Kira Sinclair - Whispers in the Dark

Even now, just the memory of that picture had her body heating. Heating more than it had for any flesh-and-blood man in the past five years.

“Now, don’t be shy. I won’t bite. Unless you want me to.”

Karyn heard his laugh. Like his voice, it was deep and sexy and somehow soothing. She relaxed the muscles that had bunched at her back and sank blindly onto the sofa.

Her mouth opened and words tumbled out before she could stop them.

“I need you to sleep with me.”

CHRISTOPHER FAULKNER nearly fell off his chair. He did bobble the microphone in front of him.

Considering the timid way this woman had started her phone call, that last statement had been a shocker.

Jerking up, he mouthed, “What the hell,” to Michael, his forty-two-year-old producer. The man supposedly screening his calls just shrugged and went back to playing with switches.

Chris fought down the urge to strangle him. He’d wrangled with that sensation often over their five-year friendship. There was something about the other man’s laid-back attitude that tended to grate against his nerves. Especially during the past few months.

Michael knew he didn’t like to deal with this sort of thing on air. Hell, he could barely walk out his door without being accosted by some primped-up prima donna looking for him to rock her world. All they ever really wanted was an instant catapult to notoriety. Or money.

The novelty of fame had long since lost its shine. He really enjoyed helping people, but could have done without some of the headaches that went with the job.

Pasting a smile on his face—because the listeners really could hear when it wasn’t there—he put every ounce of experience he’d gained over the past five years into handling the thorny situation Michael had dropped in his lap.

At least he’d learned something on his journey from ordinary nighttime DJ to megastar.

“Well, gee, I’m flattered.” He forced out a laugh that fell as flat as the lie he’d just told. He was nowhere close to being flattered. In fact, he was much closer to annoyed.

“That’s not…I didn’t mean…Let me explain.”

The young woman’s voice floated into his ears through the headphones he wore. He heard desperation, which scared him, but also something underneath that caught his attention. Something sweet with a tinge of the same uneasiness he was trying to ignore. In a strange way it stirred a connection, a sense of kinship with the woman on the other end.

“I know this must sound crazy to you and, frankly, I wouldn’t blame you if you cut me off, but please just hear me out. Honestly, I didn’t mean what I said before. Really.”

Her admission took a bit of the edge off. Barely.

She paused, sucking in air. The broken sound reverberated through his brain. When she started again her voice trembled and he wondered what had made her take this step. Whatever she was trying to say, it was obviously difficult.

“My name is Katy.” Her voice faltered and drifted away for a moment before beginning again. “This is hard for me to talk about.”

“Well, I can’t say I’ll sleep with you, Katy.” He forced out another laugh, but even he could hear the brittle edge. “But I’d like to help. Tell me what’s going on.”

“About five years ago I was date raped. I knew the guy. Not very well, but enough to think I’d be safe with him. I wasn’t.”

A tight knot dropped into his stomach, punching straight through to his toes.

How had this girl gotten through? She’d already hit two of the auto-dump buttons—propositioning him and having a serious sexual issue, one that required professional help. He was no professional.

His unfinished business-management degree didn’t really qualify him to deal with severe sexual hang-ups. And if, in the silence of his own mind, he’d thought once or twice about remedying that deficiency in his education…well, there’d never been a reason to admit that idiocy to anyone.

He stared hard through the glass at Michael. The other man’s forehead was wrinkled even more than usual. Sure, now he cared. Where had that interest been five minutes ago?

Katy’s voice continued, tightening and turning to an emotionless monotone while she recited the bare-bones facts he really didn’t want to hear.

“It was terrifying and a long time ago. But I can’t seem to move past it. I’ve tried so many things, listened to so many people. No one seems to have the answer.”

“The answer to what?” The sound of his own voice coming through the headphones shocked him. Why had he asked her that?

“I can’t have sex. I want to.” The girl groaned softly, the sound lodging right next to the knot at the bottom of his stomach. “God, I want to. But even thinking about it—I freeze up.”

His eyes locked with Michael’s through the pane of glass between them, narrowing to slits. His jaw clamped so tight he thought the entire audience could probably hear the grinding sound.

This girl had a serious problem. Not the “my boyfriend won’t go down on me,” “my girlfriend won’t do a threesome,” “is this burning sensation something to worry about” kind of stuff he dealt with in a normal night. She needed some professional help. She did not need him.

This had disaster written all over it. His show was bubblegum and handcuffs, not emotional turmoil.

He’d fallen into the job as Dr. Desire. A few comments to a late-night caller and before he knew it, what had been a play-the-records, punch-the-buttons kind of job had turned into hours of sex and relationship discussions that led to more than he’d ever imagined. But he’d worked hard over the past five years to build a public persona, to provide confidence and helpful information to those seeking sexual answers and a push to try something new.

The people who called into his show—the people that got past Michael’s supposed screening process—mostly wanted relationship advice or to share their own fantasies or be turned on.

He was prepared for that. He was not prepared for this.

“Katy, as much as I’d like to help you, I’m not a doctor. It sounds to me like you need to see a professional.”

“I’ve talked to a therapist. Four, in fact. None of them helped.”

He looked again at Michael, raising his hands in the universal sign for “What the hell do I do now?”

His producer’s response was the cut sign—a hand across his throat. He’d like nothing better than to end this call, but he didn’t think that would be a very good idea. Not for Katy. And certainly not for the show. His female listeners—who comprised more than half his audience—would raise hell. How could he extract himself without appearing cold and indifferent?

“Well, Katy. Maybe you just need to give yourself some more time. You had to have been young. You barely sound old enough to drink.” He pushed out another laugh, trying to maintain the tone of the show despite feeling stuck between a rock and a hard place.

“I’m twenty-six and it hasn’t gotten any better in five years. That’s a long time. I want a husband and kids. At the rate I’m going I’ll be fifty before I have sex again.” Another desperate sound echoed across the line and twanged the nerves at the bottom of his spine. “I don’t think I could handle that.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. You’ll have sex when you’re ready. I have to ask—” although something told him he’d be better off if he didn’t “—what makes you think you’d be any different with me?”

“I honestly didn’t mean to say that. But I’ve been listening to your show for a long time and it’s obvious you know what you’re talking about. Maybe that’s what I need, a man who really understands how to give a woman pleasure. Who knows how to ignore the fear.”