Page 36 of Bedroom Therapy

Chapter Seven

Amanda settled into the front seat of Zachary’s Honda. If she weren’t uncomfortable about going back to her former rented house to pack, it would be a pleasure to watch him do his PI thing.

She might have questioned his methods that first afternoon. But as she sat beside him now, there was no doubt that he was a professional. He took a roundabout route to the old house, being careful to make sure that no other vehicle was staying in back of them. And he was especially careful as he approached the street where she’d lived—looking for cars or vans that seemed suspicious, she supposed.

After circling the area for ten minutes, he declared that they were, “All clear.”

She gave him a tight nod, still wondering how she was going to get the vibrator into her luggage without him seeing it.

She hated that her mind was focused on the damn tool. She knew her anxiety was a reflection of her personality. A more assertive woman would stride into the bedroom, pull it out of the drawer, and simply pack it with her other personal items. There was nothing wrong with having a vibrator. Nothing at all.

But Amanda couldn’t help thinking about what her mother would say. And she knew that despite the fact that she’d answered her reader’s question on masturbation with a very positive pep talk, she was obviously embarrassed about admitting that she engaged in that activity herself. Or—to be more specific—embarrassed to let a guy she found attractive know she had a vibrator. He pulled the Honda to a stop in the driveway as close as he could to the kitchen door. They both got out, and she fumbled with the key, conscious that he was watching her as he unloaded cardboard boxes from the trunk.

She could see he was trying to appear casual. But she was very aware of the assessing look in his eyes. It was the look she remembered from that first afternoon when he’d asked to use the bathroom—when his real intent was to search her room.

What was he thinking? That she’d gotten some guy to come here last night and attack her—so she and Zachary Grant could end up together? Surely not.

Again, she knew that another woman would come out and ask that question—making it a challenge. She simply said, “I’m a little nervous about being here. I mean after that guy breaking in last night.”

“I understand.”

She unlocked the door, and they both stepped into the kitchen, standing awkwardly in the middle of the tile floor. At least she was feeling awkward.

When she realized he was speaking, she forced herself to focus on his words. “We want to get out of here as quickly as we can,” he said.

Well, he’d given her the perfect opening. “Maybe you could clear the shelves in the linen closet. All the towels and sheets are mine. And I’ll pack up the bedroom. Also, the cleaning supplies under the kitchen sink.”

“Good idea,” he agreed.

She showed him the linen closet, then hurried to the bedroom. First she filled a box with underwear and other clothing. Then, after a quick glance over her shoulder, she crossed to the bedside table.

She had just slid the drawer open, when she heard footsteps rapidly cross the floor.

Either it was the stalker—or Zachary. She was betting on the latter as her body went rigid.

She breathed in Zachary’s aftershave, then turned to see him filling the doorway.

Apparently he’d been keeping tabs on her, and she hadn’t even known it.

As she looked down into the drawer, she felt him glide up behind her.

“Okay, what is it that you’re hiding in there?” he growled.

Unable to answer, she stood in front of the bedside table, keeping her eyes cast down, focused on the vibrator. There was absolute silence in the room now, and she was pretty sure she knew when he spotted the off-white plastic shaft because she heard him swallow hard.

Unwilling to turn and face him, she simply stood there. Long seconds ticked by before she finally broke the deafening silence with a question, “What did you think I was hiding—a stash of coke? Or maybe a cozy little letter from Esther’s killer?”

“No.”

“I know that look in your eye.”

“You can’t see my eyes.”

“In the car. Your suspicious look. You thought I was up to something illegal.”

“I thought I had a poker face.”

“Maybe under ordinary circumstances. But I’m good at reading people.”

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