It destroyed my life—past, present, and future.
Chapter 1
Marlow
Two years later
London
It was a bright cold day in April and the clocks were striking thirteen.
—George Orwell,
Nineteen Eighty-Four (opening line)
‘Lady Swanson is here for her appointment,’ Beryl said into the intercom, her voice at once professional and terribly impressed.
‘Send her in,’ I said, and rose from my desk.
The door opened and a classically beautiful woman entered. Her skin was very pale and as flawless as porcelain. It contrasted greatly with her shoulder-length dark hair and intensely blue eyes. Her dress and long coat were in the same cream material; her shoes exactly matched the color of her skin. The overriding impression was of an impossibly wealthy and elegant woman. Women like her lived in movies and magazines. They did not walk into the consulting rooms of disgraced hypnotists.
‘Lady Swanson,’ I said.
‘Dr. Kane,’ she murmured, her accent polished.
‘Please,’ I said and gestured toward the chair.
She came forward and sat. Looking directly into my eyes she crossed her legs. They were long and encased in the sheerest of tights.
I smiled.
She smiled back.
‘So, I believe you refused to tell Beryl your reason for coming to see me?’
‘That is correct.’
‘What can I do for you, Lady Swanson?’
‘It’s not for me. It’s for my daughter. Well, she’s my stepdaughter, but she is just like my own. I’ve raised her for the last twenty years. Since she was five years old.’
I nodded and began to raise the estimation of her age upwards. She must have been at least forty, but she didn’t look a day over twenty-eight.
‘She met with an accident about a year ago.’ Lady Swanson paused for breath. ‘And she nearly died. She had extensive internal injuries and was in hospital for many months. When she recovered she had lost her memory. She could remember certain things—like how to cook, or wear make-up—and, strangely, certain places and certain people, but she could not remember her past.’ A look of sadness crossed her lovely face. ‘She could not even remember her family.’
I nodded.
‘I was hoping hypnotherapy could help her.’ She leaned forward slightly, her lips parted. ‘Do you think you could…hypnotize her?’
I watched her and thought of the men in her life. How easy it must have been for such a beautiful woman to get anything she wanted from a man.
‘Lady Swanson, I’m not sure I am the right man for the job. Usually I treat people who want to lose weight, kick a bad habit, or who are afraid of spiders.’
‘Yes, I understand that, but you were recovering memories, were you not? You had just discovered a new experimental method when your research was cut short by that awful tragedy.’
I froze at that.
Instantly her face lost some of its glowing enthusiasm. ‘I hope you don’t think I was snooping into your private affairs. I was only interested in your professional credentials…’
Even now the reference to my family was like a knife in my heart. I struggled not to show any emotion in my face. I smiled tightly. I was aware that search engines brought the personal stuff up with the professional stuff. After the accident the two had become inextricably entwined.
‘Of course not. It is prudent to check out a practitioner before you go to see them.’
‘I just want what’s best for my daughter. And I think you are it.’
Some lingering, old pride in the method I had pioneered and been so confident in resurfaced. I clasped my hands lightly on the surface of my desk. ‘I am a clinical psychiatrist, but you must understand that my method does not have any scientific underpinning. In fact, I am obliged to warn you that there is virtually no scientific evidence to demonstrate the authenticity of repressed memories returning. If anything, repeated studies have proven that using regressive hypnosis to recover memories can actually lead to the patient creating new material, a phenomenon called false memory. In some states in the US, any evidence that is gained using hypnosis renders that testimony null and void.’
‘But do you think you could help her?’ she insisted, undaunted.
For a second that heady memory of my first success flashed into my mind. How excited I had been. How amazing to return to something important. ‘To be honest, I’ve never had a patient like your daughter.’
‘It must be worth a try, then?’ she pressed hopefully.
‘You have to bear in mind that not everybody can be hypnotized.’
She didn’t listen to that. Instead she broke into a smile. It was like the sun shining out from between a crack in a sky full of storm clouds. Yes, she was obviously one of those women who could whistle a chap off a tree, but… I was immune to it. For two years I wandered around looking for even the smallest spark of the vibrant life that used to course through my veins. All I ever found were ashes. Even now this beautiful, beautiful woman elicited nothing from me.
‘You will take her on?’ Her voice trembled.
I knew she had manipulated me, but I was professionally intrigued by the case and impressed by her deep desire to cure her stepdaughter. I had prejudged her as shallow and cunning when she walked into my office. But she nurtured a deep and genuine care for another human being. A rare and precious thing.
I nodded.
‘Oh, that’s wonderful,’ she gushed, but softly.
‘I’ll try. No promises.’
She smiled—grateful, triumphant. She had succeeded. ‘I am certain you are the best person for the job. If anybody can do it, you can. In fact, I know you can help her.’
‘Does your stepdaughter know you’re here?’
She leaned back and looked out of the window. ‘A butterfly wing is a miracle, made up of thousands of tiny, loosely attached pigmented scales that individually catch the light and together create a depth of color and iridescence unmatched elsewhere in nature. Our identities are like the butterfly wing, made up of thousands and thousands of tiny, loosely attached memories. Without them we lose our color and iridescence. Olivia is like a child now. We make all the major decisions for her. The world is a frightening place for her.’
I nodded. ‘All right, Beryl will give you some forms your daughter needs to fill out and she will also schedule an appointment for her.’
She smiled again. And I had a vision. Her in bed with her shriveled husband. It was not only she who had done a quick Google search. It was not every day that Lady Swanson, of the great Swanson dynasty, called my office for an appointment.
For a moment our eyes held and I saw something in hers. Interest. Desire. I let my gaze slide away.
‘Thank you… Dr. Kane.’
‘Goodbye, Lady Swanson.’
I walked to the door, opened it, and let her out. As she passed me her perfume wafted into my nostrils. Expensive, faint, but still potent. Up close, her carefully powdered skin was even more flawless. I closed the door and walked to my desk. I opened my drawer and taking out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s poured myself a huge measure. I knocked it back, swallowed, and closed my eyes.
Fuck. Was it ever going to stop hurting?
Then I walked to the window and watched Lady Swanson get into her chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce Phantom. She stared straight ahead. Distant, unreachable, from a different world. It was almost as if it was only a dream that she had come into my office and sat in my chair.
The intercom buzzed. ‘Can I come in?’ Beryl asked.
I sighed. ‘Yes.’
The door opened even before I had taken my finger away from the button.
‘Well?’ she asked, wide-eyed. ‘That was a very short first session. What did she want?’
‘She wants me to treat her stepdaughter.’
Her eyes became huge. ‘What? She wants you to treat her Lady Olivia?’
‘How did
you know that?’
‘It was all over the papers. She met with an accident and lost her memory. You have your work cut out for you.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Lady Olivia is known in the tabloids as “Lady O”. She has never ever given an interview and furiously guards her privacy. Unlike the other “It” girls, there are no pictures of her behaving badly. Ever.’
Beryl came deeper into the room and went to my computer. She typed in a few words and turned toward me, her face filled with gossipy excitement. ‘Here. This is what she looks like.’
I walked toward the computer screen.
It was not a very good picture. A long lens photo. Grainy. And not even in color. But my cock twitched and woke up from its deep sleep.
Chapter 2
Marlow
I glanced restlessly at my watch: ten minutes to spare before Lady Olivia’s appointment. My heart was pumping strongly and there was a strange tension in my gut. I pulled the bottle of JD from my desk drawer, unscrewed the cap and took a long swig straight from its mouth. The fiery liquid burned all the way into my empty stomach. Heat sped along my veins warming, easing, dulling. Artificially relaxed I sprayed breath freshener into my mouth.
Horrible stuff.
I stood up and walked over to the window. It was late in the afternoon and the pavements were already full of people hurrying home. I had been there for less than a minute when a Rolls-Royce Phantom pulled up on the street. Then, even though I really, really wanted to watch her slide out, I moved away from the window. I straightened my tie, shot my cuffs, sat in my chair, and twirled my pen. My pulse was jumping.
What the hell is the matter with you?
Behaving like a fucking hormone-crazed teenager.
The bell rang. I put the pen down and listened to the blood pumping in my ears while out front she was let in, asked to fill in the disclaimer form, and reminded to use the restroom before her session started. I glanced at my watch. Four minutes. I badly wanted to have another swig. I resisted and waited for Beryl’s soft knock.
It came three minutes later.
‘Come in,’ I called.
The door opened and she stood in the doorway dressed in a tailored, gunmetal-gray dress, thick black tights and flat black pumps. How should I describe her? Petite. Blonde hair tightly pulled back into a ponytail. Heart-shaped face. Straight nose. Absolutely enormous, glossy, gray-green eyes. And a full, small mouth that she had painted a frank red. She was neither classically beautiful like her stepmother nor pretty in the girl-next-door sort of way.
But she was…intriguing. Very.
‘Good afternoon,’ I greeted, standing up.
‘Hello, Dr. Kane,’ she said and took a step into the room.
Her voice held that fey, non-aggressive, aristocratic tone of the British upper class, and her expression was a politely closed door, but her sexuality reached out like a long tentacle and touched me. I can tell you now, it wasn’t pleasant. It was cold, sensual, compelling…and undeniable.
The Goat of Lust had me by the fucking balls!
I had never encountered anything like it before. I could liken the sensation only to the moment when a youth first discovers that he is attracted to other men. There is sadness and regret that he is not like everybody else, and dismay at the task of confronting his parents with the ‘bad’ news. Laced underneath the trepidation is intense curiosity, terrible excitement for the forbidden, and not an ounce of revulsion.
Right there and then I knew that under no circumstances could I treat Lady Olivia. I was too sexually aroused to remain detached or impartial. And I could only see the situation in my pants worsening with more proximity. The last thing in the world I needed was to court another scandal. Nothing good could come of it—for me, or her. I would give her one session and at the end of it when I had a better overview of her case, I would recommend a couple of regression experts whom I trusted.
I gestured my open palm toward the chair facing my desk. ‘Have a seat,’ I invited.
‘Thank you,’ she replied and began moving toward it.
Coming forward, Beryl raised her eyebrows and gave me an old-fashioned look as she passed me Lady Olivia’s forms.
‘I’ll be out front if you need anything,’ she offered archly.
‘Thank you, Beryl,’ I said dryly, but she just winked, and quietly closed the door.
I turned my attention back to Lady Olivia. She had just reached the chair and was slipping into it. For some seconds I stood simply staring at her, mesmerized, actually helpless in the pull of her sexuality. Totally at odds with her cool expression, her carefully measured greeting, her severe hairstyle, and dull, somber clothing, her movements were shockingly sensuous.
She actually reminded me of those insects that have no voices and communicate by vibrating their bodies. Her body was communicating with me. The touch-me-not image she had created for her new amnesiac self was not the truth. Behind the façade lived a supremely sexual creature. The clue was in the startlingly red, come-hither lipstick.
I tore my eyes away, dropped her forms on the table, lowered myself back into my chair, and faced her. She was watching me like a cat, dignified, detached, and unblinking. Up close and facing the light from the window, her eyes were like two slicks of liquid mercury, completely opaque. I didn’t know it then, but I was as doomed as the Red Indians at the Fort Pitt siege who were tricked into accepting small pox infected blankets and handkerchiefs from their white enemies.
‘Lady Olivia—’
‘You must call me Olivia. Lady Olivia is too grand.’ She wrinkled her nose charmingly. ‘It makes me feel awfully pretentious.’
I grinned at her. ‘Nervous, Olivia?’
She smiled back. Great smile. ‘Extremely.’
‘Don’t be. It’s painless.’
‘Oh! Good.’
‘Right then. Let’s see what we have here.’ I pulled her forms toward me and glanced at them quickly.
Age: Twenty-five.
Not on any prescription medication.
No to the illegal drugs question—or at least none that she wanted to disclose.
No to photosensitive epilepsy
No nervous disorders of any kind.
Non-smoker.
Alcohol consumption: Two to five units a week.
No allergies.
No phobias that she can think of.
In short—a model citizen.
‘It all looks good,’ I said looking up.
She was staring at me again with that intent cat-look of hers. ‘That’s marvelous. So you will be able to hypnotize me?’
‘I’ll give it a try. As I explained to your stepmother, not everybody is susceptible to hypnosis.’
‘Oh.’ In that one little blameless sound was a world of disappointment.
I leaned back, my chair tipping, and regarded her with a friendly expression. ‘Tell me, Olivia, what are you expecting to come out of your session?’
Her hands fluttered. ‘I suppose I want to be able to remember my past—or at least some of it.’
I nodded. ‘Do you remember nothing at all of your past?’
‘Almost nothing.’
I found my eyes roving her face distractedly. Her complexion was milky white and when she spoke she hardly moved her mouth at all.
‘What do you remember?’
‘My first and most vivid memory is of my grandmother. She was smoking a menthol-tipped cigarette in the Tapestry Room and she opened her silver cigarette box and popped one between my lips so I could pretend to smoke. I remembered the thrill of sucking on it, the cold minty air that came out of the filter, and her amused, indulgent expression as she looked down at me. I knew that she loved me dearly and I loved her just as well.’
‘How old do you think you were then?’
She shrugged one shoulder, a lazy, sinuous movement. ‘I don’t know. Maybe seven.’
Her lips had not shut after she had spoken but remained parted and moist. A glimmer of
perfect white teeth showed in the gap. And I suddenly and absolutely craved to see her naked and sucking my cock.
I coughed. ‘How soon after your accident did this memory surface?’
‘It happened at the hospital as I was coming out of the anesthetic. After that there were no more clear memories—just vague impressions of familiarity, feeling that I knew a place or a person, and unconnected—I must say, disconcerting—flashes of images.’
‘Disconcerting?’ I questioned.
‘Yes. I’ll get a flash of something and when I try to remember more I’ll end up with a stabbing headache. My doctor says it’s some sort of post-traumatic thing. At other times I get to a point then my mind will go completely blank, as if I have come up to a brick wall.’
I nodded and tried hard to concentrate. ‘I see. What about dreams? Do you dream of the past?’
She frowned. ‘Not really. But I do have a recurring dream where I am going down a dark hallway. I think it could be the east wing of Marlborough Hall, our family home, but I’m not sure. I seem to be very young because my bare feet are very small and my toes are painted shell pink, but untidily, the way a child would paint them.’
Unconsciously she hugs herself.
‘Then I reach a door and I am suddenly filled with a frightfully intense sense of impending doom. I want to turn around and walk away, but I cannot. My whole body is clenched and trembling with fear. I am so terrified I feel sick, but I turn the knob and open the door.’
She lifts a shaking hand and wipes her nape as if she is smoothing down the hairs standing up at the back of her neck.
‘I find myself at the threshold of an unpainted, uncarpeted, desolate room. It is bare but for a rocking chair that is rocking all by itself. As if someone has just vacated it. I know from the silent fear that hangs in the air that something very bad happened in that room. Then I wake up in a cold sweat, frightened, uneasy, and with a strong sense that I am in terrible danger.’
His Frozen Heart: A Mountain Man Romance Page 35
