Page 37 of Wicked S.O.B.

“I think we can safely say that your stalker has established contact.”

I try to breathe through the vise tightening around my heart. “W-what happens now?”

She looks at me with dead-serious eyes. “Now you make sure you do not go anywhere without security. I don’t doubt that will happen when you tell Blackwood what’s going on, but until you do, no fucking taking chances, okay?”

I shiver at the terse gravity in her voice. “Okay.”

She shoves the evidence back in her bag and removes the glove. She stares at me, and she looks like she wants to say more, but then she casts another glance at the limo. “I’ll be in touch.” She turns and leaves by the back door.

I’m grateful for her tact, but I’m more than a little shaken when I get into the car.

“Everything all right, Miss Gilbert?”

I quickly compose my face before I meet Lionel’s stare in the rearview mirror. “Yes, thanks.”

He nods. “Traffic is not too bad. We should arrive on time.”

I nod absently and stare out the window for the whole journey to Dr. Freeman’s office in Little Italy. Since Quinn’s office on Wall Street is closer, I’m not surprised to find his town car and driver already there when I arrive.

He’s sitting on the sofa, one ankle resting on his opposite knee, with his arm thrown across the back of the seat. The urgently tapping finger on the leather belies his relaxed stance. When he sees me, he rises and stalks across the office toward me.

“Elyse.” My name is a burst of relief on his lips. My man hates shrinks, which makes what he’s prepared to undergo for us even more remarkable. He starts to lean down to kiss me but stops suddenly, his eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?”

Shit. I haven’t managed to hide my anxiety as well as I thought. I shake my head. “It’s—”

“Something. What?” His mouth tightens into a grim line as his fingers slide up my arms to grip my shoulders. “Did I fuck something up?”

Tears triggered by panic and love prickle the backs of my eyes. “No, of course not,” I reply. But it’s clear he doesn’t believe me.

“Elyse. Please,” he breathes.

“Good evening, Elyse. Quinn. I trust you’re both well?”

I tilt my head sideways to catch Dr. Freeman’s gaze over Quinn’s shoulder and smile a response to his greeting before refocusing on Quinn. “Hi, Dr. Freeman. Can we talk about this later?” I say to Quinn.

He ignores Dr. Freeman and keeps his intense gaze focused on me. “So there is something to talk about?”

“Quinn, please,” I whisper.

Whatever he sees on my face makes his fingers tighten. “Jesus, Elyse. How the fuck am I supposed to concentrate?” he growls.

I grab his hand and squeeze. “It’s no big deal, I promise.” I hate myself for the lie, but what we’re doing here is too important to wreck with bad news.

Quinn’s jaw clenches tight. The fingers he meshes with mine promise retribution later, but he turns and leads me to the sofa.

Dr. Freeman is in his midfifties. A former professor at NYU, he looks the part with short, graying hair; rimless glasses; and conservative clothes. I got in touch with his practice after reading an article he’d written in theNew England Journal of Medicine. He was reticent about taking a walk-in, but my desperation after Quinn fired our other shrinks had eventually won him over. Besides, I think Dr. Freeman was secretly thrilled to have a case study like Quinn Blackwood as a client. Whatever his reasons for taking us on, I’m grateful.

“So, how have you both been since our last session?” Dr. Freeman asks.

“Fine,” Quinn snaps, his eyes still fixed on me.

“Definefine.”

Quinn ignores him. I take a deep breath and jump right in. “He destroyed the living room on Sunday.”

Dr. Freeman’s gaze swings to an unruffled Quinn for a moment and then returns to me. “You don’t sound too upset about it.”

“I was when it happened. But I’m not anymore.” Quinn’s fingers tighten in gratitude around mine.

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