When she opened them, she mentally overlaid his skin with an anatomy chart, reminding herself to view his body as just a combination of muscles, tendons, and bones. “I’m going to put some mild pressure on your neck and back now, just to see where the tightness is,” she said, rubbing her hands together to warm them before she began to probe the knotted muscles with her fingertips. As she dug into his warm olive skin, she recited each muscle to keep her focus on the medical. Levator scapulae. Trapezius. Rhomboideus. Posterior deltoid. Latissimus dorsi.
Her mind went to work on the problem of how to position the stim pads for maximum effect, and she almost forgot whom she was working on. He flinched once when she hit a sore spot, but mostly he lay quiet and still as she explored his back.
“I’m going to attach the pads now. And then I’ll put a light blanket over you to keep you warm.”
He grunted his understanding. She placed the pads, attached the wires, and covered him with a soft white blanket she found on a shelf beside the massage table. It was ten times nicer than the one in her bag of tricks. Then she turned on the machine, slowly adjusting the current upward.
“That’s good,” he said. “Now there are several herds of ants racing around over my back.”
“Let me know if it begins to bother you. Since the stim will last longer, you may find your reaction to it changes over time.”
It was harder to gauge his body’s response to the stim when the blanket was covering him, but she checked for any restlessness or subtle shifts in his position.
A few minutes passed in silence, and she allowed herself to look around a little more, although she brought her attention back to her patient frequently. Her patient. She sighed in relief as she realized that was how she was thinking of him now.
“So what does one do while the ants tramp around?” His deep voice was slightly muffled by the headrest.
“Some people sleep.”
“Your electric insects are a little too obtrusive for that.”
“Do you have a music system down here? I could turn it on.” In a place like this, there had to be a state-of-the-art sound system. She was about to suggest an audiobook but decided that might hit too close to the source of his problem.
“What sort of music would you choose to listen to?” he asked.
“Me? This is your treatment, so you get to pick.” Her taste ran to country and pop, neither of which a sophisticated writer would find appealing.
“I already know what I would listen to, so that’s not interesting.”
“The point is to listen to it, not talk about it,” Allie said.
“I’d rather listen to you.”
She felt a silly moment of pleasure. “I’m a hillbilly, so I like country.”
“Johnny Cash or Blake Shelton?” he asked.
“Dolly Parton and Carrie Underwood.”
His chuckle was a dark, rich rumble. “I like you. You’ve got attitude.”
Another wash of ridiculous gratification flowed through her. “So what’s your favorite kind of music?”
“I like a good Gregorian chant.”
“You listen to monks singing in Latin? I was expecting you to say Beethoven.” She wanted to bite her tongue when she realized that it was his character Julian Best who listened to classical music. She saw him shift under the blanket. “So what’s the hot new group on the Gregorian chant charts?” she asked to cover her blunder.
“Why did you think I would choose Beethoven?” His tone left no doubt that he expected an honest answer.
She wasn’t going to give him one. “You’re an intellectual New Yorker. They tend to like classical music.”
There was more movement under the blanket as he pushed himself up from the table, turning his head so she could see the anger stiffening his jaw. “You were thinking of Julian Best.”
“Does he like Beethoven? I don’t remember that. Please lie down.”
Gavin turned onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow. The blanket hung over his shoulder but didn’t cover his torso with its line of dark hair arrowing down to disappear under his jeans. Allie tried to meet his gaze, but that was worse than being attracted by his body. She moved to the stim unit and pretended to check the dials. “Should I turn the current down?”
“You are not a good liar, Ms. Nichols. You were confusing me with my fictional spy.”
Allie admitted defeat and faced him again. “Don’t writers put their own experiences in their books?”
“And their aspirations. Not to mention their nightmares.” He seemed to be trying to hypnotize her with his eyes. “Julian’s preference in music is only mentioned once.”
She nodded. “In Best Laid Plans.”
“Just how well do you know the Julian Best novels?”
“My mama and I talked about them a lot. They have much more depth than most thrillers.” And she considered Julian her book boyfriend. “We even made up some stories of our own about Julian.”
Gavin swung his legs over the edge of the table and sat upright, the blanket cascading onto the floor behind him. “What is Julian’s favorite food?”
“I can only remember appetizers.” She was trying to keep her mind on the conversation and not on the swell of his biceps. “When he’s with Samantha Dubois, he orders caviar as a starter, but otherwise he always begins with steak tartare.”
“What sport does he watch?”
“Ice hockey. He played when he was in college.”
“What car does he drive?”
“Trick question. Anything with a big engine and good cornering. He doesn’t care about cars.” She smiled. “But when it comes to aircraft, he’s picky. He likes a Citation Encore jet or an AW109 helicopter. You know, you should really lie down. The electrical stim doesn’t work as well if you’re using the muscles it’s working on.”
He didn’t move. “Did Jane know you’re a Julian Best fan before she hired you?”
Gavin’s suspicions lessened as genuine bafflement clouded Allie’s gray eyes.
“No,” the physical therapist said. “How would she find that out?”
“By asking.” He let a little smile twist his mouth. “Jane’s a mastermind. She might have been trying two kinds of therapy.”
Allie twined her hands together. “She told me not to bring up anything at all about writing.”
“She’s trying to protect my fragile muse.”
“You’re lucky to have someone who worries about you,” Allie said.
He tried to read her face. It seemed so open, but he was beginning to wonder if she wore her country-girl persona as a mask. “You say that as though you don’t.”
“Could we please get back to your treatment? You need to lie down again.”
He wanted to be able to see her reactions. “This is my treatment. I haven’t thought about my aches and pains since we started talking.”
She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head at him. “You won’t have any aches or pains if you let me work with you.”
Her stance pulled her therapist uniform tight, so he noticed the way her waist curved in before it met the generous swell of her hips. He traced the line of her body back upward to admire how the taut fabric of her shirt outlined the fullness of her breasts. She was a pretty little thing with her fiery hair and creamy skin. He wondered how many of her clients had tried to seduce her. The thought, coupled with her comment about his good luck in having Jane as a friend, made him frown. She had a feisty spirit, but she was evidently alone in a city that could devour the innocent.
He shouldn’t care, but he had been a country boy in the big, dangerous city once long ago. He shook off his unsolicited concern. “I’ll recline if you’ll tell me what stories you and your mother made up about Julian Best.” He started to lie down again but paused when he caught a flush of pink painting her cheeks. “Just what sort of tales were they?”
She shook her head, making that gleaming spill of red hair catch glints of light. “We thought Julian should find
a good woman.”
He propped himself on his elbow. “He has Samantha Dubois.”
Allie gave a scornful snort. “She’s a manipulative, conniving double agent.”
“Julian knows that, but he chooses to be with her because she’s the only kind of woman who can survive in his world.”
“Well, she’s not the right person for him.” She dropped her hands to her sides, and he felt a pang of regret as the folds of navy fabric hid her curves again. “I’ll tell you more if you’ll lie down.”
“You drive a hard bargain,” he said, feeling the corners of his mouth twitch as he acknowledged the determined set of her jaw and shoulders. Feisty, indeed. He rolled onto his stomach and settled his head into the cushioned rest. “Staring at the floor isn’t nearly as much fun as watching you.”
He heard a little hitch in her breath and felt guilty. He shouldn’t flirt with her, given that he was half-undressed and she had to put her hands on his bare skin. He just couldn’t resist striking a few sparks off that redheaded temperament.
There was some rustling around before a tablet slid across the floor and into his line of sight. “Here’s something to look at, since you’re not sleeping.” Her tone was accusatory.
A succession of beautiful color photographs glowed on the screen: a cheetah crouched in dry grass, its eyes burning with hunger; a silvery waterfall cascaded over mossy rocks in a blindingly green forest; a sperm whale hurled itself into a brilliant blue sky, trailing sprays of seawater from its fins. “Did you curate these?”
“I picked the ones I like, but they’re all from National Geographic,” Allie said. “They have the world’s best photographers.”
He let the photos scroll by for a few moments more. “I notice there are no people.”
“People tend to feel less relaxed when another person is staring at them.”
“Do they teach you psychology in physical therapy school?”
“Of course. The mind-body connection is important.”
Her drawl lessened when she spoke about her occupation. He wondered which was more authentic: the accent or the lack of it.
The muffled thud of her footsteps sounded, and then he felt a waft of air and the featherlight brush of the blanket settling over his back again. He knew it was just part of her professional bag of tricks to keep her patient comfortable, but the gesture evoked nuances of caring that vibrated through him.
“Now tell me about Julian Best’s love life as analyzed by the Nichols women.”
Silence, and then the sound of a breath being drawn in. “Well, Mama and I decided that we wouldn’t want to get involved with James Bond, because his lovers always ended up dead. For someone who was so good at his job, he really stank at protecting anyone he loved.” Now her twang deepened, as did the conviction in her voice. She and her mama had clearly been spy-novel enthusiasts. “Plus, he was a sociopath. If someone got in his way, he killed them without any hesitation or regret.”
There was another pause. “I hope you don’t mind me comparing Julian Best to James Bond.”
“Bond was one of my inspirations, so how can I complain? I even gave Julian the same initials.”
“Do you think Robert Ludlum did the same thing with Jason Bourne? I’ve always wondered about that.”
“I did, too, but Ludlum died before I could ask him.” He let a smile sound in his voice.
“Inconsiderate of him,” she said.
He loved her dry edge, and his smile widened.
“Anyway,” she continued, “we always thought Julian was smarter than James Bond because he didn’t just shoot everyone who got in his way. He killed people only when he really had to. So he needed to figure out really fast who would have to be killed and who wouldn’t.”
“A thinking man’s James Bond,” he quoted.
“Some reviewer said that, didn’t they? It was on your book covers.”
“The New York Times reviewer.” He remembered the thrill of reading that praise. It had been his fourth Julian Best novel; the Times didn’t take him seriously until he was successful enough to be published in hardcover. He missed the days when a good review was cause for celebration, and a bad review made him think about what he needed to improve. In fact, he no longer read any reviews. Too many conflicting voices in his head didn’t help him write better books.
“So we figured he could find a way to protect a woman he truly loved. And we used to dream up stories of how he met her.”
“Let’s hear one.” His brain began to play with situations in which his super spy met the love of his life.
“They were just for fun between me and Mama.” He could hear embarrassment in her voice. “Nothing a real writer would find interesting.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
The ants abruptly stopped racing around his back. Their absence seemed almost like silence.
“You’re done,” Allie said. He could hear the relief in her voice. He was about to warn her that he hadn’t forgotten what they were talking about when she twitched the blanket back and began gently peeling away the stim pads. Every brush of her fingertips against his skin sent a streak of arousal down to his groin.
When she removed the last pad, she settled the blanket back over him. He was grateful when she said, “Relax for a few minutes so your muscles can release more fully.”
He could hear the faint pop of wires being unplugged, the tiny ticks of equipment being stowed in plastic compartments, the rustle of her clothing, even the barely audible swish of her breathing. His eyelids drifted closed.
Allie smiled to herself as she heard Gavin’s breathing turn slow and even. She closed the stim unit’s case but didn’t latch it, not wanting the sharp noise to wake him. Perching on a nearby weight bench, she pulled out her cell phone and swiped into the Julian Best book she had started to reread after Ms. Dreyer hired her to work with Gavin. It would keep her eyes off the thick, dark hair and powerfully arched feet of her patient. Thank goodness he had a blanket covering the rest of him or even Julian Best would not be able to hold her attention.
Gavin was owed another half an hour of her time, so she would watch over him while he got some much-needed sleep.
Thirty minutes later the vibration of her phone alarm yanked her out of a tense scene between Julian and his nemesis, Sturgis Wolfe.
She stowed her phone and surveyed the still-sleeping writer, biting her lip as she debated whether to wake him or not.
Although she knew it was in her own best interest to talk with him now, while it was clear that the electrical stim had been effective, she couldn’t bring herself to disturb his slumber.
She tiptoed around, gathering her equipment, and made her way upstairs. She finished closing up her stim unit in the hallway before she went in search of the housekeeper, finding her in a kitchen with sleekly modern cherry cabinets and pale gray granite countertops.
“Mr. Gavin is asleep in gym?” the housekeeper asked in surprise as she dried her hands on a white linen towel. “That is good. He does not sleep at night.”
“Please tell him that’s why I didn’t wake him. I’ll call him later about tomorrow.”
“That is good,” the older woman repeated in her Eastern European accent, ushering Allie back into the hallway. “You do a good thing for him.”
As she lugged her duffel bag down the front steps, Allie hoped she hadn’t been so “good” that she’d cheated herself out of the opportunity to work another day.
Chapter 6
Gavin swam up out of sleep at a leisurely pace until he realized he was lying with his face in a massage cradle. “What the hell . . . ?” He jerked up onto his elbows and saw he was in his own gym before memory surged back.
“You’re awake. I have water.”
Disappointment seeped through him. He had hoped for Allie’s voice, not Ludmilla’s. Grabbing the blanket with one hand to keep it over his shoulders, he sat up and tried to shake the fog from his brain. “What time is it?”
“
Fifteen minutes past one. You sleep long time. Is good for you.” Ludmilla stood with a tray holding a glass of ice water with lemon slices floating on top. “Miss Nichols say you should drink after treatment.”
“Thanks.” Gavin picked up the water and took a gulp. He considered pouring it over his head as a wake-up shock. “When did Ms. Nichols leave?”
“Two hours ago. She say not to wake you. She call you later.”
He rolled his shoulders and then his neck. Damned if they didn’t feel less tight. And he’d slept like a dead person.
“Now I go make lunch, Mr. Gavin. You come when you are ready.”
Gavin sat on the table, sipping his water. He felt a strange reluctance to move, as though leaving the cushioned sanctuary would break the spell that had allowed him to sleep.
No, Allie Nichols had allowed him to sleep. With her herd of electric ants, her soft fingertips, and her West Virginia twang. And her passion for Julian Best.
He straightened as he remembered. Julian had been alive again in his mind. He’d started to imagine how Julian would meet a normal woman, how the spy could convince himself that he could protect her.
Gavin put down the water glass and slid to the floor. Pulling on his sweater and slipping his feet back into his loafers, he took the stairs two at a time up to the second floor.
He strode into his office and sat down in front of the computer screen, jiggling the mouse to wake it. When the blank page came up yet again, he typed, “Julian Best needs a good woman.”
That was all he could manage, but the six words were more than he’d written about Julian in months.
He grimaced and scooped his phone off the desk to call Allie, cursing when it went to voice mail. His message was brief. “Schedule me for two hours tomorrow, whenever you can fit it in.”
After lunch, he sat in front of the computer, hoping equally for Allie’s phone call and more words. Instead, he got an e-mail from his stepsister Ruth.
The VIP Doubles Down (Wager of Hearts Book 3) Page 5
