Chapter One
The young woman paused at the entrance of the storefront office building and regarded the sign beside the door: Dr. Richard Cordman. Psychology. Hypnotherapy.
She took a deep breath and reached toward the doorknob, then stood, mesmerized by her reflection in the dark glass that fronted the low building. When was the last time she'd dressed like this? A real dress ... purchased only hours before, chosen almost entirely on the recommendation of the saleswoman at the mall department store. Knee-length hem, fabric clinging to her gentle curves, neckline low-cut, revealing cleavage that was augmented by the underwire bra (also recommended by the saleslady, who had taken her client's inability to choose feminine attire as a challenge). She had had only $300 in cash – her "pin money," hidden from her mother (or THAT would have been gone, too!), and the saleslady had made sure that she'd had enough left over, after the dress and the bra and the panties and the hose and the high heels, for an inexpensive "makeover" at the cosmetics counter. She looked ... sexy. She hoped, at least, that she presented that false image. Another deep breath. She turned the knob and walked into the office.
The reception area was deserted, not surprising this late on a Friday afternoon. On the counter, beside the receptionist's window, she found a clipboard with a form attached, her name scrawled in at the top. She picked it up, sat down on the naugahyde-covered couch and started filling in the blanks. A few minutes later, just as she was finishing, the inner office door opened, and the frame was literally filled with the bulk of a large man. He looked, to her, like a football lineman. Big. Muscular. Dark. She blinked up at him, then quickly threw her gaze back down at the floor, embarrassed by his penetrating stare and smiling, congenial face.
"Dr. Abernathy, I presume," he commented with a voice more mellow than deep.
"Gail," she said in a quiet voice, still unable to look up at him. "Thank you so much for seeing me on such short notice, Doctor."
"It's my pleasure. Please come in." She allowed him to hold the door for her, which posed a small problem as she had to maneuver her tall, thin frame around his hulking body. Their bodies rubbed together slightly as she did so, and she repressed a small shudder. Then she had to let him pass again, as he led the way back and into a comfortable, manly office. The room held a sofa along one wall, an easy chair in front of a large, old-looking oak desk, and the inevitable psychiatrist's couch in the middle of the room. The blinds were open, and the late afternoon sunlight brightened the mood. She took the chair in front of the desk and waited patiently while he seated himself and spent several minutes reading the form she'd filled out; then he sat back and studied her unabashedly. She found it impossible to meet his eyes, and kept hers on her hands, which were clutching her knees.
"I know you, don't I?" he commented, at last.
This seemed to startle her immensely. "No! I mean, no. No, I'm sure we've never met."
He wrinkled his brow. "I'm certain I've seen you somewhere. Are you in TV or something? A model?"
"No. I'm nobody. I mean, I'm nobody important. And I've never met you. I'm sure."
He glanced back at the forms. "AH! I know! You live in that apartment complex down on South Grand, don't you?"
Her eyes shifted. "Um ... yes. I live at ...."
"Yes, I have the address on the form. I live right next to you ... in the complex right across the street. Small world." She said nothing, staring down at her hands. He pulled a yellow legal pad toward him and started writing, talking as he wrote. "Refuses to be led into normal conversation." He glanced up, but she didn't react. He sighed and studied the form again.
"You're a 'Research Genetic Data Analyst,'" he continued. "With a PhD. I'm guessing that you're on one of the WashU genome teams. Human?"
THAT made her look up. The corners of her mouth twitched upward, and she regarded him with a bit of awe. "Disease," she answered.
"Cancer? Which type?"
Again she regarded him with wonder. No one, obviously, had enough knowledge to ask such questions. "Prostate," she answered.
"On behalf of the members of my sex, I'd like to offer our profound thanks." But now she fell silent yet again, studying her hands on her knees. He pulled the yellow pad back toward him and wrote, muttering loudly "All attempts at flattery and humor completely useless."
"I ... I'm sorry, Doctor," she began, faltering. "I ... um ... we really need to talk about how I'm going to pay for your services." She never looked up.
"There's really no need to worry about that now," he said confidently. "I accept all major medical plans. If you're part of the Washington School of Medicine, I'm certain that you're covered for whatever ills you might have."
"No," she said gravely. It had been the most emphatic word that she'd uttered since she'd met him. Still, she didn't look up at him. "No. I'm not going to let the school know that I'm seeking psychological help. I don't want ANYONE to know. I will not use insurance, or let anyone know that I'm seeing you. Confidentiality is fine ... but people have a way of finding out things, especially if there's a paper trail. Eventually, they'll know what I came to you for. No one would ever understand. It's simply too bizarre. I can't risk anyone ever knowing. We need to agree on some other form of payment."
"Other form?"
"I don't have any money," she said quietly.
That made him sit back and regard her in a different light. "Just so I understand who I'm dealing with here, Doctor ..."
"Please, call me Gail. It's important that you call me by my first name."
"Gail. All right. You can call me Richard. Now ..."
"No. I think I should call you by your title. We need to establish a psychological hierarchy."
"I'LL be the judge of things psychological!" he told her sternly. He sat back again and stared hard at the young, tall, pretty blonde sitting silently across from him for a long minute. He picked up the form again. "Okay," he continued with quiet authority. "Let me engage in a bit of earnest observation. You are probably the youngest PhD I've ever encountered. Twenty-three years old. Definitely the prettiest. You're a member of one of the best medical schools in the world, engaged in building a DNA model that's going to eventually save countless lives. Money should NOT be a problem for you ... and yet it is. Fame could be yours ... and yet you are one of the most introverted young women I've ever met. You are engaged in a profession where RESULTS is the most important thing ... and yet, when you have a personal problem, discretion is the overriding factor." He paused again. "It's time to tell me the reason you're here."
"First, we should agree on a method of compensation, Doctor."
