Page 18 of Donovan's Men

Hamish raised his hand. “Wouldn’t that still compromise the investigation? I admit I don’t know much about police”—he waved his hand around—“but didn’t those gang guys get off because one of the witnesses, a woman, got involved with one of the investigators?”

I wanted to point out that I wasn’t the only witness. I wasn’t the only victim. My testimony would be nothing in comparison to Cole’s. “You want to do what’s best. You want to color within the lines. I get it. I really do. But I think we can all admit there’s something—”

“This is nuts. That I’m even contemplating this—whateverthisis—makes me teeter on the verge of insanity.” Hamish frowned. “You’re feeling attraction to us because we’re in a position to help you. Either by arresting the person who shot you or by assisting you in dealing with the emotional fallout.”

I opened my mouth, but he kept right on going.

“This is a classic case of transference.”

I blinked.

“You’re feeling attraction toward me precisely because I am your therapist.”

“Uh, okay.” My nose itched, but I wasn’t letting go of Tyson’s thigh, and my right arm hurt like a son of a bitch. “Let’s say you’re right. You’re not…but let’s say for argument that what I’m feeling is…transference. What would the solution be for that? Clearly, you wouldn’t keep treating me, right?”

He pursed his lips. “No. I would refer you to another therapist.”

“See? So do that.” Why I was arguing so vehemently, I wasn’t certain. I’d find another guy. I always found another guy. Hell, Tyson might prove to be more than I could handle.

Yeah right. Get him on the St. Andrew’s cross, and you’ll have him begging for release.

My cock stiffened. Cole had two St. Andrew’s crosses—for when we each brought a bottom home.

An image floated in my mind—both men naked and bound. Both with boundless pale skin waiting for me to mark it. Crop? Whip? Flogger?

All three?

Throw in nipple clamps, maybe a cock cage, and, oh, a paddle. Yeah. The things I could do to Tyson’s ass. To bring him to heel. To give him the release he obviously needed. And Hamish? I could break down those walls in no time.

Hamish pursed his lips. “You’re simplifying.”

“Because it’s just that simple.” I stroked Tyson’s thigh—even as he tensed.

“What if I don’t want this?” Even as Hamish said the words, though, the lie was clear. The wide pupils. The shallow breathing.

Does he even realize he’s turned on?

He caught me by surprise by snatching my plate from before me. “I’ll take care of this. You guys head out. You have to visit Cole, and then you’ve still got a nasty drive even though it isn’t rush-hour traffic yet. Or whenever you’re going.”

We’d barely hit noon, but yeah, by the time I saw Cole and we headed to Renfrew, it’d be close to the four-hour-long ordeal that was Vancouver rush hour. “When will I see you again?”

Hamish smiled, fished out a business card, and handed it over. “That one’s good anytime.”

I flipped it over and found a handwritten phone number scrawled on the back. Only then did I notice he had two pockets of business cards in his billfold. “So not everyone gets the personal treatment?”

He pinkened. “Not everyone’s been shot.”

Part of me resented that I needed special treatment. Part of me was glad this guy was on my side. Most of me just wanted to see the slender man naked and at my mercy.

I pocketed the card and nodded. “Goodbye, Doc.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Riggs.” He held his head high as he walked away.

After a moment, I squeezed Tyson’s thigh. Then used it as leverage to rise.

I’m fucking exhausted, and it’s barely lunchtime. I should probably take some painkillers.

Yet I didn’t. Instead, I followed Tyson out of the coffee shop. “You didn’t saygoodbyeto him.”