by Riley Pine
“We have to get to the great hall in Edenvale,” I say, checking my watch. “It’s almost time.” And it’s not every day Edenvale has a coronation for a new king. King Nikolai has finally chosen to abdicate and live out his retirement in a love nest high in the mountains with his queen.
It’s a new day in the country where I spent so much of my career, and time for Prince Nikolai and Princess Kate to ascend the thrones and hopefully have a long and happy reign.
Lora and I enjoy our quiet life in the French countryside together—well, quiet isn’t the right word for it.
A knife goes whizzing through the air and embeds itself in some molding across the corridor.
“Bull’s-eye!” my daughter crows. She is an expert knife thrower, like her mother before her, and together these two women rule my heart.
“Come on, you little devil,” I say and Mari drops through the air in a tucked somersault, landing as gracefully as a cat.
“That’s your daughter,” Lora says in mock annoyance, but I know she is brimming with pride over her feisty only child.
“We are lucky, aren’t we,” I say, drawing Lora in and pressing my cheek to the top of her jasmine-scented hair.
“The luckiest,” she demurs.
“Ew, you two aren’t going to play kissy face again, are you?” Mari isn’t shy about saying what she thinks.
“Of course we are,” I say, dipping my wife. “That’s what you do when you find a princess and live happily ever after.”
And from the enthusiastic way that Lora kisses me, I think she agrees.
* * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from The Season to Sin by Clare Connelly.
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The Season to Sin
by Clare Connelly
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 stren
gth 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 ti
me.’
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.