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A sinister smirk stretches across my face. “Oh, I plan to.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Marcus
“Hello, Miss Irvine. How would you say you’re doing today?”
“Please.” Leighton suppresses a smile as we sit in our chairs. Close to each other, same as we had yesterday. “You can call me Leighton, Marcus. I promised I’d play along. I’m on board with…this.”
Her hair has only just begun to dry. She brushed it and let it hang around her shoulders, the rusty pink standing out against the knitted gray mini-dress I chose for her.
No panties. No bra. A dress and nothing else.
“We’ve started our therapy session.” For emphasis, I tap my pan on my legal pad where I scribbled—Leighton June Irvine, session 2. “This isn’t us chatting.”
“You sure?” Leighton runs her tongue on her lip. Testing me. Tempting me. “Since we’re sick and all, maybe this is your version of pillow talk?”
“Absolutely not.”
She lifts an eyebrow. This is the second time she’s tried that on me.
Not too many have flirted with me over the years, but transference has happened. I’m here to listen to my patients, understand them, give them my undivided attention. In the process, some redirect unconscious feelings they have for another person to me.
In Leighton’s case, there’s no transference. The man she loves and her therapist are one and the same.
She does, however, need a firm hand.
Lucky for her, she has me.
I choose the approach I go for whenever a situation like this arises. I relax back in my chair. Pull my lips into a fine line and strip my gaze of any emotion.
I click my pen in a rhythm of five taps. Silence for two seconds. Five, then two again. Her gaze loses a part of the challenge in it. Her fingers relax in her lap.
“Let’s skip the part where you force me to drag the information out of you.” My tone is level, my azure-blue slacks and white button-down shirt emphasizing this is, indeed, a therapy session.
“Okay.”
“Start by telling me how you’re doing.”
“I’m fine.”
“Okay. What does fine mean?”
“That I’m not actually fine.” Leighton dips her chin, glancing at me from beneath her thick lashes.
“Good. Honesty is good.” I let her confession stay in the air for a beat. “Mind elaborating on that?”
“Well.” Her eyes skate to the side. I sense a bratty statement is about to come. “I’ve been kidnapped, so there’s that.”
I don’t scold her. This is her session. For selfish reasons, I use this time to get to know her.
“I can’t imagine that was easy on you. Being taken.”
She huffs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. A nervous tick I’ve witnessed long before this weekend.
“How are you holding up?” I continue, watching her cross and uncross her ankles.
“I’m not sure, Marcus.” Leighton twists her lips. “You tell me.”
