Page 56 of Enthrall Ecstasy
“You know I love you.” Lotte tried to break my trance.
“I know.”
I hated showing any kind of vulnerability.
“I’m sorry to do this.” She clutched my arm. “That photographer is back.”
Half-distracted, I glanced toward De Sade. “Richard told me.”
“I didn’t know what else to do,” she said, her voice wavering.
My attention fell back on her. She looked harried—why had I not realized?
“Come outside,” she coaxed.
We left the chamber and I fell into step beside her. “What’s wrong?”
“I sealed him inside the elevator.” She walked faster toward the stairwell.
“The photographer? The bastard tried to access the building?”
“Yes, can you imagine?”
“Well done, you.” I opened the door for her and gave a reassuring smile. “Can’t wait to meet him.”
If you want to know how your day can go from bad to worse, find yourself wasting time in the Cedars-Sinai ER on a Friday night.
I sat around waiting for the results of a wrist X-ray to come back, but at least it wasn’t mine.
Two hours ago, twenty-something Darryn Amara had to be wrangled from Enthrall’s elevator. Once out, he’d been reluctant to hand over his camera. With some not-so-gentle coaxing he’d eventually let me look at the photos.
I’d deleted them.
Then I’d handed the camera back. I’d confiscated his phone’s SIM card, too—rolling my eyes as he complained that he’d incurred “untold physical harm.”
I’d not used that much force. He was just a fucking pussy.
Now, I had the displeasure of sitting in this private room beside him, feeling a headache looming. I’d taken Tylenol but it hadn’t kicked in yet. Even though I was “hangry” and agitated, I was able to keep my calm. An art I’d mastered long ago when keeping your head literally meant life or death.
We’d notified Dominic, our acting council, so we were already lawyered-up, wanting to make sure Darryn didn’t go that route—not because we couldn’t deal with his attorney; we just hated the attention.
I wasn’t the only moody bastard in the room.
Sporting a grumpy attitude, Darryn lay on a gurney next to me, the curtain drawn on his private consulting room.
Cedars always felt chaotic; at least it seemed that way every time I’d visited this state-of-the-art hospital. Cameron had worked here once. The profession really had lost its shining star.
He’d been hailed as the Carl Jung of our generation. His leaving psychiatry was a tragedy—even if he still consulted now and again.
Cameron had thrown himself into the family empire and the company had benefited from his acumen. His sense of adventure would never fade. There was always some new venture on the horizon for him.
It was easy to think of him now as I dealt with this crisis, drawing on thoughts of what he might do, centering myself.
Just as I had when bullets had been flying over my head halfway around the world. Those were the darkest nights of our lives.
Compared to that experience this was a walk in the park, which was the point, I suppose. Things would never get that bad again.
Maybe it was the smell of ammonia that was triggering me, the scent of cleaning agents along with the noise and bright lights—whispers of doom and gloom emanating from behind treatment room curtains.
