Unwrapped (22 page)

Gwen tamped down the usual urge to go investigate, to hover,
just as she tamped it down every time her husband worked a blaze. She'd do more
good at home, preparing for his return and staying out of their way at the
scene.

Later—later, she and Julie would take food to the
station.

David would be tired when he got home. He'd be hungry. He'd.
. . he'd—a brutal pain stabbed into her chest, making her gasp, and the
dizziness swooped over her once more.

"Damn it."

Shaking it off, a hand to her chest, she struggled to draw a
deep breath. The pain faded slowly. She rubbed the ache over her heart and
strove to regain her train of thought.

Food. She'd been thinking about food.

Her belly rolled again. Maybe something more bland than the spaghetti
with meat sauce she'd originally intended.

Mentally adjusting their dinner plans, Gwen had half-turned
to go back into the house when the explosion sounded. The boom of it shook the
ground, the house, rattled the windows. It startled the birds from the trees
and sent the ducks flapping across the lake.

The churning cloud of deep black smoke tripled in size in an
instant and violent, multi-hued flames spewed into the sky like lava.

But it was the second, sharper pain arrowing into her heart
that had the water glass slipping from her fingers to shatter at her feet.

And she knew.

And she began to run.

And she began to scream.

CHAPTER
ONE

Big Bear Lake, California ~ June,
2012

"When was the last time you achieved orgasm?"

Mortification, sharp and bright, geysered through her belly
in a painful rush.
Jesus, nothing like getting right down to business. Why,
why, why did I come here?
Red-hot color
followed the surge, waving up from the tips of her pink-painted toes to the
tops of her ears.
Great, and now I'm blotchy.

"Mrs. Coffey?"

Goddamn David for making me do this.

"Can't you call me Gwen, for heaven's sake?" Her
eyes looked everywhere but at the man facing her across his large, ruthlessly
organized oak desk.

"Of course. If you prefer."

What the hell?
Even
her hands were red. She tucked them under her folded arms. Redheads should
never blush.

"It's awkward talking about my sex life with someone
who calls me missus."

And she was used to a softer, more touchy-feely approach.
Not that she'd liked that style much, either. She'd found it grating and
phoney, but still. He was a bit. . . abrupt.

"Well, then. Gwen." Dr. Ernest Sloan leaned back
in his black-leather desk chair, his ham-sized hands steepled beneath his
double chin. "Your last orgasm?"

"I didn't mark the date on my calendar."

"Ballpark."

Silence.

"Gwen."

"It's been a while, okay? God, I hate this."

"What?"

"This! Being here, talking to you. Feeling this
way."

"What way?"

"Defective."

"You feel defective because you can no longer
orgasm?"

"Are you going to repeat everything I say?"

The leather chair squeaked in protest as Dr. Sloan swiveled
it to and fro. His bushy brown brows lowered over a slightly bulbous nose while
he considered her over the tops of his fingertips. Like she was a mildly
interesting display specimen.

"Are you still painting?" he asked.

What the hell does that have to do with anything?

"School's out for the summer, but I have a few private
students." She'd postponed those students indefinitely, but he didn't need
to know that.

"Is that all?"

"What else?"

"Painting for yourself."

Gwen jerked a shoulder.

When she didn't speak, he said, "Running?"

She waggled her fingers. Some.

"Eating healthfully?"

"I guess."

At least she did when David was home, since he enjoyed
cooking and surprising her with his latest creations. When he was on-shift, she
gravitated toward bowls of cereal eaten while standing at the kitchen counter.

"Let me ask you this," the doctor said, leaning
forward now, his dark, iron-grey eyes piercing. "Why are you here?"

Gwen imagined those eyes wisping into her mind like smoke,
searching out her every secret. She looked away. "What do you mean?"

"Why are you sitting on that couch, glaring at my ficus
and avoiding my questions, if you don't want to be here?"

God. Someone could have warned her this guy was such a
no-nonsense hard ass. If she'd asked anyone.

"David insisted."

The summer sun beaming through the blinds covering his
windows increased her already-raised body temperature. Nervous sweat tickled a
weaving line down her back. What she wouldn't give to run outside and throw
herself head-first into the lake for a cooling swim.

"Did he hold a gun to your head?"

The weapon of an ultimatum, maybe. He wouldn't really have
dragged her in by the hair, but. . .

"It was easier to make the damn appointment than to
keep arguing with him about it," Gwen answered, more honestly than she'd
intended.

"You could have lied. You could have told him you made
the appointment, then went out and gotten your nails done."

"No."

"Why not?"

"He'd know. He always knows. Besides, I don't lie to my
husband."

"How refreshing."

"Is that sarcasm?"

"I beg your pardon," Dr. Sloan answered, for the
first time appearing a touch abashed by his brusqueness. "I simply meant
your honesty speaks of a solid relationship."

"Mm-hmm."

"You're very suspicious."

"I don't like shrinks. No offense."

"None taken," he said, adopting an overly-soothing
tone that had her grinding her teeth.

It seemed she preferred the hard ass to the shrink-tone
after all.

"But I'm curious," the doctor continued. "Why
come to me? To a shrink like me, I mean. I'm not a sexual therapist. There are
specialists available."

"Sex isn't my problem. Exactly."

"All right. What is your problem?"

"I just mean it's not physical. I've had all the
tests."

And hadn't that been a carnival? Gwen shuddered. She didn't
want to think of all the people who'd poked and prodded her every orifice over
the past six months, not to mention the blood tests.

David had insisted on those, too. Had cursed and coerced in
his frustrated mix of English and Irish until she'd agreed. Wanting to make
sure she was healthy, no physical abnormalities to account for her sudden
freeze-up.

Always the caregiver.

Still, that was nothing,
nothing
compared to what David had gone through. Was still
going through. She turned her mind away from those memories.

"So it has to be up here," she added, tapping her
temple.

At least that's what David kept saying. But he and the good
doctor didn't know the truth. Being unable to orgasm was not a problem for her.

Not in the least.

"Be that as it may," Dr. Sloan said, rocking his
chair, "sexual therapists deal with the mental and emotional aspects of a
healthy sex life, as well as the physical. But you chose me."

Yes, and I'm starting to regret it.

She crossed and re-crossed her legs on the nubby green
couch, scanning the various degrees hanging on the wall behind his chair.
Harvard. Huh. What the hell was a Harvard-educated shrink doing holed up in a
small town like Big Bear Lake, anyway?

Out loud, she said, "You're new," as if that
explained everything.

It was the only qualification of his that had mattered to
her. Only she hadn't counted on him being quite so sharp. The therapist across
town had been far less. . . persistent.

No use second-guessing herself now.

The doctor raised a questioning brow, that piercing gaze
shredding her nerves. "And that's important to you?"

"This is a small town. Everyone knows everyone else's
business. Coming to you, there's less risk of things. . . getting out."

"The doctor-patient relationship is—"

"It may be confidential in theory," she broke in,
"but small towns are different."

Dr. Sloan tapped his pen on the desk.

She darted a glance at him, then back to the ficus.
"Look, I'm not going to see some Dr. Ruth clone, okay?"

Certainly not as a teacher in such a small community. She'd
driven all the way to San Bernardino for her physical exams. If the schools she
worked for knew she was seeing a sex therapist, she could lose her job. They
might not legally be able to claim that as the reason, but it would be, and
everyone would know it. Image was sacrosanct in the school district, even for a
part-time art teacher.

Her students would have a field day with such a juicy
tidbit.

Worse, if the guys at the station found out David's wife was
holding out on him, they'd never let him live it down. The ribbing he could
take.

Their pity would kill him.

"A sexual therapist would necessarily be better versed
in the issues you're experiencing," Dr. Sloan said. "I can recommend
several highly qualified colleagues."

Her fingers worried at the open-heart diamond pendant
dangling on a fine gold chain around her neck. Out of long habit, she stroked
the off-center pearl by the inside tip of the heart, rubbing it like a
talisman, smiling just a little at the memory it evoked.

"You already have my ring on your finger,
a ghrá
,
"
David had said on their wedding night nine years ago. He'd turned her to face
the mirror on the wall of their Hawaiian honeymoon suite, then slipped the
necklace around her throat, his warm, callused fingers sending anticipation
shivering over her exposed skin. "The ring is the symbol of my promise to
you. The necklace is the symbol of my heart, and it's yours forever. I love
you, Gwen."

He'd pressed his lips to the spot just below her left ear
that always turned the shivers into something deeper, something primal. They'd
made love many times before marriage, but that night they'd found new depths,
new pleasures in loving each other the first time as husband and wife.

Yet now. . . Gwen focused on the psychiatrist.

"I chose you," she said. "I'm here.
Period."

Conceding with a nod of his shaggy head, Dr. Sloan made a
note on his pad, then scanned her chart. "Which brings us back to the
orgasm issue. How long has it been?"

The freshly painted beige office walls pressed in on her,
airless, dry, over-warm. A line of sweat snaked between her breasts. She hoped
it wouldn't show through her light blue tee-shirt. Gwen abandoned the necklace
to twist the leather strap on her purse around her fingers. Why was it so hard
to say the words?

"About six months." Give or take a year.

Longer, really, since things had been truly normal. Since
before the incident. The very night before.

Oh, God, has it really been that long?

She supposed the date was on her calendar after all, in
flashing U-turn-go-back-danger-ahead neon red, her life forever split between
Before and After.

"What about when you're alone?"

"I'm sorry?"

"When you masturbate. Can you achieve orgasm
then?"

The previous flush of embarrassment scorched lava-hot, her
scalp burning as if each tiny hair follicle had sprouted flames. She
half-expected the office's smoke alarm to detonate.

"Gwen?"

She kept her gaze firmly on her interlaced fingers, clenched
tightly in her lap. If her body heated any more, surely she'd combust, explode
into ash, cover the ficus and desk and his double-damned squeaky office chair
in a film of mortified grit.

Death by humiliation.

The silence stretched, thin as her nerves, until finally she
shook her head. The scratch of his pen on paper scraped across her skin like a
fire rake.

"There are medications—"

"No."

Considering her, Dr. Sloan wagged his pen and settled once
again into silence, letting it take on weight. A technique she bet he usually
found effective. Well, he could look, could wait, all he wanted. She would not
bend on that point.

No drugs.

"A lot has happened in your life over the past few
years."

"I've dealt with it."

"Have you?"

"Yes! I have. We've all dealt with it."

And would, forever. But she wasn't the one who'd nearly
died. She had to be strong. Stronger. She gripped her hands tighter, bone
rubbing on bone. She was fine. Healthy. Whole. Besides, that was so long ago.
She should not, would not, be the one falling apart.

Not now.

"All right," he said in a reasonable tone that
sent her tolerance meter spinning to zero. "What, then, do you believe is
causing the dysfunction you're experiencing if it's not a holdover from the
fire?"

"The fire was three years ago," Gwen rasped
through gritted teeth.

She didn't want to talk about the tragedy of that one
terrible night. A night that had in turn spawned days, weeks, months of
terrible nights.

Was still spawning them.

Did they really need to discuss the cause to solve the
problem? She wanted to get to the solution part of the program—
her
solution—and forget the psychobabble.

But he just kept talking. She repressed the urge to scream.

"Our bodies aren't machines to be tuned up once, then
forgotten until the next crisis or malfunction." The therapist's voice
took on a lecturing tone. A muscle twitched in Gwen's left eyelid. "They
react unpredictably. The effects of trauma can recur over time and can last for
years. Our minds and bodies need regular care, attention."

"I know that." Gwen straightened in her seat.
"I take care of my body."