Tess Gerritsen - The Surgeon

She considered her next words and what those words could lead to. And decided that she didn’t give a damn about the consequences.

She asked, softly: “Will you come in for a drink?”

He didn’t answer right away, and she felt her face flush as his silence took on unbearable significance. He was struggling to make a decision; he, too, understood what was happening between them, and was uncertain what to do about it.

When at last he looked at her and said, “Yes, I’d like to come in,” they both knew that more than a drink was on their minds.

They walked to the lobby door and his arm came around her. It was little more than a protective gesture, his hand resting casually on her shoulder, but the warmth of his touch, and her response to it, made her fumble with the security keypad. Anticipation made her slow and clumsy. Upstairs, she unlocked her apartment door with shaking hands, and they stepped through, into the delicious coolness of her flat. He paused only long enough to close the door and turn the dead bolts.

And then he took her in his arms.

It had been so long since she’d let herself be held. Once, the thought of a man’s hands on her body had filled her with panic. But in Moore’s embrace, panic was the last thing on her mind. She responded to his kisses with a need that surprised them both. She’d been deprived of love so long that she’d lost all sense of hunger. Only now, as every part of her came alive, did she remember what desire felt like, and her lips sought his with the eagerness of a starved woman. She was the one who tugged him up the hall toward the bedroom, kissing all the way. She was the one who unbuttoned his shirt and unfastened his belt buckle. He knew, somehow he knew, that he could not be the aggressor for it would frighten her. That for this, their first time, she must lead the way. But he could not hide his arousal, and she felt it as she opened the zipper, as his trousers slipped off.

He reached for the buttons on her blouse and stopped, his gaze searching hers. The look she gave him, the sound of her quickening breath, left no doubt that this was what she wanted. The blouse slowly parted, and slid off her shoulders. The bra whispered to the floor. He did it with it with utmost gentleness, not a stripping away of her defenses, but a welcome release. A liberation. She closed her eyes and sighed with pleasure as he bent to kiss her breast. Not an assault, but an act of reverence.

And so, for the first time in two years, did Catherine allow a man to make love to her. No thoughts of Andrew Capra intruded as she and Moore lay together on the bed. No flashes of panic, no frightening memories, returned as they shed the last of their clothes, as the weight of him pressed her into the mattress. What another man had done to her was an act so brutal it held no connection to this moment, to this body she inhabited. Violence is not sex, and sex is not love. Love was what she felt as Moore entered her, his hands cupping her face, his gaze on hers. She had forgotten what pleasure a man could give, and she lost herself in the moment, experiencing joy as though for the very first time.

It was dark when she awakened in his arms. She felt him stir and heard him ask: “What time is it?”

“Eight-fifteen.”

“Wow.” He gave a dazed laugh and rolled onto his back. “I can’t believe we slept all afternoon. I guess it caught up with me.”

“You haven’t been getting much sleep, either.”

“Who needs sleep?”

“Spoken like a doctor.”

“Something we have in common,” he said, and his hand slowly traced her body. “We’ve both been deprived too long….”

They lay still for a moment. Then he asked softly: “How was it?”

“Are you asking me how good a lover are you?”

“No. I meant, how was it for you . Having me touch you.”

She smiled. “It was good.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong? I didn’t scare you?”

“You make me feel safe. That’s what I need, most of all. To feel safe. I think you’re the only man who ever understood that. The only man I’ve been able to trust.”

“Some men are worth trusting.”

“Yes, but which ones? I never know.”

“You won’t know until push comes to shove. He’ll be the one still standing beside you.”

“Then I guess I never found him. I’ve heard other women say that as soon as you tell a man what happened to you, as soon as you use the word rape , the men back away. As though we’re damaged goods. Men don’t want to hear about it. They prefer silence to confession. But the silence spreads. It takes over, until you can’t talk about anything at all. All of life becomes a taboo subject.”

“No one can live that way.”

“It’s the only way other people can stand to be around us. If we keep our silence. But even when I don’t talk about it, it’s there .”

He kissed her, and that simple act was more intimate than any act of love could be, because it came on the heels of confession.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” she whispered.

His breath was warm in her hair. “If you’ll let me take you to dinner.”

“Oh. I completely forgot about eating.”

“There’s the difference between men and women. A man never forgets to eat.”

Smiling, she sat up. “You make us drinks, then. I’ll feed you.”

He mixed two martinis, and they sipped as she tossed a salad, slid steaks under the broiler. Masculine food, she thought with amusement. Red meat for the new man in her life. The act of cooking had never seemed as pleasurable as it was tonight, Moore smiling as he handed her the salt and pepper shakers, her head buzzing from the gin. Nor could she remember the last time food had tasted so good. It was as if she’d just emerged from a sealed bottle and was experiencing the full vibrancy of tastes and smells for the very first time.

They ate at the kitchen table and sipped wine. Her kitchen, with its white tiles and white cabinets, suddenly seemed bright with color. The ruby wine, the crisp green lettuce, the blue-checked cloth napkins. And Moore sitting across from her. She had once thought him colorless, like all the other featureless men who walk past you on a city street, outlines sketched on a flat canvas. Only now did she really see him, the warm ruddiness of his skin, the web of laugh lines around his eyes. All the charming imperfections of a face well lived in.

We have all night, she thought, and the prospect of what lay ahead brought a smile to her lips. She rose, and held her hand out to him.

Dr. Zucker stopped the videotape of Dr. Polochek’s session and turned to Moore and Marquette. “It could be a false memory. Cordell has conjured up a second voice that didn’t exist. You see, that’s the problem with hypnosis. Memory is a fluid thing. It can be altered, rewritten to match expectations. She went into that session believing Capra had a partner. And presto, the memory’s there! A second voice. A second man in the house.” Zucker shook his head. “It’s not reliable.”

“It’s not just her memory that supports a second perp,” said Moore. “Our unsub sent hair clippings that could only have been collected in Savannah.”

“She says the hair was taken in Savannah,” Marquette pointed out.

“You don’t believe her, either?”

“The lieutenant raises a valid point,” said Zucker. “We’re dealing with an emotionally fragile woman here. Even two years after the attack, she may not be entirely stable.”

“She’s a trauma surgeon.”

“Yes, and she functions fine in the workplace. But she is damaged. You know that. The attack has left its mark.”

Moore fell silent, thinking about the first day he’d met Catherine. How her movements were precise, controlled. A different person from the carefree girl who had appeared during the hypnosis session, the young Catherine basking in the sunlight of her grandparents’ dock. And last night, that joyous young Catherine had re-emerged in his arms. She had been there all along, trapped inside that brittle shell, waiting to be released.