Malone was built solidly and squarely. His dark suit had been tailored to perfectly fit the blocky frame. Running through his heavily waxed hair were parallel channels plowed by a comb. A diamond-studded Rolex twinkled on his left wrist.
His voice was monotonal and as weighty as an anchor, but oddly soft-spoken. It was the voice of someone devoid of emotion. If eyes emitted sound, Malone’s would match his voice. They were flat, blank, emotionless, soulless. Looking into them, Mitch had been convinced they were the eyes that had passively watched as Angela died.
In the seconds they had stood facing each other, Mitch had registered and mentally catalogued as many of these details as he could.
But it wasn’t until Malone had gestured when he’d ordered them to scatter that Mitch had seen the signet ring on his right pinkie finger. Its red stone had caught the bright beam of the overhead security light, flashing its fire directly into Mitch’s eyes and searing his heart with savagery and exaltation.
The two emotions struck him simultaneously, one as powerful as the other. Miraculously, he managed to keep both harnessed.
But, as he’d turned away, he’d smiled into the zipped-up neck of his hoodie and whispered, “I’m on to you, cocksucker.”
He had so much to think about, the ninety-minute drive home seemed to go quickly. At the storage unit, he swapped out the ratty pickup for his other with the efficiency acquired by routine.
As soon as he’d secured his apartment for the night, he rid himself of his disguise. First came off the knitted stocking cap. Sewn into it was what appeared tobe straw-colored, unwashed, lice-ridden, stringy hair that draped his shoulders like an unraveling knitted shawl. It made his head itch, but it was essential.
Next, he unzipped the filthy hoodie and pulled it off inside out. Then, wincing, he peeled off the stick-on beard and mustache. If he’d actually been working undercover, he would have had to grow his own, but for a drizzly night in a dark alley, the artificial had been sufficient.
He scrubbed off the “dirt” makeup he’d learned to apply in special ops, took a hot shower, then got into bed, where, finally, he let himself relax—as much as he ever relaxed—and let his thoughts drift back to the time he’d spent in the company of his therapist.
It was time to ponder this dilemma also known as Dylan Reede.
After waving goodbye to Officer Clarence, he’d driven around the corner and pulled into one of the covered and shadowed drive-through bays of a bank across the street which had afforded him a view of the medical building’s parking lot.
He hadn’t had to wait long before Dylan emerged from a door with “Personnel Only” stenciled on it. She’d taken in her surroundings with a cautious look around. But not all that cautious, because she’d missed his truck. She’d then gotten into the only car left on the lot.
He’d been responsible for making her late to leave, so he’d figured the least he could do was make sure she got home safely. He’d followed her, at a distance, to one of the coveted townhomes that backed up to Auclair’s only country club’s golf course. He hadn’t headed for New Orleans until she’d gotten inside and the lights were turned on.
When he’d first seen her this morning, he’d been struck by how attractive she was. That was a forgivable offense. He wasn’tblind. But he’d kissed her only to rile her and test how she would react, not because of unbridled desire.
Tonight, however, in that small space, with no Ellie in the next room, with Dylan looking as rumpled as she had, he’d come close to kissing her again for another reason entirely: He’d wanted to.
He’d wanted to alot. If his tongue had touched her lips again tonight, he would have slipped it between them, stayed a while, taken his time to taste her, and given vent to the pressure below his belt that had been increasing since he’d walked in and seen her all tousled.
Tousled was not an adjective he’d thought he would ever use in his lifetime. But here he was, using it.
Tousled Dylan, looking up at him with dazed eyes as he’d counted her heartbeats, was an altogether different animal from buttoned-up Dr. Reede tapping her pen against her notepad. Tousled Dylan had roused the animal inside him that had been sleeping since Angela’s death.
He’d spent his first eighteen months as a widower in full-blown mourning. More often than not, drunken mourning. The past six months, since that fateful meeting with Jim Tucker, he’d spent plotting his vengeance against the men who’d robbed Angela of her life and Andrew of his mother.
First profound grief, then vengeful wrath, had been inhibitors to his sex drive. He’d had no interest in, nor inclination toward, romance on any level. He’d curtly rebuffed every tentative inquiry whether he was ready to start dating.
It wasn’t as though he’d taken a vow of celibacy out of respect for Angela. He had loved her body and soul and would cherish the memory of her and their time together until he drew his last breath.
But she would be the first to encourage him not to live the restof his life alone and lonely. She wouldn’t want that for him or for Andrew. He wasn’t against the prospect of having a future relationship. He just hadn’t met a woman who’d sparked his interest.
Dylan hadn’t sparked it; she’d ignited a bonfire. Even if his head and heart had rejected the very idea, his libido hadn’t. But why, when his future was dependent on the success or failure of their doctor–patient relationship, had she been the one to elbow his dick awake?
If ever there was a DO NOT GO THERE, this was it.
If he still believed in the Almighty, he would take him to task over this cruel joke.
And if John could read the train of his thoughts right now, he would shit.
With all ten fingers, he raked his hair off his forehead, held it back, and asked the ceiling above his bed,What am I going to do about this? What? What?
But hold on. He hadn’t crossed a line. Not yet. He hadn’t acted on the urge to kiss her again, had he? Okay, he’d held her wrist and counted her heartbeats. Big deal. And maybe his thumb had made a few stroking passes against that super-soft skin. But it was her wrist, for crying out loud. Not her… something else.
Dylan, the buttoned-up rule-keeper, wasn’t going to tell John or anybody else that he’d touched her in a way that was…iffy. And even iffy was a stretch. Nothing seismic had happened. This quandary was all inside his head without any actuality on which to base it. None. At all.
