He turned his attention back to the man talking beside him. Mike or something. Whatever. No surnames were used. You poured your heart out, but only on a first-name basis.
“—and then it hit me. There I was in Wal-Mart, and this kid was screaming because his mother wouldn’t buy him some toy, and all of a sudden I was back in that truck outside Kabul, and there was screaming, and bullets. Everything was dark, with the occasional flashes of fire. And there was Roberts next to me, his eyes just staring blankly at me. Gone.”
Mike shrugged his broad shoulders. “It snuck up on me so fast. It felt so real.” He patted his chest, pulling briefly at the blue business shirt he wore. “My heart was racing, I was sweating. Felt like an idiot when I snapped back to it.”
Bill glanced around the group surreptitiously. Some of the people were nodding their heads.
“The thing is, Roberts was sitting in my spot. We swapped because I was late and had to run for the patrol. I was supposed to be sitting there.” Mike’s voice became rough on the last sentence.
Bill glanced down at his shoes. He could relate to Mike. He knew what it was like to feel responsible for another man’s death.
Dr. Snow leaned forward. “Did you recognize the trigger, this time?”
Mike nodded. “Yeah. It was the screaming kid.”
“Can you remember what was going on with you at the time?”
“I started to feel all fuzzy, as though everything was blurring and separating.”
Bill tensed. It was as though Mike was describing his own experiences.
Dr. Snow nodded. “Okay. Is that what it feels like for the rest of you? Something along those lines?”
The others in the group nodded and some made assenting noises.
“Okay. Well, that’s a cue. It’s a signal that something is happening, and that’s when we start to use some grounding techniques.”
Bill listened intently as the therapist described using their senses like smell and touch to ground them in reality. He realized that focusing on Taylor’s fragrance the night before had brought him out of the flashback. Apparently that’s what those disturbing waking nightmares were called. The breaking glass—that had been his trigger. Taylor’s spicy scent, though, had grounded him. So maybe he wouldn’t completely annihilate her.
“Remember, what you are experiencing is a normal reaction to an abnormal experience. You can heal, though. It will take time, and you need to be willing to face what makes you most afraid, but you can triumph.” Dr. Snow glanced at his watch. “Okay, that’s it for today. Same time next week, folks. And of course, feel free to call me if you need me.”
Bill watched as, one by one, the members of the group thanked the doctor before leaving. Mike remained in his chair, and Bill realized the big man was staring at him. He returned his gaze.
“I haven’t seen you in this group before,” Mike commented quietly.
“I’m … visiting.”
Mike nodded. “It’s rough, but it’s worth it.”
“How long have you been coming here?” It wasn’t idle conversation. Bill was intrigued by the tall man next to him, and his story.
“Nearly three months.”
“Is it working?”
Mike grinned. “Yeah, it’s working. I’m getting better with the flashbacks, and all the talking about the incident has made it easier to think about. I just wish I’d done it sooner. Would have saved my marriage. And my business.”
Bill frowned. “How long have you been out of the service?”
“Just over a year. So, what happened to you?”
Bill hesitated. These people treated trauma as though it was normal conversation. “Plane crash.”
“Bummer.”
Bill smiled. From anyone else it would have sounded facetious. From Mike, it sounded understated. He understood.
“Yeah. Bummer.”
Mike stood. “Well, I’ve got a job interview to go to, so I’ll see you next week, maybe?” He held his hand out.
Bill eyed it for a moment, then grasped it. “Yeah. See you next week.”
*
Taylor followed Bill into his office, a little wary. Okay, a lot wary. He’d had a discussion with Ethan Snow after the session, and she’d given him his privacy, but he’d caught her arm as she’d tried to exit discreetly, and wouldn’t let go until she’d agreed to meet him back here.
She stood behind the chair facing his desk, gripping the backrest like a shield; she wasn’t going to sit. She already felt dwarfed around him, and she needed every advantage she could get. Good thing she was wearing her Louboutin power heels. He was probably going to blast her for hoodwinking him into the therapy session.
She raised her chin. Well, blast away. It was the only way she could think to show Bill that he wasn’t alone in this—whatever this was. He still hadn’t confided in anyone, and he needed to, whether he realized it or not.
“Post-traumatic stress disorder, huh?” Bill said as he sat in his chair. He leaned back, and the look he gave her made her feel like the canary eyed by the cat. A great big predatory cat.
She nodded. “I believe that’s what you’re experiencing.” She stepped closer to the desk, leaving her protective chair in an effort to convince him, to finally get through to him. “You experienced some major life events leading up to the crash, Bill. Divorce is always rough, but on top of that you lost a baby and a grandchild.” Her voice softened. “That would be hard to process, in and of itself, but to then survive a plane crash—and to be the only survivor—PTSD fits everything I’ve seen.” She folded her arms. “Of course, if you’d actually talk to me about it, I could confirm the diagnosis.”
Bill stared at her for a moment, then rose from his seat.
Uh-oh.
He walked around the desk, casually tapping the blotter as he did so, his gaze dark and intent. “Let’s get something straight, Taylor.”
Here it comes. She straightened her shoulders. She was ready for it. Whatever he was going to fire at her, she would fire right back. She wasn’t going to show fear. She locked her knees into place. She wasn’t going to run or back down, not from Bill Spencer. Give him an inch, and he’d walk all over her.
He stopped in front of her, so close they were almost touching. He leaned down, and she trembled when his breath brushed her ear.
“I am not your patient. I will never be your patient.” His voice was low, smooth, his breath warm against her throat. Goose bumps rose on her arms, and her nipples tightened under her blouse.
Good grief. The man was potent. She swayed, just a little, before she straightened her spine with determination. Focus on the conversation. “But you need to talk to someone, Bill. If not me, somebody else. Shout it from the rooftops, if you like, but get it out of you.”
He took a deep breath, stirring the hair at her temple. She trembled. Just a breath, and he had all her senses on alert. He was silent for a moment, and she hoped he couldn’t hear her heart kick into a trot—she could. Was she vibrating?
He finally lifted his head. “I don’t want people to know.”
“Why do you want to keep it secret?” she asked. Focus on the conversation, not the man, his closeness. He really did have broad shoulders—no, focus.
“I—I just don’t. It’s my business. Nobody else’s.” His gaze was dark, enigmatic.
“You need to talk to someone.” She felt like she was stuck in a loop, trying to get the same point across again and again, but the man was the definition of stubborn. “Alleviate some of the stress you feel by just letting it out. I would have thought Bill Spencer, of all people, would want to live in raw honesty.”
“Live in the truth, huh?” His lips, soft and full, quirked.
“Uh, exactly. Live in the truth.” Stop staring at his lips.
“I’ve arranged to see Dr. Snow.”
For a moment disappointment swamped her. He didn’t trust her. She took a deep breath. She could understand that. She had been instrumental in the break up of his ma
rriage, after all. She’d been treating his wife for postpartum depression, but she’d also seen the signs of the affair blooming between Bill and his sister-in-law, Brooke. All things considered, she had no business being fascinated by his lips, or shivering with every breath. Her decision to tell Katie of the attraction was a painful one, but her patient was her priority. Though it stung that Bill didn’t trust her.
But Bill was the one that needed the help, not her ego. “I’m glad,” she said, truthfully. Hoarsely. She cleared her throat. Gosh, he was still so close. Her cheeks were warm. “Uh, one of the ways of dealing with PTSD is to talk about it,” she told him, trying to remain at a professional distance, despite their physical closeness. Yes, professional. He was so intense. “At some point, you might want to discuss it with Liam, or Wyatt, or someone you trust.” If there was such a person for Bill Spencer.
Bill’s lips curved, and she found herself gazing at his mouth. It looked lush and soft, framed by his neatly trimmed beard, and she resisted the urge to reach out and touch him.
She ducked her head, blinking furiously. Oh. My. Goodness. Her body was choosing the wrong time, and the wrong person, to wake up to. She hadn’t looked at another man since she’d broken up with Eric months ago, and now—oh, this was embarrassing. This was Bill Spencer! She couldn’t think his lips were attractive. She couldn’t think any of him was attractive. She wasn’t blind, he was an appealing man, and he oozed charisma, but he was not the kind of man she was normally enticed by.
“Well, your—methods are a little unorthodox,” he said.
Taylor stepped back, trying to put some space between them, trying to cool herself down. To hell with appearing brave; she needed space. He was overwhelming. “I completely understand. Dr. Snow is very good at his job, and he’s helped many people overcome post-traumatic stress disorder. You’re in good hands.”
Her gaze dropped. Bill had good hands. Large, strong—oh, heavens, she had to get out of here.
She fumbled with her purse, and pulled out her business card case. “Look, here’s my card. If you need anything, feel free to call, otherwise—good luck.”
There. Put him back in the position of someone who needed help—not someone who was sexy as all hell and was driving her mad just by breathing.
He accepted her card with a slight frown and she lifted a hand in a casual wave. “Good luck,” she said again, sincerely, then escaped his office.
She fanned herself as she stalked down the hallway to the elevator. Good grief. She’d chosen the wrong time to notice Bill Spencer as a man.
*
Bill watched as the door slowly shut behind Taylor. He leaned against his desk. He’d meant to take her to task about tricking him. It had just taken one whiff of her sexy perfume, though, and he’d forgotten what they were talking about. He glanced at the card he held in his hand. Elegant script on luxurious stationery, kind of like Taylor: elegant, lush—attractive.
Despite their history, he had to acknowledge that Taylor had really helped Katie. When his wife had left him under a dark cloud of depression, it had been Taylor who had convinced Katie to return home and be a wife to him and mother to their newborn son, Will. He had to give Taylor that.
It was just—she knew him. And he knew her. He couldn’t treat her like some objective therapist at the end of the couch. He … respected her. She aggravated him, she had caused him hurt, yet despite everything that had happened between them, he still respected her. And he wanted her to respect him, not pity him. He couldn’t stand to be pitied. It implied fragility and vulnerability, and Bill Spencer didn’t do weak. No, being counseled by Taylor Forrester would be hell, him lying on a couch while she listened to him whine about life.
His body tightened at the thought. Him. Her. On a couch. He knew what he’d be focusing on, and it wouldn’t be talking.
He was attracted to Taylor Forrester.
He must be crazy.
Chapter Five
Taylor stepped from her shower and reached for the fluffy oversized towel draped over the rail. It was late. Thomas had visited for dinner, and they’d sat up talking for ages. It had been so good to see her son. She wished he would find someone who appreciated his drive and talent and shared his passion. That’s all she wanted for all of her children. She smiled. He laughed every time she mentioned a partner for him. He was too busy working, he’d tell her. At this point, she’d be happy if he’d just date a girl. He worked too hard, but he seemed to enjoy it.
Her thoughts turned to her daughter, Steffy. She’d spoken to her just a few days ago, and the time in Paris with her father seemed to be helping. If only she’d come home, though. She missed her. There were some things she couldn’t rush, no matter how impatient she was, and her daughter’s recovery from her miscarriage and marriage breakdown was something that would need time. She slipped into the negligee and silk dressing gown hanging on the back of her bathroom door.
Just as Bill Spencer would need time. It had been three weeks since his first visit to the PTSD clinic. Ethan Snow couldn’t tell her how he was coping, that would be a breach of patient confidentiality, and she’d never put Ethan—or Bill—in that situation.
Still, she was curious. PTSD was a complex condition, but with intense therapy and a willing attitude, patients could learn to deal with PTSD and minimize its effects. Despite their differences, she hoped Bill could make progress.
She padded into her bedroom, removing the clip from her hair. She was reaching for her brush when the doorbell downstairs rang. Taylor frowned and checked her watch. Thomas had left over an hour ago. Had he left something behind?
She ran lightly downstairs and peered through the peephole before jerking back from the door, as though burned. Bill? Oh dear. And here she was in her negligee. But it was so late. Had something happened?
She unlocked the door, opening it just a little. “Bill.” She gazed up at him, trying to hide her shock.
He leaned against the doorjamb, one arm raised, his jacket and shirt parted to show an expanse of smooth chest. He looked like hell: he was pale, his face haggard, and his normally well-fitting clothes seemed a little loose on his frame.
She opened the door wider. “Is everything all right?” Bill Spencer was on her doorstep in the middle of the night. Something was definitely wrong.
She barely stepped out of the way in time as Bill swept past her into her foyer.
“I can’t sleep,” he muttered.
“Did Dr. Snow prescribe you anything to help you sleep?” Difficulty sleeping was a classic symptom of PTSD, and sometimes doctors prescribed sleeping tablets to help their patients. Personally, she only did so in extreme cases, preferring to give the therapy time to do its work.
Bill shook his head. “I don’t want drugs. I don’t want to end up hooked on any pills.” He paced the floor of the foyer. “I don’t want to depend on anything but me to get through this.”
“Do you need to talk?” she asked him quietly.
Bill halted and held up a hand. “I’m not your patient.”
She nodded. “Okay. We can talk as friends,” she said, and managed to hide her skepticism. There’s a sentence she’d never expected to say. It sounded like an introduction to a delusional support group: “Hi, my name is Taylor, and Bill Spencer is my friend.”
Bill glared at her for a moment before acquiescing with a single nod. “Friends.”
At least he didn’t choke on the word.
Taylor closed the door quietly. Many patients were concerned about the possible addiction to pain or sleep medication through recovery, so Bill’s attitude didn’t surprise her. He was a take-no-prisoners kind of guy, and had worked through adversity to get to his current position as a business titan. Weakness wasn’t part of his equation, and he’d see taking sleeping pills as a sign of weakness.
“Why don’t you come into the living room?” she said. He was clearly agitated. “Have you called Dr. Snow?”
Bill nodded. “Yeah. He’s on a break at the momen
t.”
She led him into her living room. “Does he have another therapist covering for him?”
“The guy’s an idiot.”
Taylor’s eyebrows rose as she crossed to the fireplace. “I’m certain Dr. Snow would ensure his replacement was fully capable and qualified.”
“He wants me to talk about the crash over and over again.”
She opened the fireguard and stoked the ash. Fortunately the embers were still red, and it didn’t take long for a flame to flicker in the hearth. She reached for a nearby log and placed it carefully in the fire, then replaced the fireguard and took a seat on her settee.
“Talking about the incident helps, Bill. It helps explore your thoughts and feelings. He’s trying to help.”
“I don’t know the guy, and he wants to explore my feelings.” He sat down on the end of the settee. “Not happening.”
“What about the group sessions? Are they helping?”
Bill hesitated, before nodding reluctantly. “Yes, they’re helping,” he admitted. “Especially Mike. We understand each other.”
Taylor nodded approvingly. “Good. That’s great, Bill. So—what is the problem tonight?” She curled her legs underneath her in an effort to cover herself with her gown. Bill was the first man to enter her new home, apart from Thomas. And she wasn’t used to entertaining any man in her negligee.
“I—can’t relax. I can’t shut down. I feel like I’m wired up to a battery.”
She nodded. “Hyper-alertness is also a part of the PTSD. It sounds to me like you’re experiencing anxiety.”
Bill frowned. “I can handle stress.”
Taylor nodded. “I know. In your position, you seem to manage stress very well, but this is slightly different. I can show you some exercises, if you like, particularly for when you’re feeling the symptoms you’re experiencing now.”
“Like what?” Bill looked at her suspiciously. “You’re not talking hypnotism, are you?”
“No, Bill, although sometimes that can help.” His frown deepened, and she hurried on. “I think some simple breathing exercises could help.”
Collision Course: The Bold and the Beautiful Page 4