Much like Dillon's determination to keep her heart locked up in an impenetrable vault.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“I've never known a psychiatrist’s office to be surrounded in eighteen-foot-tall wrought iron fences with deceptively sharp spikes up top,” Dillon commented as Nasa turned off the main road and onto another double gated driveway.
With a black baseball hat on and dark aviators obscuring his eyes, Nasa's answering smile looked even more rakish than before.
The way her stomach twisted and flipped with all the familiar symptoms of desire, was the reason she needed this therapy session, and about five more right after it to suss out what the hell was wrong with her.
He'd seen her have a complete breakdown and seemed perfectly accepting of the fact that she'd killed a man.
Two, technically, as Elka was an extension of Dillon's will. He'd come to rescue her, refused to accept any form of monetary compensation for providing her with shelter, food for her and Elka, and an extensive wardrobe of new clothes.
In fact, when Dillon informed him she had plenty of cash to pay for the constant bodyguards and investigative services, Nasa actually appeared offended. She couldn't say she'd ever met a man like him before, and honestly had no idea how to best handle him.
If they'd been walking toward each other on the street a few weeks ago, Dillon would have found a busy store to hide in. Even without the tattoos and the black leather vest, Nasa struck an imposing figure.
Add to the mix his paranoia and the penchant for over-the-top preparedness, his membership in a motorcycle club, a self-professed perversion of an unspecified nature that had Dillon unbearably curious to know the details, and her subsequent attraction to all that?
Yeah. Dillon definitely needed this therapy session.
“What sort of business are you partnered in with Dr. White?” she asked, forcing her thoughts away from perverted sexy things in favor of watching the play of muscles in Nasa's arm flex as he used the flat of his hand to turn the wheel of his enormous white truck.
He pulled around to the rear of the building, into a spot beneath the covered parking area beside an elegant white Audi, a gunmetal gray Aston Martin, and a low-slung cherry red BMW convertible. Dillon would bet every dollar she had the obnoxious convertible belonged to Cher.
“A friend of mine bought the building several years ago for his personal use and to offer as a space for me and a few others to enjoy. He asked me to be a silent financial partner, and I helped him beef up the security.
“Last year, Dr. Teague Thompson, who is also my friend, had some business troubles. He’s a physical and psychotherapist, and he needed a space for his practice and had plans to expand.
"Which meant he needed another therapist on staff he approved of, to build the perfect place to suit his personal and business needs.
“It happened that Collette was also experiencing some problems, and as they already knew one another socially, it was easy for them to partner in starting a new business.
"The building had plenty of space for therapy and brought in extra cash. Teague asked me to increase the security measures, which I was thrilled to do, because it meant my investment was being returned twice as fast, plus I get all the benefits.”
“Of therapy?”
Nasa gave a darkly amused snort. “Teague and Collette both would pay to have me on the couch, but it's not gonna happen.
"They think I'm a conspiracy theorist with an irrational fear for the end of days, and a crazy person with delusions related to satellites.
“It's easier to say I have a mental disorder than it is to believe I'm in full command of my faculties or to believe that there will come a day when all the supplies I've squirreled away will be necessary.”
Dillon had no comment on that, as she often felt her paranoia was completely justified and not the complete result of her experiences with having been tortured.
“I know where my shit comes from, why I am the way I am, and I deal with it just fine. Talking about why I'm paranoid to someone who hasn't ever worked in a branch of this country's government is a waste of my time.”
Nasa put the truck in park and peeled his sunglasses off, tossing them carelessly up on the dash.
“Would you do me a favor?”
“Depends on the favor,” Dillon answered warily.
He turned his true blue eyes on her and tilted his head at the solid security door in front of them.
“I've never much cared for Cher, and I've questioned both Teague and Collette many a time as to why they employ someone like her.
"The answer is Cher and Collette were a package deal, and Teague wanted Collette on his team enough to tolerate Cher.
“Cher hasn't crossed any lines he's drawn, at least not that I know about, so she's kept her job and has been paid very well.
"For whatever reason, Cher is under the insanely false impression I want to fuck her. I don't. Never have, never will, and I've done everything I can in expressing my feelings toward her.
“So, as a personal favor, would you be willing to walk in there holding my hand to save me from the usual tit-shaking experience today?”
“That's the favor? Holding your hand to save you from Cher?” Dillon clarified, pretty sure she was being manipulated into holding Nasa's hand and torn between amusement and irritation that he thought he could get away with it.
He shrugged his massive shoulders and flicked his long, masculinely elegant fingers her way. “Am I wrong in assuming you've made it clear to her that you think Cher is a cunt?”
“On more than one occasion I've told Cher I'd rather sandpaper the asshole of lion inside a phone booth while wearing pork chop panties rather than deal with her. So, yeah, I think it's safe to say Cher knows how I feel about her.”
Nasa's laughter filled the cab
