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“Oh, no!” She screeches. “Piggie fell. She fell on her head. Someone help her.”
“I’ma doctor,” Dr. Morgan says in a gentle tone. “I can help.”
I’m drop to a knee to pick up the toy. I brush it off before I offer it to Saylor.
“That’s not a pig,” Dr. Morgan says gazing down at me. “It looks like a lamb.”
Lamb.
A memory from my past washes over me like a tidal wave, sending my heart rate racing by what feels like a hundred million beats a minute.
I jump to my feet, stepping to the left clumsily before I find my footing.
“Els, are you okay?” Penny’s hand circles my elbow as she steps in place beside me. “It looked like you almost fell.”
I did. I fell into the memory of the best night of my life.
I keep my gaze on Penny’s face. “I have someplace I need to be.”
That’s anywhere but this place because my mind is playing tricks on me. Dr. Morgan uttered the same word that my masked lover called me when he brought me to orgasm with his skilled hand in a club I had no business being in.
Why did Dr. Morgan sound just like that man when he said lamb?
“I think I’ll stay with Saylor and Mrs. Robinson,” Penny says. “Unless you want me to get you home.”
“I’m fine,” I reassure her before I look at Saylor. “I’m going to go, okay?”
“Please make Piggie a sweater just like Pen’s if you can,” she whispers.
I nod. “I’ll give it to Penny to give to you.”
“Thank you.” A soft smile accompanies the words. “Can I have a hug, Els?”
I take a step forward to wrap my arms around her, acutely aware of how close I am to Dr. Morgan. I’m so close I can smell his cologne.
That cologne. That word. This man.
It’s him.
I let Saylor go with one last stroke of my hand over her forehead before I hug Pen and turn around in search of the nearest exit.
CHAPTER SIX
Gaines
“That’s it,my sweet little lamb. Just like that.”
I’ve replayed those words over and over in my mind since that night just over two years ago. I saw the way the woman’s eyes had brightened when I first called her my lamb. That was right after I approached her at the bar in the club.
She was sipping on a cosmopolitan. Her face partially obscured by a black mask emblazoned with red and green crystals.
I’d opted for a plain silver mask to hide my identity.
She offered a name when I took the seat next to her.
“I’m Loretta Lamb,” she claimed in a breathy tone edged with the nervous delight that every person who entered that club felt.
We all knew what we were there for.
