She chose one of the two overstuffed chairs and sat down. "I don't know why I'm here today," she stammered. "There are so many things I should be doing. I'm really sorry to be bothering you. I know this isn't our regular time." She stopped to take a deep breath. "But I was so scared!"

"Why don't we start with that dream you were telling me about over the phone?" he murmured, pulling his chair up close to hers and reaching for her hand.

She thought about the locked door, the silent phone, and felt uncomfortable. Was this a normal part of the counseling process? Her hand burned where his covered it.

She had not told anyone she was coming here. Something about the counseling process made her feel secretive, shamed. It had taken all her strength to admit her life was out of control, but she didn't want anyone else to know. You need to trust, a friend told her. You've got to let someone in so they can help you. You can't do this alone.

And so she had come to see this person at the friend's recommendation. How long ago? Days? Weeks? Her first impression of him had been positive. He seemed so concerned, so solicitous. But underlying this was a second impression, one she could not understand. Danger.

She chose to go with the first impression. After all, a man of his prominence wouldn't be counseling if he didn't care about people. She told herself she needed to stop being so suspicious.

And she liked his style. She liked his voice, the way it made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. She liked the way he seemed to anticipate her every need.

"I dreamed you were angry with me," she began.

"And why would I be angry with you?"

"I don't know. But I remember feeling that I had done something terribly wrong, something you didn't like, and you were punishing me."

"Go on," he whispered, stroking her hand.

"That's all," she said quickly. "I guess I felt . . . I mean, I don't know why you'd want to . . ." She found herself unable to finish the sentence. She couldn't bring herself to say that his approval was important. Not just important. It was everything.

As she tried to collect her thoughts, telling herself she mustn't be so vulnerable, so open, she suddenly became aware of his touch. She pulled her hand back.

"Are you afraid right now?" he asked in a low, soothing voice.

"I don't like people to touch me," she answered. Had she said that too harshly?

"Why is that?" he wanted to know. He leaned in a little closer. Now their knees were touching.

Whoa! Her mind raced. Hadn't she just told him she didn't like being touched? Was this some kind of a test? Or was she just overreacting? Was he being insensitive to her feelings? But that wasn't like him.

She resisted the urge to bolt. Her breathing became shallow. What if the door was locked from the inside? She'd miss the chance to make a clean break and suffer the embarrassment of having to explain herself. The humiliation would be unbearable.

"I guess because most of the time I don't know what I'm feeling," she said to break the silence. "Something happens, and it's days before I realize how I feel about it. Touching has to do with feelings, and feelings are dangerous."

"Tell me more about that," he said, bringing his face close to hers. Was she imagining it, or did the pressure on her knees increase slightly?

"I don't know," she said, her voice rising slightly. That was a stupid thing to say! "I just think feeling things is dangerous business."

Had she been too abrupt? Would he be angry now? Had she said too much, given too much away? She drew her knees up protectively and wrapped her arms around them.

"Are you afraid of people touching you?" he asked.

He waited patiently through her silence. The room was so still. She could hear the ticking of a clock outside somewhere. Funny that she could hear it through a closed door. She wanted to swallow, but didn't dare. Her nose itched, but she feared any sound or movement would call attention to herself. She looked down because she could feel his eyes exploring her.

This silence was awful! Her head roared, but she couldn't move. Her clasped hands became rigid, her knees stiff. She shut her eyes tightly, defensively, and felt she'd never be able to open them again. She wanted to run. She wanted to stay. She didn't want to have to make a choice.

His voice finally broke the awful silence. "Tell me about the time you were a little girl. Tell me about the handsome foreigner who came to visit your family. Did he do something to you?"

His voice was so far away. Was she in danger? Had she betrayed any secrets? She tried to frame words, to say them, but her thoughts were too jumbled and her mouth wouldn't open.

"Did he touch you anywhere?" the voice continued.

If I keep my eyes closed, he won't be able to reach me, she thought. She curled up inside herself to ward off any uncomfortable sensations.

"Did he touch you here?" he asked. "And here?" His hands had managed to reach bare skin. They were searching, searching. For what? For secret places? Did she have the power to make him stop?

A horrible, dangerous thought flashed across her mind: did she want him to continue? No, that couldn't be. Something was going very wrong. She tried to bring herself back into the room, to open her eyes, but the hypnotic tone of his voice called her to faraway places where she could toss accountability aside. No one could bother her here, because no one knew where she was. His receptionist was gone, and the hallway outside his office had been empty. The door was locked and the phone was disconnected.

He went on talking. She could not make out the words, but it no longer mattered. His arms were around her now. He had promised that if she trusted him she would always be safe.

She felt herself sliding toward an unknown destination. They were alone. They were undisturbed, and they were going to a place where no one would be able to find them. Just the two of them. To a secret place. A very secret place.

THE END