Page 2 of Mirror Image

“Almost. Sounds like you’re out and about.”

“Have you set foot outside your office at all this afternoon? It’s gorgeous!” he announces a little too loudly.

I glance out the window wistfully. It does look beautiful. “Nope. I had a full schedule today—had to scarf down a sandwich at my desk while I was taking notes between patients.”

“Well, tell you what, I just happen to be in the vicinity of Nunzio’s. How about I get us a deep-dish—extra cow, extra pig, hold anything that might constitute plant life. We can eat it out on the back porch.”

I drop into my desk chair with a weary sigh, allowing my head to fall back against the rest. “Throw in a glass of chilled white, and you’re on.”

“Already in the fridge, baby.”

I smile. “I knew there was a reason I married you.”

“Oh, well, just wait until later. I’ll remind you of a few more reasons why,” he murmurs in that low, sexy voice that makes me feel all kinds of tingly.

“Mmm. Promise?”

“Most definitely. The first thing I plan to do to you is [BEEP]—”

The sound of an incoming call lands at the exact moment he reveals his lascivious intention.

“Then I’m going to make my way over to your [BEEP]—”

And that one too.

“Gabriel . . .”

“Oh, but I’m not done yet. Just when you can’t take it anymore, I’ll [BEEP] your—”

“Gabe! Whoa! Hold up there, cowboy!” I break in. “Someone’s calling through, and I’m losing all the good stuff. It might be the answering service; let me ring you right back. Better yet, hold that thought, and when I get home, you can show me. But after the pizza, okay? I’m starving.”

He chuckles. “All right, but don’t be late—dinner will be on the table in forty-five minutes.”

“Right, love you. Bye!” I switch over before the caller can be exiled to voicemail, shifting my tone from playful to professional. “Hello. This is Dr. Flores.”

“Jennifer? Is that you? It’s been much too long since I heard that lovely voice of yours!”

Ten years, thirteen hundred miles, and about a million hours of therapy evaporate as tiny ice crystals form in my bloodstream. My pulse spikes; the air goes metallic. For an instant I’m twenty-eight again—sitting in a windowless room that smells of burnt coffee and disinfectant, waiting for him to walk in and defend me.

He never did.

The old nausea rises so fast, it steals my breath. My fingers go numb around the phone. I make my voice work anyway.

“I’m sorry, who is this?”

The question comes out only marginally louder than a whisper.

“This is Julian, Julian Braithwaite! How are you, my dear?”

And just like that I go from freezing to boiling.

His dear?

“Dr. Braithwaite,” I reply flatly. “This is unexpected.”

My chilly demeanor doesn’t appear to faze him in the least as he plunges headlong into pleasantries. “I understand you’re in private practice now?”

“I am.”