“What kind of doctor?”
“We don’t know that.” She looked over her shoulder, eyeing the door. “We should lock him in the dungeon.”
She meant that literally, since there was, in fact, a dungeon.
“As much fun as it would be to set back whatever progress we’ve made with the Americans, since they clearly sent him, let’s talk to him.”
“We can always put him in the dungeon later,” Regina muttered darkly.
Eric shook his head at her and headed for the door.
Dr. Elijah Mata looked to be mid-fifties with dark hair and lines around his eyes. He wore a simple suit, no tie. His clothes were slightly rumpled in a way that made Eric think he’d probably come straight here without stopping at a hotel either in Dublin or London after the transatlantic flight.
He rose when Eric entered, offering his hand. “Mr. Ericsson?”
“Dr. Mata.” They shook, then stood awkwardly for a moment.
Dr. Mata raised one brow, but smiled softly before sitting in one of the two armchairs angled toward the fireplace. Eric sat too, the chair slightly too small for him. It creaked ominously.
“We have a mutual friend,” Eric said slowly, feeling out the situation.
“Juliette isn’t my friend. She is, however, my patient.”
He’d thought Franco, Juliette’s husband, was behind this, but it appeared it was the Grand Master herself. Eric studied the other man, trying to guess where this was going. “Should you be telling me that?”
“I have her express written permission to discuss her personal health information with you.”
“Is she dying?” Shit. He really hoped not. He liked Juliette. It had taken a while, but she was his…friend.
And if she was dying, she was definitely going to try to leverage that to make him do something. Damn it.
“Imminently? No. But we’re all dying, Mr. Ericsson. Death is as much a part of life as birth.”
He nodded slowly. “I see. You’re here to say cryptic things that either piss me off or drive me insane. Juliette’s trying to see what it will take to push me over the edge.”
Dr. Mata laughed. “No, I’m here to offer my services.”
“And what services would those be?”
Dr. Mata sat forward, mirroring Eric’s elbows-on-knees posture. “To help you process.”
“Process what?”
“Your past.”
Eric blinked. “Juliette sent me a therapist?”
“I have a doctorate of psychology—not a PhD in psychology but a PsyD. My specialty is clinical practice for those who’ve experienced trauma as adults.”
“PTSD.”
“Often.” Dr. Mata tipped his hand side to side in a “maybe” gesture. “That’s an umbrella term that covers many things. The way each of us deals with trauma experienced in adulthood is different, and the way we process it is also different.”
Eric opened his mouth, closed it. “She sent me her therapist?” He couldn’t decide if he was pissed, outraged, or appreciative.
Dr. Mata laced his hands together. “Do you know what happened to Juliette and Devon?”
Yes, he knew what they’d gone through when some nut job Bible thumpers learned just enough about the Trinity Masters that they’d managed to kidnap Juliette and Devon. They’d leftFranco, assuming he couldn’t be their third because he was Hispanic. Because why not throw in a little racism.
