Maintaining her smile and keeping her hand outstretched, she replied, “Not about my name.”
He stared down at her hand as though uncertain what it was and what function it served, then gave it a quick shake and immediately let go.
“Come on back.” She turned away and started for the door she’d left standing open.
As though Ellie had used her sweet demeanor to deliberately deceive him, he shot her a dirty look over his shoulder. Her expression turned wary, although he couldn’t tell if her concern was for him or the psychologist… the one with the beguiling smoky gray eyes and prima ballerina legs.
Swearing inaudibly, he followed her into a room he wished were a lot bigger and a lot cooler. She shut the door and motioned him toward a sofa while she sat down on a matching one facing it.
He remained standing and took in his surroundings. The room was furnished like a parlor in one of the French Quarter’s antiquated townhouses. “No desk?” he asked. “Computer? File cabinet? Not even a telephone?”
She pointed out a closed door that fit into the paneling so well it was barely detectable. “All in there.”
“Huh.”
He continued his survey. The window blinds were half closed so there was little daylight to compromise the serenity of the setting. In front of the window was a round table where a potted ivy thrived, and a fragrant candle flickered in an amber glass votive. On the table at the end of the sofa was a low-wattage lamp with a linen shade, a box of tissues, and several unopened bottles of water. The sofa itself was crowded with throw pillows of various sizes and shapes.
This wasn’t her workstation. This was a lair, made intentionally cozy and confidence-inspiring. This was where she listened to people weeping over dashed dreams, where they exposed their heartaches, and whispered confessions of darkest sins. Within these walls, Dr. Dylan Reede exorcised demons. Or endeavored to.
She’d find out soon enough that his demons stubbornly held their ground.
He looked down at her where she sat, seemingly calm, cool, and collected. He supposed that giving a new patient time to acclimate to the environment was part of the drill. “Is being made to wait the first step of the wear-him-down process?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What happened to the patient before me? Orwasthere even a patient before me?”
Understanding his point, she indicated another door he had assumed was a closet. “The exit. It opens into a hallway where there’s a back elevator to the ground floor.”
“Ah. An escape hatch so patients won’t be bumping into each other in the waiting room.”
“In order to protect the privacy of both.”
“Huh,” he said again. Let her make of that non-word what she would.
One thing he had already deduced: Ruffling this lady wasn’t going to be easy. She didn’t appear to mind that he had remained standing and had the advantage of staring down at her where she sat. She stared back without flinching as she calmly waited him out.
But she had no idea of who she was up against. He hadn’tbeen an undercover narc for nothing, you know. He had a truckload of gambits he used to get people to crack. He wondered what it would take to heat her up, get under her skin, ignite a spark in those smoky eyes. In that moment, it became his life’s mission to do so.
“I figured Dylan for a man’s name.”
She gave a small smile. “My paternal grandfather’s name. It’s sometimes mistaken.”
“Didheknow that you’re a woman?”
“He?”
“Bowie.”
“Yes. Hevettedme,” she replied, using the same inflection he’d used on his voice mail message.
So: eyes, legs, and a backbone. “I looked you up on the internet. Thought it was strange that your website didn’t have a picture of you like most do. Now I know why yours doesn’t.”
“Why would that be?”
“You get people in here before they find out you’re not what they were expecting.”
“What were you expecting?”
