Explosive - Page 50

He palmed the back of her skull and held her against him while she mouthed his skin and his sweat melted on her tongue. She turned her head sluggishly, pressing her cheek next to Thomas’s thrumming heart when she heard the sound of a motor boat grow louder. She watched through the mesh rope as the speedboat raced by, distantly wondering why she’d been so concerned about being seen. As if he’d read her mind, his fingers rubbed her scalp soothingly.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured once the boat’s motor had become a distant hum.

“I’m not,” she whispered.

A couple of robins twittered in the lazy silence that followed. Thomas ran his fingers through her hair slowly, his caresses making her eyelids grow heavy. She sensed him stir in the hammock a moment later and glanced up, a question in her eyes.

“I wish I could make it last,” he said.

“What?”

“How it feels. When I’m inside you.”

Sophie’s mouth dropped open. It was an incredibly sweet thing to say, but she sensed he hadn’t meant it as flattery, or at least not entirely.

“What do you mean, Thomas?” she asked slowly.

He glanced out at the lake, the bright sunshine on the water causing a flame to flicker in his narrowed green eyes. “It wipes everything from my brain. You burn me clean, Sophie.” He glanced into her face. Sophie wondered what her expression was when he smiled as if to reassure her.

Sex may burn you clean, but it’s only for a little while, isn’t that right, Thomas? Sophie thought sadly. He must have noticed her unrest because he murmured, “Shhhh,” softly and placed his hand at the back of her head, urging her to return to his chest.

Sophie stared blindly at the sparkling lake, wondering how she was going to get him to speak of his pain when he was trying so desperately to deny its existence.

And worse . . . using her as a way to do it.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Thomas set the covered platter of marinated chicken next to the smoking barbecue grill and headed back into the house to ask Sophie for some tongs. He’d been a little amazed to see all of Sophie’s preparations for their dinner, and he wanted to make sure his small part in making the meal matched up to Sophi

e’s efforts.

The woman really didn’t do anything halfway, he thought as he glanced at the vibrant colors of sunset she’d painted on the canvas on the screened-in side-porch. She disparaged her painting, but Thomas thought she possessed considerable natural talent. The cheddar potato casserole he’d watched her prepare with casual ease a few minutes ago had made his mouth water and it hadn’t even baked yet. They’d taken a dip after working up a sweat in the hammock and Sophie had actually swum quite a distance with him, her stroke graceful and strong. Afterwards, she’d insisted upon looking behind the boathouse to see if her patient was lingering by the edge of the wood, but Guy was nowhere in sight.

No, there wasn’t much Sophie couldn’t do. She certainly had the ability to make him sweat. He wanted her almost every second he was with her. If he could bottle what she did to his libido he’d be the richest man on Earth. But he didn’t just want her physically, Thomas realized as he walked down the dim hallway toward the kitchen. He longed for the sweet, clean scent of her skin, her touch, the sound of her low, soothing voice.

He heard her talking now, and it wasn’t to him. He slowed his pace in the hallway. Her voice sounded quiet and muffled. She had her back to him as she stood in the kitchen, talking on the phone. Her voice, though soft, carried an edge of anxiety to it that made his spine tingle in warning. He halted in the dim hallway, still several feet from the entrance to the kitchen, straining to hear her.

“Yes . . . I understand. You’re right. I hadn’t been putting it into that context until this afternoon. The lapse in memory is just an extreme example of the symptom of numbing and avoidance of the trauma. It’s part and parcel of the syndrome. You were right to question me about it yesterday in your office. What do you recommend?”

Was she talking about one of her patients? Thomas wondered with a growing sense of unease. Something about her tone made him think it was something weightier than a patient consultation.

“You and I both know that would be best, but it’s not likely he’ll be talked into that unless something breaks—” Her head dropped and she inhaled. “Unless some change occurs, I mean.”

Thomas held his breath in his lungs until it burned as the person on the other end of the line with Sophie spoke. He eased closer to the end of the hallway and peered around the corner into the kitchen in time to see Sophie shake her head, her hair whisking across her shoulders.

“No. That’s not going to happen. I’m not concerned about that.” She listened intently to the other person’s response. She shook her head again, but not as strenuously as last time. He strained to hear her voice when she spoke next; it was difficult to hear through his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

“No. I don’t want you to worry about that, he’s not dangerous. You’ve got to trust me. I can handle this. We’ll talk tomorrow. Yes, I promise. I don’t know how I ever got myself in this situation, but here I am.” Her laugh sounded tired. “Of course it’s not your fault . . . yes . . . I think what I’m doing might be telling, too. I’m not stopping now. I won’t. I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”

Thomas turned and headed back down the hallway stealthily when she pulled the phone away from her ear.

Once she’d gotten off the phone with Andy, Sophie cleaned the green beans at the sink, staring out the window, her mind churning.

The best thing would be for Nicasio to be evaluated and treated by a professional. There’s no telling if a possible head injury is exacerbating a psychological trauma or not. But if you suspect he won’t consent to medical treatment, try to get him to talk about what’s happened to him recently, all the stressors he’s experienced, in a roundabout manner . . . see if it . . . dislodges anything.

She’d known Thomas was amnesic about certain events ever since last night when he’d behaved as though they’d just made love for the first time in her office. She just hadn’t contextualized his localized amnesia as being a part of an acute stress response or PTSD until she’d seen the way he’d reacted toward Sherman Dolan this afternoon, when he’d looked precisely like someone suffering from the symptoms of an acute stress disorder.

What she still didn’t know, precisely, was the extent of the trauma that he’d experienced in the past several days. She knew some of the internal demons he struggled against . . . but not all.

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