A month later Rachel sat in her office, staring at the number on the wrinkled slip of paper. She knew the number by heart, yet had not made the call.
With a brief rap on the door, Pamela poked her curly, red-haired head around the door. "So tell us, is the rumor true?"
Rachel set the paper upside-down on her desk. "Is what true?"
"That the ice queen is really, finally, taking a vacation."
"Yes."
"Ha! Pay up," she said with a glance over her shoulder at someone behind the door. A few seconds later Pamela came in with a wide grin. "Whoo-hoo!"
Her enthusiasm made Rachel smile. "That glad to be rid of me for a few weeks?"
"Nope, but I did just win fifty bucks."
"Against whom?"
"Carmichael."
"That figures."
"You have to admit, history was on his side. I mean, you haven't taken a real vacation in ... Who knows? At least since I met you as a legal intern." She leaned over the desk to peek at the calendar. "So, where are you going for three long weeks? Got any hot plans? A sexy stud waiting in a closet somewhere?"
Rachel shook her head. "I just had a break between cases and thought I'd relax a little."
Pamela snorted. "You, relax? You'll go crazy within forty-eight hours."
"Such a vote of confidence." She laughed.
Pamela stood.
"Where are you headed to now?"
"I'm going to go catch up with Carmichael. Maybe I can convince him to go for double or nothing."
"Going to bet against me, huh?"
Pamela paused at the door, gave her a considering look, and then said, "You make it three weeks, and I'll split my winnings with you."
"Rigging a bet's illegal."
"Yeah, well, I figure it's worth jail time. It's about time you took a break, don't you think? Now, go get laid." With a wink and a laugh, she dodged a flying wad of paper and retreated.
Rachel could still hear her best friend's chuckles after the door closed.
Picking up the scrap with the phone number on it, Rachel pictured Dr. Sinclair. Seeing a psychiatrist hadn't been her first choice. She'd always plowed over any obstacles in the past and considered herself fully capable of handling anything life threw her way. But when the minor wet dreams turned into full-blown erotic nightmares, she knew she had to do something. What sane woman got turned on by being bound hand and foot and then fucked into submission?
So what if her love life had never really measured up to her expectations? The men she'd slept with hadn't all been that bad. They just seemed to rush toward completion, which often left her seeking climax later with her trusty vibrator.
She laid her head against the back of the high leather chair and closed her eyes.
She liked being in control, whether on the job or at home. Her life was well organized, even if a tad stressful. Okay, very stressful. Dr. Sinclair had been right about that. Sometimes she wished she could toss everything into the air and run. Let someone else pick up the pieces and struggle under the burden for a while. But as soon as the thought crossed her mind, she immediately discarded it as a sign of weakness.
If there was one thing she refused to be, it was weak.
Unfortunately, the dreams no longer hid in the darkness of the night. As the months passed, kinky ideas and risqué images plagued her mind day and night until she wanted to scream her frustration to the world. They left her body on edge and her mind exhausted. So she'd spilled her feelings of guilt, embarrassment, and need to a psychiatrist.
Pamela suggested the good doctor after going to him herself for what she called a temporary anxiety disorder. Rachel had thought of it as on-the-rebound depression. But after seeing the melancholy Pamela transform into the vivacious friend she remembered from their college days, Rachel decided to give the man a chance.
Now he was suggesting she submit her body to some sexual deviant to exorcise unwanted fantasies. Only she didn't understand how replacing the fantasies with a potentially worse reality could possibly help.
What if someone in the legal community got wind of what she did on her one and only vacation?
What if the memories of real sexual encounters disrupted her life more than the imagined ones?
What if she took the risk and discovered a sensual utopia?
She laughed at her own wishful thinking.
You'll never know until you try. His words challenged her as the memory of his chiseled features haunted her.
The doctor may know her fantasies, but there was one aspect she'd kept from him. Before she first met him, the dominant man in her dreams was faceless. A masked man of mystery. But as she shared her thoughts with him, hearing his deep voice encourage her to open up her mind and soul at each consultation, the mysterious Dom morphed into the face of Dr. Sinclair, with his black-as-sin hair and mesmerizing blue eyes.
Could she do what he suggested and go to another man? Let a stranger lead her into an exploration of submission and bondage? Then again, he was the psychiatrist, trained and licensed to give unprejudiced clinical diagnoses. What could a little adventure hurt if that's what the doctor ordered? Maybe the solution was as simple as Pamela's earlier command. It had been a long time since she'd gotten laid.
She picked up her phone and, before she could talk herself out of it, dialed the number. A commanding baritone answered on the second ring.
"Hello?"
"Hi. This is Rachel. I'm ready."
"We'll be in touch. Soon." The line went dead.
She stared at the phone, dumbfounded.
What the hell did he mean by that? And who were we? Trepidation and exhilaration raced along her nervous system. How soon was soon?
She found out as she headed to her car that night. She'd left later than usual since she had a lot of loose ends to tie up before taking her vacation. Besides, until they--whoever they were--got in touch with her, she didn't really have any plans to speak of, so she needn't hurry. She'd pick up a DVD from the video rental store and scarf down a bowl of popcorn if they stood her up.
When she stepped off the elevator into the parking garage, a prickly sensation erupted across the nape of her neck. She glanced at the security camera in the corner and waved, reciting a silent prayer that George was watching from the guard booth.
Cautiously walking to her car, she noticed brake lights come on; they belonged to a midnight blue Suburban parked several spaces away. With no one else in sight she relaxed, knowing there was at least one witness should a mugger leap at her from the darkness.
The Suburban's engine turned over, and the driver backed the vehicle out of the slot. Rachel hurried to her car before the only other human in sight could vanish around the corner. She reached her Jag just as the Suburban halted behind her car.
Thinking the driver meant to ask for directions, she paused and looked up. The last thing she remembered was thinking that the large truck blocked her view of the security camera near the elevator doors.
)
