Page 3 of Tormented Dreams

"No, I'm afraid I don't," she replied, her dissipating levels of unease evident now, in the way she had relaxed since the grilling she'd clearly expected hadn't come.

"Okay, well, we're done for now, so if you'd like to get dressed, I'll write you a prescription for an oral antibiotic. No point in prescribing a topical one if there's no one to put it on for you."

He glanced up from writing when he heard a rustling sound. He supposed he should have anticipated that she wouldn't bother waiting for him to leave the room before she stripped off the hospital gown, as he'd expected. She was clearly a woman confident in her own skin and obviously well used to being on display. It seemed she never even gave it a thought as she paused, naked from the waist up, and inspected the bloodstains on her shirt as if he wasn't there. No embarrassed fumbling or reserved modesty for this woman.

The sadist inside of him strained at its shackles as she stood before him, proud and self-assured, wearing those lash marks like she owned them, and Xavier was shocked at the unexpected surge of desire he felt for her. He saw dozens of women every week, in various stages of undress, and he could look at them completely impersonally, without the slightest bit of interest. But somehow, this woman spoke to him on an elemental level that he wasn't used to encountering during his day job.

He shifted imperceptibly, trying to get his unruly cock under control. All that bad boy could perceive was a half-naked woman with whip marks all over her back and the damn thing wasbehaving as if they were in Club Risqué in the aftermath of a scene and now it was his turn.

Digging in his inside pocket, Xavier busied himself with finding a business card instead. He wrote a quick note on the back of it while she finished dressing.

"Okay, try to keep those dressings dry and pop into my clinic the day after tomorrow so that I can change them and make sure they're healing," he told her, handing her the card.

She hesitated in taking it. "Oh, but I?—"

"Now, be a good girl for me, pet, and be honest. Is there anybody at all who can redress these wounds for you? Parent, siblings, a close friend even?" Xavier interrupted, carefully choosing his words so she would understand the connotation while mindful that the fabric 'walls' lacked the privacy for him to say anything more.

Her eyes flew to his and her mouth dropped open, just a fraction, in surprise. She answered automatically. Reacting to the recognition of a dominant in the lifestyle, rather than because she actually wanted to answer his question, he suspected.

"No, I was a late only child to two only children. There's no one…" She trailed off as if realising she had revealed too much, but Xavier pressed the advantage.

"You can drop in any time during the afternoon. Just hand this card to my receptionist, and she'll slot you in between patients."

With that, he gave a curt nod and passed across her discharge papers, before leaving to continue his rounds.

CHAPTER THREE

Grace had been undecided whether or not to bother going to the ER doctor's clinic. The understated matte business card she clutched in her hand gave his name as Dr. Xavier Diaz and featured an upscale address. She didn't really have the time, but then what was the point in screwing up her courage to get treated at the ER if she just let the effort be wasted by not taking due care after the treatment? And it wasn't like her lunch break wasn't flexible enough to allow her the opportunity.

Of course, if she was completely honest with herself, it wasn't concern about her infected wounds that had prompted her to tell her PA she was leaving for a rare late lunch.

She walked down the quiet, upmarket street, with its statuesque, period buildings and plethora of well-kept trees, oblivious to the balmy delights of an unseasonably mild winter's day and unmindful of the occasional well-dressed patron. As she absently checked the address on the card to ensure she was heading in the right direction, she forced herself to admit the real truth. Oh, yes! If she was honest, then the real reason she was here right now was a blatant curiosity about the good doctor himself.

The olive-complexioned, dark-eyed, smokin' hot doctor who'd had her panties dampening with just a few words in that velvety, ever-so-slightly accented voice.

He hadn't said a word about the nature of her wounds, though she knew damn well he had examined them, and the rest of her, thoroughly.

Grace wasn't stupid. She’d read the nurse's concern and knew that the woman had hurried off to report the situation. She had honestly been expecting to get the third degree and her mind had been whirling with what kind of legitimate excuse she might be able to come up with.

After all, proper upper-class lawyers, especially those specialising in human rights, did not usually trot around with whip marks all over them.

The doctor, however, had taken it all in his stride as if it was nothing unusual at all, and for that, Grace had been overwhelmingly grateful. As well as a tad unbalanced. She might as well admit to that too, since she was being honest.

And then he had called her 'pet' and told her to be a 'good girl'. All seemingly innocuous on the face of it, but in reality, it had been almost BDSM 'code' to identify himself as being in the lifestyle.

Grace had asked herself over and over whether she’d actually heard him properly or if it had simply been a figment of her overactive, overstressed imagination.

Nevertheless, here she was, about to walk into his clinic to find out whether he was as good as his word…and also whether he was actually as hot and charismatic as she remembered.

She'd been too embarrassed and too committed to making an anonymous getaway to take a good look at him at the hospital, but the few quick glances she hadn't been able to prevent had left her with the impression of a fine looking hunk of man, roughly around her own thirty-nine years. Not exactly a spring chicken, but striking and fit, too, if the cut of his suit was anything to go by.

The premises, when she found them, were classy and understated. No hard, plastic seats and rowdy patients here.

All of the clientele were well-dressed and reserved, the seating deep and comfortable, and there was the luxury of an individual pod coffee-maker dispensing complimentary beverages at an immaculate station in the corner of the room, as well as a wide selection of individual tea sachets.

Grace made her way to the reception, where an elegant woman in a chic suit and a perfectly coiled French twist sat framed by two large, shiny-leafed potted plants. She smiled benignly as Grace approached and, not for the first time, Grace wondered if there would be a lot of uncomfortable paperwork to fill out. That was why she'd chosen the ER after all, too many busy people to check the little things she didn't want followed up on.

With a strained greeting, Grace thrust the card Dr. Diaz had given her across the desk and almost groaned out loud when the woman passed her a clipboard and a sheaf of forms, as if she was silently answering that unasked question.

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