The Unforgivable Fix (3 page)

B
ARBADOS

“Everyone out!” Patrick Duncan stormed through the penthouse. “Now!”

Two small women in chef's whites scurried out of the kitchen with lowered eyes.

“I said
now
!” Patrick glowered as the staff ran out of the penthouse. He stalked through the spacious living room to the wide lanai where his woman lay motionless on the chaise. Her companion, a shapely brunette in a bikini bottom, leapt off her own lounge and struggled to cover her bare breasts.

“Leave, Alyssa.” He waved to her canvas bag and the lotions arrayed on the table. “You can collect those later.”

The startled beauty pulled a towel free, wrapped it around herself, and raced barefooted out of the suite.

“There's another one I'll not see again.” The nude woman sunning herself in the warm Barbadian breeze hadn't moved. “You've got to get a handle on your temper, Patrick.”

“Sit up, Olwen,” he demanded. “We need to talk.”

She remained motionless on the wide chaise.

Patrick heaved a sigh. He pulled aside the small table separating Olwen's recliner from the one Alyssa just vacated and sat. “Olwen, please.” His voice was quieter now. “I need you.”

She knew it was a struggle for him to calm himself. She also knew withholding her attention was the best way to force him to a more civil state. The danger of allowing Patrick Duncan to think he had the upper hand, even for a moment, was a risk she was smart enough to avoid. She held her face in calm repose and kept her eyes closed behind dark glasses.

“Please, darling.” His tone was that of a remorseful child. “Something terrible has happened.”

Olwen rewarded his attitude adjustment by reaching out her hand. He brought it to his lips. She pulled away after his gentle kiss, turned on her side to face him, and took off her glasses. She watched him take in the fullness of her nudity and saw his face morph from barely controlled anger to mounting desire. She pulled up her left knee and let his eyes linger on the trimmed triangle of dark blonde hair between her legs. At the moment he began his reach for what he wanted most, she swung her legs off the chaise, pulled herself up, and stood naked as he sat two inches from her. She reached for her robe and teased it onto her shoulders, savoring his slack-jawed immobility before she tied the sash and walked out of the sun into the living room.

She knew he'd follow.

She glanced at the clock, a silly habit from earlier times. She no longer had to justify when she poured her first drink of the day. Four years with Patrick made the rules of etiquette and decency no more applicable to her than they were to him. She stepped to the small bar on the far wall and dropped three ice cubes each into two crystal tumblers. She poured dark rum into one and gin into the other, then added equal parts of chilled tonic and squeezed a quartered lime into each.

“What has you so riled?” She handed Patrick his rum and settled into the low-back sofa. It was turquoise silk. The same color as the sea it faced through open patio doors.

“There's been a raid.” Patrick's voice was little more than a hushed whisper. “Our warehouse in Brighton. The inventory's gone and three men are dead.”

“Nigel Lancaster's territory.” She crossed one leg over the other, mindful to let her robe fall open.

“This isn't Nigel's doing.” Patrick downed his drink in one long gulp. “The last thing he wants is to disappoint me again. Besides, he's spending most of his time at a London rehab hospital seeing to Jillian's recovery.”

She pushed his last sentence out of her mind. She'd long ago accepted the definitive actions required by Patrick's line of work, but she didn't need to hear the details. “These three men, you knew them?”

“Not directly. They were guards. Teenagers trading their bravado for a spot in the organization.
My
organization. They worked for
me.
”

Patrick began pacing. She allowed him his mounting anger. The bond Patrick shared with his men was the backbone of his empire. Drug operations were built on loyalty and protection, and Patrick spent years using his dogged devotion to his team's wealth and safety to create an enterprise supplying narcotics to more than sixty countries. While the Mexican government targeted the older, smaller, more violent cartels, he'd forged civil alliances there and throughout South America that allowed everyone to get rich. As Nigel Lancaster and his wife had learned, Patrick dealt harshly with employees who crossed or disappointed him, but he always kept his men safe from external mayhem.

“It's the fucking Russian.” Patrick paced the room.

“How can you be sure? Was there a message?”

“What more message do we need beyond the brutality?” Spit flew from his lips. “He's a barbarian. And he's declaring war.”

She stood and walked over to him. She couldn't let his feral reaction to his men's deaths build to levels that might threaten the business. Channeling Patrick's anger effectively had always been her contribution to their partnership.

“You need time to think.” She laid her head against his chest. “To grieve.” She pulled his hand to her breast, tucking it inside her robe. “You need to move carefully. Deliberately.”

“I'll put a bullet in Tokarev's throat.” His voice rumbled against her ear. “He's not taking what I have built.”

“Shh…” She pressed her hips against him and caressed the small of his back. “Now's not the time. Your serenity is your strength.” She brought a hand around to stroke his growing erection. “I want you down on your knees,” she whispered.

He pulled away and stared into her blue eyes. She held his gaze, untied her robe, and let it drop. “Now,” she whispered.

Patrick hesitated. Then he lowered himself and pulled her toward him, his hands massaging her back. She ran her fingers through his dark hair and moaned.

“Your serenity is your strength,” she whispered again. “Your strength comes from me.” She pressed against him and let the soft salty breeze tease her naked body.

An hour later she untangled herself from cool linen sheets and slipped away from her sleeping lover. She crossed the master bedroom and turned the tap in her oversized soaking tub. She poured lavender oil into the steaming water and breathed in its tranquil aroma. She'd need the bath to calm herself. Patrick would have no choice but to respond to the attack on his territory.

And that could be extremely dangerous for her.

She crossed to the mirror, wiped away the steam, and clipped up her shoulder-length hair with the silver clasp Jillian Lancaster had brought her from one of her trips to Australia.

“Take care, Jillian. Heal quickly,” she whispered. She didn't want to awaken Patrick. He'd fallen asleep after their lovemaking; stroking her breast and sighing his pet name for her.
Olwen, Olwen.
While Patrick was an American, he was proud of his Celtic roots. Olwen was the Welsh word for “beautiful” and he insisted everyone refer to her as such.

She turned off the tap and slipped into water so hot it caught her breath. She felt her muscles uncoil in the fragrant tub. She closed her eyes.
Olwen, Olwen
danced through her mind.

She ached to hear her own name. Given to her by her parents. Once so familiar and now never spoken. She whispered it to the lavender air.

“Allison Edith Grant.”

O
LYMPIA

“And what would we work on?” Lydia asked the twenty-three-year-old woman seated in her office.

Krystal Piekarski blew her nose for the tenth time in five minutes. “Isn't it obvious, Dr. Corriger? I'm sick of being me. You gotta change me or I'm gonna die of AIDS or something.”

Lydia set aside the folder of papers they'd reviewed during the ninety-minute intake session. “It sounds to me like you're not living the life you want.”

“I just said that, for fuck's sake.” Krystal wadded up her tissue and added it to the collection on the coffee table. “You're not going to be one of those shrinks who just repeats what I say, then sits there looking at me like I'm some kind of a fuckin' zoo exhibit, are you?”

The girl's criticism was deserved. She'd come for help and Lydia had offered her echoes instead. She was rusty. Krystal was her first patient after nearly two years away, and this young woman deserved better. Lydia took a deep breath and tried again.

“I can't change you, Krystal. If you're looking for that you can save a whole lot of your time and a few taxpayer dollars by leaving now.”

After yesterday's conversation with Sharon Luther, Lydia had gone directly to her old office. She opened the windows to air it out after months of nonuse, acting fast before the opportunity to second-guess or rethink had a chance to take hold. She called the insurance providers, and three local psychiatrists who had referred patients to her over the years. They were thrilled to learn she was back in practice, wished her well, and assured her they'd be sending patients her way. But that would take time. So Lydia did the same thing she did nearly a decade ago when she first opened shop. She dialed the local community mental-health center and told them she was looking for patients. They were always overloaded with people with big problems and little cash; patients more established therapists would never accept for the miniscule reimbursement the government offered. When Lydia told the center's director she could take people immediately, the woman let out a whoop of victory and Lydia had five patients scheduled for the next day.

“That's it? You tellin' me to leave? Then what's the use of all this therapy shit?” Krystal demanded.

“Because this therapy shit can change your life.”

Krystal played with an oversized hoop earring, snapped her gum, and looked confused. “I don't get it. You just said you couldn't help me.”

Lydia shook her head. “What I said was I can't change you. Only you can do that.”

Krystal sighed noisily and looked out the window. Lydia knew Krystal was hearing the same story she'd heard from every social worker, parish nurse, teacher, physician, and guidance counselor she'd ever encountered.

“And I know how you can do it. I can coach you. You do what I tell you to do and you can live a life better than anything you can imagine.”

“So that's it?” Krystal's defenses were up. “I just turn into your little robot and everything will be aces and roses?” She snapped her gum again. “Like that's ever gonna happen. I don't let nobody control me.”

“I can see that. Yet you just told me you're afraid if you don't change you're going to die from AIDS.”

Krystal stabbed a finger at Lydia. “I didn't say that. I never said nothing about being afraid.”

Lydia nodded. “Fair enough. You're a woman of great courage.”

Krystal pulled her too-small jacket tight and pouted.

“What you said was that you were sick of your life,” Lydia continued. “And I know how you can change it.”

Krystal crossed one leg over the other. “Like what? I should get religion or something? Join Amway? Maybe go into the army? Cuz I can tell you people been telling me all that stuff and none of it works.”

“That's because none of it can work.” Lydia crossed her own legs, mirroring her new patient. “All of that is outside. Change has to come from you.”

“You're not listening! What comes from me is spreading my legs any time a guy looks twice at me. You gotta figure out what happened to me. It's gotta be some kind of thing from when I was a baby. Something I can't remember got done to me to make me this way. I can't change what I don't know, right?”

Lydia remained steady. “You don't have to know why you're this way. I really don't care
why
you sleep with every guy you meet. I care
that
you do and
that
it bothers you. And I can coach you on how to do something different.”

“Just like that? It's that easy?”

“Oh, no.” Lydia leaned forward. “This is very simple stuff, Krystal. But it's as far from easy as you can ever think of. This is going to be hard. This is going to be work. Lucky for you I have lots of open times for us to get busy…You're coming back tomorrow, by the way. And if you do what I tell you to do for six months, you'll be amazed—stunned—at how different you are. Not just what you do, but who you are.”

Krystal stared at Lydia for several long moments. “So it's an inside job is what you're saying.”

Lydia returned the smile her patient offered. “It always is.”

Lydia was tired. She'd seen four patients. In the old days, that would have merely been her morning. She'd still have another four or five people on her schedule before calling it a day. But after so much time away, she was out of clinical shape. Fortunately her next appointment was with Zach Edwards, Sharon Luther's postdoc. She wouldn't have to flex any psychological muscles with him. Lydia was hoping the guy would be a few minutes late, but she heard the door to her reception room open right at the stroke of two. She rolled her shoulders, shook her arms loose, and went out to meet him.

Zach appeared older than the twenty-six years Lydia knew him to be. He looked like a researcher. Just under six feet tall, no more than 170 pounds, with dull brown hair, well on its way to disappearing, that matched nondescript brown eyes. He wore baggy green corduroy trousers Lydia would bet came from the downtown Goodwill and a shabby sweater-vest that could have been a hand-me-down from his grandfather. They introduced themselves and Lydia invited him into her office.

“Sharon sings your praises. Are you enjoying your time in her lab?”

Zach wiped his palms across his knees and nodded. “Dr. Luther is incredible. You've read her work, I'm certain. She's so brilliant. I love watching her. She can scan a page of data and instantly digest it into testable theories. I'm lucky to be working beside her.”

He sounded sincere. Sharon wouldn't tolerate a yes-man anywhere near her. “You're looking to add clinical hours to your research schedule?”

“Yes. And believe me, all those nice things you say Dr. Luther said about me you can multiply tenfold, and that's how she describes you. I appreciate you meeting me. I've read your research work, and of course I know about that award you got in grad school.”

“That was a long time ago,” Lydia said. “I stick to patients these days. I read your paper on the effects of acetylcholine on long-term memory. Solid work.”

“Thanks.” He hesitated and lowered his voice. “I read about what happened to you up in Seattle. It was on the television, too. Even down in Oregon. Wow. That was really something, wasn't it?”

A bullet to the back of the head followed by ten months of rehab? I guess you could call it something. But oh, Zach…if you only knew.

Lydia looked past Zach to the empty end of the sofa. Savannah's spot. Beautiful Savannah. So lost. So much hoping Lydia could help her. She'd seemed to be making headway…right up until Savannah hanged herself on the front porch of Lydia's office.

“Dr. Corriger?”

Lydia refocused. She reached for a small stack of papers. “Your résumé shows a wide array of patient experience from your graduate days. Tell me about some of your most challenging cases.”

Zach brushed a thin wisp of hair off his forehead. “They're all challenging. When I'm in the lab, looking at numbers and equations…those things seem so easy. So predictable. But man, when I'm in a room with another person who's sharing their deepest fears or darkest secrets, I gotta tell you, sometimes I don't know where things are going or what's going to come out of their mouths next. Know what I mean?”

If I were to tell you, Zach, right here and now, you were seeking supervision from an assassin, could you deal with that? Would you expect
that
to come from
my
mouth?

“I know exactly what you mean,” Lydia said. “And I hope you never forget patients always have the ability to surprise you. A complacent therapist is a useless therapist.”

“And dangerous, too.”

Lydia paused. “That's an odd word. What makes you say that?”

Zach Edwards took his time before answering. “Our patients are more vulnerable in our offices than they are anywhere else. Their bodies may be naked in a physician's office, but in here their souls are laid bare. In their most intimate relationships, with friends or even with their spouses, they share only what they want to…and it's met with sharing from another person. But in here we're trained to get beyond their defenses. They tell us things they don't want others to know. Things they would never say anywhere else. And the revelation is always one-sided. They know nothing about us as we probe everything about them. They take our words as if we're oracles from on high, not the flawed human beings we truly are.” He hesitated. “I've come to appreciate that the therapist's office can be more dangerous than a war zone. At least there you're allowed armor. In here we insist they leave it at the door. Any therapist who becomes complacent about that…well, I don't think
dangerous
is an odd word at all.”

Lydia studied the young man across from her. Perhaps she'd been wrong in thinking his youth would work against him in the therapeutic relationship.

She nodded. “Let's give it a try for a few weeks, Zach. I can let you use the office on Wednesday afternoons, Friday mornings, and any time I'm not scheduled with a patient. Would that work?”

He smiled and a light broke through the blah-brown mediocrity of his appearance. “Thank you, Dr. Corriger. I look forward to it.”

“I'll set you up with six patients a week. They'll be all types of cases; this isn't a specialty practice. We'll discuss forms and charting requirements later. Let's meet once a week. I expect you to record your sessions for my review.” She showed him how to operate the digital equipment built into her office walls, activated by discreet buttons placed strategically around the room.

He offered his hand. “Thank you, again. I promise you won't regret this.”

Lydia shook his hand, smiled, and wondered if there was ever a time she was that excited about anything.