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for an appointment.’

      ‘No.’ It’s cryptic. I leave it alone for now and reach for a pen. There will be time to discuss the semantics of how he wants to proceed.

      ‘You were up late last night.’ He arches a brow in silent enquiry, so I rush to explain. ‘You emailed at midnight.’

      He nods, dragging a hand through his hair, but says nothing. It’s like pulling teeth!

      ‘Are you always up so late?’ I ask.

      ‘Late? Midnight?’

      I refuse to be embarrassed by him. ‘Yes.’

      ‘Yeah,’ he grunts, and his eyes are wary. He’s withdrawing from me, pulling back. Something about my line of questioning is hitting on an issue that is renewing his trauma.

      It’s nothing you would be able to tell, unless you had experience with this. Outwardly, Noah is every bit the charming, sexy bad boy he’s renowned for.

      I smile, lean back in my chair and drop the pen onto the notepad. ‘It’s cold today.’

      A comment that surprises him. It makes him wary; his eyes skip to mine and a frown moves on his face. He doesn’t say anything.

      ‘Do you have plans for Christmas?’

      ‘Christmas?’ It’s practically a sneer. ‘Christmas is weeks away.’

      I nod. ‘It’ll be here before you know it.’ My eyes drift to the picture once more, a smiling Ivy, and I feel somewhat more centred.

      ‘Do you have plans for Christmas?’ he volleys back, his expression tight as he watches me with every fibre of his being.

      I wouldn’t normally answer—the question is too personal—and yet I hear myself say, a smile softening the words, ‘Not really. Just a small family celebration this year.’

      His eyes drop to my fingers. He’s wondering what ‘family’ means to me. I don’t elaborate on that score. That’s common sense as well as training. Ivy is not a part of this world. She’s mine—and she’s all that is sweet and innocent.

      ‘I make a pudding—my grandmother’s recipe—we sing carols. The usual. Do you have any Christmas traditions?’

      He knows I’m relaxing him and yet perhaps he also knows he has to give me at least something to justify the fact I’ve moved my schedule around to see him today. ‘Yeah. Getting hammered.’

      I arch a brow.

      ‘It’s just another day for me, Doc.’

      ‘No family?’ I prompt.

      I get the strangest sense that he wants to say something. That the temptation to open up is pressing against his back, pushing him forward, but then he just shakes his head sideways once. A curt dismissal.

      It’s normal for patients to clam up around me, but I don’t generally take it personally. Intense frustration zips through me now and, against my usual therapeutic practices, I say, ‘Noah, I really want to help you and I think you want that too, but you’re giving me nothing to work with.’

      He stares at me belligerently and I stand up, hoping that will dispel some of the frustrated energy that’s firing through me. I move towards the window, looking out at London, and I don’t know if I’m imagining it but heat warms my spine as though he’s still watching me.

      I habitually deal with soldiers who’ve come back from war zones—men and women who’ve witnessed and perpetrated unimaginable crimes. People who have done what no human should ever have to do, who have seen first-hand the bleakness and despair of utter destruction. I understand their hauntedness and I know how to help with it, generally. Every patient is different, but at least I’m operating from the same wheelhouse. Not now, not with Noah. I need to tease information out of him gently. But I do need to get some information. Without it, I’m flying blind.

      ‘When did you decide to seek help?’

      He expels a harsh breath that has me turning slowly to face him. I was right. He’s watching me. Blood jolts through my system as though each cell has been subjected to an electrical shock.

      ‘Noah.’ I say the word quietly but with a firmness that shows I’m serious. ‘I moved my day around for this. Are you wasting my time?’

      He seems to withdraw from me even further. Not in the way many of my patients do, by becoming visibly upset or distant. Now he is looking at me as though he wants to eat me—and my tummy is in knots.

      He stands and moves towards me. Every single fibre of my being is vibrating on high alert, but I don’t withdraw. Maintaining control of the session is vital. He is right beside me, at least a foot taller than me, and close enough that if either of us were to sway forward slightly we would be touching. Crazy thought! Where did that come from?

      He looks down at me, so dominant, so strong and somehow so broken.

      I stare at him for a long time, waiting for him to speak, determined not to break first.

      Finally, his throat bobs as he swallows. ‘I don’t need therapy,’ he says gruffly, as though I’ve dragged him here kicking and screaming.

      ‘I see.’ I nod, not wanting to mock his assertion, nor to question why he emailed at midnight if that’s the case.

      ‘I just...’ He drags a hand through his hair and shakes his head. ‘This is fucking ridiculous.’

      ‘What is it?’ I urge and, damn it, I step closer. Stupid, stupid move, because now there’s barely a whisper between us and I can’t surrender the strength of my position by pulling away. If I do, he’ll know how he affects me, and that would be a disaster.

      ‘I’m not sleeping.’ He turns away from me and takes a step towards my desk, pressing his fingers against the wooden corner.

      It is highly irregular for me to have people on this side of my office and I feel the invasion of Noah in every way. This is my space—my personal space. But the moment he’s started to open up to me, I can’t make him feel at fault. I move towards him and put a gentle yet professional hand on his elbow.

      Tension is radiating from his bulky frame, as though this small admission of a perceived weakness has offended every iota of his hyper-masculinity. He flinches when I touch him and glares down at me.

      Not with anger, though.

      The desire that has me hostage is of a mutual kind. I feel him shift and it is all the confirmation I need that this crazy, dark lust surges through us both. My fingertips are still pressed lightly to his elbow. I nod towards the chair he’d been sitting in.

      ‘Please, sit down.’ It’s a quiet murmur and for a moment I think he’s not going to do as I say. He continues to stare at me and I find myself staring back, wondering what it would be like for those lips of his to drop to mine.

      Temptation is thick in the air. I could push up onto the tips of my toes and kiss him... Would it really be so wrong? I step back just as he reaches for me, his fingers curling into my hair, wrapping it around his big masculine fist. ‘Is this real?’

      The question catches me utterly off guard. I take in a deep breath that barely reaches my lungs and stare at him with a sense of helplessness. I have a thing for bad boys, remember, yet I’ve never known anyone quite like Noah Moore.

      I force myself to remember several things, and to remember them quickly. He is waging a battle against demons I don’t yet comprehend; he has come to me for help.

      And I don’t do this.

      I don’t let men, no matter how sexy, make my pulse race and my knees knock.

      That kind of thing was a million years ago for me.

      ‘Is this real?’

      The words are husky from his mouth and all my certainties and good intentions quiver

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