“I’ll tell you whatyoushould think about, doc. If you’re getting men in this cozy little nook of yours with all the throw pillows, you really should consider wearing sensible shoes, a longer skirt, an ill-fitting cardigan, and a different face.”
She gave him another look of reproof. “Sorry, that tactic doesn’t work on me, either.” She waited for a beat, then said, “Let’s sit back down and talk calmly and reasonably. Because if you refuse these sessions, Lieutenant Bowie—”
“Bowie can go—Read my mind.”
“We don’t have to address the hard subjects until you’re ready to. We can start with—”
“My birth? Childhood? The loss of my virginity? Work up from there to last Saturday night and my fall from Saint John’s grace?”
“I have this same time on Thursday morning reserved for you. Please be here.”
“Sorry. Can’t make it.”
“Then we’ll work around your schedule. I’ll see you any time you say.”
The quip he had planned to say died on his lips. Instead, he jerked his head back and gave her a long, measuring look. “No,” he drawled, “I don’t think you will. See me as a patient, that is. In fact, I can guarantee that you won’t.”
He reached out and curved his hand around the back of her neck. Pulling her forward and up to him, he kissed her. Swiftly but with impact. Then he released her just as suddenly.
Holding her wide, disbelieving gaze, he smiled and dabbed at a damp spot on his lower lip with the back of his hand. “As rules of doctor–patient conduct go, that’s a real no-no, isn’t it, Dr. Reede? Ergo, we’re done.”
Then he went over and opened the door into the waiting room. “Screw the escape hatch. I’ll go out the way I came in.”
Chapter 5
After Mitch slammed out, Dylan stood rooted to the floor, too stunned to move. A full minute later when her silenced phone vibrated, she was still in the same spot, trying to think past what had just happened. Better yet, to convince herself that it hadn’t happened at all.
She took the phone from the pocket of her blazer and clicked it on, hoping that her voice wasn’t as tremulous as she felt. “Yes, Ellie?”
“Mrs. Trent has arrived for her appointment.”
“Oh, thank you. I’m running a bit behind.”
“Everything all right?”
“Yes, of course. I was just making some notes. Mr. Haskell declined to use the private exit. Did he manage to duck out before Mrs. Trent got here?”
“No. In fact, he very politely held the door open for her as she was coming in. He humbly apologized to both of us for coming through the waiting room.”
Dylan envisioned him turning on the charm, capping off the apology with a self-deprecating remark, and leaving the two ladies all aflutter with his devilish smile. It made her want to throw something. “Give me a few minutes for a bathroom break, then I’ll come out and escort Mrs. Trent in.”
She went into her inner office, where she had converted a closet into a powder room. She wet a hand towel with cold water and applied the makeshift compress to her neck and cheeks. They felt aflame, and the mirror above the sink confirmed they were abnormally rosy. The blush extended down into the open collar of her shirt.
Which, by the way, was tailored, as was her blazer. There was nothing flashy or flirtatious about either. Her skirt was knee length, and the heels of her pumps were moderate. Not a single article of her clothing was provocative. How dare he suggest…
What was the matter with her? Why was she defending her wardrobe? His sexist remarks had been classically manipulative, intended to make her uncomfortable, to seize control of a situation he did not want to be in, and establish a power shift from her to him. She knew better than to let such transparent manipulation from a patient affect her. She had even told him the tactic wouldn’t work.
But it had. Ithad, and she was shaky all over because that had never happened before. In all her years of practice, not even her most truculent, snide, and uncooperative patients had ever gotten to her the way he had.
Because the session had been mandated, she had expected him to go on the offensive, precisely as he’d done. From the start, he’d tried to devalue her opinion and certify his immunity to it.
But obvious to her was that his charm, rudeness, and jokingwere all defense mechanisms used to detract from the pain behind his eyes. It had been apparent to her immediately. Mitch Haskell was in pain, and John Bowie had told her that this unrelenting emotional anguish had overtaken his life.
But it doesn’t have to, Mitch.
That’s what she’d wanted to impress upon him, but it would have been way too premature to approach that today. He would have denied having any pain, or would have deflected her by making a joke of it.
During her interview with Bowie, he had cautioned her not to be taken in by Mitch’s wily avoidance tactics. “He’s got a smart mouth and a naughty-boy grin, but don’t let them fool you. Mitch is a serious guy. I’ve seen him cry over lost comrades, lost causes, and the rejected trees on the Christmas tree lots. He takes everything to heart, Dr. Reede, and his heart was put through a shredder when he lost his wife.
