“It’s compromising, Roland.”
“Compromising? Who makes these rules? Who’s checking to see if they’re obeyed? Say thank you, and let that be the end of it.”
Against her better judgment, she thanked him and left it at that.
He’d been her patient for a while, but this was the first time she’d come to his restaurant. He’d often issued her off-handed invitations. “You need to eat at my place,” or “What’s your favorite Italian dish? I’ll have it made up special for you.”
But yesterday when he’d called her after weeks without hearing from him, he’d been surprisingly insistent that she accept his invitation. “You’ve done a lot for me. Let me repay you. How about tomorrow night?”
“Tomorrow? That’s short notice. You’re probably already booked to capacity.”
“I own the place. You’ll have the best table.”
He’d continued to press. She’d run out of excuses, and, when she finally agreed, he’d said, “I’ll send a car for you. Be ready at six-thirty.”
“I’ll drive myself, thank you.”
“Unnecessary. I have a car and driver on standby. Most of the time I’m paying him to twiddle his thumbs.”
“I’ll come on my own, Roland, or not at all.”
“Jeez, you’re stubborn. What time should I expect you?”
“I’ll be there by eight.”
Tonight when she arrived, she’d been escorted to one of the more secluded tables in a corner. On it were a white damasktablecloth, a leather-bound menu with a silk tassel, a flickering candle, and a crystal decanter of red wine. But only one place setting.
She’d been vastly relieved that her client wouldn’t be joining her for the meal. Last evening she’d shared a table with Mitch Haskell. There’d been no tablecloth, candlelight, or wine. On the menu was a stenciled blue crawfish instead of a tassel.
And look where that had led.
“Glad I talked you into coming?” Roland asked now.
“I am. Very. Your timing was good. I needed a change of scenery.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
He’d asked the question casually, but he leaned back against the tufted velvet chair as though to scrutinize her more fully. He also began turning his pinkie ring, a habit she’d noticed during their first session. She’d once asked him what significance the ring held for him.
“It was my old man’s. He’s dead.”
He hadn’t elaborated, but she’d thought it telling that while he often referenced his mother, he never again had mentioned his father. Whenever she had subtly tried to steer him toward revealing more about their relationship, he had just as subtly switched topics.
In answer to his question, she said, “I thought a night out would do me good, that’s all. No specific reason.”
Which was a bald lie. The reason was her longing to have sex with her patient, Mitch Haskell. With very little guile or persuasion on his part, she’d crossed lines with him that couldn’t be uncrossed. If her misconduct were found out, her professional reputation would be irreparably damaged.
And, on a personal level, she had spent years carefullyestablishing barriers against romantic involvement. To continue chipping away at those self-imposed restrictions could ultimately result in a broken heart. She’d had one. She didn’t want another.
After leaving Mitch last night, she had resolved that she must stay away from him. Not a parting, a severance. Which meant dropping him as a patient.
She just hadn’t worked up the gumption to notify him of it yet.
“You work too hard,” Roland was saying. “Hell, it would get anybody down to listen all day, every day, to people bellyaching about their plight in life.”
“I don’t think of what I do aswork. It’s more like a calling.”
“You sound like a nun.”
