Bad boys are her weakness...

Is he too magnetic to resist?

Storming into psychologist Holly Scott-Leigh’s life, bad boy billionaire Noah Moore is so hot he leaves Holly breathless with just a glance. He’s her potential client and she’s never crossed that line before. But delicious Noah tempts her to sin... This festive season, from his hip London loft to a luxurious Paris hotel, Noah will show Holly how good it feels to be on the naughty list!

CLARE CONNELLY was raised in small-town Australia amongst a family of avid readers. She spent much of her childhood up a tree, Mills & Boon book in hand. Clare is married to her own real-life hero and they live in a bungalow near the sea with their two children. She is frequently found staring into space—a sure-fire sign that she’s in the world of her characters. She has a penchant for French food and ice-cold champagne, and Mills & Boons continue to be her favourite ever books. Writing for Mills & Boon is a long-held dream. Clare can be contacted via clareconnelly.com or her Facebook page.

The Season to Sin

Clare Connelly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07150-5

THE SEASON TO SIN

© 2018 Clare Connelly

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Extract

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

I DREAMED OF her again last night. Of how she’d been on that last morning, her pale face blotchy from tears, her eyes holding apologies and lies, begging me to forgive her.

How could I, though?

She was leaving me. Just like everyone else.

I dreamed of my foster mother Julianne, and the dream was so real that in it I was able to reach out and hug her, to fall into her hug, to smile at her. To pull back through time and space and change the way the day had actually unfolded—to undo the way I had shouted at her and shoved her when she’d tried to draw me close.

In my dream I didn’t swear at her.

In my dream I didn’t refuse to go near.

It was just a dream, though: powerful enough to drag me from my fitful sleep, but futile in allowing me to change the past.

The past is a part of me and there is no escaping that.

CHAPTER ONE

THERE IS ONLY one word to describe the way he’s looking at me. With disdain. There is a hint of boredom that curves his lips, lips that I have looked at far too often in the five minutes since Noah Moore walked into this bustling café, just around the corner from my office.

I’ve heard of him, of course. Who hasn’t? Self-made billionaire, one half of the tech empire that’s completely taken over the world as we know it. In the last ten or so years he’s gone from strength to strength, his professional successes only outdone by his frequent outings in the society papers—for all the wrong reasons. Along with his business partner, he’s renowned for his ruthless instincts and fast-paced lifestyle. Luxury. Glamour. Wealth. Success. Wild parties on yachts in the Mediterranean, the after-party they throw every year at the Cannes Film Festival that draws all the big-name celebrities. They might have made their money in the tech industry, but they’re the epitome of Hollywood cool—the gritty, bad boy kind.

Yes, Noah Moore is a quintessential bad boy and, as if I needed any further proof of that, he arrived at our meeting in a leather jacket, black jeans, his dark hair a little longer than it should have been, stubble on his angular and symmetrical face, his brows thick, his lashes thicker, and with a hint of alcohol lingering around his very buff, very distracting frame. And it is distracting me. All six and a half feet of him, all muscled, big and tanned all over—or so I imagine—is making me forget that I am a professional.

‘This isn’t an appointment. I don’t need a shrink. I just...want to talk.’

It had been a confusing declaration, given that he’d called me—a shrink—but I’d made the appointment with him regardless, despite my growing waiting list. Curiosity, you see, got the better of me.

I didn’t get to be twenty-eight and divorced without learning that I have a predilection for bad boys. Specifically one—and he burned me, badly. Bad boys are my sinkhole, my quicksand. The longer Noah Moore looks at me with that scathing contempt, the more my pulse flutters at my wrist, hammering me in a way that makes me uncomfortably aware of the way he’s sitting, his legs spread wide, one arm bent at the elbow supporting his head, the other resting close enough to his cock that I know I can’t look anywhere near his hand. His gaze doesn’t waver from my face. He has a magnetic quality. He’s drawn the attention of most of the women in this place, and not because he’s well-known. It’s purely because of him.

I summon all my strength to hold his stare. ‘Well, Mr Moore.’ His lips flicker at the formal use of his name. I can’t help it. I feel I need every tool at my disposal to keep him at arm’s length. ‘We’ve covered the basics. Why don’t you tell me why we’re here?’

‘Why we’re here?’ Noah Moore is Australian and, though his accent has been flattened by the years he’s spent here in the UK, there’s still that hint of lazy sunshine in his inflection, enough to warm me unconsciously. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ He lifts his brows, waiting for me to answer, turning the tables on me. His eyes, a green that would blend into the Mediterranean, narrow.

‘Usually, my patients complete a pre-appointment form,’ I say. ‘You didn’t email one back.’

His gaze doesn’t shift. Curiosity sparks in my gut.

‘You didn’t complete it?’

‘I’m not a patient.’

A frown pulls at my lips and I instantly wipe it from my face. I don’t show emotion when meeting prospective clients. This process isn’t about me and my feelings—it’s about them. ‘I see,’ I say, nodding calmly. ‘So why did you call me, then?’

He compresses his lips. ‘To talk. To see what this is all about. I explained that on the phone.’

‘Right.’ I resist an impulse to respond sarcastically. ‘I’d still like to have some of your details on file. Do you mind?’

‘By all means.’ He drags his fingers through his hair and then casts a glance at his wristwatch. It’s not a fancy, expensive timepiece like you’d expect. It’s a smart watch. Is that what they’re called? You know, the ones that count your steps, forward your mail and lock your house.

I lift out my phone, opening the secure app I use to record confidential patient information. ‘Here you are.’ I hand it over to him, but he makes no move to take it.

‘You fill it out,’ he says with a shrug.

Rudeness has reached astronomical levels.

Now, I’ve been doing this a long time. I know I’m good at this. That’s not ego speaking; it’s the line of awards from the Guild of British Psychologists I’ve received; it’s the magazine articles; it’s the waiting list as long as your arm to get an appointment; it’s the fact I can charge what I want—though rarely do. Because what I love most of all is to help people, and seeing my success in the way my patients’ lives change—that’s why I do my job.

It’s why I agreed to see Noah for this ‘audition’, when I have far too much to do as it is. He sounded like someone who needed help. I want to help him.

Patients with trauma and severe trauma disorders, like PTSD, should be handled gently. Even the ones like Noah Moore, who seem as though they can handle anything, are only ever one distress away from bolting. From fleeing a therapy that is too hard to process.

Of course, I can only guess, at this stage, that he’s affected by a trauma—he’s not exactly giving me much to work with. Except for the ‘tells’, the small signs that indicate to someone like me that he’s using every cell in his body to push me away, right down to insisting that this isn’t a normal appointment, that he’s not a ‘patient’.

‘If you’d like,’ I say, with a soft nod and a smile that is my professional version of But we both know you’re being an asshole.

Out of nowhere, I picture Ivy and warmth spreads through me. I work long hours, and God, I miss her so much. I have a picture of her on my desk, back in my office, because it helps to tether me to the other part of my life—the love of my daughter and the need to make her safe.

She looks just like I did as a child—like me as an adult, really. Our hair is the same shade of blonde, so fair it’s almost white, though hers has been cut—at her request—into a bob whereas mine is long, halfway down my back, and I tend to wear it in a plait over one shoulder. We both have ice-blue eyes and our smiles are the same. She has her father’s nose, straight and lean, whereas mine slants up at the end in a way that my dad used to call a ‘ski jump’ when I was a kid.

‘Age?’ I prompt, finger hovering over the appropriate box on the electronic form.

‘Thirty-six.’

At least he’s answering. I had expected him to prevaricate.

‘Previous treatment history?’

His eyes narrow, and I know he’s fighting an urge to tell me that this isn’t ‘treatment’ either. ‘None.’

‘I see.’ I tap ‘nil’ on the screen, then lift my attention to him once more. And freeze. He’s watching me unapologetically, taking advantage of the fact I’m distracted by the form, and his eyes are roaming over me as though I’m a painting on display in a gallery.

My skin prickles with goosebumps.

Noah Moore is dangerous.

He has all the markers I have trained myself to avoid—he is rough and arrogant, ruthless and feral—and yet I stare at him for a moment, our eyes locked, and a surge of something forbidden rampages through my system. For the first time in five years, a slick of desire heats my blood, warming me from the inside out. I thought I’d never feel desire again after Aaron. I unmistakably feel it now.

‘Can I get you something to drink, folks?’ The waitress stands beside me and I flick my phone off automatically, discreetly hiding any information she might otherwise have seen.

‘Piccolo latte,’ I say.

‘Nothing,’ Noah says with a shake of his head. I frown. He suggested we meet for coffee and yet apparently has decided he won’t drink one.

‘Why are you here, Mr Moore?’

‘Is that you asking, or your form?’

My smile is tight. ‘Both. It will save us time if we cut to the chase.’

He makes a slow, drawled tsking sound. ‘But where’s the fun in that, Holly?’

He rolls his tongue around my name, making it sound like the sexiest word in the English language. ‘Do you find this fun, Noah?’ I return his challenge, inflecting his name with a hint of huskiness. I see it hit its mark. His eyes widen slightly, his pupils heavy and dark, and speculation colours his features.

‘No.’ It’s over, though. He’s sullen and scathing once more.

‘You didn’t want anything to drink?’ I say when the waitress returns with mine.

‘Don’t think this place serves my kind of drink,’ he drawls, and I surmise he’s referring to alcohol.

‘Do you drink every day?’

‘Some days,’ he says with a lift of his broad shoulders. ‘Some nights.’

‘Is that why you asked to meet me?’ I prompt. ‘Do you think you have a drinking problem?’

His laugh is short and sharp. ‘If I say yes, can we end this charade and both go home?’

‘No one’s forcing you to be here. It’s just a “conversation”, remember?’

He looks at me with barely concealed impatience and I am curious as to the reason for that.

‘You work mainly with veterans,’ he continues, and the knowledge that he’s researched me does something strange to my gut.

It shouldn’t. Most people research a doctor like me before making an appointment. There are myriad specialties amongst psychologists, countless ways to practise what we do. For Noah Moore to be here, he must know that I’m his best shot at help.

He’s still researching me, though, in a way. Interviewing me before deciding if he wants to commit to a treatment protocol.

I think of the awards that line the walls of my office. They’re just shiny statues, but to me they mean so much more. I can remember all my patients. The hurts in their eyes, the traumas of their souls. Those awards are the acknowledgement that I have helped some of them.

‘I work with people who need me,’ I say, returning my gaze to Noah’s face. ‘People who need help.’

‘And you think I’m one of them?’ There’s fierce rejection in the very idea.

‘You called me.’

He presses his lips together. ‘This is a waste of fucking time.’

It takes more than a curse word to make me blush, though Noah Moore curses in a way that is uniquely interesting, drawing out the U.

I don’t react as I want to. To be fair to myself, it’s been a long time since I’ve felt anything for a guy and suddenly all of me is responding to all of him; my cells are reverberating on every level. ‘You’re free to leave.’

His anger is directed at me. Resentment too. It reminds me of the way he reacted minutes earlier when I told him no one was forcing him to be here and he simmered with that same angry rejection.

My mind ponders this as I sip my coffee. Our eyes are locked over the rim and my pulse ratchets up another notch. His eyes drop to my breasts and I feel an instantaneous zing of awareness. My nipples harden against the fabric of my bra and my stomach squeezes. I press my knees together under the table.

I’m used to this kind of attention. I’ve dealt with it all my life. I’m on the short side, slim with breasts that are out of proportion to my small frame. They seemed to grow almost overnight when I was only twelve.

It’s one of the reasons I wear dresses like this. Plain colour, dark, thick, demure. It falls to my knees and to my wrists, and the neckline is high. I’m not ashamed of my figure, but I don’t want the nickname I had just out of university to catch on. ‘The Sexy Shrink’ is hardly the business pedigree I seek.

‘I’m here now.’ He shrugs as though he doesn’t care, but I know otherwise. I know because it’s my job to read people and I’m good at it, and I know because I have a sixth sense that’s firing like crazy in my gut. ‘Might as well let you sell yourself to me. Go on. Work your magic.’

I fight the urge to tell him there is no such thing as magic when it comes to trauma therapy. It takes hard work, long hours and dedication from both patient and physician. I’m willing to put in the hard yards, but is he?

I come back to the suspicion I have that he feels compelled to be meeting with me. Obliged might be a better word. Like he ‘has’ to go through with this appointment, not because he ‘wants’ to heal.

Usually, I would follow a more traditional form of approach to tease the answers out, but Noah Moore is not going to respond to traditional therapeutic means. It’s why he insisted we meet here, in a coffee shop, rather than my office. I lace my fingers together, leaning forward slightly, elbows propped on the table. ‘I get the feeling you’re here against your will.’

‘Yeah,’ he grunts. ‘Didn’t you see the guy with the gun to my head when I walked in?’ He laughs it off.

‘You seem reluctant to accept my help,’ I say softly. ‘You keep stressing that this isn’t an appointment, that we’re just “talking”. You refused to come to my office, because you feel safer in a neutral setting like this café. And yet while I’ve said you may leave, you’re choosing to stay.’

There’s a wariness that steals over him at having been called out. Good. Unsettling him is going to be crucial here. ‘You think anyone could force me to do what I don’t want?’

It’s a good point. Noah Moore, even without the billions in the bank, is a man who would be impossible to intimidate. He is brawn, brains and beauty, all in one.

‘You tell me.’

He expels a sigh. ‘I contacted you, didn’t I?’

‘That doesn’t mean someone wasn’t holding a gun to your head.’ I force another smile. ‘Metaphorically speaking.’

He holds my eyes for a fraction too long and then reaches forward, wrapping his fingers around one of the water glasses the waitress brought and sipping from it. I wait while he swallows, impatience breeding frustration in my gut.

I’m not used to this degree of resistance. A little, sure. It comes with the territory. But generally there’s some sense of apology for it. People know that my time is worth a lot of money. That usually encourages a compulsion to cooperate, even if only to a small degree.

‘In a manner of speaking.’

It’s an admission I don’t expect and I can’t suppress an outward display of surprise. My lips, painted a bright red, form an ‘o’. I cover it as quickly as I can, but his grimace shows that he saw my response. Understands my surprise.

‘Well, I’m glad.’ Glad we are getting somewhere. ‘In my experience, therapy works best when I have a willing participant on my hands.’

I swear I don’t mean anything by it, but the speculation that grows on his handsome face shows he’s analysing my words for a hidden meaning. For a sensual insinuation that should have stayed buried deep in the recesses of my brain.

Fortunately for me, he doesn’t capitalise on the error, though he leans forward when he speaks so I catch a hint of his fragrance. Woody and alpine, masculine and strong. ‘Are you saying you’re not able to help me?’

A glimmer of disappointment pings in my chest cavity. Did I want him to volley back my unintentional double entendre? To tell me he’d be very willing to be in my hands?

He’s looking at me, waiting for an answer. For almost the first time in my career, I’m struck mute. I run my eyes over his face, so handsome, and wonder at the secrets he’s hiding. At the life he’s lived that caused him to phone me. At the fact he’s making me want to throw caution to the wind and make him mine.

‘No,’ I say finally. ‘I think I can help you. If you want to be my patient.’

‘I don’t have time to be a patient,’ he says, and it’s so scathing that a shiver runs down my spine.

‘Well, unfortunately, it takes time,’ I point out firmly. ‘There’s no quick fix for whatever has led you to me.’

‘You’re confident saying that when you don’t have the faintest idea why I organised this meeting?’

‘Yes.’ I glare at him. ‘You know why, Noah?’ God help me, the taste of his name on my lips is addictive. ‘Because I do this all day, every day. People like you walk into my life, wearing your issues like a coat that only I can see.’

He narrows his eyes.

‘It’s in the set of your shoulders, the depths of your eyes. I see it.’ I lean back and feel my heart pounding hard against my forearms. ‘Trauma isn’t something that can be drunk away. Nor is it something I can wave my magic wand and cure. The only way to get beyond it is to work through it. It’s not a pleasant process, I won’t lie to you. Sometimes the healing can feel worse than the original pain. But I can promise you that if you don’t work through your problem you’re going to come unstuck one day. I wonder if that hasn’t already happened. Is that why you’re here?’

‘This is a load of bullshit.’

I can’t help it. The woman might be hotter than Hades, but she’s spouting psychobabble crap out of that beautiful red mouth of hers and it makes my skin crawl.

I hate this shit. I’ve heard it all before. If it hadn’t been for Gabe’s ultimatum, I’d never have arranged to meet her. But I’d do just about anything for Gabe, even without the threat to stand me down from the company while I ‘sort myself the hell out’—his words. I don’t want to see a shrink, and I have no intention of seeing Dr Scott-Leigh—hell, I don’t want to see anyone. I’m going through the motions, that’s all. But I didn’t come here expecting her to get under my skin like she is. I didn’t expect to find her utterly fascinating.

‘I’m sorry you feel that way,’ she murmurs, and I wonder how she’d feel if I were to slip my hands under her dress, finding the softness of her thighs, the heat between her legs.

I drink the water again, thinking I really should have chosen a bar instead of this busy central London café. I replace the water glass and prop my elbows on the table, enjoying the way her eyes flare a little wider as my body looms closer, before she tamps down on the response and is all businesslike professionalism again.

Is there a Mr Dr Scott-Leigh?

No wedding ring, and you’d bet her husband would be smart enough to make sure she wore one. With a body like hers, she’s no doubt got a never-ending queue of men at her door. Hell, if she were mine, I’d chain her to my bed. At least until the novelty wore off.

My lips twist at the missed opportunity. Yes, I definitely should have suggested a bar after-hours. Somewhere I could actually do something about the fantasies I’ve had about her since she walked in, aching to dispel all professionalism and aloofness.

I heave out a sigh, returning my attention to her face. It’s a face that is objectively beautiful. Huge blue eyes, a nose that can only be described as cute, with a neck that is elegant. Her hair is as fair as sunlight and it’s plaited in a way that tells me she’s trying to tame herself but, in contradiction to that, she’s wearing little red earrings that I see now are Christmas gifts with glittering green ribbon.

She’s what my nine-year-old self would have called fancy. All perfectly groomed and sweet-smelling, flawless and poised in a way that a ballerina would envy.

I know lots of women now, fancy and not. Fancy women tend to throw themselves at me, and it doesn’t matter if their lingerie is high-end or from a supermarket, they’re all just as eager to strip it off their bodies at the smallest encouragement.

They all scream with pleasure just the same.

She’s watching me patiently, waiting for me to speak, and I can only guess it’s a tactic taken from Therapy for Beginners. But it has little to no impact on me.

I watch back, my expression impassive, my lips curled with the derision I am famed for.

‘Well.’ She concedes defeat by speaking first. ‘I suppose we can always talk about the weather.’

‘Or we could talk about you.’

‘Me?’ I’ve surprised her. Again. Her lips open into a circle that is distractingly erotic. ‘I’m not on the agenda. Sorry.’

Her manner tells me she’s anything but apologetic.

‘So I’m supposed to bare my soul and you give me nothing?’

Her smile is tight. She’s pissed off. It’s the first time I realise that I like riling her up; definitely not the last. ‘Well, if you decide you want to undertake therapy, then I give you peace of mind in due course,’ she murmurs.

But she’s got no idea what ghosts run through me; what shadows fill my being. I am a wraith of my past’s creation.

‘Holly, I highly fucking doubt that.’

CHAPTER TWO

HER HAIR IS longer than I realised. And so much softer. Up close as I am, it smells like vanilla and honey.

I know it’s a dream but, for the first time in a month, a woman has chased her from my mind and I am free from the cursed hauntings of my past. I clutch at the fine threads of this dream, refusing to let it slip from my mind.

‘I love it when you kiss me,’ Holly murmurs, her lips a perfect red. I reach for her, pulling her to me, my hands large against her fine frame, my fingers splayed wide on her hips.

Her body is pliant at my touch. Easy to control.

Surrendered completely to me, and what I can give her.

I yank her—hard—against my chest, enjoying the soft exhalation that brushes my jaw. Her breasts feel so much better than I imagined. They’re firm and soft at the same time, so big and round. I lift a hand and palm one, my thumb brushing over her nipple, my fingers possessive and demanding.

She looks at me on a tidal wave of confusion and uncertainty. This is new and different and she doesn’t know how to respond.

She doesn’t need to worry.

I know enough for both of us.

I lift her easily—she’s light and I’m strong—and wrap her legs around my waist. I don’t know how I want her but, God, I know I need her. Her dress is floaty, it moves easily over her hips, granting me the access I need. Even though it’s my dream and I should be able to control this shit, she’s wearing underwear—a barrier I don’t want.

Her hands wrap around my neck, drawing my head closer to hers, and she’s kissing me, her tongue seeking mine, duelling with me, her eyes swept closed against the assault of this passion.

But I don’t want to kiss her.

Kissing is romance and reward—fucking is not. Fucking is passion and need—a primal, physical act that is over when it ends.

I break my mouth free and stride across the room. I don’t know where we are. Dreams are funny like that. I push her back against a wall and, with her weight supported by the wall and my hips, I rip her dress open at the front. She’s not wearing a bra—thank you, dream gods—and I crush my mouth to her breast, rolling my tongue over her nipple until she whimpers, and then I move to the other, this time pressing it with my teeth so her back arches forward and her fingernails dig into my shoulders.

I’m naked now—in a dream, clothes are capable of simply disappearing—and I slide her panties aside with my fingers, my eyes mocking her, teasing her, as I nudge my cock to her entrance, hitching myself at her seam, feeling her moist heat before sliding deep inside her.

She groans, a sound that comes from the base of her throat, and I laugh.

‘This is just the beginning, baby,’ I promise.

And because I’m pursued by demons that seek to punish me, I wake up at that moment, sweat beading my brow and a cock that’s harder than stone. I drop my hand to it, rubbing my fingers up and down my length, curving my palm over my thickness.

It’s no good.

Having dream-fucked Holly, I need the real thing.

I reach for my phone and check the time. It’s midnight. I’ve been asleep only forty minutes. For Christ’s sake.

I scroll through my calendar, going back to Tuesday last week when I met Dr Scott-Leigh in that café.

Her contact details are in the appointment file. I click on her email address:

Holly,

I need to see you again. Tomorrow.

I consult my calendar once more—these sleepless nights are playing havoc with my short-term memory.

Four p.m. is my only free time.

NM

I drop the phone to my bed and push up. I dress quickly, or as quickly as I can when my dick is like a tent pole, and throw back a tumbler of straight vodka, then call one of my drivers—there are four on rotation.

Graeme is on the roster.

He’s probably the least able to hide his disapproval of my lifestyle, and that gives me a perverse sense of amusement.

‘Where to, sir?’ he asks without meeting my eyes. Did I wake him? Tough. It’s his job, after all.

‘Mon More,’ I say, naming a club in Putney. Julianne has haunted my dreams for a month and now Holly is taking over. The only thing I know is I can escape them both in a loud bar with free-flowing booze.

It’s not like I’ve been thinking of him since our appointment. At least, not only of him. I’ve had a lot else on my mind. Like working out how I’m going to make a Virgin Mary costume for Ivy before her Christmas concert and when I’ll have time to help her with the gingerbread house she’s determined to give her grandmother this year.

No, I’ve been far too busy to think only of Noah Moore.

Except at night, when my head hits the pillow and I shut my eyes. Then, all I can see is his face, his beautiful, exquisite, tortured face, his haunted eyes and sexy mouth, his body that I want to throw myself at, to curl up against, to be held and comforted by. He makes me want to surrender to his touch, to be safe within his arms.

I’m smart enough to know how absurd that is, but if I can’t have the real thing, I should at least be able to satisfy myself with the fantasy. Right?

I’ve had plenty on my plate this week but, when I arrive at my office this morning, fate seems to have conspired to throw Noah Moore at my feet.

His email detonates in my consciousness like a charge. It’s barely civil and it’s sure as hell not how appointments are made. I can’t even say for sure how he got my email address—it’s not on my business cards and I don’t routinely welcome patients to communicate with me directly.

There has to be a divide between my work and my home life. That’s the way this works best.

Not for Noah Moore, though. I’m surprised to find a wry smile has rubbed across my lips when I scan my calendar for availability and none of the usual clinical detachment chills my emotions.

My day is full, and yet if I were to swap my one o’clock for twelve o’clock and miss lunch, I could move my four o’clock forward and make time for Noah.

I swallow past the doubts.

I can’t say why, but I am compelled to answer, and I am driven by a desperate need to see him again.

I send a quick reply:

Noah,

I can meet with you again, but it will have to be in my office. Four p.m. works. Don’t be late—I have another appointment directly after.

Dr Scott-Leigh

I send it, pleased with the fact I’ve kept it so formal, pleased with the way my email doesn’t, in any way, shape or form, convey how utterly devastatingly sexy I think he is.

I’m proud and pleased as I load up the news browser I always read before starting work and Beatrice strides in with a coffee and bagel.

‘Morning, Holly,’ she says with a smile and leaves again without waiting for a response.

I love this woman so much.

She knows how desperately I need my sacred ten minutes without interruptions and I so appreciate her giving me that. Only now my brain is full of interruptions. Questions about Noah, his habits, his problems, his intentions, his needs.

I want to know him and I want to help him.

And I can’t be at my most effective, therapeutically, if other issues, like my raging desire and the fact I haven’t slept with a guy in over five years, take over my brainpower.

I employ mindfulness, breathing in deeply, exhaling slowly, counting beats and blanking my mind until I feel more like myself again.

But it’s a godawful day.

I feel like I’m operating at half my usual capacity. I drag my brain through appointments, eat a muesli bar between my two and three o’clocks and then, after my three o’clock leaves, make a quick phone call to the hospital to check on a patient of mine.

When I disconnect the call, Beatrice buzzes through that Noah Moore has arrived.

My pulse leaps immediately, my heart thumps hard against my chest and my fingers begin to shake. I cast a quick glance at the compact I keep in my top drawer, run fingers over hair I have today left loose and stand to greet him.

I didn’t know Noah Moore would book an appointment—it’s not for him that I’ve worn this outfit but, the second he enters the room, his green eyes skim over me and I get a kick of satisfaction at the speculation I see in his eyes.

Holy hell.

What am I doing?

I have no business feeling all warm and tingly because he’s staring at the way my leather skirt hugs my hips. It’s high-waisted—it comes up to my belly button—and I’m wearing a gold cashmere sweater tucked into it. It’s an outfit I would describe as perfectly professional but, the way his eyes light on my silhouette, I feel like a centrefold.

‘Mr Moore.’ My tone is cool. Good. Cool is good. ‘Please, take a seat.’

He strides into the room, looking dishevelled in a way that is sexy but that I have every reason to believe is the result of a sleepless night.

He throws his large frame into one of the chairs, his legs spread wide, his hands resting on his powerful thighs. Today he’s wearing blue jeans and a long-sleeved top.

‘Holly—’ his lips flicker into a smile, but it’s over in a millisecond ‘—nice to see you again.’

I compress my lips. Normally, patients would express gratitude at the fact I’d squeezed them in under short notice, but not Noah.

‘Let’s get started,’ I clip. ‘How are you?’

‘Are you asking out of interest or as a doctor?’

My pulse ratchets up and I have to dig my fingernails into my palms to stop the guilty blush from creeping over my cheeks. ‘As a doctor.’ The words drip with ice.

His smile suggests he doesn’t believe me. Crap.

‘Then let me remind you; I haven’t agreed to see you professionally.’

I frown. ‘Haven’t you? I would have thought that’s just what you did when you asked for an appointment.’

‘No.’ It’s cryptic. I leave it alone for now and reach for a pen. There will be time to discuss the semantics of how he wants to proceed.

‘You were up late last night.’ He arches a brow in silent enquiry, so I rush to explain. ‘You emailed at midnight.’

He nods, dragging a hand through his hair, but says nothing. It’s like pulling teeth!

‘Are you always up so late?’ I ask.

‘Late? Midnight?’

I refuse to be embarrassed by him. ‘Yes.’

‘Yeah,’ he grunts, and his eyes are wary. He’s withdrawing from me, pulling back. Something about my line of questioning is hitting on an issue that is renewing his trauma.

It’s nothing you would be able to tell, unless you had experience with this. Outwardly, Noah is every bit the charming, sexy bad boy he’s renowned for.

I smile, lean back in my chair and drop the pen onto the notepad. ‘It’s cold today.’

A comment that surprises him. It makes him wary; his eyes skip to mine and a frown moves on his face. He doesn’t say anything.

‘Do you have plans for Christmas?’

‘Christmas?’ It’s practically a sneer. ‘Christmas is weeks away.’

I nod. ‘It’ll be here before you know it.’ My eyes drift to the picture once more, a smiling Ivy, and I feel somewhat more centred.

‘Do you have plans for Christmas?’ he volleys back, his expression tight as he watches me with every fibre of his being.

I wouldn’t normally answer—the question is too personal—and yet I hear myself say, a smile softening the words, ‘Not really. Just a small family celebration this year.’

His eyes drop to my fingers. He’s wondering what ‘family’ means to me. I don’t elaborate on that score. That’s common sense as well as training. Ivy is not a part of this world. She’s mine—and she’s all that is sweet and innocent.

‘I make a pudding—my grandmother’s recipe—we sing carols. The usual. Do you have any Christmas traditions?’

He knows I’m relaxing him and yet perhaps he also knows he has to give me at least something to justify the fact I’ve moved my schedule around to see him today. ‘Yeah. Getting hammered.’

I arch a brow.

‘It’s just another day for me, Doc.’

‘No family?’ I prompt.

I get the strangest sense that he wants to say something. That the temptation to open up is pressing against his back, pushing him forward, but then he just shakes his head sideways once. A curt dismissal.

It’s normal for patients to clam up around me, but I don’t generally take it personally. Intense frustration zips through me now and, against my usual therapeutic practices, I say, ‘Noah, I really want to help you and I think you want that too, but you’re giving me nothing to work with.’

He stares at me belligerently and I stand up, hoping that will dispel some of the frustrated energy that’s firing through me. I move towards the window, looking out at London, and I don’t know if I’m imagining it but heat warms my spine as though he’s still watching me.

I habitually deal with soldiers who’ve come back from war zones—men and women who’ve witnessed and perpetrated unimaginable crimes. People who have done what no human should ever have to do, who have seen first-hand the bleakness and despair of utter destruction. I understand their hauntedness and I know how to help with it, generally. Every patient is different, but at least I’m operating from the same wheelhouse. Not now, not with Noah. I need to tease information out of him gently. But I do need to get some information. Without it, I’m flying blind.

‘When did you decide to seek help?’

He expels a harsh breath that has me turning slowly to face him. I was right. He’s watching me. Blood jolts through my system as though each cell has been subjected to an electrical shock.

‘Noah.’ I say the word quietly but with a firmness that shows I’m serious. ‘I moved my day around for this. Are you wasting my time?’

He seems to withdraw from me even further. Not in the way many of my patients do, by becoming visibly upset or distant. Now he is looking at me as though he wants to eat me—and my tummy is in knots.

He stands and moves towards me. Every single fibre of my being is vibrating on high alert, but I don’t withdraw. Maintaining control of the session is vital. He is right beside me, at least a foot taller than me, and close enough that if either of us were to sway forward slightly we would be touching. Crazy thought! Where did that come from?

He looks down at me, so dominant, so strong and somehow so broken.

I stare at him for a long time, waiting for him to speak, determined not to break first.

Finally, his throat bobs as he swallows. ‘I don’t need therapy,’ he says gruffly, as though I’ve dragged him here kicking and screaming.

‘I see.’ I nod, not wanting to mock his assertion, nor to question why he emailed at midnight if that’s the case.

‘I just...’ He drags a hand through his hair and shakes his head. ‘This is fucking ridiculous.’

‘What is it?’ I urge and, damn it, I step closer. Stupid, stupid move, because now there’s barely a whisper between us and I can’t surrender the strength of my position by pulling away. If I do, he’ll know how he affects me, and that would be a disaster.

‘I’m not sleeping.’ He turns away from me and takes a step towards my desk, pressing his fingers against the wooden corner.

It is highly irregular for me to have people on this side of my office and I feel the invasion of Noah in every way. This is my space—my personal space. But the moment he’s started to open up to me, I can’t make him feel at fault. I move towards him and put a gentle yet professional hand on his elbow.

Tension is radiating from his bulky frame, as though this small admission of a perceived weakness has offended every iota of his hyper-masculinity. He flinches when I touch him and glares down at me.

Not with anger, though.

The desire that has me hostage is of a mutual kind. I feel him shift and it is all the confirmation I need that this crazy, dark lust surges through us both. My fingertips are still pressed lightly to his elbow. I nod towards the chair he’d been sitting in.

‘Please, sit down.’ It’s a quiet murmur and for a moment I think he’s not going to do as I say. He continues to stare at me and I find myself staring back, wondering what it would be like for those lips of his to drop to mine.

Temptation is thick in the air. I could push up onto the tips of my toes and kiss him... Would it really be so wrong? I step back just as he reaches for me, his fingers curling into my hair, wrapping it around his big masculine fist. ‘Is this real?’

The question catches me utterly off guard. I take in a deep breath that barely reaches my lungs and stare at him with a sense of helplessness. I have a thing for bad boys, remember, yet I’ve never known anyone quite like Noah Moore.

I force myself to remember several things, and to remember them quickly. He is waging a battle against demons I don’t yet comprehend; he has come to me for help.

And I don’t do this.

I don’t let men, no matter how sexy, make my pulse race and my knees knock.

That kind of thing was a million years ago for me.

‘Is this real?’

The words are husky from his mouth and all my certainties and good intentions quiver inside me.

‘What?’

Step away, step away! my brain is shouting at me, but I don’t move. Instead, I swallow and his eyes drop to my mouth, then lower, to the column of my throat, watching the convulsive movement, before resuming their fascination with my lips.

Moist heat slicks between my legs and I clamp my lips together. My nipples press against the bra I’m wearing, little arrows darting through me from each hardened nub, radiating heat through my body. There is a fine tremble that passes over my spine.

‘This. Your hair.’ And his fist moves higher, towards my head, so his palm curves around my skull, his fingers still tight in the blonde lengths. He angles my head upwards and our eyes are locked. Our bodies are separated by inches and yet I feel the essence of him pulse into me, throbbing inside my gut. This is, hands down, the most intimacy I’ve ever felt with a man.

‘Yes.’ It’s a word weakened by desire and my temptation to surrender to it completely. ‘It’s real.’

He nods but doesn’t otherwise move. If I don’t do something, anything, to grab control of this situation, I’m going to be in serious trouble.

‘Noah.’ I clear my throat and step away. For a second he doesn’t relinquish his hold on my hair, and then he drops his hand to his side. His expression is knowing. As though he understands that I am now fleeing what we just shared.

‘Please, sit down.’ The words lack conviction and yet he complies, moving back to his seat and owning it with his body. I don’t sit behind my desk, though. Instead, I cross to the other side of it and perch on the edge, crossing my legs at the ankle.

It’s dangerous because I’m quite close to him, but I feel we need to maintain some of the connection he just established.

‘You’re not sleeping?’ I prompt softly.

‘No, Doc.’

‘Not at all?’ I frown, reaching around behind me for my pad and pen.

He shrugs, like it doesn’t matter. ‘I sleep a bit. Ten minutes. Twenty.’

‘Then what?’ I write 10...20 in the corner of my paper.

‘I wake up.’ The words are droll, bordering on sarcastic. My cheeks warm, but I dip my head forward to write a note.

‘Do you have dreams?’

The wry sarcasm fades from his features. He focuses on a point behind me. ‘No.’

Liar. I don’t challenge him, though. It’s too soon and, for the moment, he’s made some admissions, which is a huge thing for a guy like Noah. I need him to trust me, and that’s going to be a tough sell with him.

I scrawl no dreams and underscore it, which is my way of reminding myself that I suspect it’s not the truth. ‘Have there been any changes in your lifestyle recently?’

‘Besides seeing you?’ he says thoughtfully, his eyes shifting back to mine, all confident, charismatic, sexy bad boy again.

My heart leaps.

‘I mean changes that could affect your sleep.’

‘Oh, you sure affected my sleep last night.’ The words are so far from what I expect that I lose my mask for a moment and show my surprise. I’m sure my face must pale visibly, that he must see the way I react. My stomach swoops and, briefly, I allow temptation to cloud my clarity.

But only briefly.

I’m a professional. I need to remember that.

‘Perhaps we need to try something new,’ I say, my smile an attempt at coolness that I suspect I don’t pull off.

He lifts a brow, obviously teasing. ‘I’m game if you are.’

CHAPTER THREE

‘I SET ASIDE a full hour, but I can already tell there’s no sense keeping you here that long.’ She pushes off the edge of the desk and walks back towards the window. The afternoon light shimmers across her, backlighting her in a way that makes her look like an angel. A very sexy angel.

‘Sick of me already, Holly?’

Her eyebrows knit together and I can see her cogs turning, analysing me. This is one of the many reasons I like to hook up with women who’ve got a drink or three under their belt. None of this psycho mind-reading bullshit.

And Holly Scott-Leigh is, I suspect, very good at this.

‘You don’t want to be here. And yet you came.’

‘I was curious about where you worked,’ I say lamely. Stupidly. She’s too smart to fall for that kind of bullshit.

‘So...’ She lifts a hand to her thick blonde hair and scrapes it back from her brow. A sign of frustration? The action pulls her sweater across her breasts, and everything inside me jerks. She speaks as though I haven’t. ‘We’re going to do five questions.’

‘Five questions?’ That’s easy. Relief is palpable.

‘But...’ She lifts her finger, her lips twitching with barely suppressed amusement. ‘You have to answer me honestly, and promptly. No faffing about trying to make something up and no dodging the questions.’

I can hear my blood throbbing in my ears like a fucking tsunami. There’s a high-pitched noise too, like air from a balloon being pinched to release.

There was one summer I spent with a family who used to surf. They took me out with them, taught me how to ride a board. There is an art to keeping your balance; it’s a constant seduction. Every tiny movement shifts your power and one wrong breath may mean you tumble into the ocean.

If I allow Holly to have this power over me, she will roll me into the sea.

I won’t let that happen.

I stand, my eyes pinning her to the spot so I see the effect I have on her. She tries to cover it, but you can’t hide desire. Not really. There are markers that I have seen often enough to recognise easily now. Her cheeks flush along the ridge of bone, her pupils swell to cover almost her whole eye and her breathing is rasped, her chest moving up and down, so that her round breasts push forward. Jesus, that shirt sweater thing looks soft. My fingertips itch to reach out and touch it. To scrunch it against her skin, to feel her through the fabric.

I stand just a couple of inches away from her and she keeps staring up at me, her big red lips parted, her eyes whispering seduction even when I know she’s doing her best to hold the professional line.

I wonder how long she’ll keep that up.

‘On one condition.’

Her frown is infinitesimal. Her eyes drop to my lips and my gut jerks, wanting to pull me forward, begging me to kiss her.

Nah, not to kiss her, that’s far too sweet a word for what I want to do. I want to pull her lower lip between my teeth, I want to push her back against that window, I want to fucking own her.

‘What’s that, Mr Moore?’

It’s an attempt to put us back on a professional footing. Her own surfboard is tipping.

I lift a finger, touching her cheek lightly. She flinches with surprise and her eyes lift to mine slowly. She’s in the water; it’s threatening to consume her whole. ‘For every one of your questions, you answer one of mine. Same rules.’

Her breath is soft, warm. I feel it on my inner wrist. Imagining it elsewhere on my body, I throb with heat and need.

‘I told you last week.’ The words are uneven. ‘I’m not on the agenda.’

It’s an intentional reproof. My smile shows amusement at her attempt to put up barriers. ‘Oh, I think you are, Holly.’ But I drop my hand and step backwards. ‘Do we have a deal?’

She swallows, her throat bobbing. She’s torn. Drowning and trying not to—drowning and asking me to save her all at once.

‘I suppose it’s fair,’ she says after a beat.

Fuck, yeah, it’s fair. If she expects me to pour out my heart, then she’d better believe I want my pound of flesh along with it.

She nods, as if to reaffirm to herself that she’s going to go through with this. ‘Shall I start?’

I ignore the twisting in my gut. I’ve agreed to this and I’m not afraid of much, least of all having a fucking conversation.

She is, though. She weighs her words carefully, studying me as she thinks. Her eyes are crazy beautiful. Huge and bright blue with a dark black rim around the iris and flecks of black close to the pupil. She has a tiny scar above one brow—like a line about half a centimetre long. I want to run my tongue along it—the certainty that one day I will fills me like cement.

‘Did you have a favourite toy as a child?’

Of all the questions I expect, it’s not this. I laugh—a dry sound that cracks from my throat.

‘No. My turn. Did you think about me after I left last week?’

Her eyes widen and her throat jerks as she swallows. Her gaze darts to a space on the wall behind me. ‘Of course I did,’ she says, the words thready and soft. She darts her tongue out, licking her lower lip. ‘You’re my client.’

‘No, I’m not. So far, I’m just some man you know.’ My smile is wry and I lean closer, my words mocking. ‘And you know that’s not what I meant.’

‘That’s the question you asked,’ she volleys back, fire and spirit firing in her eyes. ‘My turn. What’s your favourite thing to do?’

I stare at her for a second, a sense of discontent rifling through me. A hobby? She wants to know what my hobby is? I drop my head close to hers, and when I whisper it’s right in her ear, low and soft. ‘Fuck beautiful women.’

I pull away so I can see her reaction. She’s looking at me with something close to pity, though, and that fires me up. ‘My turn.’ I skim her face thoughtfully, then purposely drop my eyes to her rack. Jesus Christ, they’re great breasts. ‘When did you last get laid?’

Another swallow. ‘Noah.’ The word is half scold, half plea.

I shake my head, my eyes locking her to the spot and her intention. ‘No lying.’

The room pulses heavily with silence.

‘A long time ago.’

‘That’s not a precise answer,’ I push, a thrill of something like triumph turning my blood to lava.

She expels a breath. An angry breath. ‘Five years ago,’ she snaps and then pulls herself together with effort.

‘What’s your mother’s name?’

I don’t bat an eyelid—not so much as a blink. ‘Alison Parker.’ She might have birthed me, but calling her a ‘mother’ is a step too far. I’ve spent thirty-six years wishing her name wasn’t even in my mind, let alone her blood in my veins.

‘Are you close to her?’

I shake my head. ‘It’s my turn, remember.’

A look of panic colours her spectacular eyes. She moves away to grab a glass of water from her desk. I follow her automatically and my eyes drop to the picture to the right of her. A little child, so exactly like Holly that it must surely be a relation, sits in a frame. ‘Who’s that?’

She looks at me and catches me looking at the frame. For a second I think she’s not going to answer, or that she might lie, but then she shrugs. ‘My daughter.’ Her hand lifts betrayingly to a necklace she wears. A locket?

‘Are you close to your mother?’

I was expecting this question. ‘No.’

‘You don’t like her?’

I move my body closer—she braces her hands on the desk and looks up at me, and the air cracks like a whip as tension tightens between us.

‘No.’ Her expression flickers as she analyses this. ‘Have you thought about me, other than professionally?’

Once more her eyes dart away from me. Such a giveaway gesture for a woman as smart as she is. I would have expected her to have a better poker face. ‘I...’ A very faint peach colour spreads over her cheeks.

‘It’s a yes or no question, Doc.’ I brace my hands on the outside of hers, bending my body forward so that I’ve effectively caged her on her desk. She closes her eyes and inhales deeply, drawing in a breath like she wants to draw me with it. When she speaks, it’s with a courage I admire. A strength and determination—a fearlessness.

‘Yes.’

I tighten all over and it takes every ounce of my willpower not to push her back on the desk and rip that leather skirt off, to make her mine.

‘You weren’t raised by your parents, were you?’

She’s still got her eyes closed, but the question is no less cutting or incisive for that.

If she were looking at me, she might have seen how off-kilter it momentarily knocks me. But I recover quickly. She has asked the right question but phrased it wrong. Who raised you? might have been better. That would have forced me to document the myriad foster homes I was passed through, or to explain that no one really took the time to raise me—that I was left to raise myself.

‘No.’ She looks at me now and, with her eyes fixed on mine, I move so close that my lips are almost brushing hers. ‘Do you want to fuck me?’

She gasps and, before she answers, I do it. I do what I’ve wanted to do since I first saw that perfect Cupid’s bow. I put my mouth to hers, lift my hand to the back of her head, wrap my fingers in her hair and invade her with my tongue. She makes a moaning noise and then she’s kissing me back, her tongue clashing with mine; one leg lifts and hooks around my waist, holding me locked to her, my cock pressed hard against her cunt. She tilts her head back to give me all the access I want and I fucking plunder her. I kiss her to punish her for making me talk about my fucking mother. I kiss her because I can’t not.

And she kisses me back.

But she hasn’t answered my question and I want her to. It’s not enough to feel her wants—I want her to own them. To confess them to me. I have seen her courage, her spirit—but still I want more. I want to hear her be brave for me.

So I pull away but, before she can pretend she wasn’t affected by what we shared, I thrust my cock against her, grinding my hips, and she moans, lifts her fingers to my chest and digs them in. She tilts her head back again.

Hell, if she hasn’t been screwed in five years, I could probably make her come right now. To test my theory, I push against her again and she says my name, low and soft, huskily, a beg, a plea.

‘Noah...’ Just a whisper, but so heavy with need and desire. ‘God, Noah...’

I laugh low in my throat and she looks at me with abject confusion, but then I drop my hand to her breast, finding her nipple and flicking it.

She shakes all over, her body trembling near mine. I can’t tell you how much I want to finish this. To make her beg for me right here, right now. She’s so close. I don’t think she knows what day of the week it is.

Yeah, I want to fuck her, but here would be too rushed. Such a waste of an opportunity to really make her ache for me...

‘Do.’ I pull her earlobe between my teeth and roll my tongue over it. She whimpers.

‘You.’ I scrunch her sweater in my fist and lift it out of her skirt, feeling its softness in my palm before running my hands over her naked side. She makes a guttural noise of pleasure.

‘Want.’ I push it higher still, until my fingertips touch the lace sides of her bra and then nudge beneath it so the ball of my thumb is on the underside of her sweet, rounded breast.

‘Me.’ Her leg that’s wrapped around my waist jerks me closer, telling me not to keep her waiting. I laugh again, a sound of appreciation for a woman who knows what she wants.

‘To.’ I grip her ankle behind my back then run my hand along her calf. Holy shit, she feels so much better than I’d imagined. So soft and smooth and feminine. I pause in the hollow of her knee, watching her fevered face as her eyes darken and her cheeks glow. I run my fingers higher then, slowly, until I reach her inner thigh and she moans, once again digging her fingers into my shoulder and arching her back.

‘Fuck...’ I shove the elastic edge of her underpants aside and, with my eyes holding hers, mocking her for the fact she tried to pretend this wasn’t happening between us, I nudge a finger inside her warm, throbbing heart. She’s so goddamned wet I feel a drop of my own cum spill out, but I don’t stop. I push deeper inside her and she whimpers, her fingers now scratching into me.

‘You?’

She blinks, glaring at me for a second, and then she nods, just a simple tiny movement that is the release I crave.

Fuck, I needed that. I move my finger around and her breathing gets hotter. I pull my other hand away, but with no intention of ignoring that delicious breast. I drop my mouth to it, taking her nipple into my mouth through the bra, and I use my free hand to jerk her skirt up higher and then one thumb rubs against her clit as my finger moves inside her.

She is mine within a minute.

She cries out so hard and loud that I have to give up her beautiful breast and claim her mouth instead, if only to silence her. I absorb her scream and cries as she orgasms around my finger. Her pleasure saturates the room, vibrating around us heavily—it’s heavenly.

It’s a start, but it’s nowhere near enough...

‘It needs to go higher, Mummy.’

‘Up here?’ I hook the ornament across and press it into the branch carefully.

‘Nooo...’ She sighs with exasperation that defies belief for a four-year-old. Ivy’s mannerisms are captivating, except when they’re frustrating. ‘Way up there!’

I can still feel tingles in my body, unfamiliar and heavenly all at once, throbs of pleasure like little waves that rock me out of nowhere.

I blink and see the way he was afterwards. After he’d pulled his finger out of me and straightened my skirt with almost clinical detachment, stepping away from me and nodding, like I was an item on his ‘to-do’ list and he’d ‘to-do-ed’ the heck out of me.

‘I’ll come back tomorrow.’ That was all. No ‘What time suits?’ or ‘We should talk.’ A directive rather than a question—a decision. A firm instruction.

And I’d nodded! What the hell had I been thinking? I should have told him no. That we couldn’t see one another again.

I should have told him how wrong we’d been to do...that. Oh, God. My insides are knotted. I know that when I slip away from Ivy and take a bath, my underwear will be wet with proof of my desire, that my body has been changed by Noah’s possession and he didn’t so much as show me his chest.

I can’t see him again. I must see him again. I’m so torn. I draw in a deep breath. I know I can’t see him professionally.

Our relationship isn’t formalised—he hasn’t filled anything out. I haven’t billed him. I sweep my eyes shut. That’s a technicality and I know it. But if I spell it out to him, making sure he understands that I can no longer have him in my office, no longer treat him as a patient, does that leave me ethically free to see him in other ways? And am I really okay with that?

‘Mummy!’ Ivy stamps her foot. ‘You’re just staring into space!’

‘Sorry,’ I mumble, turning my attention back to the job at hand.

I loop the ornament on the second-highest branch and, apparently satisfied, Ivy nods before reaching into the box and carefully unwrapping the next one along. Ivy has always been very careful. Even as a one-year-old she would take care when doing anything. She has always eaten neatly, used a napkin to wipe her fingers, placed her shoes side by side at the front door. She is the definition of particular.

In other words, the opposite to me.

And her father, come to think of it.

I have always thought certain areas were black and white, but this is one with many, many shades of grey. Noah came to me for help and, though our relationship isn’t that of patient and doctor, I worry about how this development might affect him. And, yes, I worry about how it will affect me.

‘What’s this one?’ She wrinkles her nose—so like Aaron’s—and passes me the ornament.

I force myself back to Ivy, the tree, and try to ignore the fuzzy worries on the periphery of my brain. ‘Ah. I made this when I was ten years old.’ I stare at the little decoration, the small foam ball that I painstakingly stuck fabric to, then dotted with sequins. I remember sitting on the floor of my parents’ lounge, my knees covered in a blanket, my hair long around my shoulders, determined to make the decoration according to the instructions. ‘It took quite a long time.’

‘Really?’ Ivy probably doesn’t mean to sound so scathing and I can’t help but laugh.

‘Yes, dearest.’ I push the ornament into the branches and wait for another decoration.

‘Ebony James says it’s too early to put up the tree,’ she says, her eyes darting to mine and then flicking away, as if afraid of the sacrilegious assertion she’s just repeated.

My smile is kind. ‘Everyone has different traditions. Perhaps in Ebony James’s house they put their tree up later.’

‘Do most people put their tree up now?’

I shrug. ‘They’re up in shops, aren’t they?’

Ivy nods but looks far from convinced.

‘Why shouldn’t we enjoy the tree for a month? Christmas only comes around once a year and it’s such a waste not to enjoy it fully. Don’t you think?’

‘I suppose so.’ Her smile is more genuine now.

She goes back to unboxing ornaments and I go back to hanging them, but my mind keeps threatening to drag me back to Noah, my desk, my office and that pleasure.

Decorating the tree is one of my favourite pastimes. We have a real tree, but of course it’s too early to have a chopped tree, so ours is potted. I water it every few days to keep it fresh and then, after Christmas, once it’s denuded of decorations once more, I put it on a trolley and push it back into our small courtyard garden. There it remains all year round, dormant and hibernating, waiting for its time to shine—literally—with the strings of lights we weave through its greenery.

I love doing this, and even more so now that Ivy is old enough to join in with me, but I’m barely in the moment.

By the time Ivy is in bed, and I have had dinner, I am itching to crawl between my sheets and surrender to the dreams of him that I know will follow.

I check my emails quickly first—a habit I’ve fallen into since having Ivy and needing to do some of my work from home—and his name is the first I see.

Noah Moore—Bright Spark Inc

I click into it faster than I can believe.

It’s a short email. Just a few words. But they rob me of breath and make my knees sag.

I can smell you on my hand. Tomorrow I want to taste you.

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