Page 14 of Torched Spades
“Okay, Doc, I’ll bite. How do I change who I am?” I hold her stare. “It appears you’re an authority on the subject.”
She flinches, but for some odd reason, I’m not as pleased with myself so much as angry. The flippant comment was meant to irritate her, not hurt her. I don’t know which is more disconcerting: the fact I can knock her off her game so easily, or that doing so knocks me off mine.
The tension between us returns, but this time, it’s laced with something much darker. As if sensing the shift, Becca lowers her gaze and takes a deep breath before meeting my eyes again.
“Impulse disorders often stem from childhood. When did you first become fascinated with fire?”
Changing tactics… Nice move, Doc.
I give her a lazy smile. “When I first started one.”
Her response is a pinched expression capped off by a stoic scowl.
She’s a quick study, so quick that at the end of four weeks, I won’t have a valid argument against the terms of our deal. My game of psychiatrist roulette will end, and I’ll be chained to the chief of police’s daughter for the duration.
That only leaves one option…
If I can’t intimidate her into releasing me, I’ll have to come on so strong that self-preservation will do it for her. She can’t deny there’s a spark between us, and I know how to stoke a fire.
Leaning forward, I pull a playing card from the inside of my jacket pocket. As expected, her gaze lowers, watching intently as I flip it between my fingers. “Why don’t you ask me what youreallywant to know?”
“And what would that be, Mr. Malone?”
“You said yourself that pyrophilia is a rare disorder. Yet you keep asking questions any fire-obsessed idiot could answer. Aren’t you more fascinated by what fire does to me than by what I do to it?” On the final word, I trap the card between my index and middle fingers, drawing her eyes back to mine.
She tilts her head, a loose piece of blonde hair falling across her cheek as she studies me. She’s weighing her next words carefully, and rightfully so. Our whole dynamic is about to change.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “I’ll admit, I’m curious… You supposedly haven’t set a fire since your arrest. That was a year ago. Pyrophilia urges don’t vanish with the bang of a gavel. Am I to assume that means you’ve found a surrogate outlet?”
Here we go…
“An outlet?”
“An erotic substitute for fire.”
I shrug. “I’m a complex man with complex layers, Becca. There are a lot of things I finderotic.”
I may as well have swung a hammer. Sitting back, I watch that porcelain shatter, revealing a rush of heat staining her cheeks.
“What things?”
She’s trying hard to sound unaffected, but it’s not just her tone that gives her away. It’s the subtle uncrossing and recrossing of her legs. It’s the teeth that sink into her bottom lip. It’s the fingers that slide down her neck, brushing those fucking pearls she loves to clutch.
Dr. Brennan doesn’t want to know “what things.”
But Becca sure as hell does.
“Backbone,” I drawl, giving her a wink. “I like a good fight before fucking. But I suppose beyond flicking a match and watching shit burn, I get the hardest over a pair of red lips.”
Her fingers still at her nape. “I’m sorry?”
“Lipstick, Doc. When a woman paints on a bright shade of fuck-me red—”
“Yes, I inferred that part,” she says sharply. “I’m just surprised, that’s all.”
“Why’s that?”
“That’s a rather specific and tame substitute for something as destructive as fire.” She’s back in control now, her frame rigid, lips pursed, hands resting on the arms of her chair. “It’s just fascinating how one would make such a drastic leap from chaos to cosmetics.”
