Time passed and I stared at the silent intercom. God knows how long I stood there leaning against the wall.

My chest seemed eerily clogged as I went over the details of the call. At first it was to ensure I had not in any way stepped out of line, but as I ran over his responses again and again, my cognizance of the words began to fade and I recognized only the intense and relentless desire to be close to him. To hold him. Touch him. Comfort him.

I looked out towards his window. It was lighted, but the curtains were drawn shut. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the man in the photo with half his face gouged out, but I couldn’t.

What had given him the impression Zackary was afraid of him?

Especially when Zackary did not behave as if he was. He wouldn’t have drawn him, and definitely not with them holding hands. I frowned when I remembered that Zackary did mention his father had made him cry. Were his scars really that awful? Not knowing felt like it would suffocate me. I nearly jumped out of my skin when the knock came on the door.

Shit.

I ran to open the door for Barnaby. He was dressed in the way he always was. Not a hair out of place.

“Just a minute, please,” I said and ran back in.

He did not come in, but waited politely outside while I found my spare USB stick and quickly copied the photos onto it.

“There you go,” I said, placing it on the little silver plate he held out. It was like a scene from a different century and it made me smile.

“Goodnight, Miss. Conrad,” he said with a nod. Then he was gone, his footsteps steady and silent, until he was swallowed by the shadows in the corridor.

I closed the door and got ready for bed. Crawling into bed I sought sleep, but it wouldn’t come.

“Insomnia …

He said it plagued him. All I usually needed was ten minutes of idleness and my eyelids would become as heavy as wet blankets. But tonight, restless, swirling thoughts kept me wide awake. I punched the pillow and lay on my stomach. Nope. I turned back and stared at the ceiling. I wondered if he was in bed. I turned on my side and waited for sleep in that position. That didn’t work either. I got out of bed and padded over to the window.

His light was still burning.

I sighed and went back to bed. Switching on the bedside lamp I tried to read, but I was too distracted to concentrate. I made my way back to the window. Now I was angry with myself. This was completely stupid and I was behaving like a complete idiot. If my mother knew what I was doing she would be disgusted. God, my father would be turning in his grave if he could see me now.

“He’s a married man. Stop lusting after him,” I said aloud.

He’s married only in name, a voice in my head corrected.

“Well, he’s still married.”

He’s unhappy. Horribly unhappy. She doesn’t deserve him.

I slumped on the bed. The craving to go to him was so strong it shocked me. I had never been one to be addicted to anything. I could take or leave chocolate. I tried smoking once and hated it. I went to a club and was given an ecstasy tablet and while I really enjoyed the feeling of being high I never again wanted to have it after I found out that it kills brain cells. But this man was like a drug I had no resistance against. I didn’t know why he had such a strong pull over me. It was like he was a giant magnet pulling me to him. I buried my face in my hands.

What the hell have I got myself into?