Bedroom Therapy: A Hot Romantic Suspense Novel

by Rebecca York

  She stayed under the pounding water for a long time, soaping herself—then doing it again, trying to wash away the feel of Tony Anderson’s hands on her body. She knew the need was irrational. He was dead. And really, he’d hardly done anything to her, compared to what she knew could have happened. Compared to what she knew had been done to other women. But she couldn’t stifle the need to cleanse herself.

  When she was finally ready to emerge from the bathroom, she slipped into the terry- cloth robe she’d left on the back of the door and stood with her hand on the knob for a moment. Maybe she’d misread Zach. Maybe he was thinking he should give her some space. Maybe she should get dressed and go look for him.

  Crossing to her bedroom, she stopped short in the doorway.

  She’d had an image of the room in her mind. The love cave that Zach had created for their mutual pleasure. But while she’d been in the bathroom, he had apparently been working at lightning speed to destroy that image.

  He’d carefully and relentlessly put the room back the way it had been before he’d first transformed it. The bed was up on its frame again—with the previous bedspread in place. The dresser was pushed against the wall. The candles were gone.

  She stood staring at the transformation. Why had he done it? Because he thought she’d be more comfortable? Or was he trying to wipe away the memory that they’d made love here?

  She felt too shaky to face him at the moment, not when tears were welling in her eyes. She was too fragile to take his rejection.

  Then she firmed her lips. She was no coward. She wasn’t going to hide from him and hide from herself.

  If he was going to walk away from her, she wanted to find out—now. But when she strode into the living room, he wasn’t there, and panic rose in her throat.

  He wouldn’t just leave—without saying goodbye, would he?

  Her stomach knotted as she spotted his luggage sitting beside the couch. While she stood uncertainly in the middle of the floor, the back door opened, and he stepped into the kitchen.

  His eyes met hers, and they both stood for a frozen moment, neither of them speaking.

  She was the one who broke the silence with a sharp question. “What are you doing?”

  “Getting out of your hair.”

  “Were you going to leave without saying goodbye?”

  “I was going to write you a note—if you weren’t out before I finished getting ready.”

  He was doing it again, she thought, fleeing instead of facing her.

  But she kept that opinion to herself. “Why did you put my room back the way it was?”

  “I thought you’d want me to clear out,” he said, sounding defensive.

  “I think you could let me make that decision,” she answered, hating the strident note in her voice. It had been less than a week since this man had walked into her life, but she’d thought something important was happening between them. Now she was struggling with the crushing disappointment that it had just been wishful thinking.

  Still, she wasn’t going to just let him slink away. She was going to make him tell her what he was feeling—no matter how much it hurt.

  “Why are you leaving?” she asked, struggling to hold her voice steady.

  He ran his hand through his hair in a quick, uneasy gesture. That small sign gave her a kernel of hope that he wasn’t as indifferent as he’d sounded. “Isn’t it obvious?” he said.

  “Not to me,” she managed to say. “I’d like you to explain.”

  His face turned hard. “All right. If you need to hear me state the obvious. You were kidnapped, and it was my damn fault. I left you alone when I should have been here. I understand why you don’t want to have anything more to do with me.”

  “What?” she gasped, hardly able to believe what she’d just heard.

  “I was stupid enough to make the same mistake twice. I told you, a kidnapper came after my wife because of a case I was on. I vowed I wasn’t going to let anything happen to you. But that’s not the way it turned out.”

  Suddenly, she had a lot better idea of what was going on in his mind. “Your wife left you,” she said softly.

  “That’s right.”

  “And you assumed I was going to react the way she did. You were walking out before I could tell you to leave.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And that’s why you put the bedroom back the way it was. You were erasing your presence from the house.”

  He gave a tight nod.

  “You know, when people don’t communicate with each other, some whopping misunderstandings can result,” she said in an even voice. “You were acting cold and distant. And from my point of view, it looked like you were leaving because you couldn’t stand the thought of being with a woman who was damaged goods.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “There are plenty of men who can’t cope with the idea that someone else touched their lover. It makes them withdraw from her emotionally.”

  Hurt flashed in his eyes. “You think I’m that kind of jerk?”

  “The way you were acting, you didn’t leave me much choice.”

  “I was getting out of your way.”

  “You were running away to make it impossible for me to hurt you—the way your wife did,” she corrected him.

  He didn’t deny it, only shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  “Zach, I think we need to talk. If you’re willing to talk, that is,” she added, holding her breath as she waited for his answer.

  She saw him swallow. “All right.”

  She’d boldly started this conversation. Now she felt her own mouth go dry as she turned toward the seating area and lowered herself into the wingback chair.

  When she found she was gripping the padded arms, she clasped her hands in her lap. She was very conscious that she’d rushed out here in her robe—with nothing under it. Now she wished she’d taken the time to get dressed. Only if she’d done that, maybe Zach would have already gone—and she would have lost this chance.

  Chance—for what? Despite her resolve to remain calm, she found that her heart was racing.

  When he looked expectantly at her, she licked her dry lips, then said, “If you assumed I blamed you, you’re wrong.”

  “I left you alone in the house.”

  “You obviously thought we were safe here.”

  “I obviously made a miscalculation!”

  “Stop it!”

  “Stop what?”

  “Putting up barriers between us.” When she saw he was about to speak again, she rushed on. “I’m not your former wife. I know you wouldn’t have deliberately put me in jeopardy. And for your information, Anderson’s finding us wasn’t your fault.”

  He made a snorting sound.

  “He told me how he did it. He followed us home from the grocery store. I should have listened to you and stayed home.”

  She saw that register.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” she repeated, punching out the words. “The most thankful moment of my life was when I knew you’d come to rescue me. Zach, I know you could have gotten yourself killed. I know what kind of risk you were taking.”

  “I owed you that much.”

  “You don’t owe me anything. I don’t want anything from you that you’re not freely willing to give.”

  He sat on the sofa, regarding her, his hands pressed to the cushions as though he needed to ground himself.

  There was so much she wanted to make him understand, and she didn’t know where to start. But she knew the important thing: that he believe what she was saying.

  “Your wife was looking for someone to blame for her own inadequacies. She took it out on you,” she said softly.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, speaking as a trained psychologist,” she began, because she thought that might give her observations more weight, “all marriages go through ups and downs. If the people care enough about each other to make it work, they stay together.
If one of them doesn’t, then it’s not going to survive, no matter how much the other partner wants to keep the relationship going.”

  She saw he was listening closely.

  “I’d say you already had problems, and she used the kidnapping as an excuse to leave you.”

  Probably he never would have reached that conclusion on his own. It seemed he felt too guilty about what had happened a year ago, and that guilt had spilled over into her relationship with him.

  “I think she made you feel that you weren’t worth being loved,” she said softly, wanting to say still more, yet reluctant to put too many ideas into his head.

  Neither of them spoke for several moments, and she watched him comb his fingers against the sofa cushions. Finally, he cleared his throat.

  “After . . . after you and I made love, I left the house because I didn’t want . . . to explain what’s wrong with me.”

  She wanted to shout that nothing was wrong, and if there was, they could work it out together. But she kept the words locked in her throat.

  “Just before Anderson hustled you out of the house, I was coming back to tell you about it.”

  She felt simultaneously elated and fearful. “What did you want to say?” she managed to ask.

  “It’s not that easy to talk about.”

  “I know,” she whispered. “But maybe I can make it a little easier.” Climbing out of the chair, she crossed the room and lowered herself to the sofa, so that she was sitting beside him, but not with her back against the sofa cushions. Instead she swung around to face him. Leaning forward, she slung her arms around him and laid her head on his shoulder. For heartbeats, he sat stiffly. Then he clasped her to him.

  They held each other for long moments before she murmured, “There’s nothing you can tell me that I haven’t heard before.”

  “Oh yeah? You mean—like a guy who can’t reach climax when he’s with a woman?” he asked in a gritty voice. “I mean a guy who can do it by himself but not with a partner.”

  She had suspected that might be what he was going to say. Keeping her own voice low and even, she asked, “And that’s been true since your wife pinned the kidnapping rap on you?”

  “Yeah.”

  Raising her head, she looked him in the eye. “But you wanted to get close to me—so you came up with all kinds of nice inventive ways to get around the problem. Very arousing ways.”

  She saw him swallow. “But you wanted more than that,” he said. “You deserve more than that.”

  “Zach, I loved everything we did together. You are a very sexy man, whether you believe it or not. You knew how to give a woman great pleasure with your hands and mouth. And you can make me go up in smoke just by talking sexy to me on the phone. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to have intercourse with you—that I didn’t want us to both climax that way.”

  “And what if I can’t?”

  “I believe you can,” she answered, thinking that unless they solved his problem, it would be tough to have his children. But she didn’t say that, because it would be giving too much away.

  “It’s been almost a year since I could. . . ” He stopped and clenched his jaw. “Since I could function normally.”

  “Don’t put it that way.”

  “How would Dr. O’Neal put it?”

  She gave a little shrug. “You know how shrinks are. They don’t give opinions lightly.”

  He laughed, then sobered again. “Okay, you can call it anything you like. I want you right now. Just holding you and knowing that you’re naked under that robe is making me so hard I can barely sit still. But I’m afraid that if we went down the hall to the bedroom, it would end up the same way it did last night.”

  “I’m not suggesting that we go down the hall right now. Dr. O’Neal has a more inventive prescription.”

  He cocked one eyebrow. “And just what would Dr. O’Neal suggest?”

  She leaned back and gave him a sweet smile, drawing out the moment before answering. “Well, for starters. I’d ask you to unpack your bags. Or I’d pack mine. Because I can write the column anywhere, and we don’t have to stay here. We can go to New Jersey, and you can get back to work. We’ll try a variation of a Masters and Johnson technique. I can stay with you, but we won’t try to make love. Not for a while. No pressure to perform. We’ll get to know each other better. But we won’t do anything that leads to sexual satisfaction. We’ll wait on that until we’re both so hot that we’re close to spontaneous combustion.”

  “You’d do that for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  She didn’t want to give away the whole show. She simply said, “Because I think you and I are very good together. I want to expand on that.” Before he could press her, she hurried on. “Will you try what I’m suggesting?” she asked, holding her breath as she waited for his answer.

  He met her steady gaze. The word “yes,” came out as a low rumble in his chest.

  She let out the breath she’d been unconsciously holding. “Where do you want to stay? Down here? Or should we go back north?”

  “Maybe home is better, where I can get back to work. I’m in Paramus, the cheap mortgage district.”

  “Okay. We’ll go up there. Then you’ll have something to do during the day besides sit around staring at me.”

  Leaning over, she sealed the bargain with a kiss. A kiss that she intended to keep light. But it flared up like a match set to dry tinder—leaving them both breathless and shaky.

  And leaving her wondering just how long she was going to be able to keep herself from dragging him to bed.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Amanda leaned back in the leather guest chair across from Beth Cantro. She was pleased with her first Esther Scott column, and she’d come into town to deliver it in person.

  Part of her reasoning had been to get out of the house, because living within those four walls was getting a little tense. It had been only five days since she’d made her pact with Zach, and she was already wondering how long she could possibly hold out.

  As if Beth knew the woman across the desk was a bundle of sexual frustration, she gave her a considering look. “You seem kind of . . . on edge,” she said. “When you told me you were back up here and living with Zachary Grant, I thought I’d see your cheeks glowing with happiness.”

  “We’ve got a few things to work out.”

  Beth leaned forward slightly. “You want to talk about it?”

  Amanda shook her head. Much as she’d like to confide in her friend—to confide in someone—she wasn’t going to talk about Zachary’s problem. It was too personal.

  “Is he being good to you?” Beth probed.

  “Very good.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “Nothing serious.”

  “When I first met him, I thought he was perfect for you. Am I going to be disappointed?”

  “No!” she answered, because she was going to make this work—if the cure killed them both.

  “Okay. Let’s go out to lunch to celebrate the first new Esther Scott column.”

  “You haven’t even read it yet.”

  “Actually I have.”

  Amanda blinked. “How? I just put it on your desk a few minutes ago.”

  “After you left the house, I phoned Zach and told him you’d called and said you left it home, and you wanted him to e-mail it.”

  “That’s kind of sneaky, don’t you think.”

  Beth had the grace to look embarrassed before she began talking rapidly. “Point taken. But I knew your material was going to be great. I wanted to be able to tell you that today, because I know you’re a perfectionist. I know you were agonizing over getting it right. Well, you have nothing to worry about. In my professional opinion, it’s wonderful. Just what Vanessa needs. You’re better than Esther Knight ever was. You’re more sensitive to the needs of the readers. You’re a better writer. And you’re more in tune with today’s young woman.”

  Aman
da flushed with pleasure. “I . . . I don’t know what to say.”

  “Accept the praise graciously. Then get started on your next installment.”

  “I’ve been looking at letters, deciding which ones I want to answer.”

  “Good. But make sure you include some of the e-mails.”

  “I will.”

  “Let’s go to lunch, then. I’ve made reservations at a little Italian restaurant I discovered. If we leave now, we can beat the noontime crowd.”

  “Italian sounds fine,” Amanda answered, thinking that she’d been eating far too much good food lately. Both she and Zach had been doing a lot of cooking—as a way to take their minds off sex.

  Sex. Every thought she had led back to sex.

  “Earth to Amanda,” Beth broke into her musings.

  “Sorry.”

  “You’re thinking about jumping Zach’s bones, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Amanda answered, although she knew Beth didn’t understand the import of her question.

  “Well, try to keep your focus on business for a while. Because over lunch, I want to discuss some ideas with you.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like writing some articles for Vanessa under your own name.”

  “Oh my. What did you have in mind?”

  “What would you think about a piece on controlling men? Hum—I mean men who need to control their women.”

  Amanda swallowed. “I guess Tony Anderson made you think about that?”

  “Um hum.”

  Actually, she’d already started contemplating writing about the subject—as a way of exorcising her own ghosts. “Yes, I’d like that,” she answered.

  “Good. And I have some other ideas we can discuss over wood-fired pizzas. Or white bean and tuna salad.”

  “Sounds good.”

  In fact, lunch was delicious—and productive. Beth gave her several more article ideas, and she left the meeting thinking that she might actually be able to make a living from her writing. Certainly her name on articles in Vanessa would make it easier to sell her book. And maybe she could write for other publications—if that was okay with Beth.