Page 7 of Beautiful Liar

“Half a million.”

“You can’t bribe me not to ask you questions, Quinn.”

“Then ask me different ones.”

Her head tilts. As if I genuinely puzzle her. I know I don’t. She knows exactly what I am. What lies beneath this mockery of civility.

“Don’t you want to get better?”

Another idiotic question. We resume the staring match. She uncrosses and re-crosses her legs.

“I called your office earlier today. Your EA said you left early.”

“Is there a question in there?”

She shrugs. “It’s not like you to leave the office until at least ten o’clock.”

“Again, I’m not hearing a question.”

“I was in the area. I thought I might join you for lunch.”

“Why?”

She gives a nervous laugh, the first sign she’s about to crack. I almost laugh. She’s so predictable it’s boring. “Why does anyone eat lunch?”

“No. What makes you think I’d want to eat lunch with you?”

“Because it’s what normal people do.” She immediately realizes her slip and grimaces.

“But I’m not normal, am I, Dr. Nathanson? Isn’t that why I’ve been seeing you every week for the last ten years? Isn’t that why you’ve been letting me come in your mouth since I turned eighteen?”

“Quinn—”

“Are we done, Doctor?”

“I need you to start opening up a bit more—”

“Are. We. Done?”

“For today, yes.”

“Thank fuck. Do me a favor? Please stop pretending you know everything about me. You only know what I share with you in this room.” I crack my knuckles again, a disgusting habit I’ve never been able to quit. I wait for her to close her leather-bound notebook and set it down on the table next to her. When her blue eyes return to me, I sit back and eye her. “Stand up.” She does as instructed. “Turn around, face the door. Is it locked?”

She shakes her head. “No.” Her professionalism is gone and her voice shakes with excitement. For a second, I yearn for a slice of that excitement, but what the hell. I’m about to pass a decent ten minutes.

“Good. Take off your clothes.”

The prim black suit comes off, followed by her cream silk blouse. She folds the clothes away and straightens. I take in her tightly knotted hair, the gold clasp of the pearls resting at her nape, the dove-grey lace underwear, the garters, the heels.

My ennui intensifies.

“Turn around.”

She obeys. Her front is marginally improved by a decent rack. I stare objectively. She’s beautiful, if a little on the too-thin side. Her legs are shapely, hips and thighs lean and toned. My gaze rises to her face and I read the myriad of emotions flitting over her features. None of them touch me. The black poison seeping through me deadens me from the inside. I lay my head against the chair and shut my eyes.

“Take the rest off and come here,” I say.

Her approach halts two feet from me.

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