I said. Clever,” she complimented as they reached the edges of the party. People milled about, dancing in the light of tiki torches, diving fully clothed—and in a couple cases totally unclothed—into the night surf. “I have a minor in psychology, actually. But I don’t practice.”
“What do you do?”
“Until recently, I worked at a private New York lab as an acoustical physicist.”
“Seriously?” he asked, throwing her word back at her.
A science geek? With a minor in psychology? Blake fingered his keys again, figuring he could make it up the beach to his truck in about six seconds flat.
“Yes, seriously,” she chided with a laugh. “I specialize in psychoacoustics.”
What was that? Crazy talk?
He shifted on the balls of his feet, gauging the sand’s inertia effect on his escape.
“And psychoacoustics is...?” he asked tentatively.
“The technical definition is the study of sound perception, measuring the psychological and physiological response to sounds.”
“So you do research?”
“Research, development,” she agreed with a shrug before giving him an arch look. “My current research is focused on correcting and enhancing sexual health through subliminal messaging, neurolinguistic programming and brain-wave technology.”
Intrigued, a little confused and, since she’d mentioned sex, totally open to being turned on, Blake settled his weight again, raised one brow and invited, “Tell me more.”
From the amused look she gave him, it was clear she knew which part he wanted to hear more about.
“If done right, subliminal messaging offers an opportunity to bypass the brain’s critical factor and speak directly with the subconscious. This is where the changes happen. Not just changes like smoking cessation or breaking a sugar addiction. But true physical changes. When trauma or conditioning are too strong for someone to overcome, the best way to make changes is on a subconscious level. This could be a powerful tool in helping abuse victims overcome blocks, in making inroads to libido dysfunction, healing emotional confidence.”
Between the animation in her voice and the way she was practically glowing with excitement, it was clear this was a woman who got passionate about her work. He gave her a questioning look. “So you’re talking about using sound to do the work of a psychologist?”
“Sure. It’s a little deeper than that, and should actually be done in concert with psychotherapy instead of replacing it, but you have the general idea of it right.”
Blake was all for a little mood music while doing the deed, but this was wild. Then again, he was getting pretty turned on just listening to her talk, that husky voice so passionate and excited—even if it was about her job rather than something more personal, like his body.
“How’d you go from acoustical physics to sexual health?” he wondered.
“While getting my psych degree, I interned at a clinic that helped abuse victims. It was heartbreaking,” she said quietly, staring out at the water. “Years, lifetimes were impacted by a single event, and no matter how much these people wanted to overcome that, or how much we tried to help them, there were things that the mind just wouldn’t let them get past.”
Blake didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. His own mind was taking its oft-hourly trip back to the mission, to his last sight of Phil. She was right. Some things, they just didn’t go away.
“I’m boring you, aren’t I?” she asked, giving him a rueful look, the moonlight glistening off her downturned lips.
“Hell, no. I’m fascinated. Besides, I like a woman who gets this excited about sex,” Blake said with a wicked grin.
“Done right, sex is the ultimate excitement,” she said, her voice as sultry as the night itself.
“And done wrong?”
She smiled, slow and wide. Her look was filled with empathy, a sort of deep sympathetic understanding that told him this was a woman who cared. Not just about her job. But about people, about helping. About making things better.
And he’d thought she was scary when she was just perceptive.
Trying to regain control over the needs raging through his libido, Blake focused on the scenery. A few yards from the water’s edge, a crop of boulders marked the end of the beach. Up the dune, a large white tent sheltered the bulk of the wedding party, music pouring a soft wave of romance down toward the surf.
“Want to sit?” he asked, gesturing toward the benchlike rocks. “Or are you ready to head back?”
She nibbled her bottom lip, making him want to beg her to let him do it for her instead. The full flesh glistened, damp, in the tiny white lights twinkling around the tent. Since grabbing her would pretty much guarantee an end to the evening, he forced himself to be patient while she decided.
“We can sit for a few minutes,” she finally said.
Waiting for her to settle herself on the rock, watching her carefully arrange her shoes next to her, he wondered what she’d been thinking. What had been the deciding factor between staying or going?
“So you love your job,” he said, leaning his hip against the rock so he was half facing her, half facing the water. “What else are you passionate about?”
Her fingers toyed with the tall grasses growing between the stone, the blades black in the moonlight. It was hard to tell since he couldn’t see her eyes, but she suddenly seemed sad. As if he’d rapped his knuckles on a healing bruise. Since he felt like one giant bruise himself, he could sympathize.
Before he could change the subject, she glanced up, her lashes a feathery frame to the intense look in her eyes.
“You know, I don’t think I’ve been passionate about anything except work for a long time. I learned pretty young that my passionate exuberance for certain things in life was a problem. So I pulled it in. Focused it. First on school, then on my career.”
Her words were matter-of-fact. But so sad, he felt like a self-pitying fool for settling into a pit of grief the way he had. For hiding instead of facing life the way Alexia did.
He should ask about her past. Find out what had hurt her, how she’d overcome it. Give her the comfort of getting it off her chest.
But the idea of that made his gut ache like no amount of enemy fire or threat of torture could. Feelings, emotions, opening up. They all seemed passive. He was a man of action. So he went with comfort-option number two. His body gave a silent woohoo.
He lifted her hand, amazed at its softness. Long, slender fingers trembled once. He watched as she took a quick breath, stilled her hand and lifted her chin. In a rare move, his body reacted without his say-so, hardening.
“All work can’t be good, even when it’s work you enjoy,” he said. “You should share that passion. Spread it around to other things. You know, maybe a hobby.”
“Hobbies are good,”
