Bedroom Therapy: A Hot Romantic Suspense Novel

by Rebecca York

  “Okay. I’d like that.”

  “Work first. Play later,” he said, his voice light. But as soon as the words were out of his mouth, she found herself thinking that they’d already been playing.

  From the expression on his face, it looked like his thoughts were traveling in the same direction.

  “Let’s get the stuff unloaded,” he said, then swung quickly back toward the Honda.

  They both carried in her belongings, with Zach grabbing the heavier boxes. The job didn’t take long because she’d used different containers for different areas of the house. Some went right to the bedroom or the bathroom while others could be left in the kitchen.

  When she got to the vibrator, she hesitated, unable to put it into the drawer of the bedside table. When Zach came to bed with her, they’d both be thinking about it.

  She stopped short, raising her hand and pressing her fingers to her mouth.

  When he came to bed with her. In her thoughts, she’d used that phrase without a second’s hesitation. Like she knew it was going to happen.

  Well, if it didn’t, she would be disappointed—and surprised. All the things they’d done had been very stimulating. But she wanted to be in bed with him, his naked body clasped to hers. And it was hard to believe he didn’t want that too.

  She canceled the graphic image as soon as it had formed in her mind. Better not to go any farther down that path, because she was becoming aroused again. And it hadn’t been that long since he’d brought her to a mind-blowing climax.

  Unable to stop herself now, she stood for a moment with her eyes closed, reliving that intimate encounter with him. He knew how to touch a woman, knew how. . .

  With a grimace, she looked toward the bedroom door as though she expected him to come striding down the hall. When he didn’t, she picked up the pile of garments she’d laid on the bed and headed for the closet, making sure each was secure on its hanger.

  Zach knocked on the door while she was still in the closet—with her back to him again.

  Deliberately she turned around. “Come in.”

  He stopped in the doorway, as though he were thinking that if he came into the room, they’d end up tangled together on the bed. “I made a reservation at the Plantation,” he said.

  “The Plantation! Isn’t that the most expensive restaurant around here?”

  “Yeah, but I figure I can splurge.”

  “I don’t expect you to pay for dinner!” she answered immediately.

  “Well, I’m living here rent free. Don’t feel bad about letting me take you out to a nice restaurant.”

  Because the explanation made sense, she gave a small nod.

  “The reservation is for 7:00, if that works for you.”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  She spent much of the afternoon unpacking.

  After Zach helped her with some of the heavy stuff, he told her he was going out and disappeared for a couple of hours.

  While he was gone, she set up her computer on the desk in the bedroom, opened letters and read them.

  Many of them would have made good jumping-off points for the column. But she found that her mind kept winging back to Zach.

  Finally, she heard him come in and pushed back her chair, eager to find out where he’d been. Then she stopped herself. She was acting like a possessive wife, and that was hardly appropriate. Still, she was curious about why he’d been gone for hours.

  When she came into the living room, she saw he was carrying a paper bag and a navy blue sports coat over his arm.

  Seeing her eye the purchases, he said, “I didn’t have anything to wear to the Plantation, so I bought something.”

  “We could have gone somewhere a lot less fancy,” she answered.

  “I know. But there’s a good discount mall down here, and I decided to try one of the men’s stores.”

  “That’s where you were—at the mall?” she asked. “I thought men hated to shop.”

  His face took on an expression she couldn’t quite read. “Sometimes it’s a necessary evil.”

  “Was shopping the only thing you did?”

  “Some other stuff. We’ll talk about it at dinner.”

  She nodded, thinking that she could start getting ready. Feeling like a high school girl going out on an important date, she took a leisurely shower, fussed with her hair and makeup, then selected a cream-colored, summer-weight pants outfit that she knew made her look taller and slimmer.

  She accented the neckline with some onyx beads, slipped into white sandals, and studied the effect in the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door.

  When she stepped into the living room, Zach was standing with his back to the room, gazing out at Turtle Creek. He turned—then stopped short, his gaze going warm as he inspected her outfit.

  “Very nice,” he murmured. “A very nice change from shorts and a tee shirt.”

  Some women might have bristled at the remark. But in fact, she’d gotten dressed up for him, and she was pleased that he liked the effect.

  She liked the effect she was seeing as well. “You clean up pretty good yourself,” she answered, because it was true. They’d only seen each other in the most casual of outfits. But his dark good looks were set off very nicely by the navy sports jacket, a white dress shirt, his chinos, and a pair of brown loafers.

  “Let’s go,” he said. When she’d climbed into the passenger seat of the car, he opened his door and stuck his head inside. “I forgot something in the house. Be right back,” he said.

  He went back in and returned quickly, looking like a little boy who’d been naughty and was hoping he wouldn’t get caught.

  He was up to something, but she wasn’t going to ask what it was.

  They didn’t have much to say to each other on the way to the inn, and she began to wonder what they would talk about at dinner.

  As he found a parking space in one of the shrubbery-screened lots near the inn, she turned to look at the building. She’d heard about the Plantation, of course. But she’d considered it outside her price range.

  It had started life as a manor house. But a series of additions had enlarged the building to accommodate overnight guests. There were also a number of guesthouses dotted around the grounds.

  In the front hall, a hostess confirmed their reservation, then led them to one of several dining rooms. Their table was by a window with a nice view of well-tended gardens and a boat dock where several pleasure craft were moored. Apparently you could come here by water if you wanted.

  The table was set with crisp linen, flower patterned china, and gleaming cutlery.

  “It’s strange to find a place like this in a small, out-of-the-way town,” Amanda commented as they took their seats.

  “Well, the area has a very mixed economy. There are the watermen and farmers whose families made their living from the bay and the land for years. And there are the wealthy people who have come down here to escape from the city.”

  “You seem to know more about it than I do.”

  “Part of my research,” he said.

  They both looked up as a server approached the table and asked, “Can I get you something to drink?”

  Zach glanced at her. “How about some wine?”

  Amanda was about to ask what they had by the glass when he requested the wine list.

  She’d pegged him more as the beer type, but he studied the leather-bound folder carefully, asked her opinion, then ordered a Merlot, which the waiter brought to the table and uncorked.

  “Where did you learn about wine?” she asked as she sipped the dark, rich wine. It was excellent.

  He laughed. “In college; I was a waiter. Part of the job was being able to advise customers on wine. I tried a bunch of them and found I liked them.”

  “I think you know more about it than I do,” she conceded. “A lot of times I just go for a white Zinfandel.”

  “We used to say people who ordered Zinfandel didn’t really like wine.”

  “I li
ke it. I just don’t know enough about it to feel comfortable ordering anything exotic.”

  “It’s not that mysterious.”

  She wondered if he was going to be around long enough to give her wine tasting lessons, then canceled the thought.

  They ordered dinner, and she splurged on rack of lamb while he selected osso bucco.

  “How did you get interested in human sexuality?” he asked, when the waiter had departed again.

  She took a sip of wine. “Isn’t everybody?”

  “Sure. But a lot of people just plunge right in. You made a study of the subject.”

  She shifted in her seat. Most people didn’t ask her such direct questions. But most people weren’t detectives, of course. She could be evasive, but she knew she wanted to be as open and honest with Zachary Grant as she could. “I guess my interest goes back to my parents. They were pretty repressed and repressive.”

  “Like how?”

  Maybe it was the wine that made her answer, “Like I remember hearing the big kids laughing and giggling about something—and I didn’t know what it meant. I asked my big sister, ‘what does fuck mean?’ She told my parents, and I got a spanking for saying that word.”

  “Nice.”

  She shrugged, knowing that the wine was lowering her inhibitions. “You know all kids wonder how their parents managed to have any children. It was true in spades for mine. I think now that after they had my sister and me, they stopped having sexual relations.”

  “That’s pretty radical. I’ve heard about women who never enjoyed making love and thought of all kinds of excuses to get out of it. Not many guys go that route.”

  “I guess it wasn’t very important to them.”

  “And you wanted a different life.”

  “Yes.”

  “What about your sister?”

  “She’s still pretty uptight.”

  “Is she married?”

  “She was. It didn’t work out.”

  “Oh.”

  “I don’t think she liked sex. At least I didn’t pick up that attitude from my parents,” she heard herself saying defensively.

  “But maybe your early experiences made you cautious about sexual experimentation.”

  “Maybe,” she conceded in a low voice.

  He leaned back comfortably and crossed his legs at the ankles. “I guess the column is broadening your horizons.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re finding out what other people do.”

  She nodded.

  “Do the letters inspire you to try new things?”

  “I’ve only had this job for a month,” she answered, thinking that she’d like to take the conversation in a less personal direction.

  He sat forward and suddenly asked, “Why didn’t you absorb your parents’ values?”

  “I have a theory about kids. You either end up like them, or you do just the opposite.”

  He looked thoughtful. “I guess you’re right.”

  “You’re speaking from personal experience.”

  “Yeah. My dad was a very straight-arrow cop. I ended up in the same field. My brother, too.”

  Feeling reckless, she said, “Straight-arrow. Did that mean your dad wasn’t into sex?”

  “I think my parents had a very lusty relationship. I think they still do.”

  “Good for them.”

  An expression flashed across his face—something that she wasn’t sure how to read.

  “You said you have brothers. What about sisters?” she asked.

  “There were five of us. Three boys and two girls. Like I said, my brothers are both cops. One of my sisters is a doctor. The other is a librarian.”

  “It sounds like your parents should be proud of their offspring.”

  “They are.”

  The waiter interrupted by appearing at their table with the main courses. And they both turned to your meals.

  After a bite of his veal shank, he said “This osso bucco is great. Do you want to taste it?”

  “If you’ll try some of my rack of lamb.”

  They exchanged some of the food, and she tasted his dish. “It is good.”

  “So is the lamb.”

  “It should be. They could feed a family of five for a week on what they’re charging.”

  “Yeah. But you have to crank in the ambiance.”

  They smiled at each other across the table, and she thought that they were acting like a couple who knew each other pretty well. Joking. Sharing food. The latter was an intimate act, but she told herself not to read too much into it.

  Still, she couldn’t help feeling that they’d reached another level in the relationship. And she craved more information about him.

  “Did you like being a cop?”

  “Better than being a PI.”

  “Why?”

  “I guess I liked getting the bad guys off the street. What I do now is more routine.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like snapping pictures of married men and women cheating on their spouses. That’s not exactly uplifting.”

  “I guess not.”

  “What was your most memorable case—when you were a cop,” she asked.

  He thought about that for a few minutes. “A hostage situation. A guy I was trailing snatched up a mother and child and threatened to kill them. He knew I was the one on his case. He insisted that I go in there and exchange myself for the woman and kid.”

  She sucked in a sharp breath as she pictured the situation. She didn’t have any doubts when she said, “You made the exchange.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened? Well, I had some instructions from my Lou—my Lieutenant. I kept the bad guy talking while the SWAT team got into position.”

  She swallowed. “That sounds . . . dangerous.”

  “Sometimes cops have to deal with danger.”

  She gave a little nod.

  His gaze bored into hers. “So—would you. . . uh . . . get involved with a man who got into that kind of danger?”

  She answered immediately. “Yes.”

  “You wouldn’t resent his profession?”

  “It would make every minute with him precious,” she said. Then, feeling a little embarrassed, she looked down at her plate.

  The conversation had gotten pretty intense. Both of them backed off, each concentrating on the food.

  Searching around for another topic, she said, “You were going to tell me what else you were doing this afternoon.”

  That naughty little-boy look flashed across his face again. What had he been up to, exactly?

  “What do you mean?” he said carefully.

  “When I asked where else you went besides the mall, you said you’d tell me at dinner.”

  He sighed. “Okay, I went back to the police department and chatted up one of the officers on the force. According to him, there have been some cases where houses have been broken into.”

  “That’s similar to what happened to me.”

  “The difference is that there hasn’t been a recent incident where an occupied house was burglarized. If the motive is robbery, the perp prefers that nobody’s home because it’s safer for him.”

  She nodded.

  “Which means either the guy who broke into your house thought the place was empty, or he was. . .”

  She could see him struggling for a way to say it. “He wanted to . . . hurt someone,” she finished.

  “Yeah. Sorry. I don’t like giving . . . bad news.”

  “It’s better to know what we’re up against.”

  “Do we? We still don’t know the reason for the attack. The guy could have seen you around the neighborhood and zeroed in on you.”

  She shivered, and he reached across the table and covered her hand with his.

  “What other reason could there be?” she asked.

  “We’re back to Esther Knight’s death.”

  Against her will, she found herself nodding.

  He squeezed her
hand and then let it go. “After the police department, I stopped off down the street to speak to those neighbors who wouldn’t answer the door when you were in trouble. Mr. Crossman is very sorry he didn’t help you out.”

  “I see.”

  “He’s going to call me if he sees a white van around the neighborhood.”

  “That’s . . . um . . . a radical turnabout for him—isn’t it?”

  “I can be pretty persuasive.”

  “I know,” she answered, her mind going to the activities he’d persuaded her to try. To get her mind off that, she said, “You never told me what you found out about Esther Knight’s death.”

  “Apparently she had gotten a call from a pay phone—and she might have gone out to meet someone. Late at night.”

  “Why aren’t the police following up on that?”

  He shifted in his seat. “Sometimes the cops have to set priorities. The phone call could have been a wrong number. They couldn’t find any evidence that someone she knew had phoned her. After a brief investigation, they decided the odds were that it was an accident. They didn’t have the time to keep digging. But I do.”

  “Yes.”

  Their eyes met across the table again. “If I’m speculating whether it’s related to the guy who broke into your house, I’m not trying to scare you. I’m just saying that I want to be cautious when it comes to you.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “And I want you to be realistic.”

  She shivered. “Thanks again.”

  Under the table, he slid his foot against hers.

  She had started the conversation. Now she said, “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Okay.” He leaned back in his chair looking at her in a way that told her he had gone from what he called business to the personal. But all he said was, “Do you want dessert?”

  “I’m not sure I need it. But a cup of cappuccino would be good.”

  “An excellent idea.”

  They placed the order, then sipped their Italian coffee.

  “Thank you for a really nice evening,” she said. “Are you sure I can’t pay my share?”

  “Absolutely sure,” he answered. “I’m glad you liked the restaurant.”

  “And the company.”

  “Yes.”

  They smiled at each other, and she thought again how different he was from the men she usually met.