CHAPTER ONE

      THERE IS ONLY one word to describe the way he’s looking at me. With disdain. There is a hint of boredom that curves his lips, lips that I have looked at far too often in the five minutes since Noah Moore walked into this bustling café, just around the corner from my office.

      I’ve heard of him, of course. Who hasn’t? Self-made billionaire, one half of the tech empire that’s completely taken over the world as we know it. In the last ten or so years he’s gone from strength to strength, his professional successes only outdone by his frequent outings in the society papers—for all the wrong reasons. Along with his business partner, he’s renowned for his ruthless instincts and fast-paced lifestyle. Luxury. Glamour. Wealth. Success. Wild parties on yachts in the Mediterranean, the after-party they throw every year at the Cannes Film Festival that draws all the big-name celebrities. They might have made their money in the tech industry, but they’re the epitome of Hollywood cool—the gritty, bad boy kind.

      Yes, Noah Moore is a quintessential bad boy and, as if I needed any further proof of that, he arrived at our meeting in a leather jacket, black jeans, his dark hair a little longer than it should have been, stubble on his angular and symmetrical face, his brows thick, his lashes thicker, and with a hint of alcohol lingering around his very buff, very distracting frame. And it is distracting me. All six and a half feet of him, all muscled, big and tanned all over—or so I imagine—is making me forget that I am a professional.

      ‘This isn’t an appointment. I don’t need a shrink. I just...want to talk.’

      It had been a confusing declaration, given that he’d called me—a shrink—but I’d made the appointment with him regardless, despite my growing waiting list. Curiosity, you see, got the better of me.

      I didn’t get to be twenty-eight and divorced without learning that I have a predilection for bad boys. Specifically one—and he burned me, badly. Bad boys are my sinkhole, my quicksand. The longer Noah Moore looks at me with that scathing contempt, the more my pulse flutters at my wrist, hammering me in a way that makes me uncomfortably aware of the way he’s sitting, his legs spread wide, one arm bent at the elbow supporting his head, the other resting close enough to his cock that I know I can’t look anywhere near his hand. His gaze doesn’t waver from my face. He has a magnetic quality. He’s drawn the attention of most of the women in this place, and not because he’s well-known. It’s purely because of him.

      I summon all my strength to hold his stare. ‘Well, Mr Moore.’ His lips flicker at the formal use of his name. I can’t help it. I feel I need every tool at my disposal to keep him at arm’s length. ‘We’ve covered the basics. Why don’t you tell me why we’re here?’

      ‘Why we’re here?’ Noah Moore is Australian and, though his accent has been flattened by the years he’s spent here in the UK, there’s still that hint of lazy sunshine in his inflection, enough to warm me unconsciously. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ He lifts his brows, waiting for me to answer, turning the tables on me. His eyes, a green that would blend into the Mediterranean, narrow.

      ‘Usually, my patients complete a pre-appointment form,’ I say. ‘You didn’t email one back.’

      His gaze doesn’t shift. Curiosity sparks in my gut.

      ‘You didn’t complete it?’

      ‘I’m not a patient.’

      A frown pulls at my lips and I instantly wipe it from my face. I don’t show emotion when meeting prospective clients. This process isn’t about me and my feelings—it’s about them. ‘I see,’ I say, nodding calmly. ‘So why did you call me, then?’

      He compresses his lips. ‘To talk. To see what this is all about. I explained that on the phone.’

      ‘Right.’ I resist an impulse to respond sarcastically. ‘I’d still like to have some of your details on file. Do you mind?’

      ‘By all means.’ He drags his fingers through his hair and then casts a glance at his wristwatch. It’s not a fancy, expensive timepiece like you’d expect. It’s a smart watch. Is that what they’re called? You know, the ones that count your steps, forward your mail and lock your house.

      I lift out my phone, opening the secure app I use to record confidential patient information. ‘Here you are.’ I hand it over to him, but he makes no move to take it.

      ‘You fill it out,’ he says with a shrug.

      Rudeness has reached astronomical levels.

      Now, I’ve been doing this a long time. I know I’m good at this. That’s not ego speaking; it’s the line of awards from the Guild of British Psychologists I’ve received; it’s the magazine articles; it’s the waiting list as long as your arm to get an appointment; it’s the fact I can charge what I want—though rarely do. Because what I love most of all is to help people, and seeing my success in the way my patients’ lives change—that’s why I do my job.

      It’s why I agreed to see Noah for this ‘audition’, when I have far too much to do as it is. He sounded like someone who needed help. I want to help him.

      Patients with trauma and severe trauma disorders, like PTSD, should be handled gently. Even the ones like Noah Moore, who seem as though they can handle anything, are only ever one distress away from bolting. From fleeing a therapy that is too hard to process.

      Of course, I can only guess, at this stage, that he’s affected by a trauma—he’s not exactly giving me much to work with. Except for the ‘tells’, the small signs that indicate to someone like me that he’s using every cell in his body to push me away, right down to insisting that this isn’t a normal appointment, that he’s not a ‘patient’.

      ‘If you’d like,’ I say, with a soft nod and a smile that is my professional version of But we both know you’re being an asshole.

      Out of nowhere, I picture Ivy and warmth spreads through me. I work long hours, and God, I miss her so much. I have a picture of her on my desk, back in my office, because it helps to tether me to the other part of my life—the love of my daughter and the need to make her safe.

      She looks just like I did as a child—like me as an adult, really. Our hair is the same shade of blonde, so fair it’s almost white, though hers has been cut—at her request—into a bob whereas mine is long, halfway down my back, and I tend to wear it in a plait over one shoulder. We both have ice-blue eyes and our smiles are the same. She has her father’s nose, straight and lean, whereas mine slants up at the end in a way that my dad used to call a ‘ski jump’ when I was a kid.

      ‘Age?’ I prompt, finger hovering over the appropriate box on the electronic form.

      ‘Thirty-six.’

      At