by Penny Reid
I swallowed then frowned. “You don’t trust me.”
“I trust that you’re very intelligent, and you know better than to get involved with someone who is damaged. I’ve watched you avoid damaged people for two years. Once I start telling you things about me, about my past, you’ll do the right thing—by both of us—and we’ll be over. I can’t…I can’t have sex with you, make love to you, and lie to you.”
My chin wobbled and I had to blink away the stinging moisture in my eyes. “Have you lied to me?”
“No. Not about anything.” His words were immediate, and desperate with sincerity. “But, not telling you…there are things you should know before we take that step. And I won’t ever let you go once it happens. I realized that the night you came to my apartment wearing your little red dress and no underwear.” He swallowed, and I saw nothing but raw conviction in his eyes. “You’d never be free of me.”
My arms twisted tighter around his neck and I kissed him softly; I needed to feel his lips.
I withdrew, but rested my forehead against his as I spoke, not wanting him to see my watery eyes. “Oh, Alex, I think you underestimate how completely selfish I am.”
His smile was small, hopeful; Alex cupped my cheek with one hand and forced our faces apart so that he could look at me. “Can we wait?”
It was my turn to sigh. So I did, with heavy exaggeration and drama. “I don’t know.”
He flinched.
I hurried to explain so he wouldn’t misunderstand. “I want everything, all of you, right now. And I’m not patient. I’ve never been good at waiting for what I want.”
Alex’s mouth tilted ruefully. “Waiting has never bothered me,” he mused, and his expression became distant. “It’s the wanting that’s new.”
I searched him, his face, and I believed him. The possibilities for why caused a shiver to race down my spine, and I fought to keep my mind from contemplating worst-case scenarios. His abusive father was a big candidate, as were his years in prison. Both were likely enough to break most people.
I didn’t see him as broken. He was cocooned, but intact.
But something he’d said before, weeks ago, floated across my mind like a news ticker at the bottom of a TV screen.
“You said before that you don’t like psychiatrists.” I let the statement hang out there; let him get used to it before I asked, “Are you willing to tell me why?”
He pressed his mouth together then drew his top lip into his mouth, chewed on it before answering. “When I was young, I was….” His eyebrows-” his forehead wrinkled; he glanced downward, but I doubted he saw anything. “A psychiatrist once told my mother that I was a savant. I remember that this caused her a great deal of distress. Later, when I was in prison, I had to see one every day.”
“Every day?” I frowned at that. That seemed excessive. I wondered if the government had hoped to hack into his brain like he’d hacked into computer systems.
He lifted his gaze back to mine. He looked like he was bracing himself, steeling himself against not just me, but everything.
“I don’t like psychiatrists.” He said the words with finality, his tone flat.
I winced a little, my eyelashes fluttered, but then his hands stroked me—my legs, my backside, my hips, my waist—and he said, “But I like you. I like you a lot. I liked you a lot before the power of the red dress compelled me. And that was very disorienting.”
I gazed at him in wonder, at the risk he was taking in being with me. He also knew better. And yet, here we were.
I felt the tension of the moment in the room, thick and heavy on my head and shoulders. It was the kind of tension that accompanies a major confession. Since his hands were still heating me up, the tension was heavily laced with sexual undercurrents. At least, it was for me.
For my own sanity, since he was a psychiatrist-despising virgin who refused to answer the majority of my questions and I was falling for him, I decided to defuse the situation with humor.
Because it was all I could do.
“Well then. I guess we’ll have to wrestle to see who wins.”
Alex’s gaze, which had been throwing sparks in the direction of my mouth, refocused on my eyes. He blinked. “You want to wrestle with me?”
“Heck to the yeah I do. And I would win, too.”
His smile was quizzical and sincere as he said, “Sometimes you feel more like an adversary than a….”
“Than a what?”
“Than a girlfriend, a partner.”
I thought about that for a moment, let it roll around in my head, realized—given what I knew about Alex’s past—it made quite a lot of sense.
“With a girlfriend you’d need to give away some of your control. But with an adversary, it’s all about control.”
“Don’t.” His voice was a growl, and held more than a hint of warning.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t start psychoanalyzing me.”
“I’m not.” I sighed, rubbed my forehead, and removed myself from his lap. I sat down heavily on the couch. “I’m just trying to figure out how to get in your pants without asking you any direct questions.”
He huffed a startled laugh. “And what have you determined?”
My eyes skated over him, took the measure of his lips, neck, chest and nether regions. “If an adversarial relationship is what it takes, then I’ll just have to seduce you....” Then, for no reason other than I’d always wanted to say it, I added, “Mr. Bond.”
His eyes lit at both the challenge and the teasing in my tone. Alex reached for my hand, but instead of allowing him to touch me at will, I moved my hand away.
“Ah, no. I think we’ll have no more of that.”
His eyebrows shot upward on his forehead. “None of what?”
“No more touching.”
“What?” Again, a growl.
“No more touching, Mr. Bond.” I was now speaking in a very poor imitation of a posh British accent. “If I’m to seduce you, then I’ll need to ration your daily allotment of touching.”
“Who are you supposed to be?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t know who James Bond is?”
“No, I know who James Bond is. Who are you supposed to be? Which of his conquests?”
“Nein, Herr Bond.” I switched to an atrocious German accent. “You are my conquest. Ich bin eine new and unknown female adversary. Sie call me Sookie Von Cockencunt.”
“Must you murder the German language?” A smile split his face, though his eyes became hard with what I guessed was determination.
“Ja wohl.” I stood and crossed to my discarded jacket.
I felt his eyes on me as I moved, heard him clear his throat when he also stood. “Are we leaving?”
I nodded as I pushed my arms into the sleeves of my jacket. “Yes. It’s past one, and I have work in the morning. Frankly, if I’m not getting any ass tonight, then I might as well go to sleep.”
“Are you thinking about moving here—into this apartment?” Alex walked toward me; his steps were measured, cautious.
“No. I can’t afford it.” I glanced around the vaulted ceilings with longing. “But it’s pretty amazing, right?”
He nodded, and when he had reached me, he fingered the zipper of my jacket. “Maybe we could come back tomorrow. We’ll need a code name for it.”
“Let’s call it Cloud City,” I said.
I saw recognition and admiration in his gaze. “You like Star Wars?”
“I do. But,” I said, studying him, my eyes narrowed, “I thought you had something planned for tomorrow.”
He nodded again, shrugged. “We can do that another time.”
When I just stared at him, he continued. “Plans change. Now that I’ve been here, I can see why you wanted to come.”
“Okay.” I finished my zipper and crossed to the hall leading to the door. “But how about we go with what you already had planned for tomorrow.” I needed time to plan my seduction attack and didn’t want
to be alone with him again so soon. His zing kisses made me lose my mind.
“I’ll meet you in the hospital cafeteria; five thirty okay?” he said.
“Sounds good. And we’ll pick a Saturday to come back here. I’ll cook.”
“Can you cook?” He sounded doubtful as we exited the apartment.
“Yes, I can cook.” I waited until I had the door locked and was walking away from him, down the hall toward the elevator, before I tossed a sinister smirk over my shoulder, “Just wait ’til you try my figs.”
CHAPTER 18
Thursday’s Horoscope: You will be faced with an impossible situation today. Don’t sweat the white lies you tell enemies, and be creative with your allies.
“YOU LOOK LIKE carp today.” Ashley’s eyes didn’t lift from her chart as she volunteered her opinion.
“You mean crap?” I felt like crap. I was tired. My head and my heart hurt. And I was pretty sure my female reproductive system hated Alex.
“No. Carp. The fish. You’re all frowny and buggy-eyed, tired and frightened.” Her blue eyes lifted, scanned my face. “And you need to pluck your eyebrows.”
“Do carp have eyebrows?”
“They have little weird feeler mustaches, like catfish. I suspect they tie other fish to little fishy railroad tracks.”
This earned her a smile. She smiled in return, obviously pleased with her ability to break through my fishy mood.
“Seriously, girl, what’s going on? Are you still thinking about dating that ex-con?”
My smile wavered and I handed her a chart, my original reason for finding her. “I need a full battery work-up on this patient. And, yes, Alex and I are dating.”
Her lips pinched and twisted to the side. “You know I never stick my nose in unless….”
“Ha!”
She ignored me. “Unless it’s serious and I’m worried. But, Sandra, by your own admission, you don’t know anything about this guy.”
“That’s why we’re dating. So I can get to know him.”
“Federal prison? Hun, I know he’s a hot cup of coffee, but this is so unlike you. All the guys you date are normal; they wear polo shirts and play golf. Alex looks like the guy who beats up guys who play golf.”
I rubbed my forehead because I was getting a headache. I had an entire harem of platonic polo-wearing golfers, and I needed to set aside some time to reestablish contact with them. But it wouldn’t be today.
I loved Ashley, knew she meant well, but didn’t need anyone else to tell me that I was making irrational decisions. I already knew how far out of my depth I’d ventured.
“I’ve never met a normal person in my life. No one is normal, Ashley.”
“Dr. Fielding?”
Both Ashley and I turned at the crisp sound of my name. Brown ponytail, brown eyes, moderately priced suit. I almost groaned at the sight of Agent Bell.
She stared at me. Even her stare looked official.
“I need you to come with me, please.”
My eyebrows lifted on their own. I glanced behind her, then behind me, searching Ashley’s face for some friend-telepathy. Ashley looked bewildered, curious, and concerned.
Instead of following Agent Bell, I widened my stance and leveled her with a searching gaze. “How did you get access to this floor? These patients are very sick.”
“We can discuss the particulars elsewhere. I’ve already informed your department head that I need your assistance on a case, and you’ve been released to my custody for the rest of the day.”
I tempered my reaction so that I appeared merely irritated instead of Darth Vader force choke mad. “Released to your custody? You do realize that I have patients who require treatment.”
My eyes flickered away from the agent, distracted by the sight of a mother holding the hand of her daughter in one of the nearby hospital rooms. This was not a good place for a scene. These patients and families deserved better.
Bell nodded curtly. “Yes. The sooner you cooperate, the sooner you can return to your patients.”
Ensuring my face was devoid of emotion, I shrugged. “Lead the way.”
Her gaze swept over me once, perhaps searching for trickery, then she promptly turned and marched down the hall. I followed about four paces behind, my hands in my lab coat.
As I watched her ponytail swing, I was struck by how not-parole-officer-like she appeared. Like Agent Dumb Ass, she wore a suit—but hers, even though plain, looked more businessy. She looked like she belonged in an office behind a computer, not in the field checking on convicts.
She led me to the stairwell door, and we descended the three flights of stairs to the hospital basement where there were two chairs waiting. Agent Bell gestured for me to sit in one of the chairs, so I did. She didn’t sit.
Classic interrogation tactic.
Definitely not a parole officer.
She withdrew a recorder from her pocket, set it to record, and spoke into it, saying, “This is Agent Victoria Bell, recording on…” and preceded to log all the details of the date, who I was, where we were, and—lastly—“…speaking on the subject of suspect Greene.”
Suspect Greene.
If I’d been free to do so, I would have sighed.
She set the recorder on the empty chair across from me, leveled me with her official stare, and asked, “What is your relationship with Quinn Sullivan?”
I allowed myself to show mild surprise. “Uh, he’s the husband of my friend Janie Morris.”
“What were you doing in his building last night?”
“Looking at an apartment I’m considering renting.”
Something like concern passed behind her gaze. “Why do you want to rent the apartment?”
“It’s nice.”
“Nothing to do with the enhanced security? Soundproof windows?”
I shrugged, shook my head. “Nothing at all. But I do like the bathtubs and the granite in the kitchen.”
She grimaced, appeared disbelieving. I used this short moment to mentally high-five Quinn. Leave it to Quinn to make his building spy proof.
“How long have you known Alexander Greene?”
This was definitely an interrogation. If I hadn’t already decided to keep my emotions to myself, I definitely would have done so now. If she were hoping to elicit an unintended reaction from me, she was going to be very disappointed.
Therefore, my voice was very calm and reassuring when I responded honestly, “I believe about two years.”
Her eyes bulged. She gripped the back of the chair holding the recorder. “Two years?”
“Actually, it’s been over two years—closer to two years and nine months.”
Her sigh of disbelief was audible. “But how…?” She seemed to be reining her thoughts, collecting them, ordering them. I detected the precise moment she considered that I was lying. “There is no way you’ve known Alexander Greene for two years and nine months.”
“I assure you, I’m telling the truth.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“At Taj’s—the restaurant.”
She glared at me. “How long have you been involved with Mr. Greene?”
“I don’t know what you mean by involved.”
“How long have you two been engaging in sexual relations?”
I paused, considered her. She was likely expecting some kind of reaction to the question—perhaps delicate flower hysterics. I decided in that moment that—as a game—I would obtain from her all the information I sought without asking a single question. “We haven’t been having sex.”
The muscle at her jaw flexed, her gaze sharpened. “Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying to you.”
“I’ve seen the letter. We know the nature of your relationship is intimate.”
“The letter.” I stated—frowning my confusion.
“Thoughts of you will keep me warm... I burn. I hurt.” The quoted words were flat. “Sound familiar?”
I didn’t grimace. Instead I held
her gaze, gave her nothing.
Alex had been right. I should have destroyed the letter. But I loved it. Just contemplating destroying that letter made me feel slightly nauseous. However, knowing that his sweet and sincere words had been pilfered also made me nauseous.
Basically, it was a no-win, all-barf situation.
Her eyes narrowed with scorn as she pressed, “What has he told you about his involvement with the creation of the electronic currency, bitcoins?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“Dr. Fielding,” she growled, apparently trying to control her tenor and volume. “Do you know who I am?”
“You’re Agent Bell.”
“Yes.” She waved her name away, treating it as something inconsequential. “But do you know who I am?”
“You’re Agent Bell.” I repeated.
She scowled. “I’m from the NSA, Dr. Fielding.”
Outwardly, I merely shrugged at her revelation and said, “Okay. And…?” Inwardly my brain felt like it was on fire.
NSA? NS freaking A?
His parole agent was from the NSA. Except, I suspected she wasn’t a parole agent. These were the people listening in on everyday conversations between US citizens like it was their right. I braced myself for her personality type—which I was sure would include a sense of entitlement and superiority.
Her jaw set. I noted that her hands gripped the back of the chair with enough force to turn her knuckles white. “Alexander Greene is a dangerous person, Dr. Fielding. I don’t know what he’s told you about himself, about his past, about his interactions with us, but—let me assure you—there are two sides to the story.”
I nodded at her, let my eyes drift to the right, and then glanced at my watch. “If the story is long, then we may have to postpone it until after my afternoon clinic.”
“I can see that you think you already know him.” She sighed again, as if she felt sorry for me. Some of the tension in her fingers and shoulders released. “He is not who you think he is.”
