Scandal (With Me Book 2) Page 2

  Self-respect demanded some response, but my throat was too tight to speak. My pulse was racing while nerves zinged beneath the skin, and I knew I didn’t want this man on my doorstep.

  Intruding into my life.

  Anxiety spiked until my breathing stuttered. At Birdie’s blink of concern, I worked at smiling, finding it ironic that Connor Lange came to me for help with his anxiety—when I couldn’t control my own.

  “Oh, goodness,” Birdie bubbled, filling up the silence, “and here I am, standing in your way. Breaking all kinds of rules by leaving late.”

  She rattled on, growing more protective in her role as hostess and receptionist and overall nice person while I focused on breathing.

  “We were having tea, and I’m afraid I distracted Dr. St. Clair by overstaying my hour.”

  Another blatant lie we all ignored. He’d arrived early, a fact he didn’t apologize for, and when Birdie turned to study my expression, I hugged her. If I held on longer than a therapist would ever hug a client, I didn’t care. She deserved my hug.

  And Birdie wasn’t really a client, not the way Connor Lange expected to be. With effort, I looked in his direction and saw the hard amusement on his face, as if he’d seen through me and found my weakness satisfying.

  “I apologize for the confusion,” I said, realizing my skin had grown damp. “I thought your appointment was on the hour and not the half hour.”

  He knew exactly what I meant, and I wondered if he recognized me. If he remembered what I looked like, disheveled with dirt on my legs, the way I remembered him, driven and focused, with a pagan tattoo etched into his skin.

  Or if I’d be lucky—and he hadn’t heard the way I screamed “jerk” to his retreating back.

  Luck wasn’t usually on my side. Nervous, I led him to my office, ignoring the promise that filled his every move, an intimate arrogance in his lean body most women recognized in time. The clean scent of his skin was woodsy and sexy with a hint of sandalwood. His posture remained unflinching, and when he sat down, it was in Birdie’s wingback chair with his back to the light. His face remained in shadow. Defensive, I thought, choosing my usual place near the fireplace.

  Minutes passed while I sat stiffly and he stared. “You look different,” he said, making a circular hand motion. “With your hair up.”

  “Do I?” My hair had been in a ponytail when we collided, another version of “up.” Now I wondered if he’d seen the tabloids. My face had been plastered next to Soleil’s sultry Brigitte Bardot image, along with the lurid headlines.

  Perhaps he’d just realized I was that Dr. St. Clair. I decided on honesty. Put it out there to see if it mattered.

  “I try not to look like my twin.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant. I was referring to this morning when you called me a jerk.” He was kind enough not to smirk. “And I was. Only a jerk would refuse to stop.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “My mind was somewhere else. I’m sorry, and I hope you’ll accept my apology.”

  He sounded sincere. Once again, I was drawn to the blue of his eyes, the thick lashes. Boyish, at odds with the male vibe rolling from him. Overlaying everything, though, was the ruthless veneer—what he wanted people to notice. The way he kept himself distanced and aloof.

  Which made me curious. I didn’t see how an anxiety disorder—even if it was debilitating—would weaken him. He’d see it as a distraction he didn’t want, and a man who demanded control the way Connor Lange did rarely benefited from therapy.

  “Would you like some tea?” The suggestion felt reckless when I’d decided not to offer tea.

  His mouth curved down. “Chamomile?”

  “You’ve been in therapy before?”

  “Someone else,” he admitted. “And chamomile doesn’t work for me.”

  I heard the challenge in his voice, when the goal was relaxation, and my lingering anxiety meant I needed the tea.

  “What does work for you?” I asked, disappearing into the kitchen, which was close enough to my grandfather’s room for sustained conversation.

  “Caffeine and alcohol.”

  “Do you enjoy both?”

  “I do,” he said. “Don’t you?”

  Truth, Luna. It wouldn’t hurt to admit this.

  “In moderation,” I agreed, because alcohol and caffeine contributed to anxiety and he probably knew that as well as I did.

  I poured fragrant tea into a cup, then reclaimed my chair and crossed one leg over the other. My mind raced. Connor Lange commanded the space, while anxious clients shifted restlessly, avoided eye contact and were unable to make casual conversation. Nothing like Connor Lange’s cool, nerve-wracking confidence, and I was no longer sure why he was here.

  Lifting my cup, I sipped the tea. Held steady eye contact with him. “Why did you decide to seek therapy?”

  “I thought this was the right time to address my issues.”

  “Why me?”

  He shrugged. “Because of who you are.”

  I frowned slightly. “And who am I?”

  “Soleil St. Clair’s twin, and someone who understands exposure.”

  Alarm prickled beneath my skin. The calm in his voice gave nothing away, but no one could doubt the stunning sexual threat radiating from his body. He stared, silent, and the focused gaze told me everything was a battle that he always decisively won.

  Not a man who should attract me.

  But he’d be perfect for Soleil and the games she liked to play. A man who was magnetic and dangerous. Who knew the sensual dance, fucked to perfection, and then walked away while she still ached.

  Most of the men in Soleil’s book remained anonymous, although several men stepped forward claiming to be her lovers, all of them going by chapter numbers and looking for publicity.

  I wasn’t sure how many were imposters.

  Knowing that, I wanted to believe Connor Lange wasn’t one of those anonymous lovers. That he wasn’t here because of Soleil. But maybe he was, and ruthless enough to want revenge.

  Face this, Luna.

  “Is that why you’re here—because of Soleil?”

  “No.”

  One word, and yet it felt like he’d walked from the room—emotionally—while leaving the door open. Waiting for me to follow.

  “Then why come to me?”

  “Because she asked me to.”

  His voice rasped harshly. Here, I thought. This is where his pain hides. The pain that drives him. What he doesn’t want to face.

  But it still terrified me that the “she” he referred to was Soleil, and anger flared. “Do you always do what she asks?”

  “I do what is necessary.” No distance in his tone now; he was emotionally back in the room. “I want absolute privacy, and I came to you because only a woman who had her sex life splashed all over the internet would understand that need.”

  My fingers shook, and I struggled to set my tea aside without spilling. I’d never questioned a client where he was most vulnerable, and I told myself it was fine because Connor Lange would never be a client. But he’d explained his reasons for being here, expecting emotional safety. Which I hadn’t given.

  He deserved an apology when I wasn’t able to find the words, and I turned my head, stared at the books my grandfather had written, lined up on one shelf. The colorful bindings, simple titles. Stories of human weakness and unexpected courage that were still in demand, even though they were written by a gifted man who drank too much.

  Then the shelf beneath, loaded with the dozens of dark thrillers written by my father. They were wildly successful boiler-plate hacks—and written by a man who should drink, one critic said, if it made his writing improve. We were a literary family. Scandal was attached to the St. Clair name, even without Soleil’s tell-all confessions. Those speculations hung on like shadows that grew more obvious in the light—and Connor Lange could not come to me for solace.

  “I do understand,” I said. “My life continues to be splashed all over the
internet, which is why I can’t help you.”

  “I believe you can. I’m used to unwanted speculation, and I’ll take the risk if I can control the narrative.” The crispness in his voice was cool against my skin. “And I think you need that control as much as I do.”

  “What I need is irrelevant.”

  “I disagree.” His eyes narrowed. “Your reputation is in shreds. You can’t go out in public without people commenting on what you did, and if you haven’t checked your professional ratings lately, you should know they’ve dropped dramatically. We can help each other.”

  “How?”

  He leaned forward, bracing both arms on his impeccably clad knees as if this was a negotiation he had to conduct. As if we weren’t talking about emotion that debilitated. Or about a life ripped apart and left jagged at the edges.

  “I’m offering a private place to conduct our sessions. In isolation, away from the people hounding you now.”

  “That sounds intriguing,” I said, “but you came to me for therapy, and my method involves public places, immersing yourself in the experiences that trigger your anxiety. Isolation is counterproductive. You can’t deal with what you won’t confront.”

  “I’m willing to confront anything, Dr. St. Clair. Stress has been with me so long it feels normal. My reaction to it hasn’t been a problem until lately, and I’d prefer to address it directly and in this manner.”

  The strain on his face revealed how difficult that truth was for him. The vulnerability pulled me closer, into the trap he set in getting me to listen. I didn’t want to know his reasons.

  “I’m not sure my approach would be comfortable for you,” I told him.

  “I’ll agree to your public therapy if you agree to my proposal.”

  “What is your proposal?”

  “A public relationship, and a reason why we’re seen together. No matter what you do, or I do, there will be speculation. We’ll use the cliché of an affair instead of wasting time denying it. The rumors of our romance will distract from our true purpose.”

  Tension held my spine rigid. “Are you talking about a personal relationship?”

  “The appearance, not the fact.”

  The idea was staggering. Any personal relationship I had—fake or real—would stir up lurid interest, the over-blown stories that destroyed my credibility. Exactly what I was avoiding these days. The insensitivity in his offer became abrasive, the way grit was abrasive in a wound I hadn’t realized was there.

  “Does it matter to you, what I did six years ago?”

  “No.” His mouth tightened. “Why should it?”

  “My scandal revolved around deceit, pretending to be someone else, and you’re asking me to do the same thing. To pretend to be in a relationship with you.” He was pushing a line here, and he either didn’t see it or ignored it. “It’s the same kind of self-destruction.”

  “Not if people see what I want them to see.” The deep rasp in his voice was chaffing, while looking at him had me restless. I realized why he was arrogant. No one denied this man anything. Not the women he wanted in his bed. The men who opposed him in business.

  I crossed my arms. He matched my posture, and I realized the gesture would never be defensive for Connor Lange. His self-confidence attracted me, the keen intelligence, but what he was asking seemed impossible. It was also enticing and I needed to send him away. Suggest a different therapist because it shouldn’t be me.

  Distracted, I looked away. “How do you see this playing out?”

  “I have a private island in the San Juan Islands,” he said. “A house with staff, and no one in or out unless I give permission. You’ll live there, free from harassment. We’ll meet for therapy on your schedule and in a designated room—there are several to choose from—and the rest of the time is yours.”

  “Why would I agree to leave my home, my other clients?” One client at the moment, Birdie, who paid me with sugar cookies. But he didn’t need to know that.

  “I’ll make sure you’re financially secure. Our relationship remains professional in private. Publicly, we’ll be engaged in therapy, disguised as a couple doing normal activities. Seattle is in easy reach.”

  “Anything else?” Was I really asking that?

  He straightened. “We’ll have dinner in public. Attend business functions together. You’ll allow me to buy you gifts which will be yours to keep. You can dispose of anything you don’t like, but if I give you jewelry, I’d like to see you wear it convincingly.”

  It was the “wear it convincingly” that sent my control flaring. I almost called him a total ass to his face. Worse was the recognition that I was considering his offer. Considering it was something Soleil would do.

  She would also agree, and the idea tightened the knot in my stomach. He was offering relief from the constant criticism, not increased scrutiny. Privacy and protection.

  But he offered something more.

  Something I wasn’t prepared to admit.

  Soleil knew why I pretended to be her. She’d shamed me anyway, using public innuendo to sell her book. And this man, who collided with me on the jogging path, offered the one thing I’d find difficult to turn down. A balm for the rawness I still felt.

  Connor Lange was the sexiest man I’d ever met. A man who, with one twist of his mouth, seemed to understand what I needed. By engaging in a public affair, I could reclaim the narrative. Gain an advantage over the paparazzi, the blogs, the strangers who saw my face on the scandal sheets—and I was flawed enough to want that kind of revenge. To want what he offered, the mix of charisma and immutable power.

  But I’d made a mistake like that once before, giving in to an elegant sexuality and losing myself in pretense.

  I moistened my lips. “How long will this fake relationship last?”

  “Six months. I’ll draw up a contract.” His voice evened out. No inflection, as if he realized how cautious I was. “If I break the agreement early, you’ll receive full compensation. If you choose to leave, we’ll prorate your compensation. Either way, we’ll have sufficient time for the therapy you’ll provide, and an amicable breakup at the end, when you’ll go back to your normal life.”

  “Why six months?”

  “My relationships never last longer than six months.”

  “By choice?” My curiosity was irksome. Unfortunately, I liked the tight muscle flicking in his jaw. Liked pushing him. It was like pushing the first rock that would start the avalanche. The one that could bury me.

  He made an effort to answer. “Yes.”

  “Her choice? Yours? Or his?”

  “Mine, Dr. St. Clair.” His jaw flexed. “The decisions are always mine.”

  And just like that, he was back on top, dominant in this conversation—and I was enjoying our battle over control, despite my doubts. I wasn’t sure why.

  I reached for my lukewarm tea, pretended to sip. “You don’t like commitments?” I was back in therapy mode, watching as his eyebrow arched.

  “Only when they’re contractual. Then I know what to expect.”

  “Mr. Lange…”

  “Connor.”

  I sighed and focused on the teacup I was trying to settle on the saucer. “You can’t have control in successful therapy. Not with my approach. It’s my job to set up each situation, and I have to think about it—about the proposal—if I’d be violating professional ethics by agreeing to your suggestion.”

  “I’m suggesting an ethically professional relationship in an alternate location.”

  “We don’t even know each other.”

  “We don’t know each other now, and you have no objection to working with me here, in your own space. Why is therapy acceptable in your house, but nowhere else?”

  “I know this area, the town. The people.” From his scowl, I wondered if I was persuasive. “I need a known environment when we go out together and I wouldn’t have that at your house. Altering the location will get in the way.”

  “I won’t let it get in the way
.”

  I didn’t doubt that. Nothing would get in his way if he wanted something, and stupidly, I stared at him. Stared at the curve of his mouth, the perfect cheekbones. He could be endearingly handsome, then lean forward and brace his arms on his hard thighs, revealing what I least expected—a loneliness in the way his hands hung, loosely clenched, the forefingers steepled. This man isolated himself for the same reasons I did, and it wasn’t only because of anxiety. That similarity left me unaccountably aroused. Sympathetic.

  “Come to the house, Dr. St. Clair. See the location and consider my offer. You need this as much as I do.”

  He was right. I needed what he offered. Time away from the stress that triggered me. My mother, with her constant warnings when new rumors popped up. The stares from people I didn’t know. Emails from clients who cancelled their appointments.

  The occasional paparazzi I’d noticed hanging around town.

  Finding relief from the constant sense of dread was worth a few hours of my time, even if it involved using a fake relationship as a cover.

  “Mr. Lange… Connor,” I added at his frown. “There’s a necessary trust that must exist between a client and therapist.” And I wasn’t sure who I was warning with that statement.

  “I make you uneasy,” he agreed. “I appreciate that, so I’ll be honest—I need your help. My panic attacks are affecting my life, my business. I’ve read about what you do. It meshes with what I want, and I’m here because I trust you.”

  He rubbed a hand against his chest, and it surprised me, how that single gesture made it difficult to turn him down.

  “If you really want my help,” I hedged, “then meet me tomorrow. Find out how I work. How comfortable you are with my approach. Afterward, we can discuss the next step.”

  “Where and when?” He was all business, operating with a potent vibe few could resist.

  “I’ll text you,” I managed without making eye contact. “A random time and place, so stay near your phone.”

  His frown tightened. “I have obligations. Can’t you give me advance notice?”

  “A thirty-minute warning,” I told him briskly, wanting him as off balance as I was. “And that’s generous. We’re trying to trigger your negative reactions, Mr. Lange, and intense emotion doesn’t happen in a vacuum. If you’re prepared, it will defeat the effort.”