The Season To Sin. Clare Connelly

      ‘I see.’ I tap ‘nil’ on the screen, then lift my attention to him once more. And freeze. He’s watching me unapologetically, taking advantage of the fact I’m distracted by the form, and his eyes are roaming over me as though I’m a painting on display in a gallery.

      My skin prickles with goosebumps.

      Noah Moore is dangerous.

      He has all the markers I have trained myself to avoid—he is rough and arrogant, ruthless and feral—and yet I stare at him for a moment, our eyes locked, and a surge of something forbidden rampages through my system. For the first time in five years, a slick of desire heats my blood, warming me from the inside out. I thought I’d never feel desire again after Aaron. I unmistakably feel it now.

      ‘Can I get you something to drink, folks?’ The waitress stands beside me and I flick my phone off automatically, discreetly hiding any information she might otherwise have seen.

      ‘Piccolo latte,’ I say.

      ‘Nothing,’ Noah says with a shake of his head. I frown. He suggested we meet for coffee and yet apparently has decided he won’t drink one.

      ‘Why are you here, Mr Moore?’

      ‘Is that you asking, or your form?’

      My smile is tight. ‘Both. It will save us time if we cut to the chase.’

      He makes a slow, drawled tsking sound. ‘But where’s the fun in that, Holly?’

      He rolls his tongue around my name, making it sound like the sexiest word in the English language. ‘Do you find this fun, Noah?’ I return his challenge, inflecting his name with a hint of huskiness. I see it hit its mark. His eyes widen slightly, his pupils heavy and dark, and speculation colours his features.

      ‘No.’ It’s over, though. He’s sullen and scathing once more.

      ‘You didn’t want anything to drink?’ I say when the waitress returns with mine.

      ‘Don’t think this place serves my kind of drink,’ he drawls, and I surmise he’s referring to alcohol.

      ‘Do you drink every day?’

      ‘Some days,’ he says with a lift of his broad shoulders. ‘Some nights.’

      ‘Is that why you asked to meet me?’ I prompt. ‘Do you think you have a drinking problem?’

      His laugh is short and sharp. ‘If I say yes, can we end this charade and both go home?’

      ‘No one’s forcing you to be here. It’s just a “conversation”, remember?’

      He looks at me with barely concealed impatience and I am curious as to the reason for that.

      ‘You work mainly with veterans,’ he continues, and the knowledge that he’s researched me does something strange to my gut.

      It shouldn’t. Most people research a doctor like me before making an appointment. There are myriad specialties amongst psychologists, countless ways to practise what we do. For Noah Moore to be here, he must know that I’m his best shot at help.

      He’s still researching me, though, in a way. Interviewing me before deciding if he wants to commit to a treatment protocol.

      I think of the awards that line the walls of my office. They’re just shiny statues, but to me they mean so much more. I can remember all my patients. The hurts in their eyes, the traumas of their souls. Those awards are the acknowledgement that I have helped some of them.

      ‘I work with people who need me,’ I say, returning my gaze to Noah’s face. ‘People who need help.’

      ‘And you think I’m one of them?’ There’s fierce rejection in the very idea.

      ‘You called me.’

      He presses his lips together. ‘This is a waste of fucking time.’

      It takes more than a curse word to make me blush, though Noah Moore curses in a way that is uniquely interesting, drawing out the U.

      I don’t react as I want to. To be fair to myself, it’s been a long time since I’ve felt anything for a guy and suddenly all of me is responding to all of him; my cells are reverberating on every level. ‘You’re free to leave.’

      His anger is directed at me. Resentment too. It reminds me of the way he reacted minutes earlier when I told him no one was forcing him to be here and he simmered with that same angry rejection.

      My mind ponders this as I sip my coffee. Our eyes are locked over the rim and my pulse ratchets up another notch. His eyes drop to my breasts and I feel an instantaneous zing of awareness. My nipples harden against the fabric of my bra and my stomach squeezes. I press my knees together under the table.

      I’m used to this kind of attention. I’ve dealt with it all my life. I’m on the short side, slim with breasts that are out of proportion to my small frame. They seemed to grow almost overnight when I was only twelve.

      It’s one of the reasons I wear dresses like this. Plain colour, dark, thick, demure. It falls to my knees and to my wrists, and the neckline is high. I’m not ashamed of my figure, but I don’t want the nickname I had just out of university to catch on. ‘The Sexy Shrink’ is hardly the business pedigree I seek.

      ‘I’m here now.’ He shrugs as though he doesn’t care, but I know otherwise. I know because it’s my job to read people and I’m good at it, and I know because I have a sixth sense that’s firing like crazy in my gut. ‘Might as well let you sell yourself to me. Go on. Work your magic.’

      I fight the urge to tell him there is no such thing as magic when it comes to trauma therapy. It takes hard work, long hours and dedication from both patient and physician. I’m willing to put in the hard yards, but is he?

      I come back to the suspicion I have that he feels compelled to be meeting with me. Obliged might be a better word. Like he ‘has’ to go through with this appointment, not because he ‘wants’ to heal.

      Usually, I would follow a more traditional form of approach to tease the answers out, but Noah Moore is not going to respond to traditional therapeutic means. It’s why he insisted we meet here, in a coffee shop, rather than my office. I lace my fingers together, leaning forward slightly, elbows propped on the table. ‘I get the feeling you’re here against your will.’

      ‘Yeah,’ he grunts. ‘Didn’t you see the guy with the gun to my head when I walked in?’ He laughs it off.

      ‘You seem reluctant to accept my help,’ I say softly. ‘You keep stressing that this isn’t an appointment, that we’re just “talking”. You refused to come to my office, because you feel safer in a neutral setting like this café. And yet while I’ve said you may leave, you’re choosing to stay.’

      There’s a wariness that steals over him at having been called out. Good. Unsettling him is going to be crucial here. ‘You think anyone could force me to do what I don’t want?’

      It’s a good point. Noah Moore, even without the billions in the bank, is a man who would be impossible to intimidate. He is brawn, brains and beauty, all in one.

      ‘You tell me.’

      He expels a sigh. ‘I contacted you, didn’t I?’

      ‘That doesn’t mean someone wasn’t holding a gun to your head.’ I force another smile. ‘Metaphorically speaking.’

      He holds my eyes for a fraction too long and then reaches forward, wrapping his fingers around one of the water glasses the waitress brought and sipping from it. I wait while he swallows, impatience breeding frustration in my gut.

      I’m not used to this degree of resistance. A little, sure. It comes with the territory. But generally there’s some sense of apology for it. People know that my time is worth a lot of money. That usually encourages a compulsion