“Because I knew I needed to hop in here and didn’t want to risk you being out here alone while someone I haven’t personally vetted comes to the door.” Ivan returned with his phone in hand. “This is him. You normally would’ve met him before now, but he’s been out of town on business since the morning after we got here. Anyway, if anyone but Roxbury comes to the door, you come get me from the shower. Got it?”
She studied the picture closely, committing the middle-aged face to memory.
“You have the owner doing favors for you.” She nodded with approval. “I’m impressed.
“Didn’t do it to impress you, sweetheart. I did it to keep you safe.” He went back into the bathroom. “Oh, and Cera?”
She swung her gaze toward the opened bathroom door. “Yeah?”
“Make sure you eat plenty of food.”
“Okay…” She frowned. “I mean, I’d already planned on it, but why did you feel it necessary to say it?”
“Because.” Ivan poked his head through the doorway and grinned. “You’re gonna need energy for tonight.” Sending her a playful wink, he vanished once again, this time, shutting the door behind him.
Cera burst out laughing. Minutes later, she wasstillsitting there, lost in her thoughts and grinning like a giddy teenager in love, when there was a knock at the door.
Oh shoot! The food!
“Uh…just a minute!” she hollered down the hallway, praying the staff who’d brought it all this way could hear her.
Dressing in record time, Cera threw on the clothes she’d been wearing before their impromptu nooner with plans to take them back off and shower after she ate. Slipping on her sneakers, too—because even as a kid, she’d always had this weird texture thing regarding bare feet on a hard-surfaced floor—she speed-walked past her designated bedroom to the suite’s entrance.
A second knock came as Cera rose to her tiptoes and checked the tiny peephole. As expected, the man from the picture Ivan had showed her was waiting in the hall.
She unlocked the doors and opened the one on the right.
“Miss Davidson, I presume?” The man took a stuttered step toward her and held out his hand. “I’m sorry we haven’t had a chance to meet. I’m Howard Roxbury, the owner of The Douglas. I trust your stay has been a pleasant one so far?”
“It’s lovely here, thank you.” Cera shook his hand before stepping to the side to give him and the wheeled cart room to pass. “Mmm.. That smells delicious.”
“Mr. Petrov ordered our most popular lunch items.” Roxbury rolled the cart to a stop next to the kitchen’s combo bar/island structure. “Two double cheeseburgers, extra fries, and two strawberry milkshakes made from the finest milk and cream in the state.”
Cera left the door to shut on its own as she followed the man to the kitchen. As he removed the metal plate covers, she got her first peek at the source of the mouthwatering aromas.
Double cheeseburgersanddouble fries? Ivan wasn’t kidding when he said he wanted her to have plenty to eat. Her insides tingled with anticipation.
She wouldn’t have thought she’d be ready to go so quickly after two very recent—and overwhelmingly satisfying—climaxes. Apparently her sex-deprived body wasn’t keeping track.
Even as the thought passed through her brain, Cera knew that wasn’t it. What she was feeling had nothing to do with how long it had been since she’d last had sex, and everything to do with the man taking a shower a few yards from where she stood.
“Okay, then.” Roxbury returned the plates’ protective covers. “Unless you need anything else, I’ll leave you and Mr. Petrov to enjoy your—”
A weird thumping noise reached Cera’s ears half a beat before she heard a dull thud. Spinning around to make sure the man hadn’t tripped and fallen, she was struck with such shock at what she saw, words literally became impossible to form.
Mr. Roxbury was lying on the ground. His eyes were closed, and he wasn’t moving. A small pool of blood was slowly forming on the wood beneath his head.
But the thing that had stunned her into a paralyzing state of disbelief was the man standing over Roxbury’s prone form.
“Hello, Cera.” Dr. Randall flashed her a wide, familiar smile.
He wore what appeared to be a floral delivery jumpsuit over his regular clothes, and there was a gun held tightly in his fist. Its barrel was pointed straight at her.
No. It can’t be.
This man was her therapist. For over a decade, he’d been her mental health provider. She’d entrusted him with a decade’s worth of her deepest, darkest thoughts. Her biggest fears and—what she’d believed to be—her unforgivable regrets.
Even her craziest, wildest dreams.