She worried what might happen if she continued to evade his questions. How many passes would he allow? She had to share the reason she went to prison or she would never begin to heal. Hunter seemed trustworthy enough.
“It was about two years ago. I had just passed my licensing exam, and I was thrilled that I no longer had to report to a supervisor. Well, thrilled and a little nervous, I guess. Anyway, I was renting office space over on State Street, trying to start a practice. But insurance companies were giving me a hard time, and it was tough to get clients.”
“Insurance companies giving you a hard time?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye. “Say it ain’t so.”
Sophie gave a wry smile. “Going to battle with managed care is one thing I do not miss about being a psychologist, that’s for sure.” She swallowed hard before she continued. “You can imagine my relief when I picked up a client who said it was no problem to self-pay. He said he didn’t have health insurance anyway. He was in a similar situation as I find myself now—mandated by the court to attend therapy. He had a gambling addiction that got him into trouble.” Sophie recalled the flutter in her heart upon meeting him.
He had strode confidently into her office, wearing a tight royal-blue T-shirt that showcased the musculature of his arms and chest. On the tall side of six feet, he was a formidable presence. Sophie could not help but allow her eyes to drift down the length of him, taking in his dark jeans and black boots.
“Dr. Taylor?” his deep baritone rang out in the room. She glanced up at his cavernous cerulean eyes, hardened and mysterious. His jet-black hair bled into the stubble of a five o’clock shadow lining his chiseled jaw. The man exuded sex.
“Yes, it’s Sophie,” she corrected, offering her hand.
He grasped it and shook robustly, causing the muscles of his forearm to contract and ripple. He looked her in the eyes as he introduced himself.
“Logan Barberi.”
“Barberi?” Hunter repeated. Sophie flinched, reorienting herself to the present. “The Barberi? As in the Barberi crime family?”
She smiled sadly. “That’s the one. He’s the son of Vicenzo Barberi. If only I had known.”
Hunter appeared puzzled. “You didn’t know his family was Mafia?”
“I didn’t know! In my defense, Vicenzo was sentenced to life in prison when I was only seven years old.”
“Oh, that makes sense.” Hunter nodded. “But didn’t you follow Angelo Barberi’s trial? It was the talk of the town when he got off on a technicality.”
Sophie shrugged. “That happened when I had just started grad school. Back then I didn’t have time to sleep, much less follow the news.”
Hunter continued writing, and he waited patiently for her to resume the story. She crossed her long legs and exhaled deeply, maintaining an elegant posture on the sofa. Her mind drifted back to her first meeting with Logan, as it had done so many times while sitting in her cell.
He had just told her his name, and she was drowning in the magnetism of those deep blue eyes. The timbre of her voice was tremulous. “Um, welcome … Please have a seat.”
He eyed her appreciatively as he crossed to the sofa. “Damn, if I knew shrinks could be so pretty, I would have started this therapy thing long ago.”
Backing unsteadily into her own chair, Sophie felt her cheeks redden, and she emitted a nervous giggle. Oh Lord, the physical attraction appeared to be mutual. It definitely seemed like the time to refer this client to another psychologist before they even started this charade of therapy. Instead, she found herself asking, “What brings you in today, Mr. Barberi?”
“It’s Logan. None of that formal stuff. A judge, uh, ordered me to see you. I had a little, uh, incident, and they think I have a gambling problem.”
Her mind, overwhelmed by his ferocious intensity, drew a blank. What would her supervisor tell her to say in this moment? When in doubt, make an empathic statement. Reflect the client’s feelings. Sophie racked her brain for an appropriate response. “And you’re angry about that, Logan? You don’t think you have a gambling problem?”
He exhaled derisively. “A problem implies lack of control. I’m always in control of my bets. I know what I’m doing.”
“Fair enough,” she responded, wanting to establish rapport before challenging him too much. “So, what was this ‘little incident’?”
He looked around the small office, sizing it up. Taking in the bare walls and sparse furniture, he observed, “You haven’t been in this office long.”
“That’s right, less than one month.”
His leg jiggled nervously as he continued his visual scan. Abruptly popping off the sofa, he strode to the lone object on the wall: a framed document. Peering at the date on her psychologist’s license, Logan turned to her and arched one eyebrow. “2006? You’ve been in this office about the same amount of time you’ve been a full-fledged shrink, huh? Only one month?”
Sophie nodded her head, and her throat felt dry. So she was green. A freshly licensed psychologist. So what?
He returned to his seat and shot her a disinterested smirk. “What the hell are we supposed to do in here?”
“Well, I’d like to get to know you better, Logan. Why don’t you tell me a little about your family?”
“Oh, you know, they’re … family. Nothing to talk about there.”
Watching his eyes dart around the room, Sophie decided to try another tactic. “How about gambling then? What’s your favorite game?”
He brightened immediately. He turned his deep-blue gaze back on her, and on her it stayed. “Blackjack,” he responded. “It’s got the best odds of any game at the casino, and I’m crazy good at it. Just yesterday I made seven thousand dollars.”
Sophie raised her eyebrows. “That’s a lot of money.”
“Yep,” he agreed. Of course, he neglected to mention that he had lost nine thousand dollars the day before. Logan winked and gave her a dazzling smile. “Maybe we could go gambling together some time.”
Hunter did not allow his client to remain in her trance for long. “That was your mistake?” he asked. “Keeping Logan Barberi as your client?”
Sophie blinked and shook her head sadly. “No. My mistake was not keeping Logan Barberi as my client. My mistake was falling in love with him.”
7. Man Overboard
Grant yanked the pillow from underneath his head and stuffed it over his face, unsure if he was just attempting to drown out the noise or actually suffocating himself. His feet dangled over the low armrest of the sofa in Roger’s studio apartment, and he tossed and turned with every thunderous snore emanating from the man in the bed across the room.
Skaeeeeennnnng … hhuuuuuuhhhhh … skaeeeeennnnng … hhuuuuuuhhh …
How the hell could a human being make that sound? It seemed like a machine or some type of snuffling, feral animal. Grant groaned as he glanced at the alarm clock on the end table. Great. It was the freaking middle of the night.