any doubt that anyone looking at her life would believe it was perfect. Why wouldn’t they? She had more money than anyone truly should, she’d been given her father’s fast metabolism and her mother’s striking blue eyes. Her education was exemplary, and if she decided she didn’t want to do anything but shop for the rest of her life, she had the means to do just that.
She knew that her agoraphobic tendencies appeared to many as conceit and arrogance. The fact that she was so terrified of being kidnapped that her world had shrunk to a stultifying routine meant nothing. There were real problems out there; she just had an active imagination and a constant state of terror that kept her from enjoying the gifts she’d been given.
She walked outside the building to the busy street, her gaze fixed on the limo parked just a few feet away. Michael, her driver, opened the back door for her. To those hurrying past he seemed like any other limo driver. Black suit, white shirt, humble demeanor. But behind his dark glasses he was scanning the area with laser intensity and the reason his jacket wasn’t buttoned was so that he could, if necessary, get to his weapon in a heartbeat. He drove her, but that was his secondary job.
She passed him closely as she got into the back of the car and marveled again at his face. He wasn’t classically handsome. Too many sharp edges and flaws. But his looks had grown on her since he’d come on board six months ago. She hadn’t really thought about him that way in the beginning. There were lots of people in her life whose job it was to keep her safe. Some of them were also dear friends—like Elizabeth, her assistant—but most weren’t. Her father didn’t like her getting too comfortable with the staff, and she’d fallen into the terrible habit of seeing them as employees, not people.
Michael had turned into something else altogether. Not a friend, not really. They never did anything except drive. But they talked. About everything.
She’d learned he liked reading the Russians—Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Turgenev. But he also liked the graphic novels of Frank Miller. She liked to tease him about his comic books, but she’d secretly ordered a few Miller novels online, and they were…well, interesting.
He shut the door, then walked around to the driver’s side and settled himself inside. She could see his sunglasses in the rearview mirror and wished, as always, that he would take them off.
“Where to?”
“Home.”
“No stops?”
“Not today.”
He smiled at her, and she settled herself back on the cool leather seat.
She’d also learned that he didn’t have a girlfriend. Which was a lot more interesting than his taste in books.
MICHAEL PULLED INTO the mess that was traffic in midtown Manhattan, heading toward Tate’s Carnegie Hill penthouse. Something out of the ordinary had happened in the session today. He’d seen that the moment she’d stepped out of the building. He’d wait and see if she wanted to talk or if she would call her friend Sara. He liked it when she spoke to Sara. Tate never hid anything from her closest friend, and for the last few months she hadn’t whispered into the phone when she talked. It was her way of telling him about her life without seeming to bare it all.
His gaze shifted from the road to the mirror, where he was met by a pair of cornflower-blue eyes. He knew she was smiling and he smiled back, although he shouldn’t. When Tate was this flirtatious it meant that she was running from something unpleasant. He’d been right about her session.
“So how’s the doctor doing?”
Tate shifted so all he could see of her was her right temple. “Fine.”
“Wonder what she talks about when she sees her shrink?”
“Probably about how whacked-out her patients are.”
“I don’t know. She seems pretty professional to me.”
“You met her once. For about five seconds.”
He grinned. “Yeah, but she was professional for the whole five seconds.”
Her eyes were back in focus. Smiling. “Sometimes she comes up with some weird ideas.”
“For example?” A cab slipped in front of him, forcing him to slam on the brakes. Hitting the horn was tempting but futile, not to mention illegal.
“Nothing,” she said, her voice softer, flatter.
He didn’t push. The call to Sara would clear things up. The whole phone ploy was actually pretty smart. It didn’t completely break down the barriers between them, but overhearing her chats gave him tremendous insight, which helped him do his job. Besides, she was pretty funny.
Hell, if he had to work as someone’s trained pony, he was glad it was Tate. She might be rich as Croesus, but she didn’t act like most of the trust-fund babies he’d met. He’d wondered, often, whether she’d be so nice if she didn’t live every moment in fear. Poor kid. He wished that shrink would move it along. Let Tate really live while she was still young.
“Did Elizabeth tell you about tomorrow?”
Michael nodded. “She gave me the schedule for the week.”
“Good. Okay, well….”
He glanced in the mirror, but she wasn’t looking at him. The phone call should be coming right up.
He saw an opening for the damn boat of a limo and he took it, daring the Yellow cab next to him to interfere. By the time he’d gone a half block Tate had the slim cell phone to her ear.
“Hey, it’s me.”
He wished he could hear both sides of the conversation, but at least he was privy to Tate’s voice.
“I don’t know, Sara. I think Dr. Bay’s gone over the edge this time. She gave me this article. It’s about this nutcase artist-cum-therapist here in New York. He kidnaps people for money.”
Michael’s hands gripped the steering wheel as he struggled not to turn the limo around, using a sidewalk café as a new traffic lane, and go right back to Dr. Bay’s office.
“You have? When did you hear about this?”
What in hell was Bay thinking? Maybe she’d had one too many Xanax this morning.
“She thinks that maybe if I go through the experience when I know it’s safe, I’ll finally get past it. Trial by fire, I suppose.”
Shit, Tate needed a new psychologist—and she needed one now. He could just imagine what her father would say to this crazy business. William would have a heart attack on the spot, but not before he’d had Dr. Bay’s license revoked.
When Michael had signed up for the job, he’d had a lot of questions, like why this young woman needed a level of security that would make the president feel safe. William had told him that kidnapping was a danger and that he would go to any lengths to protect Tate.
Michael had agreed that someone with her wealth was a target, but guards 24-7? Ex-CIA case officers as a cook and a secretary?
Then he’d heard bits and pieces about the basis for the
