Page 32 of Torched Spades
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not one.” When I slide him a side-eye, he winks. “Dockworker, remember?”
I force a tight smile. “It doesn’t matter. That’s just a title, which is only another label—a decorationI believe you called it.” His jaw tightens, and I give myself a mental fist pump. “Despite your strangely interpreted effort,” I say, tapping my chin while nodding at his own, “the anchors holding you to the person you were are still there.”
A poetically eloquent speech, and not a damn word sinks in.
“What about paramedics?” he prods. “ER doctors?” Giving the card between his fingers a sharp flip, he pins me with a lethal stare. “Policemen?”
His smooth accusation slithers across the table and coils around my chest. For a moment I can’t breathe. I can’t speak. I can’t demand to know why he sank his teeth so deep intothatparticular word.
And once the pressure releases, I still don’t ask.
Professional lines aren’t the only borders I refuse to breach. I’ve seen what lies on the other side. Going back there will destroy me for good.
“All of the above,” I affirm, clinging to my bravado by a single thread. “I specialize in impulse control disorders. Would you like to know how many first responders I’ve treated over the years?” My question elicits another spark of charged silence, so I move on. “Besides, what you perceive to be an attraction is actually a manifestation of your particular disorder.”
I wait for the fury all men like him crush me with, but he just cocks an eyebrow. Risking a glance at him out of the corner of my eye, I’m met with intrigue instead of fury, so I relax my grip on the armrests of my chair.
“You’re projecting one taboo onto another. The judge took away the thrill of the forbidden, so coming onto me subconsciously fills that void.”
At first, he says nothing, his jaw ticking as the cords in his neck tighten. But soon, a veil drops over his face, and he pushes away from me, his onyx eyes frighteningly vacant. “I’m late for work.”
What the hell just happened?“You work third shift,” I counter. Flustered, I check my watch, adding, “Plus, we still have fifteen minutes left.”
He flashes a brittle smile. “Careful, Doc. I might start to think you actually give a shit.” Turning, he heads for the exit.
“Mr. Malone, wait!” The folder falls from my lap as I leap from my chair, my feet moving faster than my brain. I should let him go to give him a chance to cool down. Instead, I do the opposite and fling myself in between him and the door.
Stopping, he lifts a dark, slanted eyebrow. “You’re wearing red lipstick.” I wince, the force of his tone turning a simple statement into a sharp accusation.
Shit. I forgot about that.
However, the longer I stare at the odd mix of heat and amusement swirling in his eyes, my objectivity returns, overriding my panic. We’ve been in session nearly forty-five minutes, and not once has he mentioned my crimson-stained lips, much less given them a second glance.
Until now.
When we’re mere inches apart.
“Becca?” His gaze narrows. All traces of amusement are gone, leaving behind only blazing heat and dominance. “I asked you a question.”
The best-laid plans…
I swallow, forcing a blank expression. Warning sirens are wailing inside my head, but it’s too late to back out now. I’ve already twisted the tube and thrown the gauntlet. All that’s left to do is give it a kick and watch where it lands.
“It’s called Fire Queen.”
He smirks at the name, and I suck in a sharp breath as he tips my chin up and rakes his thumb across my bottom lip. The more control I try to maintain, the more I lose until I’m helpless against the hypnotic pull of his eyes. They’re infinite. Like two bottomless oceans devoured by the night.
“You purposely wore this knowing what red lipstick does to me.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Bullshit.” The rough cadence of his voice chips away at my defenses, turning my lie as transparent as my desire. “I don’t know whether to lick that stain off your lips for wanting to please me or bite it off for being a fucking cock tease.”
While as sadistic as it is enticing, I see straight through his threat. He’s still playing the same tug-of-war mind game he started two weeks ago. It’s classic antagonistic narcissism, and if I wasn’t so intent on keeping my cards close, I’d hit him with a truth he’s not prepared to hear.
I know his secret.
Johnny Malone isn’t who he claims to be.
