to talk to himself, he pointed out. Yes, it would appear he'd lost his grip on sanity. He couldn't help wondering exactly when he'd lost his mind, and how.
Perhaps insanity was contagious, he pondered. Perhaps he'd caught it from one of his clients. Not that Greg had any clients he'd have diagnosed as insane. He dealt mostly with phobias in his practice, though he treated a few patients with other, more long-term, difficulties. He supposed he could have had the seed all along, and tonight it had simply sprouted into full-blown madness. That was a thought. Perhaps insanity ran in the family. He should check with his mother on that, find out whether they had a madman or two in the family history.
It wasn't just the climbing into the trunk that bothered Greg, that had only been the first of his mad actions tonight, and one he'd regretted as soon as the trunk lock had clicked into place. He'd lain in the dark, cramped space, calling himself all kinds of a fool for at least half an hour as the car had driven to this house. Then the car had stopped, the trunk had opened and what had he done? Had he leapt out, apologized for his unnatural behavior, and gone home? No. He'd stood and waited as the pretty brunette from the elevator had gotten out of the car to join him, then had followed her—docile as you please—into this huge house and up to this room.
Greg had been as cheerful and trusting as a five-year-old as he'd—without even being asked—climbed onto the bed and splayed himself for her to tie down. Greg had even returned her smile when she'd patted his cheek and announced, "My daughter is going to love you. You are my best birthday gift ever."
After she'd left the room, he'd lain there, his mind blank for several moments before the situation he'd got himself into had begun to sink in. Greg had spent the time since then in bewildered contemplation of what had happened. His own behavior—never mind the woman's—didn't make any sense. It was as if he'd temporarily lost his mind. Or control of it. Unable to solve the quandary, he'd turned his thoughts to more immediate concerns, such as what was going to happen now that he was here?
"My daughter is going to love you. You are my best birthday gift ever." These words—along with the fact that Greg was presently spread-eagled on a bed—had first made him fear he was some sort of sexual gift. A sex slave, perhaps. That possibility had immediately had him imagining being ravished by some huge, homely creature with a bad complexion and facial hair. For surely only someone terribly unattractive would need a man kidnapped and tied to her bed to get sex in today's sexually free climate?
Just as Gregory had started to hyperventilate at the imagined horror, he'd given himself a mental slap. The woman—the mother—couldn't be more than twenty-five or thirty years old at most. Surely no daughter of hers would be old enough to want a sex slave? Or even to know what to do with one. Besides, why would anyone want him for a sex slave anyway, he'd asked himself.
Greg had a healthy self-esteem, and knew he was attractive, but he wasn't a rock star or GQ-model gorgeous. He was a psychologist who dressed in conservative suits, had a conservative haircut, and lived a conservative life based around work, his family, and little else. Well, his work, his family, and attempting to escape all the blind dates his sisters, aunts, and mother would have set him up on, he corrected himself wryly.
Greg's thoughts were disturbed when the bedroom door opened again. Stiffening, he jerked his head up to peer toward the door and saw that it was the woman from a moment ago. He eyed her with wary interest. Except for her long blond hair, she looked very like the brunette who had brought him here. She was beautiful, with full lips, an oval face, a straight nose, and the same silver-blue eyes as her brunette counterpart. Obviously, they bought their contacts at the same place.
No, Greg decided. The eyes weren't exactly the same. They were the same color and shape, but the brunette's eyes had held a sadness and wisdom that had belied the youth of her skin and features. This woman was lacking that. The blonde's eyes were clear, untouched by regret or true heartache. It made her seem younger.
The