Page 9 of Bedroom Therapy

“Yes.”

“And how did you end up working for Esther Knight?”

“When I entered the PhD program, Esther asked if I wanted to work for her. She suggested that I help her with a paper she was writing on teenage girls. She was doing interviews, trying to quantify the reasons why girls gave in to pressure from their boyfriends to have sexual intercourse.”

Suddenly, he could remember being a horny teenage boy anxious to get his girlfriend to go all the way. It hadn’t been one of the noblest episodes of his life, as he recalled. Stifling the impulse to run his finger around the inside of his collar he asked, “And?”

“If you’re really interested in the details, I can give you a copy of the paper. It was published in the Journal of Applied Human Sexuality.”

Applied Human Sexuality. He wasn’t going to ask what else they published. “No. That’s all right,” he answered, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He was feeling more on edge than he had when he’d walked in the door. Physically as well as emotionally.

Somehow he didn’t seem to be able to get off the topic of sex. Probably because he was fascinated by the frank answers Dr. O’Neal was giving. And fascinated with the woman herself. Her dewy good looks and no nonsense answers made an interesting combination. One that he’d like to explore more fully.

He canceled that thought immediately. He wasn’t here to get to know her. He was here because he had a job to do. To introduce a little distance from her, he asked, “Do you mind if I borrow your bathroom?”

“Not at all.”

Glad to escape, he stood up.

“It’s through the bedroom. Down the hall.”

“Thanks.” He made a quick exit, thinking that it would be a good idea if he finished his assignment here as quickly as possible. But leaving the room gave him an opportunity he couldn’t pass up.

When he reached the bedroom, he glanced over his shoulder. He couldn’t see Dr. O’Neal from the doorway. Perhaps he could get away with a little snooping. If he were here on a social visit, he would have felt guilty about invading her privacy. Actually, he still felt an unsettling twinge as he opened a dresser drawer and looked down at a very nice selection of ladies’ lingerie. Then he sternly reminded himself that he was here for a very specific purpose.

After feeling around under her silky panties and bras, he opened another drawer and reached under a pile of neatly folded sweaters. He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for, of course. He just knew that people tended to hide incriminating evidence among their personal belongings.

###

Amanda had watched Zachary Grant’s broad shoulders disappear down the hall. He was personable and intelligent, and Beth was right. Under other circumstances, she might have been attracted to him.

No, that was a lie, and she made it a rule never to lie. Especially to herself. She was attracted to him. She liked his looks, and she’d actually liked a large part of the conversation. There weren’t too many man who were comfortable talking about sex. But Mr. Grant had held his own in the discussion.

Held his own. She couldn’t hold back a grin at her unfortunate choice of words. That wasn’t what she meant, of course. He’d kept his hands where she could see them at all times.

As soon as he stepped into the bedroom, she took the opportunity to cross to the desk and shove the pile of letters into a folder. Really, nobody else should be looking at them. But probably no harm had been done. He wasn’t going to put the letter writers’ names in his article? Was he? Of course not.

And he wasn’t going to quote the letter—was he?

She thought about the wording. Talking about a guy’s waving his penis out the window was a pretty distinctive way for her partner to express his dissatisfaction. And the woman who had written the letter would surely recognize it.

Would the reporter think it was all right to use it in his article? When he came back, she’d better make the ground rules clear. Anything a reader had written to Esther was off limits.

She was remembering now that the press sometimes did stuff the subject of the article wasn’t going to appreciate. Like writing, “You’ll be interested to know that Miss Movie Star told me not to write anything about her facelift.” Yeah, right. Thanks a lot.

She looked down the hall, listened for the sound of the toilet flushing. Had Mr. Grant fallen in? Ordinarily she’d give him his privacy. But he’d had to walk through her bedroom, and suddenly she’d remembered that she’d left her vibrator on the bed.

She’d shoved it under the pillow. At least she hoped to hell she hadn’t left part of it sticking out. But she’d been in a hurry. And besides, she hadn’t pictured anyone walking into her bedroom.

Sudden concern had her hurrying down the hall. When she reached the doorway, she stopped short, hardly able to believe what she was seeing.

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