by Radclyffe
“Right,” Maggie agreed. “Good to see you back, Rebecca.”
Yes. It will be good to get back. All the way back. When she went into the locker room to shower, despite the pain and the fatigue, she felt more like herself than she had since the moment two months before when she’d come to in a sea of agony to find Catherine bending over her, terror in her eyes. All she needed now was to convince everyone else that she was fit for duty. She had a lot of unfinished business to attend to, and she couldn’t begin to take care of it until she had reclaimed her place in the world.
*
“Is something wrong?” Rebecca asked quietly. They were seated at a small candlelit table in the nook formed by floor-to-ceiling bay windows in DeCarlo’s, a very exclusive restaurant that occupied the ground floor of a century-old mansion. A bottle of imported champagne sat chilling in a silver ice bucket beside them and the appetizers—grilled figs and sweet sausages—had just been placed in the center of the linen-draped table. Despite the elegant décor and the intimate atmosphere, she had a feeling that her dinner companion was absorbed in something other than the fine meal and her own stellar company.
“Hmm? Oh, no.” Catherine reached for her hand, smiling apologetically. “I’m sorry. I drifted away there for a minute. Work.”
“Don’t apologize; I know the feeling. Even been guilty of it a few times myself. Anything you can talk about?”
“No, not really.”
Rebecca nodded understandingly. “No problem.”
“Thanks.” Fortunately, Rebecca had appreciated from the first that Catherine’s work was something that she could only allude to in the most general of terms, for obvious reasons of patient confidentiality. It had been just that conflict that had brought them so explosively together just a few short months before. It was one thing, however, to have the barrier exist professionally and quite another to have it crop up in their personal dealings. Because she’d never before had a relationship that had been so central to her life, Catherine had never had to contend with the fact that she couldn’t discuss some of the ramifications of her work with the person closest to her. She was still learning how to navigate those murky waters, and, thankfully, Rebecca, who was used to compartmentalizing her life, didn’t push. It helped defuse the awkwardness, but there were times—like tonight—when Catherine wished she could talk. The session earlier in the day kept returning to her thoughts.
“Let’s get the paperwork out of the way first, okay?”
“Sure.”
“No significant medical, surgical, or psychiatric conditions in the past?”
“That’s right.”
“Ever been hospitalized for any reason?”
“No.”
She’d wait to ask about the obvious bruise under the left eye and what looked like finger marks on the neck. “Any drug allergies or current medications?”
“No.”
“Recreational drug use?”
“I drink now and then. Nothing else.”
“Do you smoke?”
“When I drink.” Faint laughter.
Catherine smiled. She had found that with new patients it was best to start with something basic and unthreatening such as reviewing the data the patient provided on a standard medical questionnaire. It established a bit of rapport, although the young woman in her office didn’t seem particularly nervous. Upright posture, no apparent tics or nervous habits. Her button-down-collar pale blue cotton shirt and dark tan chinos were meticulously pressed, her oxfords polished and shined, her thick wavy hair cut short, no make-up. If anything, the clear-eyed brunette with the sharp blue gaze was watching her with just a hint of suspicion—or was it something else? Intense curiosity? Not unusual from patients, but it usually developed later in the course of treatment—that need to know the therapist as a person and not as someone who merely existed for fifty minutes once or twice a week and to whom you exposed your most intimate secrets. But about whom you knew almost nothing.
“My secretary, Joyce, made a notation that we’ll be billing insurance,” Catherine remarked, checking the intake form. It was Saturday, and she didn’t usually see patients, but after Rebecca had left with all her belongings in tow, the apartment had seemed so empty—almost lifeless—that when she’d picked up her messages and found one about a request for a semi-urgent appointment, she’d decided she might as well work. “I see you have a good plan that doesn’t cap the number of visits, so that will be simple.”
“I don’t think I’ll be coming long enough for that to be an issue.”
Her tone was level and matter-of-fact, no hint of aggression or combativeness. Just a statement.
“And that brings me to the next question,” Catherine responded just as evenly. “It says your reasons for coming are work related. Can you tell me about that?”
“I’ve been ordered to see a therapist and to obtain a written statement that I am fit for duty.”
“Ordered? I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” Catherine said, glancing down at the form, confused. Joyce had left a message that a new patient had called asking for an appointment as soon as possible, but there had been no indication that it had been any kind of official consultation. She often performed evaluations of city employees—mostly work-related disability claims, and occasionally confirmatory profiles on detainees—but someone from the appropriate city department usually called ahead to set up the meeting. “What do you—”
“I’m a police officer.”
“I see.” Catherine pushed the folder aside, leaned back in her chair, and met the young woman’s eyes. Now it was time for them to talk. “Is this a disability situation, or something else?”
“It’s a disciplinary investigation.”
“I didn’t get any referral papers. Usually someone sends me a summary of the incident.”
“It’s probably in transit. I’ll call them on Monday.”
“No need—we’ll take care of it. How did you get to me? Isn’t there an in-house psychologist who signs off on an officer’s duty status?”
“There is, but the department has to provide alternate choices for reasons of impartiality. You’re on the short list.”
The lesser of two evils? Actually, she hadn’t even realized she was on any kind of list, and the only reason she minded was that, had she known, she would have asked Joyce to screen new patient calls differently and to prioritize calls from police officers. Her already busy private patient schedule could only accommodate so many therapy sessions per week, but she always made time for emergencies.
“Is there some reason that you didn’t want to see…is it still Rand Whitaker doing the psych evals for the department?”
“Yes.”
The young officer shrugged, a move that reminded Catherine of Rebecca’s dismissive gesture when she considered something unworthy of her attention. Lord, do they stamp them out of some mold somewhere, these silent women with suspicious eyes?
“I’m asking why you went outside channels because I need to know if there was a conflict or problem within the department that will affect how you and I communicate, or that we need to discuss.”
“No problem. I just want my private business to stay private. And…”
For the first time she looked the slightest bit uncertain.
“And…?” Catherine asked gently.
“And I wanted to talk to a woman.”
“Fair enough. Let me tell you a little bit about how I do this, so that we’re on the same page. It helps to avoid confusion if you have an idea of how long this might take.”
A curt nod, an attentive expression, despite a faint frown line between dark brows. Catherine sensed her ambivalence—she had come because she had been ordered to, but she was also cooperating. Perhaps, on some level, she wants to be here.
“As I said, the department will send a summary of why you’re being referred, but I want you to tell me in your own words. Then I’d like to spend some time getting to know you. General background kinds of thing
s. When I feel that I can make some determination about this event within the context of your professional life, I’ll file my report.”
“How much of what we talk about will be in it?”
Two references in less than five minutes to issues of privacy and confidentiality. She’s worried about keeping something in her personal life a secret.
“You may see my report. I will not discuss your case with anyone without informing you and obtaining your consent. You understand that I will need to include some details of our meetings to substantiate my findings, and that this will become part of your personnel record?”
“Yes.”
A bit of anger there. She feels violated. Betrayed by her superiors, by the system that sent her here?
“Do you want to proceed? You could still see Rand Whitaker.”
“No. How long will this take?”
“I don’t know. Have you been suspended?”
“No. But they’ve got me riding a desk.”
Stiff shoulders, condescending tone of voice, one quick, frustrated fist clench. She’s chafing at the restrictions.
“More than a few sessions, most likely. I’ll see you on an accelerated schedule, but that’s as definite as I can be. What do you say?”
Several beats of silence.
“Okay.”
“So. Tell me what happened.”
“If there’s something you can say, I’m here if you want to talk,” Rebecca remarked.
“I’m fine. I was just daydreaming about something that happened in a session today—something that brought up more than I realized, apparently. Rather like a waking version of what Freud said about dreams. He called them day residue, things we are still trying to process that we didn’t finish before sleep.”
“He said a lot more than that about dreams, didn’t he?” Rebecca commented dryly.
Laughing, Catherine nodded agreement. “Yes, quite a bit—most of which I take issue with.” Linking her fingers through Rebecca’s, she continued, “Nevertheless, even if I could talk about it, I certainly wouldn’t want to take up our time together tonight with business. After all, this is a date, right?”
They’d made love, spoken of love, but they’d never had the time to fall in love. As much as she missed Rebecca’s subtle presence in her apartment—the extra clothes in the closet, two coffee cups in the sink, her keys and wallet on the dresser—she liked this new distance, too. It was a distance heavy with promise and hope, a kind of charged separation she’d never experienced before. It was the very opposite of lonely, because even though they still had a lot to learn about one another, Rebecca was a part of her life now.
“Well,” Rebecca mused, feigning thought, her thumb playing over Catherine’s palm, “I got all spruced up in my best suit and I washed the Vette. And I’m trying like hell to impress you with the dinner and the wine.”
Watching a pleased smile flicker across Catherine’s elegant face, Rebecca thought of how much she’d missed her that afternoon when she’d opened the door of her own apartment to be greeted by the musty scent of abandonment. Out of years of habit, she’d dropped the duffle inside the door and walked directly across the rugless living room to the single window, pushed it up, and leaned out to breathe the aroma of car exhaust and Saturday dinners. Home. As familiar as a favorite bar, and as lonely as the tail end of the night with only a bottle for company.
She leaned closer across the table, her gaze claiming Catherine with the intensity of a caress. When she was with her, the places inside that always ached stopped hurting. “And I was hoping that you chose that dark green blouse with me in mind, because it reflects in your eyes—like shadows in a forest—calling my…”
“Rebecca,” Catherine murmured, her heart hammering, “we’re in a restaurant.”
Undeterred, she continued in a low, husky tone, “And I’ve been thinking all afternoon about the way my skin burns when—”
“Stop. Right. Now. We are going to sit here and consume this very fine food, or Anthony will be so offended, he’ll never recover.” Her voice cracked, and she had to swallow. The way Rebecca was looking at her made her blush, from pleasure and something far more primal. She had never been the focus of such undiminished attention in her life. It was a heady feeling, and she suddenly understood how people made fools of themselves for love. “Is this how you seduce women?”
“Only you.”
“It’s working.”
“Good.”
Reluctantly, they sat back in their seats, breathing a little erratically, fingertips just barely touching on the fine linen. The first time at DeCarlo’s, they had just met. They’d been strangers, uncertain, wary, but drawn to one another nevertheless. In the weeks since, they’d shared fear and passion and near-death, but, in so many ways, they were strangers still.
“There is something wrong with the appetizers?” Anthony DeCarlo asked anxiously from beside them.
“No,” Catherine answered, smiling quickly at him before glancing back at Rebecca, whose eyes had never left her face. “They’re perfect.”
Chapter Three
Rebecca rolled over and opened her eyes. She smiled when she found Catherine, arms wrapped around her pillow, lying close beside her and watching her with a tender expression in her soft green eyes.
“I fell asleep last night, didn’t I?” Rebecca asked sheepishly.
“Uh-huh. Actually, you fell asleep several times last night.” Catherine ran her fingers through Rebecca’s thick, tousled blond hair, finally resting her fingers in the curve of her neck. “Let’s see. First, you fell asleep in the car. I was very glad that I didn’t drink more of Anthony’s wonderful champagne, because I wouldn’t have been able to drive us home. You were literally out on your feet by the time we got to the Vette.”
“I’m sorry,” Rebecca said, completely chagrined. She’d had very different plans for Saturday evening, none of which had included falling asleep at nine o’clock.
“Don’t be. You obviously needed to rest, and I am very fond of sleeping next to you.”
“Well, I’d like you to be fond of a few other things before the sleeping part,” Rebecca murmured, shifting closer until their bodies touched along their entire length. Instinctively, effortlessly, their limbs entwined, and they pressed even nearer until their lips were only a breath apart. “It was supposed to be a hot date, remember?”
“Oh, I remember that very well.” She didn’t seem to have any control over what happened to her body when Rebecca was against her like this. The feel of Rebecca’s skin hot against her own, a heat so much more consuming than any fever, set her blood on fire. It was hard to think; it was hard to remember that she meant to go slowly and carefully this first time. She hadn’t made love to Rebecca in almost two months, and her hands were already shaking with the need to touch her. Valiantly, she tried to distract herself with conversation, because she was a heartbeat away from forgetting her good intentions.
“When we got home,” Catherine continued, her voice a little breathless, “you managed to make it up the stairs with just a little help from me, but by the time I had my shoes off, you were asleep again.” She ran her fingers down the center of Rebecca’s chest, pausing to brush her fingertips over a taut pink nipple. The swift intake of breath and the automatic surge of Rebecca’s hips were exactly the reward she had been seeking. Moving her lips along the edge of Rebecca’s jaw, she finally reached her ear and whispered, “I had a really good time taking your clothes off, though.”
Rebecca couldn’t help but laugh. “I am thoroughly humiliated. What a putz.”
“Oh, you are so far from that,” Catherine replied, laughing, too.
“Well, I’ve had smoother moments. I guess the workout tired me out a little more than I realized.”
“How are you feeling?” Catherine asked, suddenly serious, her hand stilling on Rebecca’s skin. She’d seen Rebecca work for days at a time with no sleep, but never had she seen her as physically depleted as the previous night. Even
knowing that it was a perfectly natural occurrence at this stage in her recovery didn’t eliminate the quick rush of fear.
“I’m feeling way better than fine,” Rebecca replied soundly, claiming Catherine’s mouth for a kiss.
“Ah…” she sighed when she could find her voice. “I can tell.”
Rebecca kissed her again, and it was the warmth of her tongue that was Catherine’s undoing, or perhaps it was the way Rebecca pressed her fingers into the shallow depression at the base of her spine, or the way she—
“Rebecca,” she gasped, “I can’t possibly wait another minute.”
“Then don’t.”
Rebecca shifted Catherine beneath her. Bracing her arms on either side of Catherine’s shoulders, she fit her hips between Catherine’s thighs and rocked into her, the rhythmic pressure making them both hard in a matter of seconds.
Sighing, Catherine ran her hands up and down Rebecca’s back, cupping her buttocks, squeezing the tight muscles as she thrust, forcing them together even harder. Watching Rebecca through eyes dim with need, she found her desire mirrored in Rebecca’s intense expression. Even as she felt Rebecca’s strong shoulders and arms beneath her fingers and the insistent pressure of her hips working between her thighs, she couldn’t help but see the irregular, bright red scars on her chest.
“How do you…feel?” Her words were punctuated by short gasps as she found it increasingly hard to catch her breath.
“I’m…perfect,” Rebecca assured her, but all she could really feel was the growing heaviness in her stomach and the slowly rising tension between her legs. Her arms were trembling with the effort of supporting her upper body, but she didn’t care. It had been so long, too long, and she needed this more than she needed air to breathe.
