ALSO BY GEORGIA
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Owned
42 Days
Besotted
Seduce Me
Love’s Sacrifice
Masquerade
Pretty Wicked
(Novella)
Disfigured Love
Crystal Jake
(The EDEN Series)
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Hypnotized
Published by Georgia Le Carre
Copyright © 2015 by Georgia Le Carre
The right of Georgia Le Carre to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the copyright, designs and patent act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-910575-15-4
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For Caryl Milton
Thank you so much for helping me through your time of great loss.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thank you from the bottom of my heart to Nicola Rhead, Caryl Milton, Elizabeth Burns, Sue Bee, Cariad & Nichole from Sizzling Pages, Chelle Thompson, Sandra Hayes, Terry & Donna Briody-Buccella, Sharon Johnson, Simona Misevska, Irida Sotiri, Lan LLP, C.J Fallowfield, Drew Hoffman, Nadia Debowska-Stephens, Maria Lazarou & Nancy of Romance Reads.
Hypnotized
Georgia Le Carre
The power of a glance has been so much abused in love stories, that it has come to be disbelieved in. Few people dare now to say that two beings have fallen in love because they have looked at each other. Yet it is in this way that love begins, and in this way only.
—Victor Hugo, Les Misérables
Contents
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
Epilogue
Prologue
The chick behind the counter smiled at me and licked her lips. Shit. That was an invitation if ever I saw one. Sorry, honey, I’m married. Hey, I’m not just married, I’m in fucking love. I had the perfect life. A beautiful wife, two little terrors, a successful career. In fact, I was poised to dominate my industry.
The results of my research would soon be made public and I was going to be a star! Life was good.
‘Keep the change,’ I told her.
Her smile broadened and yet there was disappointment in her eyes.
I grinned and shrugged. ‘If I wasn’t already hooked I’d ask you out. You’re gorgeous.’
‘I’m not jealous,’ she said flirtatiously.
‘My wife is,’ I told her, and picked up the tray of drinks: cappuccino for me, latte for my wife, and two hot chocolates for my monsters. Suddenly I heard a man shout, ‘Fuck me!’ And though those two words had nothing to do with me, my body—no, not just my body, every cell that lived inside me—knew.
They concerned me.
I whirled around, jaw clenched, still clutching the paper tray of drinks as if it was my last link to normality. For precious seconds I was so stunned, I froze. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Then an instinct older than life kicked in.
The tray dropped from my hand—one cappuccino, one latte, and two hot chocolates—my last link with normality falling away from me forever, and I began to race toward the burning car. My car. With my family trapped inside. I could see my beautiful babies screaming and banging on the car windows.
‘Get out, get out of the fucking car!’ I screamed as I ran.
I could see them pulling at the handles, their small spread palms hitting desperately on the glass. I could even see their little mouths screaming for me.
‘Daddy, Daddy. Help!’
It was heartbreaking how frightened and white their little faces were. I couldn’t see my wife. Where was she?
I was running so fast my legs felt as though they might buckle, but it was like being in slow motion. Time had slowed down. At that moment thoughts came into my head at sonic speed, but the disaster carried on in real time, slow time. Suddenly my wife lifted her head and I saw her. She was looking out through the window directly at me. I was twenty feet away, but I saw it. I kept on running, but it was like being in a dream where your mother suddenly turns into a green elephant.
You don’t go, What the fuck?
You just carry on as normal even though your mother has just turned into a green elephant. I just carried on running. I no longer looked at my children. My gaze was riveted by the sight of my wife. I was ten feet away when the car exploded.
Boom!
The force of it picked me up and threw me backwards. I flew into the air and landed hard on the tarmac. I didn’t feel the pain of the impact. Coughing and choking at the smell, the taste and the heat in the thick, black, acrid smoke that poured from the wreckage I got onto my elbows and watched the fire consume my family.
Burning debris rained down. A small pink shoe landed within touching distance. It was charred and still smoking. I felt my body go into lockdown. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t. It could.
There was no grief then. Not even horror. It was just shock. And the inability to comprehend. The loss, the carnage, the tragedy, the green elephant. People came to help me up. I was shaking uncontrollably. They thought I was cold so they wrapped me in blankets. I wasn’t. I was on fire. They sent me in an ambulance to the hospital. I never spoke. The whole time I was trying to figure out the green elephant. Why? How? It confused me.
It destroyed my life—past, present, and future.
Two years later
London
1
Marlow Kane
It was a bright cold day in April and the clocks were striking thirteen.
—George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four (opening line)
‘Lady Swanson is here for her appointment,’ Beryl said into the intercom, her voice at once professional and terribly impressed.
‘Send her in,’ I said, and rose from my desk.
The door opened and a classically beautiful woman entered. Her skin was very pale and as flawless as porcelain. It contrasted greatly with her shoulder-length dark hair and intensely blue eyes. Her dress and long coat were in the same cream material; her shoes exactly matched the color of her skin. The overriding impression was of an impossibly wealthy and elegant woman. Women like her lived in movies and magazines. They did not walk into the consulting rooms of disgraced hypnotists.
‘Lady Swanson,’ I said.
‘Dr. Kane,’
she murmured, her accent polished.
‘Please,’ I said and gestured toward the chair.
She came forward and sat. Looking directly into my eyes she crossed her legs. They were long and encased in the sheerest of tights.
I smiled.
She smiled back.
‘So, I believe you refused to tell Beryl your reason for coming to see me?’
‘That is correct.’
‘What can I do for you, Lady Swanson?’
‘It’s not for me. It’s for my daughter. Well, she’s my stepdaughter, but she is just like my own. I’ve raised her for the last twenty years. Since she was five years old.’
I nodded and began to raise the estimation of her age upwards. She must have been at least forty, but she didn’t look a day over twenty-eight.
‘She met with an accident about a year ago.’ Lady Swanson paused for breath. ‘And she nearly died. She had extensive internal injuries and was in hospital for many months. When she recovered she had lost her memory. She could remember certain things—like how to cook, or wear make-up—and, strangely, certain places and certain people, but she could not remember her past.’ A look of sadness crossed her lovely face. ‘She could not even remember her family.’
I nodded.
‘I was hoping hypnotherapy could help her.’ She leaned forward slightly, her lips parted. ‘Do you think you could…hypnotize her?’
I watched her and thought of the men in her life. How easy it must have been for such a beautiful woman to get anything she wanted from a man.
‘Lady Swanson, I’m not sure I am the right man for the job. Usually I treat people who want to lose weight, kick a bad habit, or who are afraid of spiders.’
‘Yes, I understand that, but you were recovering memories, were you not? You had just discovered a new experimental method when your research was cut short by that awful tragedy.’
I froze at that.
Instantly her face lost some of its glowing enthusiasm. ‘I hope you don’t think I was snooping into your private affairs. I was only interested in your professional credentials…’
Even now the reference to my family was like a knife in my heart. I struggled not to show any emotion in my face. I smiled tightly. I was aware that search engines brought the personal stuff up with the professional stuff. After the accident the two had become inextricably entwined.
‘Of course not. It is prudent to check out a practitioner before you go to see them.’
‘I just want what’s best for my daughter. And I think you are it.’
Some lingering, old pride in the method I had pioneered and been so confident in resurfaced. I clasped my hands lightly on the surface of my desk. ‘I am a clinical psychiatrist, but you must understand that my method does not have any scientific underpinning. In fact, I am obliged to warn you that there is virtually no scientific evidence to demonstrate the authenticity of repressed memories returning. If anything, repeated studies have proven that using regressive hypnosis to recover memories can actually lead to the patient creating new material, a phenomenon called false memory. In some states in the US, any evidence that is gained using hypnosis renders that testimony null and void.’
‘But do you think you could help her?’ she insisted, undaunted.
For a second that heady memory of my first success flashed into my mind. How excited I had been. How amazing to return to something important. ‘To be honest, I’ve never had a patient like your daughter.’
‘It must be worth a try, then?’ she pressed hopefully.
‘You have to bear in mind that not everybody can be hypnotized.’
She didn’t listen to that. Instead she broke into a smile. It was like the sun shining out from between a crack in a sky full of storm clouds. Yes, she was obviously one of those women who could whistle a chap off a tree, but… I was immune to it. For two years I wandered around looking for even the smallest spark of the vibrant life that used to course through my veins. All I ever found were ashes. Even now this beautiful, beautiful woman elicited nothing from me.
‘You will take her on?’ Her voice trembled.
I knew she had manipulated me, but I was professionally intrigued by the case and impressed by her deep desire to cure her stepdaughter. I had prejudged her as shallow and cunning when she walked into my office. But she nurtured a deep and genuine care for another human being. A rare and precious thing.
I nodded.
‘Oh, that’s wonderful,’ she gushed, but softly.
‘I’ll try. No promises.’
She smiled—grateful, triumphant. She had succeeded. ‘I am certain you are the best person for the job. If anybody can do it, you can. In fact, I know you can help her.’
‘Does your stepdaughter know you’re here?’
She leaned back and looked out of the window. ‘A butterfly wing is a miracle, made up of thousands of tiny, loosely attached pigmented scales that individually catch the light and together create a depth of color and iridescence unmatched elsewhere in nature. Our identities are like the butterfly wing, made up of thousands and thousands of tiny, loosely attached memories. Without them we lose our color and iridescence. Olivia is like a child now. We make all the major decisions for her. The world is a frightening place for her.’
I nodded. ‘All right, Beryl will give you some forms your daughter needs to fill out and she will also schedule an appointment for her.’
She smiled again. And I had a vision. Her in bed with her shriveled husband. It was not only she who had done a quick Google search. It was not every day that Lady Swanson, of the great Swanson dynasty, called my office for an appointment.
For a moment our eyes held and I saw something in hers. Interest. Desire. I let my gaze slide away.
‘Thank you… Dr. Kane.’
‘Goodbye, Lady Swanson.’
I walked to the door, opened it, and let her out. As she passed me her perfume wafted into my nostrils. Expensive, faint, but still potent. Up close, her carefully powdered skin was even more flawless. I closed the door and walked to my desk. I opened my drawer and taking out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s poured myself a huge measure. I knocked it back, swallowed, and closed my eyes.
Fuck. Was it ever going to stop hurting?
Then I walked to the window and watched Lady Swanson get into her chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce Phantom. She stared straight ahead. Distant, unreachable, from a different world. It was almost as if it was only a dream that she had come into my office and sat in my chair.
The intercom buzzed. ‘Can I come in?’ Beryl asked.
I sighed. ‘Yes.’
The door opened even before I had taken my finger away from the button.
‘Well?’ she asked, wide-eyed. ‘That was a very short first session. What did she want?’
‘She wants me to treat her stepdaughter.’
Her eyes became huge. ‘What? She wants you to treat her Lady Olivia?’
‘How did you know that?’
‘It was all over the papers. She met with an accident and lost her memory. You have your work cut out for you.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Lady Olivia is known in the tabloids as “Lady O”. She has never ever given an interview and furiously guards her privacy. Unlike the other “It” girls, there are no pictures of her behaving badly. Ever.’
Beryl came deeper into the room and went to my computer. She typed in a few words and turned toward me, her face filled with gossipy excitement. ‘Here. This is what she looks like.’
I walked toward the computer screen.
It was not a very good picture. A long lens photo. Grainy. And not even in color. But my cock twitched and woke up from its deep sleep.
2
I glanced restlessly at my watch: ten minutes to spare before Lady Olivia’s appointment. My heart was pumping strongly and there was a strange tension in my gut. I pulled the bottle of JD from my desk drawer, unscrewed the cap and took a long swig straight from its mouth. The fiery liquid
burned all the way into my empty stomach. Heat sped along my veins warming, easing, dulling. Artificially relaxed I sprayed breath freshener into my mouth.
Horrible stuff.
I stood up and walked over to the window. It was late in the afternoon and the pavements were already full of people hurrying home. I had been there for less than a minute when a Rolls-Royce Phantom pulled up on the street. Then, even though I really, really wanted to watch her slide out, I moved away from the window. I straightened my tie, shot my cuffs, sat in my chair, and twirled my pen. My pulse was jumping.
What the hell is the matter with you?
Behaving like a fucking hormone-crazed teenager.
The bell rang. I put the pen down and listened to the blood pumping in my ears while out front she was let in, asked to fill in the disclaimer form, and reminded to use the restroom before her session started. I glanced at my watch. Four minutes. I badly wanted to have another swig. I resisted and waited for Beryl’s soft knock.
It came three minutes later.
‘Come in,’ I called.
The door opened and she stood in the doorway dressed in a tailored, gunmetal-gray dress, thick black tights and flat black pumps. How should I describe her? Petite. Blonde hair tightly pulled back into a ponytail. Heart-shaped face. Straight nose. Absolutely enormous, glossy, gray-green eyes. And a full, small mouth that she had painted a frank red. She was neither classically beautiful like her stepmother nor pretty in the girl-next-door sort of way.
But she was…intriguing. Very.
‘Good afternoon,’ I greeted, standing up.
‘Hello, Dr. Kane,’ she said and took a step into the room.
Her voice held that fey, non-aggressive, aristocratic tone of the British upper class, and her expression was a politely closed door, but her sexuality reached out like a long tentacle and touched me. I can tell you now, it wasn’t pleasant. It was cold, sensual, compelling…and undeniable.
The Goat of Lust had me by the fucking balls!
Hypnotized Page 1