Page 6 of Bedroom Therapy

Chapter Two

Amanda stared through the peephole in the door. As she’d known it would, the fish-eye lens distorted the image of the man waiting on the other side of the barrier. About all she could tell was that he had dark hair and dark eyes, a big nose and a long chin.

Steeling herself, she flung the door open, then blinked. In reality, the guy standing on the porch looked a lot like Beth had described him. The dark hair was just a little long around the edges, but the shaggy look suited him. The dark eyes were framed by sooty lashes. If they’d been on a woman, Amanda would have assumed they’d been enhanced with mascara. But she was willing to bet this guy had never been close to a mascara wand.

“Amanda O’Neal?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Zachary Grant.”

From the far side of the threshold, he was staring at her with such intensity that she felt her cheeks go hot, and she had to stifle the impulse to look down and make sure she really was wearing a bra.

Lord, there was no way he could figure out what she’d been doing a few minutes ago. But it sure felt like he’d caught her about to dip her hand into the cookie jar.

He gestured toward the interior of the little house. “Can I come in?”

She wanted to say “no.” But Beth was expecting her to talk to this guy. Probably she wanted some publicity for the magazine, although, come to think of it, Amanda wasn’t sure how that was going to work, since the real identity of Esther Knight had always been a secret. What was she supposed to do, give details of her background and attribute them to Esther? Well, she guessed she’d find out. She stepped aside and gestured toward the living room, then took the opportunity to study him from the back as he walked down the short hall. He was informally dressed in chinos and a dark polo shirt that did a great job of showing off his broad shoulders and beautifully muscled, tanned arms. And the slacks curved seductively around his nice tight butt.

Which she shouldn’t be staring at, she told herself. His physical attributes were nothing to her.

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Zach stood looking around the living room, keeping his back to Ms. O’Neal. No, he’d better remember it was Dr. O’Neal. He’d met a lot of PhD’s who were touchy about the title, and he didn’t want to set up a confrontational situation.

Of course she didn’t look like a doctor—or much like the picture her editor had given him, for that matter.

In her tight little shorts and tee shirt, she seemed much younger. More like a graduate student than a professor.

And she seemed a lot more vulnerable than the woman in that picture. Prettier, actually. And several degrees more nervous.

He’d had a good deal of training in reading people, and his instincts were excellent. From the moment she’d opened the door, he would have said she was being evasive. Was she into something illegal? Or was she just uptight about being in the house alone with a guy she had just met? Some women were like that, he knew. But she hadn’t asked to see his identification. Probably because her editor had vouched for him so to speak

Which was good, because his own nerves weren’t too steady at the moment. He usually sensed within a few minutes how to approach an interview. He had considerable skill at putting people at ease and then getting them to spill stuff that they had planned to keep to themselves. Over the years, he’d developed a number of roles that he played during a question and answer session—depending on what he judged was going to work best.

He could be Joe Friday from that old television series. Just the facts, ma’am. He could be kindly old Uncle Zach who was on your side—until you told him that you’d murdered grandma and dumped her in the river. He could be the naive, unsure kid who’d bumbled into a detective assignment and needed the person he was interviewing to help him out.

He was feeling unsure now. In fact, he didn’t know how to play this interview at all. Maybe because it was intimidating questioning a woman who knew a lot about sex. And a woman who attracted him—all rolled into one.

Really, how many guys would be comfortable dating a lady who knew how long foreplay was supposed to last and who knew what technique was best on the clitoris?

He was really sorry that thought had jumped into his head because it made it tough for him to turn and look her in the face. Instead, he kept glancing around the room. Dr. O’Neal had only been in this house for a few weeks. In fact, he knew she’d rented it furnished. Yet she’d made it her own.

He could tell she was a professor. The bookshelf was crammed with big volumes that looked like they came from a university library. All neatly arranged. Probably in alphabetical order by the author. Or maybe she used the Dewey decimal system.

Despite the fact that she had taken over a corner of the living room as an office, the space wasn’t all business. There were lots of individual touches that hinted at a very interesting and varied background.

Like, for example, she was either well-traveled or she’d spent a lot of time at import shops. Several decorative Spanish-looking plates were propped on the mantelpiece, along with a family of eight-inch-tall dolls that had probably come from Latin America. The beige fabric of the sofa was enlivened with a brightly woven throw. And a figure that looked suspiciously like a fertility god sat on the coffee table.

Not your usual art object. The thing was only six inches tall, but it appeared to have a two-inch penis.

As he gazed at that ceramic penis, he was thinking he’d never started off an interview feeling more off-balance. Casting around for somewhere else to rest his eyes, he turned to the desk where her laptop computer sat next to a pile of letters. It looked like a lot of people were writing to Esther Knight for advice. A regular cottage industry.

“I guess you were working,” he observed.

“Yes,” she answered, her voice very thin, and he had to wonder again what was making her nervous. Was there something in that pile of letters she didn’t want him to see? Something personal.

The top one was on blue stationery with a wavy edge. Unable to stop himself, he walked over and picked it up, then read the rounded, feminine handwriting.

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