The Season To Sin. Clare Connelly

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      I fight the urge to tell him there is no such thing as magic when it comes to trauma therapy. It takes hard work, long hours and dedication from both patient and physician. I’m willing to put in the hard yards, but is he?

      I come back to the suspicion I have that he feels compelled to be meeting with me. Obliged might be a better word. Like he ‘has’ to go through with this appointment, not because he ‘wants’ to heal.

      Usually, I would follow a more traditional form of approach to tease the answers out, but Noah Moore is not going to respond to traditional therapeutic means. It’s why he insisted we meet here, in a coffee shop, rather than my office. I lace my fingers together, leaning forward slightly, elbows propped on the table. ‘I get the feeling you’re here against your will.’

      ‘Yeah,’ he grunts. ‘Didn’t you see the guy with the gun to my head when I walked in?’ He laughs it off.

      ‘You seem reluctant to accept my help,’ I say softly. ‘You keep stressing that this isn’t an appointment, that we’re just “talking”. You refused to come to my office, because you feel safer in a neutral setting like this café. And yet while I’ve said you may leave, you’re choosing to stay.’

      There’s a wariness that steals over him at having been called out. Good. Unsettling him is going to be crucial here. ‘You think anyone could force me to do what I don’t want?’

      It’s a good point. Noah Moore, even without the billions in the bank, is a man who would be impossible to intimidate. He is brawn, brains and beauty, all in one.

      ‘You tell me.’

      He expels a sigh. ‘I contacted you, didn’t I?’

      ‘That doesn’t mean someone wasn’t holding a gun to your head.’ I force another smile. ‘Metaphorically speaking.’

      He holds my eyes for a fraction too long and then reaches forward, wrapping his fingers around one of the water glasses the waitress brought and sipping from it. I wait while he swallows, impatience breeding frustration in my gut.

      I’m not used to this degree of resistance. A little, sure. It comes with the territory. But generally there’s some sense of apology for it. People know that my time is worth a lot of money. That usually encourages a compulsion to cooperate, even if only to a small degree.

      ‘In a manner of speaking.’

      It’s an admission I don’t expect and I can’t suppress an outward display of surprise. My lips, painted a bright red, form an ‘o’. I cover it as quickly as I can, but his grimace shows that he saw my response. Understands my surprise.

      ‘Well, I’m glad.’ Glad we are getting somewhere. ‘In my experience, therapy works best when I have a willing participant on my hands.’

      I swear I don’t mean anything by it, but the speculation that grows on his handsome face shows he’s analysing my words for a hidden meaning. For a sensual insinuation that should have stayed buried deep in the recesses of my brain.

      Fortunately for me, he doesn’t capitalise on the error, though he leans forward when he speaks so I catch a hint of his fragrance. Woody and alpine, masculine and strong. ‘Are you saying you’re not able to help me?’

      A glimmer of disappointment pings in my chest cavity. Did I want him to volley back my unintentional double entendre? To tell me he’d be very willing to be in my hands?

      He’s looking at me, waiting for an answer. For almost the first time in my career, I’m struck mute. I run my eyes over his face, so handsome, and wonder at the secrets he’s hiding. At the life he’s lived that caused him to phone me. At the fact he’s making me want to throw caution to the wind and make him mine.

      ‘No,’ I say finally. ‘I think I can help you. If you want to be my patient.’

      ‘I don’t have time to be a patient,’ he says, and it’s so scathing that a shiver runs down my spine.

      ‘Well, unfortunately, it takes time,’ I point out firmly. ‘There’s no quick fix for whatever has led you to me.’

      ‘You’re confident saying that when you don’t have the faintest idea why I organised this meeting?’

      ‘Yes.’ I glare at him. ‘You know why, Noah?’ God help me, the taste of his name on my lips is addictive. ‘Because I do this all day, every day. People like you walk into my life, wearing your issues like a coat that only I can see.’

      He narrows his eyes.

      ‘It’s in the set of your shoulders, the depths of your eyes. I see it.’ I lean back and feel my heart pounding hard against my forearms. ‘Trauma isn’t something that can be drunk away. Nor is it something I can wave my magic wand and cure. The only way to get beyond it is to work through it. It’s not a pleasant process, I won’t lie to you. Sometimes the healing can feel worse than the original pain. But I can promise you that if you don’t work through your problem you’re going to come unstuck one day. I wonder if that hasn’t already happened. Is that why you’re here?’

      ‘This is a load of bullshit.’

      I can’t help it. The woman might be hotter than Hades, but she’s spouting psychobabble crap out of that beautiful red mouth of hers and it makes my skin crawl.

      I hate this shit. I’ve heard it all before. If it hadn’t been for Gabe’s ultimatum, I’d never have arranged to meet her. But I’d do just about anything for Gabe, even without the threat to stand me down from the company while I ‘sort myself the hell out’—his words. I don’t want to see a shrink, and I have no intention of seeing Dr Scott-Leigh—hell, I don’t want to see anyone. I’m going through the motions, that’s all. But I didn’t come here expecting her to get under my skin like she is. I didn’t expect to find her utterly fascinating.

      ‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ she murmurs, and I wonder how she’d feel if I were to slip my hands under her dress, finding the softness of her thighs, the heat between her legs.

      I drink the water again, thinking I really should have chosen a bar instead of this busy central London café. I replace the water glass and prop my elbows on the table, enjoying the way her eyes flare a little wider as my body looms closer, before she tamps down on the response and is all businesslike professionalism again.

      Is there a Mr Dr Scott-Leigh?

      No wedding ring, and you’d bet her husband would be smart enough to make sure she wore one. With a body like hers, she’s no doubt got a never-ending queue of men at her door. Hell, if she were mine, I’d chain her to my bed. At least until the novelty wore off.

      My lips twist at the missed opportunity. Yes, I definitely should have suggested a bar after-hours. Somewhere I could actually do something about the fantasies I’ve had about her since she walked in, aching to dispel all professionalism and aloofness.

      I heave out a sigh, returning my attention to her face. It’s a face that is objectively beautiful. Huge blue eyes, a nose that can only be described as cute, with a neck that is elegant. Her hair is as fair as sunlight and it’s plaited in a way that tells me she’s trying to tame herself but, in contradiction to that, she’s wearing little red earrings that I see now СКАЧАТЬ