and shove the pile of letters into a folder. Really, nobody else should be looking at them. But probably no harm had been done. He wasn’t going to put the letter writers’ names in his article? Was he? Of course not.

  And he wasn’t going to quote the letter—was he?

  She tho
ught about the wording. Talking about a guy’s waving his penis out the window was a pretty distinctive way for her partner to express his dissatisfaction. And the woman who had written the letter would surely recognize it.

  Would the reporter think it was all right to use it in his article? When he came back, she’d better make the ground rules clear. Anything a reader had written to Esther was off limits.

  She was remembering now that the press sometimes did stuff the subject of the article wasn’t going to appreciate. Like writing, “You’ll be interested to know that Miss Movie Star told me not to write anything about her facelift.” Yeah, right. Thanks a lot.

  She looked down the hall, listened for the sound of the toilet flushing. Had Mr. Grant fallen in? Ordinarily she’d give him his privacy. But he’d had to walk through her bedroom, and suddenly she’d remembered that she’d left her vibrator on the bed.

  She’d shoved it under the pillow. At least she hoped to hell she hadn’t left part of it sticking out. But she’d been in a hurry. And besides, she hadn’t pictured anyone walking into her bedroom.

  Sudden concern had her hurrying down the hall. When she reached the doorway, she stopped short, hardly able to believe what she was seeing.

  Chapter Three

  “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Amanda demanded, her gaze shooting daggers at the man casually invading her privacy. He had absolutely no right to be pawing through her personal stuff, yet there he was, big as life.

  At least when Zachary Grant whirled to face her, she saw embarrassment spreading across his face.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Investigating a murder.”

  The matter-of-fact answer went right by her. She was too focused on her own outrage. In back of him, her junk drawer stood open. The drawer where she shoved all kinds of things she didn’t know what to do with. Even in the short time she’d been in St. Stephens, a lot of stupid stuff had accumulated—like grocery store coupons, the tube of cream she’d gotten in case she came down with another vaginal infection, the plastic cards she had stopped carrying in her wallet.

  “Get out of here!” she almost shouted.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets so that he looked like a little kid who’d been caught with a porn magazine.

  But he wasn’t a little kid. He was a man—who could be dangerous, she realized belatedly.

  “Sorry doesn’t cut it,” she answered, struggling to keep her voice from quivering. Probably she should leave well enough alone, but she heard herself asking, “What are you, some kind of pervert or something?”

  He gave her a long look, a look that made her want to take a step back. But she held her ground.

  “No,” he answered, his voice low and measured. “I’m a private detective. Like I said, I’m investigating a murder.”

  She stared at him as she tried to wrap her mind around that statement, because now that she’d finally focused on what he was saying, it was the last thing she’d expected to hear. “But . . . but . . . you said you were a reporter,” she stammered, wondering how she’d gotten it all wrong.

  “No, you said it.”

  She thought about how she’d come to what was apparently a false conclusion. “Beth said you were coming here to interview me. Naturally I assumed it was for an article.” She glared at him. “And that’s what you let me think.” Then a sick thought struck her. Had Harmons College sent him? And he was still lying to her to cover up his real purpose. She wanted to order him out of her house. But she needed to find out what was really going on. Raising her chin, she demanded, “What murder? What are you doing investigating me?”

  “There are some questions about Esther Knight’s death. I’m interviewing everyone who knew her well. Naturally, you’re on the list.”

  She felt a surge of relief. This had nothing to do with the damn college. Immediately, she felt guilty. Poor Esther was dead, and now someone thought it might be murder?

  To hide her own discomfort, she pinned Mr. Zachary Grant with some pointed questions. “That’s how you work? By pretending to be someone you’re not? And poking in my dresser drawers?”

  “I was going to tell you I was a PI”

  “When? After you searched my bedroom?”

  He had the grace to look embarrassed.

  Her eyes flicked to the bed, and she was vastly relieved that at least the vibrator was hidden under the pillow.

  Or had he found it and shoved it back?

  She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, thinking she could be in a lot of trouble now. She’d let this guy into her house under obviously false pretenses. And she was alone with him. The only thing that made her feel the least little bit okay with the situation was that he’d won over Beth. Well, she was going to have a nice little chat with her as soon as she got rid of Mr. Snoop.

  “Please leave,” she said again.

  To her relief, he said, “Okay.”

  She let out a breath, just as he brushed past her to get to the door.

  His arm briefly touched her breast, and she made a startled sound in reaction.

  She saw the set of his shoulders tighten as he marched down the hall. She was hoping he’d head out the front door. But he stopped in the living room.

  “I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot,” he said.

  “Oh are you? Well, that’s not my fault.”

  “I know.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a card and wrote something on the back. “I’m staying in town at the Duck Blind Motel until tomorrow morning. If there’s anything you want to tell me, you can reach me on my cell.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  “I’m not,” he said stiffly as he hesitated at the door. He turned to look at her, his face a mixture of emotions. “If Esther was murdered, then you could be in danger.”

  She bristled. “Are you trying to scare me to get me to keep talking to you?”

  “I’m telling you to be careful. That’s all.”

  She didn’t even know what that meant.

  “She lived in New York. I’m down here in a small town on the Eastern Shore of Maryland.”

  He nodded, then asked, “Have you seen a white van parked around here?”

  “There are a lot of white vans on the road. I guess the police found that out when they had that sniper case in Washington, DC, a few years ago.

  His eyes met hers. “Yeah, well, I saw one parked outside a while ago. When I walked over, whoever was inside drove away. So report anything suspicious to the police. I wouldn’t want something to happen to you.”

  “You don’t even know me.”

  “I form quick impressions of people.”

  “Apparently,” she snapped. “And I can tell you for certain that this interview is over.”

  “You have my number. If you get into any trouble call me.”

  He was the last person on earth she was going to call, she thought as he walked through the door and closed it.

  Somehow while he was in the room, she’d kept herself together. The moment he was out of the house, she felt her knees weaken, and she had to lean against the door to stay on her feet.

  Zachary Grant had taken her in so completely that he’d left her head spinning. And then he’d tried to scare her. Well, at least he was gone.

  ###

  Tony had gone back to the abandoned house in the woods and changed vehicles. Now his stolen car was parked half a block away under the low-hanging branches of a tree where he watched the man leave little Miss O’Neal’s house.

  Probably she insisted that people call her Dr. O’Neal because she thought a lot of herself. And why not? She was writing one of the big moneymaking columns in Vanessa.

  The editor couldn’t let the column die. When she’d lost Esther Knight, she’d gone looking for another know-it-all bitch. And she’d hit on Amanda O’Neal.

  He’d watched her through the window, saw her going through that pile of letters that unsuspecting women
were sending her so she could meddle in their lives.

  Of course, Vanessa wanted to keep her identity a secret—to protect the guilty. But he’d bugged the editor’s phone. And when she’d driven to Maryland, he’d known she was going down there to hire the next Esther Scott.

  His attention switched from the woman inside the little house to her visitor, the guy with a burgundy Honda sporting New Jersey plates.

  First he’d come strolling toward the van, and Tony had taken off. But he’d come back to find out what was going on—in time to see the guy disappearing into the house.

  Tony had carefully taken down the license number of the Honda. He would have liked to have had a look inside the car, but it was too close to the house for him to take the chance that someone might be glancing out the window.

  The car was aimed in the opposite direction from where Tony was sitting in his car now. He was betting that the guy wasn’t going to make a U-turn when he left, because he was already facing toward the main road. And his assumption proved to be correct.

  The guy roared away, and Tony breathed out a small sigh. Back to business as usual. Well, not exactly. He’d been planning to wait a few days before he made his big play. All at once he was thinking that it would be a good idea to move up his timetable.

  ###

  Amanda stiffened her knees, then walked to the window, watching the duplicitous Mr. Grant get into his car and drive away. Then she couldn’t stop herself from looking for a white van. Which she didn’t see.

  Pulling back from the front window, she turned and marched to the desk, where she picked up her phone and called New York.

  “I’d like to speak to Beth Cantro,” she told the receptionist.

  “Whom shall I say is calling?”

  “Amanda O’Neal. I’m returning her call,” she added.

  She waited, tapping her foot on the floor until her friend came on the line.

  It was more than a minute before Beth came on the line, and Amanda imagined her finishing up a conference with one of her staffers.

  “Amanda! How are you? Did you get the little present I sent you?” she asked.