Confession (8 page)

All in all, it'd been a truly terrible day.

Oddest thing though—­she drifted right off to sleep—­with more ease than she had in a long, long time.

B
y the time she opened her eyes again, sunset coated the living room in soft pink light. The lace cloth on her dining-­room table looked like a ballerina's tutu—­what was up with that? She blinked until it looked like a tablecloth again. Her eyes focused on Luke, sitting cross-­legged on the floor, reading a
Psychology Today
magazine while Chica sprawled in his lap.

“Hey there, sleepyhead,” he said when she sat up and yawned.

“Hey there back.” A warm feeling spread across her chest, but it was quickly followed by a pulsatile ache in her head. For a moment, she couldn't get her bearings. What was Luke Jericho doing in her living room petting her dog . . . and when did she get a dog? She touched the throbbing spot on her forehead.

Oh yeah.

Chica.

The limo.

The rock.

“Who do you think threw that rock at the limousine?” Too many things were going on at the same time. Hard to sort out what was important and what was coincidence. A man breaking into her house, a rock thrown at a limo while she was inside. She didn't know if it was just bad luck or something more.

“I'm sure the rock wasn't intended for you if that's what you're worried about. Dante's confession is all over the news, and the limo has a personalized plate:
JER
I
C
H
O
O
N
E
. ­People are scared, and they're looking for a scapegoat. Right, now, my family's that goat.”

“
J
E
R
I
C
H
O
O
N
E
.
How many limos do you have?” she asked, hoping it wouldn't turn out to be more than the number of pairs of shoes in her closet.

“Three.”

She had four pairs of shoes. “Well, that's a relief.”

He threw back his head and laughed. First time she'd seen him do that. He looked . . . very attractive when he laughed. He also looked very attractive when he didn't.

“I like this dog.” He scratched Chica under the chin. “She wandered out of that bedroom, right after you fell asleep. Nosed around a little, then once she found you, she wouldn't leave your side, so here we both are.” Pulling Chica's face up, he studied her eyes. She mewled and wagged her tail in response. “What happened to her?”

“Don't know, really. The vet says she's most likely been on the streets for a very long time. Prior to that, suffered some abuse. She's malnourished, pregnant. She followed the little boy next door home from school, but she's too much for Tommy's family to manage, so I'm sort of her foster mom.”

“Lucky dog.”

“Lucky me.” She patted her knees, and Chica came bounding over to her. “If I hadn't needed to take Chica to the vet, I would've walked in on a burglar, and who knows what would've happened.” She shuddered just thinking how close a call she'd had.

She never saw a man get to his feet so fast. “You had a burglar. When was this?”

His alarm alarmed her. No one else had seemed impressed by a black-­haired man appearing in her kitchen window. Not the uniformed officer who'd taken the report, certainly not Detective Johnson. But Luke stalked across the room, flexing and unflexing his hands, his brows drawn down into a tight V between his eyes.

“Last night, but nothing was taken, so I guess all's well that ends well.”

“How did he get in? I didn't see broken windows anywhere in the house.”

“You didn't see any broken windows
anywhere in the house
when?”

“When I was checking out the place.”

“Oh.” Her hand went to her throat. It was only natural he would've looked around. But most ­people wouldn't own up to it. Luke Jericho was turning out to be a very forthright man, and she couldn't make up her mind whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. “I don't know how the burglar got in. The police say there's no sign of forced entry, but I'm absolutely certain I locked my doors and windows.” She stared at her fingernails. “I do have a hide-­a-­key, but it hadn't been moved.”

Luke had his phone in his hand again. He and that phone seemed tight. Very tight.

“I need a locksmith. I'm at . . .” He looked over at her. “What's the address?”

“What're you doing?”

“We need to get the locks changed.”

“What do you mean
we
need to get the locks changed?”

“I'm somewhere on Calle De La Cereza, just tell the guy to look for the limo in the driveway.”

Her chagrin doubled. This was simply too much. Luke's profile was making her heartbeat launch into outer space, but she no longer cared. “You made your chauffeur wait outside for you this entire time?”

“Good to know you think I'm a complete ass, but no, another driver picked him up. Left me the limo.” He laid his phone on the coffee table and sat down next to her, touched her hair in a way that had that rocket-­ship effect on her heart again. “You had a break-­in. No sign of forced entry means you either didn't lock your doors and windows like you say you did, or the intruder had a way in. Most likely he used your hide-­a-­key. Plus you're renting, right? No telling who has keys to this place.” Without giving her time to respond, he continued, “We're changing the locks tonight.”

Her jaw clamped down, and she had to take a few deep breaths before she could open her mouth and respond. “Whether I change my locks is my decision, not yours. You don't get to just barge in here and take charge of my life.”

“What life?”

“Excuse me?”

“Don't think I didn't have my guys check you out the moment I found out you were my brother's psychiatrist.”

“You had no right.”

“I have every right to protect my brother.”

“Well you don't have a right to protect me. No wonder Dante has a problem with you. You're an interfering control freak.”

“And you're a stubborn, infuriating woman who doesn't know how to say thank you when someone offers her help.”

“Oh, did you
offer
me help? Because I must've missed that part. So call your guy off. I don't need your locksmith.”

He handed her the phone. “Then call your own. Do it now.”

“I've
already
had the locks changed,” she ground out. “And you can't tell me what to do, Luke Jericho.” Even to her, the words sounded silly. “We hardly even know each other.”

“That's about to change.”

She arched a single eyebrow—­high enough he ought to get the message.

“Look, I owe my brother, and, you said so yourself, you owe my brother, too. That puts us both on the same team, so yeah, we're going to get to know each other real well, real fast.” He picked up her hand, traced his thumb along her palm, trailing fire everywhere he touched. “And one of the first things you're going to learn about me is that I don't mess around. I don't cajole. I don't persuade. I don't seduce. Subterfuge isn't in my nature.” First his breath was in her hair, fogging up her brain. Then he was whispering close in her ear, melting her like warmed sugar. “When I see something I want, Faith, I don't apologize. I just go get it.”

 

NINE

Friday, July 26, 7:00
A.M.

W
ithout finding anything he could choke down for breakfast, Scourge slammed the refrigerator door and sidled along the kitchen wall, one arm covering his eyes. Unable to bear looking at the calendar while its red dates pulsed at him, taunting him like the very blood that surged through his veins, he'd been forced to begin chronicling time in a spiral notebook.

Twenty days.

That's all the time he had left until he was supposed to fulfill his destiny with the Donovans.

Just last Sunday he'd been itching with anticipation, but now—­he pressed his palms to his eyes—­after all his practice, all his dedication everything was falling apart. Thanks to that incident at the lab, he'd hardly slept in days. The sight of the red vessels fanning across the whites of his eyes sent shivers racing down his back and thick waves of nausea rolling through his gut.

With determination, he hobbled to the bedroom and pulled the book from beneath his pillow. As he traced its title with his fingers, electric volts shot up his arms and jolted his heart into a terrifying, galloping rhythm. He jerked his hand from the book and fell to his knees.

Pressure welled behind his eyes. How could he fulfill his destiny now?

Of all the obstacles he'd prepared for, all the possible complications and hindrances he'd imagined that might keep him from executing his plan, this particular problem had never occurred to him. And so he hadn't been ready. Not for this.

Still disbelieving, he tried one last time. Clawing his arm, he gouged his nails deeper and deeper until red droplets began to ooze from his skin. An agonizing scream tore from his throat as a wave of terror swamped him. It couldn't be true.

But it was.

Tears streamed from his eyes.

He was afraid of blood.

F
aith Clancy had just become an
official
part of Scourge's master plan.

Pleased with himself for coming up with the perfect solution to his problem, Scourge settled himself in the big leather chair on the patient side of Dr. Clancy's desk and smiled. If he'd had any qualms about choosing a target—­about choosing
Dr. Clancy
—­off book and for his own pleasure, those points were all moot now.

This was destiny, plain and simple. No wonder he'd been drawn to her so deeply, so inexplicably, from the first moment he'd seen her face in that brochure. And here she was, the very one who'd turned Dante Jericho over to the police. Dr. Clancy's fate was sealed. She was meant to be his.

Though he despised a man who couldn't regulate his appetites, waiting for this temptress would be the ultimate exercise in self-­control. His release would come, but only at the appointed time. Although this hemophobia he'd developed posed an unexpected problem, he was quite certain he could overcome it in short order and keep to his schedule.

A great vocabulary word:
Hemophobia.

And Dr. Clancy was just the person to cure him of it.

Irony.

Also a good word. He made a mental note to use both words in a sentence at least once today and nestled deeper into the comfy leather armchair. The butter-­soft animal hide felt like living skin as he dragged his fingers over it and imagined stroking the soft hollow of Dr. Clancy's throat. A space so creamy, so pure—­so exciting. Then he thought about her stroking him, and his dick hardened. His heart beat fast and loud. Too loud. If she heard it, she'd know he was a dirty boy.

Dirty boy. What's that in your pants?

Thwack.

He could feel the hot sting of Sister's ruler slapping his dick. She'd seen his erection and taught him a lesson.

It's for your own good. You don't want to go to hell, do you?

But that was just it. He
did
want to go to hell. More than anything he wanted to find a place where he belonged. At least in hell, he'd fit in with all the other dirty boys. He looked down at his crotch and saw that his dick had deflated, and his chin dropped to his chest in relief. He'd regained his self-­control.

“What brings you here today, Mr. Teodori? How can I help you?” Dr. Clancy asked.

Behind a smile that was all innocence and light, she hid her own dirty heart. Dr. Clancy didn't see through him, but he could see through her.

“Scourge. Please call me Scourge.”

The corners of her mouth pulled down, and then a neutral expression quickly replaced the look of someone who'd just had an unpleasant surprise. “All right, Mr. Teodori . . . Scourge. Is that your given name, or a nickname?”

“It's my
name.
A friend helped me change it. Would it be on my insurance card if it weren't my legal name?”

“Oh, certainly, right. I see.”

But she didn't see. He could tell by her frozen face she didn't think
Scourge
was a proper name for a man. Probably thought a name like that'd make a person feel bad or worthless or cause some deep psychosocial injury. But she was wrong. Sister Bernadette had fixed him with that name because it was true to his character. To be a scourge upon the earth was a fine destiny, and he had the ambition and the will to live up to his name. He was glad to have a purpose. He was glad to own his name. His back straightened, and he met her eyes—­those sad eyes that made him want to fuck her and then slide a knife across her throat.

Dr. Clancy didn't look away.

She wanted him, too.

Patience.

“Scourge . . .”

Yes. She definitely wanted him—­he could hear it in the throaty dip of her sensual voice when she called out his name.

“I understand your family physician referred you to me last month. Perhaps you can tell me what brings you here
today.
What finally made you decide to follow through and seek therapy?”

“Hemophobia.” A grin tightened his cheeks. Hadn't been hard to fit that word into the conversation.

“I see.”

Was she going to keep saying that all day? He scratched the arms of the chair with his nails, and the leather made an anguished sound. Would Dr. Clancy make that sound when he fucked her?

“I think I might be able to help you with your fear of blood. How long have you had this problem?”

“A few days.”
Might
be able to help? He needed her to cure him immediately. “I-­I can't go on like this. You don't know what I'm going through.” His voice trembled like a fool's, and he had to cross his arms over his chest to keep his hands from shaking. “I've already lost my job.”

Now the sadness in her eyes looked more like compassion, as if she was thinking only of him and had forgotten about her own problems. The idea of someone like her worrying about someone like him made his chest constrict, then explode—­like he'd been underwater holding his breath and finally managed to kick his way to the surface for air.

But breathing in all that oxygen was painful, and it made him want to dive back down into the depths where he belonged.

“You lost your job?”

How was Dr. Clancy going to help him if all she ever did was repeat his words back to him? “Is there an echo in here?”

“It's called reflective listening. Quite an astute observation, Scourge. Now then, about losing your job, you were saying?”

He squeezed his eyes shut.
Patience.
He must exercise patience with her. Reveal enough so she could do
her
job . . . but not enough for her to discover who he really was. “I'm a phlebotomist. Isn't it ironic?”

“It's practically an Alanis Morissette lyric.” She gave him the innocent eyes again.

“Ha.” He forced a laugh. She was trying to relax him with humor. He didn't find the joke particularly funny but wanted her to know he was sophisticated enough to get it. “You a fan?”

“Oh, well not really, but it's a fun song. Anyway, yes, I do find it ironic that your job involves the very object you fear.”

He wanted to tell her more. He wanted her to understand. He couldn't fulfill his destiny as long as he feared blood. But sadly, it was his fate to be misunderstood. “Can you cure me?”

“I can't make promises, but I'm very optimistic. You see, you've only had the problem a little while. Technically, your fear of blood doesn't qualify as a phobia because it hasn't been present six months, but . . .”

The urge to choke her was almost too much to resist. Strangulation would be bloodless . . . but not at all satisfying. No. He'd come too far to give up on his plans now. He would wait for his cure. “I haven't slept in three days. I couldn't eat my breakfast this morning because I can't pour ketchup on my eggs, and that's the only way I like them. Yesterday, I saw a man with a barbecue stain on his shirt, and I passed out, right there on the street.” He gritted his teeth. “I qualify. I promise you, I qualify.”

She steepled her fingers and rested her chin atop them. “I agree with you, Scourge. We can't always go strictly by the book. What I was about to say is that when the problem is severe enough to interfere with your ability to carry out your work—­”

He came up on his haunches. “I need to do my work. We can't always go by the book. Sometimes we have to change the book to get the job done right.”

She nodded. “Agreed. If your symptoms interfere with daily living, I'd say you've got a true phobia. The good news is phobias are highly responsive to treatment. Often, a month or so of simple behavior therapy is all it takes.”

He dropped back into his chair. He only had
twenty days
left. “I can't wait that long.”

“I can see you're terribly eager to get back to work, and that's a good thing. Your desire to get better may move therapy along more quickly. I can't promise a fast cure, but like I said before, I'm optimistic.” She leaned back. “I think we should start with systematic desensitization. It's a simple but effective technique involving relaxation therapy, and I think you could benefit from learning to relax no matter what. You seem a little . . . on edge.”

A muscle in his jaw was twitching. He wished she hadn't noticed. He didn't want her to think he was a weakling. “Relax me now. Hurry, please.”

She hid a flash of a smile with her cupped hand. “Hurry up and relax? Slow down a minute and think of what you're saying. Take a deep breath, Scourge.”

He gulped air as fast as he could.

“Okay. Good start. Now take a
long,
deep breath, let it fill your lungs, then slowly,
slowly
exhale.”

He released his breath in a long exhale just like she said. Oddest thing. His heart slowed in his chest, his clenched hands opened and fell to his side. The muscle in his face stopped twitching. “I actually feel better. Am I cured?”

She pushed her chair back from the desk. “Hardly. But I'm glad you feel better than when you arrived. Try practicing slow, deep breaths before you go to bed tonight. Put your hand on your stomach and make it rise with each inhale. It'll help you sleep.” She leaned back, stretched her legs, placed her hand on her belly, and closed her eyes. She started to breathe, rhythmically, hypnotically.

As he watched her body rise and fall, his dick grew hard again. He stroked the leather chair while she breathed in, then out, demonstrating the technique. Yes. Dr. Faith Clancy was the perfect person to cure him. He could feel it in his bones. He'd be back at work in no time, and she would make a very pleasurable first order of business.