Going to Extremes. Dawn Atkins
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book contained a workbook and a calendar with practical exercises and monthly to-do lists, along with the most popular section—success stories of converted readers…weary souls reborn to life through Kathleen’s ideas.
Sensual Living III, an update of the first book, had felt as flat to Kathleen when she wrote it as its subsequent sales chart. The problem had been her life at the time—so full of speaking engagements, interviews and, yes, book tours, she’d neglected to refresh her own personal well of sensory appreciation. And it had showed.
This fourth book had to reverse the trend of dwindling sales. Tentatively called Sensual Living: Roots and Rhetoric, it would explore the underpinnings of her theories. But it had stalled. Kathleen had stalled. Fear jabbed her soul with an insistent finger.
She wasn’t used to feeling afraid. Whenever she got scared, she just pushed through, brazened it out. Nothing kept her down for long. Until now. Now she felt…shaky.
An ache swelled behind Kathleen’s eyes. She’d slap on a wintergreen eye-pack tonight for sure. Otherwise she’d end up with black sausages under her eyes. Unacceptable. Buck up, girl. Shine it on, keep moving.
“The tour will get you back in the groove, warm your backlist and boost your buzz,” JJ said, using her silkiest coax. That meant that even her hard-bitten agent was worried.
Kathleen had hired JJ for her instincts—nearly as good as her own—so she knew the woman was dead-on. Which made Kathleen cranky. “So whose book tour are you trying to drag me onto anyway?”
JJ’s eyes lit with triumph. “I’ll show you his book.” She did a suck-whoosh on her cig, put it out against one of the serenity candles, then sprang for her desk.
Kathleen closed her eyes against the travesty of tobacco touching the Peaceful Breeze pillar, which she’d brought on her last visit as the perfect counterbalance to JJ’s frenetic style. She sighed. You could lead a harried soul to sensual pleasure, but you couldn’t make her drink it in.
Now JJ was mauling one of the trio of book towers that littered her gigantic desk. “I had it right here,” she muttered, while the stack wobbled…leaned…tilted…At the last instant, JJ righted it and started on another. She had uncanny instincts.
JJ’s secretary, Moira, ensconced in an alcove across the open space of the office, waved away JJ’s smoke with an exaggerated gesture. Years before the smoke-free workplace act was passed, JJ had declared her office no-smoking, even though she was the only one with a habit and now she risked a $200 fine for breaking the law. Maybe more, since Kathleen thought she’d gotten caught once already.
“You have to stop smoking,” Kathleen said. “If not for Moira or your flash-fried lungs, for your poor skin. You want to turn into Leather Face? I’ve got the name of a hypnotist who’s magic with smokers.” She reached into the roomy satchel she used as a purse for her contact notebook, fat with business cards, price lists and scribbled tips on personal care, health and entertainment.
“Ah-ha!” JJ said, whipping a book from the bottom of a stack like a magician yanking a tablecloth from under plates. She returned to Kathleen and thrust the book at her. On a teal background the title appeared in huge gold letters: The Magic of Moderation, by—
Oh, God, no. “Dr. Daniel McAlister?” Kathleen said, raising shocked eyes to JJ.
“You know him?”
Know him? Ten years ago she’d been madly in love with him. But she wasn’t about to tell JJ that. “I’ve, um, heard of him.” To buy herself some calming heartbeats, she busied herself fishing the cigarette butt out of the melted candle wax. “This is unsavory, JJ.” She held up the wax-coated butt, then placed it on a coaster.
JJ shrugged off her concern, but at least she’d forgotten Kathleen’s reaction. “They call him Dr. Moderate and he’s very hot right now.”
He’d been hot back then, too, but not the way JJ meant. Back in college she’d been Kathleen Dubinofsky, journalism major, not Kathleen Valentine, celebrated arbiter of taste, variously known as the Princess of Pleasure, the Queen of Excess and the Pied Piper of Hedonism. So many lovely names, so little time to prove them all true.
How could it be Dan? Of all the people in the world. The man who’d broken her heart and temporarily torpedoed her confidence. Her lungs squeezed so she couldn’t take in a full load of air.
“He’s a therapist specializing in behavioral issues,” JJ went on. “And he stands for everything you oppose—self-discipline, restraint, the absolute flatline of experience.” She handed Kathleen the book.
It didn’t surprise her that Dan had retreated into restraint. At times, she’d called him Ice Man—partly because of his icy blue eyes, but also for his too-cool-for-school affect. Her intensity had shaken him up.
Now he was Dr. Moderate? He’d been studying clinical psychology when they’d met as seniors and now he was a Ph.D. She’d changed her name and he’d earned a doctorate. Figured.
Had he suffered over the breakup? Doubtful. He’d dumped her, after all. He’d probably shrugged her off like an ill-fitting jacket and moved on.
“There was a puff piece about him in Publisher’s Weekly, I think,” JJ said, lighting another cigarette. “Hang on.” She bounced up and over to Moira’s desk. “Have you seen the last PW?”
“In the pile.” Moira faked a cough. “And that’s the fourth cig in twenty minutes. Watch out. I’ll call an inspector in here.”
“We’re having a crisis.”
No kidding, Kathleen thought.
JJ launched a search for the magazine, leaving Kathleen with Dan, who stared up at her from his photo, wearing an outdated turtleneck, his face hardly marred by the coffee ring JJ had branded him with.
There was the same intellectual’s high forehead, the same crackling blue eyes. Chilly and serene as an arctic lake. But no glasses now. Nothing to lessen the impact of those icy blues. How she’d loved to tug off his glasses and kiss away the pink dents they’d made on his straight, straight nose. Those tender marks made him seem more human somehow, more open to her.
His brows were fierce and his jaw strong, but his lips were soft and full. The contrast of severe features and sensual lips had made her system hum. Especially when he talked. The luxurious excess of his lips contradicted his spare words—the sexy little secret that only she knew.
He’d been irresistible to her. Uncovering his wild side had thrilled her. She got a little quiver remembering that she’d reached him, gotten through, made the Ice Man tremble with desire.
“Dr. McAlister lives in Vermont,” she read below his photo, “where he maintains a private psychology practice and enjoys quiet contemplation, peaceful sails and moderation in all things.”
No wife. No kids. Not even a dog? Is that what moderation did for you? He didn’t look lonely. He wore the wry expression she’d disliked—as if he found the world amusing, but not quite worthy of his involvement.
She’d conquered that look for a while. Dig in to life, wallow in the lovely mess. That had been her message to him.
And he’d gone along with her. It had been a rush like the best drugs were supposed to deliver. Until he’d lost his nerve and left, conking her over the head with her own vulnerability.
She should have known better. Her mother’s mantra had always been to count on herself, to be her own best friend, not to expect anyone else to make her happy. She’d operated that way until Dan. And after him, too. Somehow, he’d swooped in under her radar—so steady, so stable, so rock solid that she went for it, fell in love. Counted on him. On them.
Just thinking about it brought back the empty feeling that had scared her so much—the hollow numbness that was way too much like how she’d felt after the childhood accident. It was as if someone had shut off the lights inside. Pure dark. Echoing and empty.
Way