Chapter Ten
His fake smile vanishes like an apparition, and in its place are hardened eyes and a clenched jaw.
“I’m sure Maxwell already told you I got dragged into this. I don’t believe in your mental psychobabble, and I don’t need help.” He slowly leans over the table between us, a clear ploy to intimidate me with his size.
His cologne—sandalwood and pine—hits my nose.
My mouth waters. Dammit, I really need food.
“And I know you don’t want to do this either.
Lana told me she begged you to take me on.
So let’s stop wasting each other’s time.
You make a few notes, scribble whatever it is you want on that little notepad of yours.
We’ll stay out of each other’s hair and you can enjoy your trip—shopping, sightseeing, spa treatments—while I do mine. ” Rex sits back down.
“You’re telling me to lie?” I press my lips into a thin line, remembering what I thought about him that night at Mystique.
He doesn’t want to do the work and you can’t help someone who refuses to help themselves.
You can’t help someone who doesn’t even ask for help.
These people will ultimately hurt everyone around them. Then who’s left to pick up the pieces?
“Call it whatever you want. If you’re a stickler to the rules, which, judging from that adorable frown on your face, you are, then fine. We can have a few chats. Talk about the weather. Then, you can mark down we’ve met. Either way, I’m not doing this.”
“You seem to have forgotten your participation in therapy is the prerequisite for your being on this cruise, Mr. Anderson.” I take a deep breath and level my stare at him.
Angling the notebook toward me, I jot down some preliminary notes.
Uncooperative. Uses charm to get what he wants. When that fails, turns to intimidation.
Rex’s eyes sharpen at my motions, the soft sounds of pen scratching against paper adding to the tension quickly rising between us.
He’ll break. Men like him hate people they can’t control. They definitely don’t like the idea of someone taking down their secrets and not letting them see.
“Are you threatening me?” he rasps.
I pause my writing and set the notebook and pen down. Neatly, as always. “No. I’m a psychiatrist. Why would I threaten you?” Then I dole out a saccharine smile.
He flinches.
“I’m just reminding you of the deal. So, let me tell you how it’s going to go, Mr. Anderson.
” It’s my turn to lean forward now. “I’m a doctor because I want to help people.
Mental health issues might be invisible to the naked eye, but they are real problems and near and dear to my heart.
If left untreated, they devastate not only the patient, but also others around them. ”
I pull out my phone and flip to a few screenshots I saved because I predicted this would happen.
Turning it around, I show them to him. His face pales. “These are headlines of articles Maxwell stopped in the nick of time before they were published. I have videos too.”
“Drunk billionaire spiraling out—Is Rex Anderson the downfall of a dynasty?”
“‘He keeps popping these pills. I don’t know what they are and I don’t want any part of it,’ a model and influencer exclaims. Exclusive on the playboy prince inside.”
“A ménage à trois is no longer de rigeur. Rex-a-Million rumored to be the only man in a twelve-person orgy.”
“Marketing genius destined for premature death? Rumors swirl about the remaining Anderson bachelor.”
“I can show you more.”
He shoves my phone to the side and looks away. A vein pulses in his temple. “No, I’ve seen enough.”
“I don’t know you well, Mr. Anderson. But then again, I don’t think anyone truly knows you well. But an average, well-adjusted man in his mid-to-late thirties doesn’t behave this way. And we all know you’re anything but average, right?”
I tap my fingers on the table, drawing his attention back to me. “I don’t want to fight you on this. I have no skin in the game other than a doctor caring about her patient and wanting what’s best for him.”
All right, that might be pushing it, since I want the Anderson funds for ADAS, but he doesn’t need to know that.
Shoving the thought away, I add, “But you? If rumors are correct, this cruise venture is your idea—the first and most expensive project in recent years spearheaded by you. I don’t know the first thing about planning a cruise, but I bet it’s hard work.
You don’t put in those hours unless you want it to succeed, unless you have something to prove. ”
Rex stiffens, his face darkening as storm clouds brew over his head.
Standing up, I grab my tote bag and slip the notebook back inside. Emotions are too high right now and this session won’t go anywhere. It’s better to let him stew over it and try again next time.
“You have a wonderful family,” I murmur.
He falters, his eyes snapping to mine. His gloomy countenance softens. Clearly, he’s thinking about them.
The Andersons are a tight bunch. Each sibling would go to bat for each other, and I’ve witnessed it firsthand.
When Maxwell was spiraling from untreated PTSD and anxiety, Ryland contacted me immediately, desperate to help his brother.
The siblings rallied around Taylor when the press tried to eat her alive after her past trauma came to light.
My chest squeezes, and I wish I had that for myself.
Despite Mia’s faults, I miss her so much.
“Maxwell thought you might be reluctant, and he instructed me to tell him if you backed out of therapy. One call from me and he’d send security to escort you back to the city. I was told, ‘bound and gagged if need be.’”
I don’t believe in violence, but now, having had my first real conversation with the infuriating man, I can understand where Maxwell is coming from.
Rex’s jaw works, a flush creeping up his face. His hand curls into a fist, his arm trembling from restraint.
I don’t know what comes over me.
Maybe it’s the faint sheen of moisture gathering in his eyes, which could be a trick of the dim cabin lighting or the way his breath throttles out of him like he’s ashamed.
Unbidden, I place my hand over his.
He freezes, and I jolt from the barrage of sensations coursing over my skin from that tiny point of contact. It’s like being hit by lightning and surviving to tell the tale.
Quickly, I let go, but he snags my fingers with his, those silver eyes riveted at our hands.
My pulse roars in my ears. Why am I touching him? I shouldn’t touch my patients.
I try pulling away, but he tightens his grip, the seconds dragging, the pressure increasing until it’s borderline painful.
“You’re playing with fire, Olivia,” he growls.
My breath catches, the raspy, sinewy undertones of his voice prickling my skin, coiling between my legs.
Lighting me up like fireworks bursting in the night sky.
“L-Let go of me.”
He strangles my hand in his and I whimper from the sensations—still not quite pain, but not far away from it, either. Then, abruptly, he loosens his grip.
Blood rushes back into my fingers, a thousand pinpricks exploding in my nerves. He fans the flames by skating his thumb over my palm, then moving to my inner wrist.
“You don’t want the bomb to explode, Olivia. Don’t test me.” The warning is barely above a whisper.
But I do. I want to face the bomb head-on. Pick at it. Disarm it. Or maybe I want it to incinerate me.
Is this a latent, masochistic, perverse need? An occupational hazard?
I swallow, my mind dizzy, my lungs seizing like they can’t draw in enough oxygen.
He swipes his thumb across my pulse again, and I watch those beautiful eyes of his darken as he rests his finger on my wrist, like he can tell how fast my heart is beating for him.
How maddening he’s making me feel.
What the hell are you doing? This is completely unprofessional, Olivia. You know better than to get rattled.
I snatch my hand away, my chest heaving even though I barely moved a muscle.
Slowly, he angles his head up, and I see his face under the direct light for the first time.
His pupils are dilated, gray irises nowhere to be seen. The dark circles are prominent under his eyes. His lips part, his skin flushed. A muscle twitches in his sharp jawline, begging me to trace it with my fingers.
His gaze drops to my lips. My lungs stop working.
I’m thrown back to that night at Mystique again, except this time, he’s within touching distance.
Kissing distance.
What would it feel like to be kissed by the prince of pleasure? What would it be like to let go?
My nipples harden and I stumble, taking a step back.
Danger.
“It’s Doctor Lin to you, Mr. Anderson. Not Olivia.
Never Olivia during our sessions. I don’t cheat or lie for my patients.
Never have and never will.” I draw a deep inhale, and the temporary dizziness fades.
“And I’ve never resorted to blackmailing my patients before, but you know what they say. There’s always a first time.”
Pivoting, I step toward the other bedroom, but not before turning back. “So don’t you test me.”
I stride away, my heart thundering, mis-calibrating.
I can almost believe we’re flying into the eye of a storm.
But I need to do better—control my irrational thoughts and turbulent emotions, and not let him get to me.
My professional reputation is at stake. The millions in funding for ADAS are at stake.
He could complain to Maxwell or his peers about my unprofessionalism.
Stick it out for Las Fallas, Olivia. For Mia. Stick it out for patients benefiting from ADAS.
Tension thickens with each step I take, the distance between us stretching.
I expect him to blow up, to throw a tantrum, to grab me by my wrist and give me a piece of his mind.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he laughs, the low, dark chuckles renewing the heat in my veins.
Then he claps. Harsh. Loud. Whiplashes against my skin.
He mocks me.
“Little Olivia has claws,” he murmurs. “Or I mean, Doctor Lin. I’m looking forward to testing every single limit you have.”
A bolt of heat shoots straight to my clit as unwanted images of limbs tangled in passion invade my mind. Insanity. Maybe Lana’s right. I need to find a man on this trip and get laid. It’s been too long, and it’s messing with my head.
I quicken my pace, needing distance from this unnerving, unsuitable man.
The devil incarnate.
“Until the next match, Doctor.”
His chuckles follow me all the way to the open bedroom door.