Whatever you are doing, keep doing it and keep sending me pages. You’ll make your deadline if you keep at it. If flirting with Paul Bunyan makes you write like this, then I approve.”

“So I should keep my door shut and my feelings repressed and regurgitate all the emotional mess on the page.”

“If that’s what is keeping your creative engine motoring . . .” She lets the unfinished statement dangle there.

“Maybe there will be lots of romance in this book.”

“Everyone likes romance,” she agrees. The phone beeps and it’s Dr. Terrance.

“Dr. T is on the line,” I say.

“Go,” she orders. “I’ve got work to do. Keep writing!”

“Yes ma’am.” I snap off a salute she can’t see and switch over to Terrance.

“Hello, Natalie, did you get the delivery today?”

Guiltily, I cringe. “Um, I haven’t called down for it.” I’ve been too busy flirting with the sweet security guy my cousin has hired to worry about taking drugs. Besides, now that I’ve got a date with Jake, the last thing I want to do is take some antianxiety medication that will dull all my feelings and turn me into a walking, talking, monotone zombie. That will really impress him.

“If you don’t take your proper medication, then we can’t move forward.”

“But Dr. T, I felt really good today and I was thinking—”

“Natalie, when is the last time you were able to leave your building?”

My fingers curl in anger so I take a second before I respond. “A while.”

“Two weeks and three days, if my calculations are accurate.”

You know they are, I say silently. Out loud, I try to convince Terrance I can do this without the medication. “I think we should just try, maybe once, without the medication.”

“How did it feel the last time you tried?”

“Not good,” I admit. “But I met this guy—”

“A new person, Natalie? Why haven’t you told me about him?”

“I meant to, but it was just the other day.”

“And who is he?”

“Oliver hired him to look into my situation, to give me some additional security.”

“Oh dear, Natalie, I’m going to talk with Oliver. I don’t think introducing a new person into your life at this time is good for your fragile state of mind. Now I want you to take the medication, and then I’ll call you tomorrow after I’ve spoken to your cousin.”

“But—” I start to object, but the dial tone tells me he’s already hung up. I’m about to call him back when I get a buzz on my phone from the doorman downstairs.

“Hi, Jason,” I say. “What’s up?”

“You have a visitor. Should I send him up?” He sounds confused—I never have new visitors.

“Is he six foot three and two-sixty?” I ask wanting to be sure it’s Jake.

“Um, I’m a doorman, not a doctor.”

He’s earlier than I expected, but maybe he’s just as excited as I am. I resist the urge to clap. “Sorry, send him right up. And thank you, Jason.”

“No problem. Let me know how you enjoy it!”

I raise my eyebrows at this. Jason and I have a friendly relationship over the phone wherein I call and ask for packages and he leaves them outside my door after ringing the doorbell, but we certainly aren’t at the stage where I’d tell him dirty details from any intimate encounter I had.

The door rings and my heart starts pounding. I flex my fingers wide and take deep, calming breaths. I move slowly toward the door, pushing hard through the anxiety that is threatening to drag me under. “I’m coming,” I call, in case he’s worried that I’m not home. Ha, I’m always home. He murmurs something that I can’t quite hear.

The doorknob looms large and my wet palms have a hard time turning it, but I do, slowly. “It’s Jake,” I tell myself. “He’s sweet. Kind. He will not hurt you. He will not hurt you.” I repeat it over and over as I turn the knob, as I take each breath, as I open the door.

And when it’s wide enough for me to see outside, I scream. I scream and scream and scream. My breath seizes and oxygen becomes a memory. Stumbling forward, I hit my head on the door and then black out.

CHAPTER TEN

JAKE

I hear the scream from the elevator and I know it’s Natalie. The metal box doesn’t move fast enough for me and I pull at the doors the minute they crack open, dropping the bags full of Chinese onto the floor. The screams stop abruptly, propelling me forward at an even faster pace. My Beretta is in my right hand, and I’m down the hall in two strides with the barrel shoved against the intruder’s white greasepainted face. His fake red smile and nose look macabre against the black metal of my gun.

He shrieks and raises his hands. “Don’t shoot, man. I’m just a messenger,” he blubbers. The gun slides against the greasy paint. I start to question him, but the smell of urine fills the air and he starts crying. Nothing worse than a crying clown. I shove his face against the wall, stepping wide to avoid the pool of piss. With my left hand pressed into the middle of his back, I pull a zip tie out of my back pocket and whip it around his wrists, pushing up his gaudy purple sleeves to gain access.

Quickly, I secure him and then let him go. He slides to the floor, leaving a track of white greasepaint and red lipstick streaking down the wall. Just inside the apartment’s entry, I hear whimpering and I steel myself against what I might see. There’s no blood, but Natalie is curled into a ball. Her knees are tucked against her body and her hands are clenched to her head.

“Shit,” I mutter softly. Kneeling down, I pat her slowly, feeling for any broken bones. She shudders under my touch. Her skin is clammy from shock. Concerned she doesn’t want to be touched but not wanting to leave her on the floor in the entryway, I opt for the lesser of two evils and pick her up. She feels slight, not substantial enough to fight this by herself. I hold her tightly against me, trying to send her whatever strength she can draw from me. I carry her into the one room new to me—her bedroom.

I’m nearly struck blind by the assault of pinkness. Thank Christ the walls at least are white. There are the hot pink chairs with no arms that flank a window with pale pink floor-to-ceiling curtains drawn shut. They manage to block out all of the afternoon sun. It’s dim and cool in here.

I sweep the pink floral comforter back and tuck her under the pile of down and blankets. Despite the warmth, she continues to shake. The good thing is that she’s conscious and I don’t feel any wounds on her skull. Probably fear shut her down for a moment, but she’s awake now, just very afraid.

“Natalie, honey.” I kneel down with shh noises, but she can’t hear me—or doesn’t want to. She needs to warm up. I could strip down and climb in bed with her, but I’ve got the dipshit in the hallway to deal with. Plus, I doubt that a woman who suffers from severe agoraphobia would be okay with waking up to find a stranger in bed with her.

Leaning over, I brush aside the light brown hair and press a soft kiss against her temple. She stills and her hand reaches out to wrap around my wrist. The touch of her palm against my skin sends an electric shock through me, and for about five seconds, my heart beats double-time.

“You came,” she whispers, her words a stutter on her shortened breath.

Shit indeed.