CHAPTER SEVEN #3
He was going to explode if he didn’t get a grip—if he didn’t find control.
And he knew what lay on the other side of the explosion.
All the repression would shatter, and there would only be the memories facing him, raw and gaping, like bleeding wounds, injuries no surgeon could ever stitch, and then he’d give in to the insanity.
He tried to breathe and failed. There was no more air to be had! Fear began, then escalated. He hadn’t had a genuine panic attack in five and a half years.
“Calm down,” he gritted aloud. “Calm down, think…”
Did they know about the cage? Did they know about the maze? The other Innocent? Did they know about Moray’s visits?
Did they know that in those first few months, he’d been an utter coward? That he’d wept in terror and sobbed for mercy? Did they?
Did they know he’d been turned into a willing slave at the end?
What did they know?
What did she know?
And he still couldn’t breathe. Now, he’d never get into that elevator, because he was shaking and moisture had gathered in his eyes.
But there was a staircase on every floor, he’d made certain.
If he could stop the moisture from blurring his vision, all he had to do was go down the hall to find it. But then what?
“Sir.”
He felt the ice-cold washcloth against his forehead. Gerard knew. He knew because his father had sent him to Ian, not that Ian had known it at the time. His damned father had wanted someone with him who knew his secrets, who could and would take care of him.
Gerard spoke as if nothing was happening. He laid the cloth against his forehead as if he were a nurse, not a butler. An image suddenly flashed, of Sam in her bloody jersey dress, pretending she hadn’t seen him stab John repeatedly, all control gone.
Remind me not to piss you off.
He almost smiled. She should have been terrified of him. She hadn’t been afraid at all. But then, she didn’t fear anything or anyone. She was reckless and brave…
They had been rivals from the start. He had to remember that.
He inhaled deeply and opened his eyes, holding the washcloth to his head now.
Oddly, he had become calmer. He kept seeing her in that dress, poker-faced.
He kept hearing that tone, wry and calm.
She should have looked horrible, a bloody mess—instead, she looked frigging great.
Gerard held a small bottle in his hand, containing his prescription medication.
Ian nodded grimly and Gerard handed him two tiny white pills.
When it was this bad, it was better to take prescription drugs than blow or pot.
He swallowed the anti-anxiety medication without water.
Gerard was indispensable and he was discreet. “Thank you.”
“You’ll feel better shortly, sir. I’ll bring a tray with a very fine red wine and just a bite to snack on.”
He wasn’t hungry. Food didn’t interest him, but Gerard always insisted. But wine and Ativan were a great combination. He’d relax enough to sit down and force himself to eat. He might even enjoy Louis’s gourmet cooking.
When Gerard left, he looked at the elevator door. His control was tenuous, if that. But he was clinging to that recollection of Sam in her bloody dress, acting indifferent to his breakdown. He could admit that he admired her strength.
He was still sweating. He still felt raw.
He ripped off the sweater and jammed the button.
The door instantly opened and he stared at the wood-paneled interior, which was lit to his exact specifications, as bright as any midtown office.
He breathed harder. Every time he got into an elevator it was a matter of mind over memory.
But he’d learned twenty-five years ago how to force himself to get inside and act as if he were as normal as everyone else. It was a test to do so now.
He cursed himself. He did not want to be a coward who suffered from panic attacks and claustrophobia.
He cursed Sam—because she knew most of his secrets now and if she weren’t so damned sexual he’d walk away and never look back.
She’d figure out he was claustrophobic before long, he thought, and add it to her list of his weaknesses. Gritting, he got inside.
Panting, he stared at the Close button. Last night, upstairs, it had been easy to avoid the elevator. Sam hadn’t suspected a thing.
No one would know if he got out and went to the stairs. But he’d know.
It was only an elevator, he reminded himself firmly. It was not a small, dark, impregnable and windowless tower room—or an even smaller underground cellar—or an earthen pit. He hated small, enclosed spaces. He feared them.
He pushed the damned button.
The doors closed.
He fought to breathe. Sweat poured down his face, his body.
He gripped the bar in the elevator as if for his life, gritting his teeth, hard.
Sam might be his next conquest, but she was the enemy.
He reminded himself of that. It made him want to survive—she made him want to survive, so they could have it out in his bed, so he could finally be strong, dominant, the one in control.
The elevator slid to a halt; the door opened.
Ian left the elevator, refusing to run. It took all of his willpower to walk slowly.
He walked into a large library filled with his most valuable artwork and antiques and hundreds of books, all of which he’d read.
The worst was over now. He’d survived the panic attack, the elevator, his memories—and the knowledge of his goddamned file.
He shut both doors and then turned. A hazy image of a boy in a maze remained somewhere in the back of his mind, and he held the cool cloth to his head, no longer enraged, no longer afraid.
He thought about Sam again, first in the bloody dress, and then as he’d just seen her an hour ago, in the tiny shorts and tank top, telling him about the file.
As the drugs began to work, he breathed deeply.
He’d deal with the file when he confronted her boss, Forrester.
Now, his body began to hum and thrum. As the sexual need grew, he relaxed even more.
He held on to the picture of her in those tiny shorts and tank, wearing nothing beneath.
The other memories finally receded, too.
Gerard knocked on the doors and glanced at him as he came inside, carrying a tray with a covered dish and a glass of wine.
“Will you need anything else?” he asked as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
He set the tray down on an eighteenth-century table.
Ian shook his head. Not looking at him, he said again, “Thank you.”
When Gerard had left, he went to the sofa and sat down, reaching for the wine. The denim of his jeans was now constrictive, annoying. She was on his mind now, front and center. And sex was always the best escape.
There was no guilt as he used his telepathy to find her.
That power had begun when he was first captured.
He’d thought about his father, and instantly had been able to see Aidan in the midst of his day.
He’d tried so hard to communicate to him that way.
Once in a while, Aidan had seen him, back. However, he’d assumed Ian was a ghost.
He’d been a boy then, and the power had been erratic. It was highly refined now. He’d even used it from Scotland to spy on Sam several times, shamelessly. He’d watched her with her lovers a few times and he’d enjoyed every moment of that. He was shameless now.
She was seated on the sofa in her loft, still in her tiny shorts, but in a different tank top. His heart picked up a new beat now, one predatory and sexual. He slowly smiled and reached for his cell phone.