‘Cataplexy.’ He nodded. ‘It’s occasional. And just a fuzzy feeling around the knees, usually, and a sort of glimmer to my vision. It’s only occasionally that my legs really disappear.’
‘Medication?’
He gave the details of what he usually referred to as ‘the yellow pills’ and ‘the white pills’, and watched her hands as she wrote. She wore no rings and her fingernails were clean and trim. White, soft skin. No watch on either delicate wrist. ‘My condition’s mild, compared to some, and I’m a bit drug averse so I try to take only what I absolutely need, and accommodate the condition with lifestyle.’
‘How does that work?’ Her blue gaze was intent. It might have been alluring to be subjected to such scrutiny if only it was him prompting it, rather than his bloody narcolepsy. But at least she was engaging with him. And if he kept on talking, she’d keep on being engaged, and he could watch the way she moved and the expressions flitting through her amazing eyes. ‘Scheduling controlled daytime naps and keeping my sleep routines regular – you’ve probably heard it called sleep hygiene. Eating well. Exercise. Avoiding soporific situations. Avoiding stress.’
The frown slotted back between her fine eyebrows. ‘But isn’t narcolepsy neurological?’
‘Yes. For me, it’s a genetic thing combined with an autoimmune disorder, where the wrong cells were killed in the part of the brain that governs sleep. In hindsight, I’ve fought mild narcolepsy symptoms for ages. Wild dreams right from childhood – you know how kids think there’s something under their bed? For me it was a goblin, slurping away. And I once did genuinely believe that a dog had eaten my homework. Variable energy, not hearing alarm clocks, being late. I went into a profession with a rotating shift pattern and a doctor taught me to manage my sleep by splitting it. I was operating in a fast-paced environment, which is helpful, and I coped until pneumonia triggered narcolepsy and then it was like someone had cast a spell over me. I needed to sleep and sleep and I just couldn’t get over it.’
‘Where does the stress come in? Are you stressed?’
‘Only to head-exploding stage.’ The attempt to get her to smile didn’t work. But, hey, she was great to look at even when she was solemn. ‘High anxiety increases the frequency and intensity of episodes. Diagnosis and the end to my relationship came in quick succession, which was pretty stressful.’ Personal relationships can be affected, it had said, in the information he’d been given. Slowly, he breathed in, willing himself not to betray by so much as a tremor how much it hurt to say the next words. ‘And I had to leave my job.’ Another long, slow breath. ‘I’m … I was an air traffic control officer at Stansted Airport. Pilots prefer us to be awake.’
She still didn’t smile. But that was refreshing, considering how many people seemed to think narcolepsy a joke. Maybe she even had a handle on how unfunny it was, because her gaze softened. ‘That’s tough on you.’
He kept his expression neutral. Depression and feelings of isolation are common … ‘No matter how many naps I schedule, I can’t be relied upon to operate efficiently for the necessary spans of time. Lives are at stake and controllers have to pass medicals, so I lost my licence. I’d just passed a board to become a deputy watch manager and my employers wanted to keep me but all they could offer was Air Traffic Paperpusher in the offices at the bottom of the control tower while people did my dream job, up top. Narcolepsy is no place for sissies.’
‘I can see that.’ Chin in hand, she clicked her pen in and out, thoughtfully. Then, when he volunteered no more, she completed the rest of the form, which only involved him in saying ‘no’ a lot. She flicked her hair back and put down her pen. ‘So Miranda Sheldrake’s your cousin but you don’t share her interest in holistic medicine?’
‘I don’t, but she’s trying to convert me while she gives me and my dog houseroom for a few weeks.’
She finally managed a smile. The backs of his hands tingled as he smiled back. Not just a Pavlovian response to anyone hot and female, but in real pleasure at the way even a therapist-to-client smile made her beautiful. Her skin was fine and white, her mouth drawn by an artist, her eyes as blue as a summer sky. For the first time since Natalie did what she did, he felt a proper tug of attraction.
‘Perhaps she’s already explained that complementary medicine is exactly that. It complements allopathic medicine, it doesn’t replace it.’ She talked about pressure points, releasing blocked energy channels, stimulating circulation, removing toxins, promoting healing and relaxation. ‘I may be able to help you in terms of relaxation and wellbeing – reducing stress and improving the quality of your night-time sleep, which may help your daytime issues. But I can’t cure you and I’m not going to be able to make those irresistible daytime sleep urges magically disappear.’
‘Nothing does.’
She recommended six treatments – if he didn’t perceive a benefit in that time there wouldn’t be any point in continuing – asked him to sign her notes and then moved her clipboard to a trolley beneath large multi-coloured diagrams of feet and hands. ‘Would you like to take off your shoes and socks?’
He fumbled with his laces, feeling unexpectedly uncomfortable, even vulnerable, though she was washing her hands and not watching him. He’d received no complaints about cheesy feet or gnarly toenails but he could think of better first physical contact with a woman.
She settled him on the couch with his back angled comfortably and a light blanket across him, talking about the background music as she raised the couch via an electronic control. Her voice filled his airspace. Her eyes were on him. She saw to his comfort. He lay back to enjoy being the centre of her attention.
She began by cleansing his feet. Although he’d showered only an hour ago, he couldn’t help a thread of unease.
But part of him – a significant part – found it intensely erotic.
He knew he wasn’t meant to be fascinated by her slender white hands sliding the cool wipe up his instep and between his toes, tracing the sensitive soles of his feet with long, soothing strokes, but he was suddenly glad that he had another foot waiting for the same treatment. In fact, he wished he had a couple extra.
He watched as she pumped cream from a large white dispenser, spread it between her palms, and seated herself on a stool. ‘First, I’m going to relax you.’ She cupped his heels. Mmm. Then, wrapping his left foot in a soft towel, she passed her cool fingers smoothly from his right ankle over the top of his foot to his toes, her thumbs sliding along the sole. Reversing, she swept her palms down from toe to heel – and the movement went straight to his groin.
In fact, the wave of pleasure nearly whooshed him vertically into the air. He actually had to grip the sides of the couch. He’d never suspected there might be an upside to sensitive feet but … whooh. He wasn’t sure that sensation was legal.
‘Try to sink into the couch and let go.’ She’d obviously spotted that he hadn’t relaxed. Her thumbs began circles just below his anklebone. ‘Perhaps if you close your eyes and drop your head back?’
He did both, while her hands continued to sweep over his foot. Not tickling. Definitely not tickling. Whoa … Not relaxing, either. Yeah, he liked this. He could lie here with Liza Reece’s hands on his feet until the end of time.
‘And now I’m going to begin to apply pressure. Just listen to the music and enjoy. Feel free to share with me anything you’re experiencing but we’ll talk after the treatment.’
‘Mmm.’ If he shared what he was feeling, she’d scream for Miranda. He checked that the blanket covered his lap.
Her hands had warmed. She began, delicately, to manipulate his big toe and, unexpectedly, relaxation did begin to take over. He would never have anticipated that ‘toe twiddling’ would make him feel as if layers of tension were flipping from him in slow motion. This was great.
She began to press his toe tips. ‘Is this pressure OK?’
He opened one lazy eye. ‘Bearing in mind how this meeting began, I’m quite relieved you’re not digging with your
nails.’
She smiled. Not the formal bending of the lips she’d sent him earlier, but a fleeting grin of sparkle-eyed mischief, though her tone remained strictly professional. ‘If you feel as if I’m using my nails then you’re experiencing tenderness, which might reflect an issue in your body.’
‘OK.’ He digested that idea. ‘Is that how you diagnose—’
‘Assess.’
‘—assess, what the issues might be?’
‘Mainly, I pick up reflexes. These could feel like grittiness or bubbles, hardness or hollowness.’
Silence grew for long minutes, except for peaceful music rippling around the room. The base of his toes. The ball of his foot. As she worked along the side of his foot she paused to pay attention to one area, provoking a strange sensation. ‘That prickles.’
‘I’m picking up a reflex from your shoulder. Has it been injured?’ She paused, leaving one hand on his foot. He heard the scratch of a pen. Then her fingers went back to work.
‘I cracked my right shoulder in a fall. But it’s healed.’ That was weird. He considered and rejected the idea of Miranda feeding Liza information about his shoulder. Miranda might be utterly convinced of the efficacy of alternative medicine but cheating wasn’t her style.
Then his thoughts parted and floated away as Liza’s fingers sang their lullaby. Flesh heavy. Bones melting—
The headset was so familiar that he hardly felt its weight. The aerodrome spread out below the tower like a scale model, aircraft glowing spectacularly white in the sunlight, taxiing, or drawn up in orderly rows between the stands. Sebastian, in the left-hand seat, saw the aircraft safely between ground and air and Dominic, in the right-hand seat, watched his ‘strips’ progress across his screens as he delivered the aircraft between runways and stands.
But he became aware of an incident. Ryanair 9272 had a medical emergency. He strained to hear the pilot, holding all other aircraft on Delta apron as he anticipated a request to return Ryanair 9272 to its stand. Sebastian stared at Dominic. Looking, not speaking.
Relief flooded over him as he saw the problem. He should be in the deputy watch manager’s seat, further back. ‘Ryanair 9272, stand by.’ He unplugged his headset and moved to his correct station where he could see the runway over the heads of the controllers or glance left at the inbound aircraft hanging in the clear blue sky on approach.
A warm tide of satisfaction rolled over him. He was back where he belonged—
Liza rose, wiping her hands on a paper towel. She studied the tall man lying on her couch, his breathing deep and even. His streaky dark blond hair shone softly under the lights, tumbled, as if he’d combed it with his fingers. His mouth was set in a line of determination, even in repose, beneath hand-carved cheekbones. In other circumstances, she would have liked him a lot.
His chest rose. Fell. One hand twitched.
She washed her hands at the basin in the angle of the wall behind a curtain and readied a tall glass of cold water. He hadn’t moved. She watched him uncertainly. She knew you weren’t supposed to wake sleepwalkers. Was it the same for narcoleptic nappers?
At least Miranda was in the waiting room.
Then his eyes flickered open. For several moments she was stranded in his gaze, the pale eyes emphasised by eyelashes and brows darker than his hair.
‘OK?’ She smiled, not sure whether offering him the water would help him rouse, or if it would embarrass him if he had trouble gripping the glass. He seemed to be taking a little time to surface. She waited, giving him time. Letting him collect his thoughts.
Finally, he blinked, and stretched. ‘Can I take you out to dinner, some time?’
Her heart gave a tiny lurch. Obviously he was back on Planet Earth. She made her voice light. ‘Sorry – I don’t. Just stay where you are for a few minutes. Perhaps you could drink this while we talk? It’ll help with detoxification.’
He took the glass of water in both hands. ‘Hydration’s always good.’
She resumed her seat beside the little desk, picking up the blue clipboard. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Great. Very relaxed. That trick with the shoulder was impressive.’
‘It’s not a trick.’ She added a smile, with an effort. ‘I picked up a reflex, explained by the fact that the shoulder was injured in the past.’ Bloody man. ‘I also picked up quite a top-of-the-head reflex, on both feet, which might correspond with your narcolepsy. I’d be interested to know whether you notice any improvement in your night-time sleep, but feel that’s more likely to happen after several treatments. Is there anything you’d like to ask me?’
His grey eyes sparkled. ‘I think I just asked you about dinner?’
Her smile fell away. ‘If you’d like to discuss your treatments, later, ring the front desk and if I’m with a client they’ll arrange for me to return your call.’ Giving him a Stables Holistic Centre card, she touched the electronic control. Gently, slowly, the couch hissed back to disembarkation height.
Dominic pulled himself upright, slipped into his socks and laced his black Timberlands. He paused on the side of the couch, then stretched, until he was on his feet, smiling down. ‘I know we got off on the wrong foot—’
‘Ho ho,’ she interpolated, obligingly, as if she hadn’t heard all the puns a thousand times.
He grinned. ‘Thank you for the feeble joke appreciation. The dinner invitation is an apology for what you overheard, which was, honestly, just the remnants of years of winding each other up—’
‘You’ve already apologised.’ She opened the door and stood aside to let him pass. ‘If you decide to have further treatments, I’ll do some reading on your condition.’ And, as he didn’t seem inclined to move ahead of her, she stepped out to the short passageway to reception.
That did draw him out, but only to position himself between her and the waiting area. ‘You’re in a relationship?’
She looked up into his eyes and wondered if he was always this focused on what he wanted. He reminded her of a lion, tawny, stalking, watchful, but with the potential to explode into action at any time. ‘No. By choice.’
‘You’re going to be single for life?’
‘Yes. I’ll probably get a cat.’ Not a lion.
He laughed. His eyes narrowed, as if he was trying to weigh her up. ‘Implying that a cat would be better company than me isn’t enough to put me off. What else can you come up with?’ His gaze became thoughtful. ‘That I’m your patient? Then I won’t have further treatments.’ His face fell easily into a smile. His teeth were white, his cheeks smooth and his jaw line firm; his feet had been long and strong in her hands. He was easily the hottest man she’d treated this week. This month. This age.
She held his gaze. ‘It’s not because you’re my client.’
Slowly, he settled a shoulder against the wall, cocking his head to study her. ‘I won’t fall asleep and drool in my gravy. Or feed the goblin at the dinner table. Probably.’
She flushed. ‘It’s not that!’
His smile gleamed. He probably thought that her refusal was a form of flirting and she had to admit that something breathless and skippy was going on. It had been ages—
But remember Adam.
Her breath took a longer pause. Adam shouldn’t matter now but … But hideous experiences had a way of piercing vital organs with a pain that was designed to educate the brain to avoid similar situations. She made her lungs work. ‘I make a bad girlfriend.’
His eyebrows lifted. ‘I only asked you out to dinner.’
‘And I don’t do one-night stands.’
‘Look, I know what you overheard didn’t present me in my best light—’
‘No. And macho bullshit is something that no amount of reflexology can help you with.’
Chapter Two
A horrified glimpse of his face, blank with shock, then Liza was scrambling back inside her treatment room, slamming the door and leaning on it, eyes screwed shut. Why had she said that? She’d meant to defuse the situation with humou
r, but it had somehow got mixed up with an instinct to claw like a frightened kitten.
Fear. Rage. Perfectly reasonable reactions to what Adam had done and the knowledge that she’d made him do it. Not reasonable to project that fear and rage onto a completely different guy.
A tap fell on the other side of the door, loud beside her ear. ‘Are you OK?’ His voice was deep, hesitant, bemused. ‘Liza? I didn’t mean to— Oh, bollocks.’ Then Miranda spoke, muffled, distant. Dominic raised his voice to answer. ‘Yeah. I think it’s fairly certain that my treatment’s over.’ His voice receded down the corridor and Liza took a huge breath as her shoulders sagged, swallowing a swelling ball of tears.
Seconds later, a king-sized rat-tat-TAT-TAT-TAT sprang her away from the white-painted wood an instant before Nicolas burst into the room, dark eyes blazing. ‘What did I just hear?’ The door snapped shut behind him like an exclamation mark.
Liza dropped her gaze, guiltily.
‘Did you suggest a client was talking bullshit?’
‘I’m sorry.’ She swallowed. Then, weakly, ‘He wanted me to go out with him and I thought I was handling it, but—’
‘You decided to insult him? How likely is he to come back to the centre, now? Haven’t you listened to anything I’ve said about us needing every scrap of business that we can drag through our doors? You know that this place works on a mutual business model. If you lose a client, you lose a potential client for everyone.’ His jowls trembled with every rising accusation. ‘I’m in my office tearing my hair over rent, business rates, insurance and bills, and have to listen to you driving clients away!’
Liza bit down hard on her lips before it burst out of her that Nicolas was full of bullshit, too, as all his money worries arose from not doing his sums properly before he took The Stables on. Instead, she made her voice calm and reasonable. ‘We could get more clients if we tried new ideas, Nicolas—’
He threw up his hands as if warding off the devil. ‘Don’t! Not that same old stuff, Liza! New ideas, new ideas,’ he mimicked. ‘What you mean is five-minute wonders and faddy crap.’
Dream a Little Dream Page 2
