Page 7 of Deadly Attraction
Chris Goodsman’s trial should have been her defining moment. She knew he was manipulating the jury, the judge, and her fellow psychologist who were all too happy to get in front of the media. It was their defining career moment, too, and no one wanted to be the bad guy who said Chris Goodsman, a world-renowned, beloved actor, was a murderer.
She’d done it anyway, and her job had gone from being moderately risky to all out dangerous.
Her previous trial work had often put her in the crosshairs of gang members, drug runners, and even a homegrown terrorist who’d pleaded not guilty by reason of insanity. Emma had easily invalidated that argument and received death threats from the man’s group for months afterward.
Upon their engagement, Roland had insisted she find a new line of work, to get out of the prison and judicial system and go into private practice. She’d agreed, but insisted on testifying against Chris. She’d already spent six weeks that year evaluating him before Thanksgiving and she’d known without a doubt he’d duped the others. She was the only person standing between him and a light sentence.
More recently, she’d been the one person standing between him and his early release.
When she’d testified against him the first time, she’d created a storm of publicity that put her in the spotlight. Goodsman, a media whore like most actors, rallied his fans. He was on Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat. People all over the world believed he’d been wrongly accused to begin with, and some openly stated that the woman he’d killed—a woman he supposedly loved—deserved it.
Chris was found guilty by temporary insanity and had been sent to Aleta Hills for evaluation and treatment. Still, a dozen of his so-called fans had made ugly, vicious threats against Emma. One of them went farther than threats.
The attack happened in her and Roland’s home in L.A. when Roland was out Christmas shopping for her. She survived, thanks to their security alarm and a Smith & Wesson 38 Special Lite. The baby had survived too.
But two days later, on Christmas Eve, she’d miscarried.
The doctors had told her it was a chromosomal abnormality. Roland, however, was sure she’d miscarried due to stress after the attack. He mourned the loss of their child, and every time he looked at Emma, she saw the accusation in his eyes. He blamed her and her job.
Staring in the foggy mirror, Emma felt the old crater of sorrow opening. It was expected this time of year, but Agent Holden’s words had ripped the scab off, exposing the painful, unhealed wound all over again.
It took self-restraint to not lash out at his unsolicited comments, but that was her job. She couldn’t—shouldn’t—blame the agent Victor Dupé had sent to help her.
Two years. Two Christmases past.
Physician, heal thyself.It was time to move on.
Goodsman’s parole hearing was scheduled for Christmas Eve. She’d contacted the parole board, insisting parole should be denied, but knowing it wouldn’t be. She’d sent a letter and a packet of her findings from the trial to the governor, in hopes he might overrule them.
It’s your own fault you’re back in this.
She couldn’t let Chris Goodsman walk free. Two years in a low-security, country-club jail was hardly recompense for a woman’s life.
Unwilling to sink further into the muck of her mind, she grabbed a fresh bar of soap from the shelf, unwrapped it, and stepped into the shower, focusing on making quick work of the barn odors and dirt. The light scent of rosemary and orange filled her nostrils as she scrubbed. At least she could wash this mess away.
The upstairs windows were closed, the blinds drawn. As she dried off and got dressed, the old paranoia snuck up on her. She stopped a couple of times to make sure window locks were secure and there was no movement in the yard, near the barns, or down the lane.
Everything appeared normal, but the unsettling sense that Chris was out there, free, made her fingers shake. He was without a doubt the most charming monster she’d ever met. What she didn’t understand was why he would make an escape when his parole hearing, and possible freedom, were so close.
Sociopaths. Understanding one was never easy.
She’d learned long ago that privacy came at a cost, but it had been worth her sanity. The ranch was her personal oasis. She’d started over after Roland left, bringing her work home. The horses, her patients, men like Will who needed someone to believe in them again, even the dogs…it all added up to her life’s mission. If she couldn’t heal herself, she damn well would help others. Especially those who might have made some life-altering mistakes.
Her tangled hair took a minute of work to comb out, then she wrapped it in a high bun and secured it. Agent Holden needed healing, she could see it in his guarded eyes, hear it in his sharp tongue. He had the bearing of a military man, so maybe he’d experienced something like Will that made him irascible. Maybe it was his family or a girlfriend. Whatever it was, it wasn’t her business. He hadn’t come to her as a patient; he was here to protect her.
I can damn well protect myself.
She’d proven that once already.
Still, Agent Holden was a fine looking man and she hadn’t had anyone like him inside her home in a long time. Simple compassion and understanding could do wonders for some people and maybe that’s all he needed. Kindness cost nothing. She could handle that.
She found herself digging out her makeup bag and putting on mascara. A swipe of lipstick too. Makeup was normally reserved for client meetings though lately she didn’t even bother for her clients who were too wrapped up in their own sad worlds to care. And these days she did zero socializing, so a bare face was her norm.
Oh, my. A handsome, testy man shows up at my door and I’m suddenly a fifteen-year-old girl again.
What the hell. Lipstick and compassion never hurt anyone. It wasn’t much, but it was all she had.
Adding earrings, she gave the mirror one last glance. Took the clip from her hair—too business-y—and shook out the bun. She looked good, smelled better, and had her armor in place.
Time for a cookie and that cup of tea she hadn’t finished. As she started down the stairs, she realized she was hungry for more than a cookie. Maybe a little psychoanalyzing of a certain intelligence officer working for Victor Dupé’s violent crimes taskforce. That job sounded extremely interesting. What made him tick?
Her pulse sped up at the idea of digging under Agent Holden’s skin. Outside of Will, she hadn’t evaluated anyone but child clients in a long, long time. The concept of adult conversation with a sexy stranger who posed no danger… Well, that might make her night and then some.
Agent Holden was trying to keep up a solid front. Underneath that snarky, tough exterior, lay an emotional guy dealing with some deep, dark, painful shit. She’d bet her multiple degrees on it.
Lucky for him, deep, dark, painful shit was her specialty.
