Page 61 of A Game of Deception
“What the fuck,” I whispered, turning to face her fully, “is this?”
“Xander, I… I was going to take it down.”
“Take it down?” I let out a harsh, barking laugh that had no humor in it. “You’ve been tracking me. For years. Every part of this was a plan, wasn’t it? Getting me to Miami, becoming my doctor… getting me into your bed last night?” The last question came out like a snarl, the taste of betrayal bitter in my mouth.
“No!” she said, taking a step forward. “Last night wasn’t part of the plan. It was the moment the plan fell apart.” Her eyes were pleading. “This,” she gestured wildly at the wall, “this was about revenge. It was built on the lie that you killed my brother. It was how I kept the anger burning.”
She walked past me, right up to the wall. With a sharp, sudden movement, she ripped the photo of me from the accident off the corkboard. The paper tore. Then she tore down another clipping, and another, her movements becoming frantic. The red string snapped, falling limp to the floor.
I just watched, silent, as she dismantled twelve years of her own rage, piece by piece. She didn't stop until the wall was bare, leaving only the ghost impressions of where the photos had been. She stood in the middle of the paper debris, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her eyes blazing.
“I’m done chasing ghosts, Xander,” she said, her voice shaking but firm. “This was for a man I thought you were. A monster. It had nothing to do with the man who was in my bed last night.”
I looked from the wreckage on the floor to her defiant, vulnerable face. The ice in my gut began to thaw. She hadn’t just built this wall; she had lived in the prison it created. And she had just torn it down for me.
Slowly, I closed the distance between us, stepping over a picture of myself celebrating a championship win. I reached out and brushed a tear from her cheek with my thumb.
“Okay,” I said, my voice quiet but steady. “No more ghosts.”
16
TARA
I’d been watchingthe clock on my office wall for the past twenty minutes, trying not to seem obvious about it. The cleaning staff had already come and gone, leaving behind the antiseptic smell that permeated the medical wing after hours. Most of the other office lights were off—just a few security lamps casting long shadows down the corridor.
Seven-fifty-eight on a Friday night, and I was pretending to catch up on paperwork.
I shifted in my chair, uncrossing and recrossing my legs. The motion sent a delicious reminder of last night’s activities shooting through my body—little aches in places that made me bite my lip to suppress a smile. Professional decorum be damned, I couldn’t wait to see him again.
Seven-fifty-nine.
The past week had been the most exhilarating of my life. After years of watching Xander McCrae from a distance, I was finally getting to know the real Xander. The one who laughed with his whole body. The one with a scar on his hip from falling offa bicycle when he was nine. The one who kissed like he was drowning and I was air.
I traced my collarbone, remembering the feel of his lips there. We’d found a moment between his training and my patient rounds, ducking into a supply closet like teenagers. His hands had been everywhere at once, and I’d had to bite down on his shoulder to keep from crying out when he slid his fingers inside me.
Eight o’clock.
A soft knock at my door sent my heart rate skyrocketing. I took a deep breath before calling out, “Come in.”
The door opened, and there he was—all six feet three inches of him, freshly showered, his dark hair still damp at the temples. He wore jeans and a simple gray t-shirt that clung to his shoulders in a way that made my mouth go dry. The door shut behind him, and his face broke into that devastating smile I was still getting used to seeing directed at me.
“Dr. Swanson,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Working late again? You know what they say about all work and no play.”
I leaned back in my chair, allowing myself to drink him in. “I thought that’s why you were here, Mr. McCrae. To help me with the ‘play’ part of that equation.”
His eyes darkened as he moved toward my desk, his gait unhurried but purposeful. “Happy to be of service.”
He rounded the desk, and I swiveled my chair to face him. He was intoxicating.
“You’re staring,” he said, the corner of his mouth quirking up.
“I am,” I admitted. “Is that a problem?”
“Not at all.” He braced his hands on the arms of my chair, effectively caging me in. “I like it when you stare. Reminds me of how you looked at me last week during my physical. Like you were cataloging every inch.”
I tilted my head back to maintain eye contact. “I was. Professional interest, of course.”
“Of course.” His face was inches from mine now. “And is your interest still... professional?”
