In His Wildest Dreams. Debbi Rawlins

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СКАЧАТЬ were dreams. They didn’t mean a damn thing. Merely something to do while you slept so you wouldn’t get bored.

      “I’ll be in the back getting set up. Let me know when you finish filling that out.”

      “Hey.” He waited until she turned around. “You said this is all confidential, right?” She nodded. “Nobody else will be here.”

      “Not a soul.”

      “What about now? Anyone back there?” He gestured with his chin toward the back room.

      “Nope. It’s just us.”

      He frowned. So where was the mystery woman? Maybe there was a back door. Or maybe…

      He gave Emma another once-over. Baggy khaki pants, a white lab coat over a navy-blue cotton shirt. Hard to tell what she really looked like under all that stuff. He doubted she’d be wearing a red silk thong, though. Not this woman. And the hair…it couldn’t be that long and fit in that small tight bun.

      “Any other questions?”

      “Let me get this straight.” He took another furtive glance toward the back. From what he could see, the room looked really small. “This is just going to be you and me. No one else is involved.”

      Her gaze narrowed with concern. “Look, I really appreciate you doing this, but if you have any reservations that might prompt you to drop out mid-study, I need to know now. I can’t afford the time to look for someone else.”

      Man, he’d give just about anything to take the opportunity to bolt. But anything didn’t include the Aspen house. Hell. “Nah, I’m okay, Doc, just a little nervous about you finding out all my deepest, darkest secrets.” He gave her his most winning smile.

      She frowned. “We’ll talk more after you’ve filled that out.”

      Emma hurried to the back room. She hoped he took a while to complete the questionnaire because she needed time to regroup. Her sudden imbalance had little to do with him, of course, or that he was supposed to be some kind of lady-killer. Frankly, she didn’t see it. Running late always made her a little nuts. That was her problem.

      Granted, there was something appealing about him. Nothing blatant, nothing even easily identifiable. Sure, his thick dark hair was attractive in a messy, touchable sort of way, and he had a disarming smile that could probably melt many a resolve. But so did a lot of other guys she knew.

      Except his face had character, from the crinkly lines fanning out from the corners of his dark eyes, to the small moon-shaped scar over the left side of his upper lip. A small chip marred otherwise perfect teeth. Clearly he wasn’t vain or driven by perfection, or he would’ve had these minor flaws fixed.

      Her uniform lay in a heap where she’d left it in her haste to get into her street clothes. She gathered them up, stuck them in a bag to add to her laundry and then checked her hair. It was a mess. She’d misplaced a couple of bobby pins and her usual bun was a little wobbly, but it would do.

      After waiting a couple more minutes, she went out to check on Nick’s progress. To her surprise, he’d already finished and was talking on her phone.

      “Let’s have Chinese tonight,” he said just as she walked in. Although he hadn’t seen her yet, his voice lowered. “I’ll leave dessert up to you.” His laugh was husky, sexy, and then he looked up and saw her. “I have to go. I’ll see you at eight.”

      Emma sighed, pitying the poor sap on the other end who fell for his sad lack of originality. “Did you have any questions about the paperwork?” she asked as soon as he’d hung up.

      “Nope.”

      She paused a moment, waiting for him to get out of her chair. He didn’t. If anything, he leaned back and got more comfortable, so she took the visitor’s chair facing the desk and turned the questionnaire around to face her.

      After a quick perusal she looked up to find him staring at her. She cleared her throat. “I’ll give you an overview of what we’ll be doing in the next two weeks.”

      He grimaced slightly.

      Her stomach tightened. “If you have a problem committing to two weeks—”

      “No.” He shook his head, his expression agitated. “I just—go on.”

      God, she had a bad feeling about this. But Brenda had told her not to worry. Nick had his faults, but backing out of an agreement wasn’t one of them. She sure hoped Brenda was right.

      “I don’t know how much you care to know about the theories upon which I’ll be basing my interpretations—” There was that wince again. “What?”

      “Nothing.” His expression was sheer innocence. “I’m listening.”

      She hesitated a moment, tempted to call him on his obvious negative reaction to their conversation. But on the other hand, did she really want to hear what he thought? Did she want to give him an opening to withdraw from the study?

      She took a deep breath and began again. “There are many misconceptions about dream interpretation and I thought it might be helpful if I cleared some of them up before we got started.”

      He didn’t look happy, but at least he hadn’t bolted. He glanced toward the back room, and then gestured with his hand for her to continue.

      She leaned back in her chair and wondered what he found so fascinating in the back room. Had he seen the mess her associates left? “There’s significant research indicating that dreams reflect our real-life concerns and are helpful in coping with conflict or solving problems. I operate on this theory.”

      He stood suddenly. “You’re not psychoanalyzing me, Doc. No way. No how.”

      “First of all, I’m not a doctor. Yet. Secondly, I have no intention of trying to psychoanalyze you or anyone else.” She exhaled sharply. “Could you sit down? You’re making me nervous.”

      He muttered a mild oath, shrugged out of his leather jacket, and then tugged at the neckband of his T-shirt as if it were too tight. “Yeah, right.”

      “Would you let me finish?”

      Eyeing her with distrust, he lowered himself back to the chair as he tossed his jacket to the side. “Brenda told me there wouldn’t be any psychobabble involved.”

      Emma bristled, but she kept her cool. “This is a science. Not psychobabble. And like I’ve already assured you, anything discussed here is confidential.”

      “That’s the thing, Doc.” He ruffled his hair in a gesture of frustration. “Every time you remind me this is confidential, I get a rash.”

      Her gaze flew to his arms, his neck, any exposed skin.

      “Figuratively speaking, of course,” he added. “Exactly what kind of questions are you gonna ask me?”

      It took her several seconds to realize he’d spoken to her. His plain white T-shirt stretched snugly across his chest. Every muscle group was nicely represented. His arms weren’t too shabby either. Firm, rounded biceps strained against the hem of his sleeves.

      “Doc?”

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