Must Love Lycans

by Michele Bardsley

I was already off emotional kilter when Robert Mallard became my patient. Somehow, he’d been able to creep under my skin, get inside my head, and—no. I repeated my mental mantra: Let go. Move on. Find peace.

  So much easier said than done.

  I thought about the mysterious and very naked Damian. I picked up the phone and hit the speed dial for Sven’s cell. He had an office, but he was never in it. He was a prowler, someone constantly on the move trying to anticipate problems. He was very good at his job, but not much of a talker.

  “Dubowski.”

  “Hi, Sven,” I chirped. I was well aware that my perkiness annoyed him. What can I say? I had yet to discard all my childish impulses. “It’s Dr. Morningstone. Will you escort our newest patient to his suite?”

  He was silent for so long, I said, “Um, Sven?”

  “Too dangerous.”

  “Even for you?” I asked. “That’s surprising. You’re not afraid of him, are you?”

  “Save your psych crap for the nutjobs,” he said sourly.

  “Aw, Sven, you say the sweetest things. You were voted Mr. Congeniality in high school, weren’t you? Go on, admit it. Your sunny disposition gave you away, Pollyanna.”

  Sven made a snorting noise that almost sounded like a laugh, but I couldn’t be sure. I’d never seen the man smile, much less chuckle. “Fine,” he groused. “I’ll get your werewolf settled in.”

  A second later, I heard the dial tone.

  “You’re a peach,” I muttered. Then I hung up the receiver. Huh. Why had he called Damian a werewolf?

  “Dr. Morningstone.”

  Startled by the deep male voice, I gasped and shoved back from the desk. When I saw the imposing figure of Mr. Dante standing in the doorway, I took a shuddering breath. I remembered quite clearly shutting my door; I hadn’t even noticed that he’d opened it. How long had he been standing there observing me?

  He was a big man—a linebacker in Armani. He had wavy black hair, stormy gray eyes, and chiseled features. I never got vibes off him. He was either completely emotionless, which was impossible, or exercised iron control over his emotional state. I believed he was very capable of encapsulating pesky feelings.

  His lips flickered at the corners, and I swore he’d tried to smile.

  Realizing that I’d been sitting on the edge of my chair gaping up at him, I rose to my feet. “Mr. Dante. Please, come in.”

  He was already inside, but he didn’t call me on the obvious flub. Instead, he strode to one of the wingbacks that faced my desk and sat down. I retook my seat and scooted closer to my desk. Mr. Danvers and Damian’s files were beneath my fingertips.

  “Are you settling in well, Kelsey?”

  I nodded. The informality suggested an intimacy in our relationship that made me uneasy. Was he attempting to create a more congenial relationship? Or trying to throw me off-guard so he could whammy me?

  Overanalyze much, Kel? Truthfully, I looked for motives in even the most mundane gestures long before I got my psychotherapy license. My mother taught me well the hubris of the well-intentioned.

  “We seem to be transitioning from our perceived roles,” I said pleasantly. “Shall I call you Jarred?”

  “I would like that very much.”

  His tone was warm, friendly. I wasn’t sure what to make of his change in demeanor. Oh, don’t get me wrong. He’d always been polite. He’d never said or done anything indecorous. But it seemed that he was, indeed, trying to create a new level of intimacy between us.

  “What are your thoughts on our new patient?” he asked.

  “I might be able to offer a better assessment if I knew more about his circumstances. All I know is that you somehow rescued him from a private lab and he has amnesia. Who would experiment on him? And why?”

  “I’m aware that it’ll be more difficult to treat him without knowing his full story.” His gaze flicked over me. “I’m disinclined to share certain details with you at this time, but I can tell you that he suffers from lycanthropy.”

  I took a moment to absorb what he was saying. Either he didn’t trust me enough to offer complete disclosure, or the situation involved issues (legalities, perhaps) that he didn’t want to confirm. After all, no one had discussed the logistics of removing Damian from his previous incarceration. I had no doubts he’d been a prisoner—his body and his manner bore the marks of a caged and tormented creature.

  And then there was the diagnosis of clinical lycanthropy.

  “It’s a rare psychiatric condition,” I said. “That kind of delusional behavior is often linked to schizophrenia or bipolar disorders.”

  I hadn’t gotten the kind of vibes from Damian that I’d previously associated with other schizophrenics. It seemed more likely he was bipolar, but even that consideration didn’t seem to fit. How could one diagnose an amnesiac?

  “You told me that he lost his memory,” I said. “I take it the clinical lycanthropy diagnosis is from his previous records?”

  “He doesn’t have records, Kelsey. But trust me when I say the information is quite accurate.”

  Hmm. I’d have to do some research on lycanthropy and formulate a suitable therapeutic plan. If Damian was schizophrenic, I could at least get him on meds, which would help with his delusions.

  “You asked Sven to assign him a suite.”

  “A gesture of trust,” I said, feeling rattled. I never realized how much I relied on my empathic abilities until I conversed with Mr. Dante. He spoke in a pleasant tone with a razor edge. He could be halfway into ripping me a new one before I’d even realize it.

  “Do you believe his amnesia is permanent?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “After I meet with Dr. Ruthers to discuss Damian’s physical injuries, I’ll have a better idea. Of course, I’ll need to speak with Damian. My gut instinct is that the amnesia is temporary.”

  “Oh?”

  “He was cursing in German,” I said.

  “Born and raised in Germany, I believe,” said Jarred. “But he’s lived quite a long time in America.”

  “I thought you said he didn’t have any records.”

  “Personal knowledge,” said Jarred. “And that’s all I can say.”

  Translation: I know a lot more, but I’m not telling you. His tone clearly indicated he would answer no more inquiries. Frustration zinged through me. I opened Damian’s file and studied the mostly blank page. I couldn’t really derive much from the intake form, but it’s all I had.

  “What is the importance of Germanic blasphemes?” asked Jarred.

  “It may be an indicator that his memories are already returning.”

  “I see.”

  I couldn’t tell if Jarred was pleased or dismayed by the idea Damian might regain his memory. An unpleasant feeling curled in my gut. Damian was different from the other patients. His case was somehow personal for Jarred. In what way, I couldn’t begin to guess.

  “Are you free this evening?”

  I stared at him. I was free every evening. I never left the compound because there was no point. I had no friends, my family had disowned me, and going out into public venues, with all those people and their emotions, exhausted me. Besides, it had been snowing and winter driving in Oklahoma was no fun.

  “Kelsey?”

  “I’m sorry.” I blushed, and looked down at the desk. My gaze skittered over Damian’s paperwork. “Yes. I’m free.”

  “Excellent. Please join me in my private suite for dinner.”

  I blinked up at him. I usually took meals with the patients, not only because I craved the company, but it also gave me an opportunity to observe them. Dinner with the boss would be . . . nerve-racking. As far as I knew, other than Sven, no one had ever seen Jarred’s living quarters.

  “The purpose of this dinner is . . . what, exactly?”

  “We’ll talk about your plans for the clinic, and your innovative approaches to therapy,” he said. His expression was bland, as usual, but there was something dangerous lurking in his eyes. Did he r
eally want to talk about the clinic? Or did he have something more carnal in mind?

  My stomach squeezed as trepidation spun coldly through me.

  That almost smile fluttered on his lips again, and then he stood up. “I’ll see you tonight, Kelsey.” He paused, tilting his head as he studied me. “Wear something nice.”

  After a thoroughly unsatisfying session with Mr. Danvers, I stayed in my office to write up my notes about the session. Mr. Danvers only wanted to discuss the tensile strength of feathers, and no amount of persuasion or shift in verbal tactics had swayed him to talk about another subject. I’d been tempted to use my abilities to dig through the man’s emotional detritus, but I’d forgo that route until we had a better-established relationship. I had decided not to completely stop using my gifts to help others, but I’d learned my lesson. I was very careful, and I never absorbed their emotions. Pain was a gateway—a portal to inner knowledge and true change. Humans were too stubborn to change except out of necessity.

  I put down my pen and turned to stare at the blinking cursor on my computer monitor. I really should input the notes for the session with Mr. Danvers, as well as my initial thoughts about Damian’s condition and possible treatments.

  Instead, I filed the folders in my desk, locked the drawer, and shut down my computer. It was close to end of office hours anyway. It wouldn’t hurt to peek in on the new patient and see how he was settling in. I was a tad worried that I had him released too soon, but those were more Sven’s doubts than mine. Still, I couldn’t help but think that perhaps my strong physical reaction to Damian was coloring my perceptions.

  I headed upstairs to the west wing where the patient suites were located. The other five residents were participating in a yoga class held in the ballroom, and first-day intakes were encouraged to stay in their quarters. Adjusting to new circumstances often worked best in stages. At least according to the philosophy of Jarred Dante.

  Obviously, I’d been unable to get Damian out of my thoughts. My libido wouldn’t shut up about the man’s body, and that was irksome. I needed perspective if I had any intention of helping Damian, especially since it appeared he suffered from a serious delusion.

  I’d dealt with schizophrenic patients before, and I couldn’t reconcile Damian to that diagnosis. Then again, he had amnesia, which had been confirmed by Dr. Ruthers, so who knew what manifestations would occur as his brain tried to recover memories and behaviors.

  Sven had called me to let me know that Damian had been assigned Room Ten. I took a moment of pure vanity to smooth my skirt and fluff my hair. I inhaled deeply, then let out a long, slow breath.

  I knocked on the door.

  Mari answered.

  What the—

  The moment she saw me, her eyes went wide, and her gaze slid guiltily over her shoulder before she gave me a big smile. “Doc!” she trilled.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  She blinked at my sharp tone. Then she sighed. “He’s like looking at a van Gogh,” she said. “I couldn’t resist another peek.”

  I gaped at her. “You’re admiring him? He’s not a painting! He’s a man.” A virile, gorgeous, crazy man. I grabbed hold of my anger, and that glinting sliver of odd jealousy, and tucked them away. “I need to do my initial assessment,” I said, unable to thaw my frosty tone. “Please excuse us.”

  Her face went red with mortification, but honestly, I expected better from Mari. I couldn’t feel bad that she was embarrassed about letting her own libido get in the way of her job. At least I’d kept my inappropriate drooling to myself.

  “He’s all yours,” she said. Then she scuttled past me, her gaze on the floor.

  I couldn’t reconcile her behavior with the competent, no-nonsense woman I’d come to know over the past three weeks. Still, I could, on some level, understand her obsession. Damian was unusual in many respects, and he wore machismo like some men wore cologne. His sexiness was imbued, not cultivated.

  I walked in and shut the door behind me.

  The apartment was much smaller, though no less luxurious than my own. The open kitchen overlooked the living room with its big leather couch facing a floor-to-ceiling entertainment system, which included all manner of high-tech gizmos attached to the flat-screen TV.

  Damian stood at the large picture window—secured, of course—his hands clasped behind his back, gazing out onto the sprawling front lawn of the estate. Thanks to yesterday’s snowstorm, it was a blanket of white dotted with clusters of scrabbly trees.

  He wore one of the gray suits given to all the inmates—er, I mean, patients—though they seemed a tad too small, especially given how much they clung to his impressive musculature. His long hair fell like inky shadows, the strands damp but obviously combed. I stood near the couch, hesitating.

  “Kelsey.”

  He hadn’t bothered to turn around and see who had entered the room. He must’ve heard me talking to Mari, and I flinched. I certainly didn’t need to make patients aware of any issues between the staff. Not that my annoyance with Mari’s ill-advised action truly merited a real issue.

  “Hello, Damian.”

  He turned, his pensive gaze meeting mine. “What am I doing here?”

  “I’m afraid I know very little about how you came to be at the Dante clinic. I can assure you, however, that you’re safe. And I will do everything within my power to help you.”

  One dark brow arched. “Help me what?”

  The silky tone made my womb clench. I pasted on a smile, and gestured toward the couch. “Let’s sit down and talk.”

  He studied me in a ruthless sort of way, as though trying to determine if I were friend or foe. Then he lifted his shoulder in an elegant shrug and strode across the room to sit on the couch.

  I usually sought to create a professional distance between myself and my patients, but since there were no other chairs, I sat opposite him on the couch.

  “What’s the last thing you remember?” I asked.

  “Waking up in that padded room.” His gaze flicked to mine. “And then you.” His nostrils flared. “You smelled . . . good.”

  “You’re saying you could smell me through that metal door?” I asked. It was three inches thick, for Pete’s sake.

  “Yes.”

  Okay. Chalk one up for werewolf delusion.

  “What was this scent? My lotion? My perfume?”

  He frowned. “Those are not the scents that attracted me.”

  My pulse gave a little leap. Crap. Stop it, I told my body crankily. He’s not for you. “What, then?”

  “It’s difficult to explain.”

  “Perhaps you could try, Damian.” I smiled at him, and whoa, big mistake.

  Wicked intent blazed in those jade orbs. He slid across the couch until we were mere inches apart. He took my hand and lifted it so that my wrist faced up. “Have you ever been lost?”

  “Yes,” I said. Both figuratively and literally. Sometimes I still felt lost. No, more like I wasn’t wearing the right skin. That my true identity was somewhere else, and I needed to find it. My heart started thudding erratically, but I didn’t want to disturb his thought processes by yanking my hand away. (Also, it felt nice to have my hand held. It had been a really long time since I’d felt the touch of another, and certainly not one so tender.) I decided to let the moment unfold, no matter how unwise.

  “And when you were lost, did you come across something that reminded you of home? Something that comforted you so much that you could fight off the panic, the fear?”

  I could answer yes to those questions, too. Instead, I asked, “Are you afraid, Damian?”

  His brows dipped down and his eyes turned icy. “No.” He leaned down and sniffed my wrist. Then, much to my shock, his tongue flicked against my pulse. “That’s how you smell to me, Kelsey,” he said in an aching voice. “Like I have come home.”

  Chapter 2

  Damian’s gaze was so haunted that I couldn’t look away. I wasn’t sure why he’d incorporated me
into his delusion—or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe I was a reminder of someone he’d known. Sense memories could be very powerful. Perhaps I wore the same perfume as his wife (gah!) or his mother, and he was associating me with someone important to him. This strange attraction of his might only be his injured brain trying to reconcile past with present.

  I pulled my wrist out of his gentle grip and folded my hands on my lap. I didn’t break eye contact. “Do you remember anything—even if it seems random or strange?”

  “The moon,” he said. “I remember seeing the moon.”

  The moon would be important for someone who believed himself to be a werewolf. I couldn’t be sure if this particular image was relevant to his delusion or to an actual memory. “Before you were taken?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Okay. Let’s focus on the . . . er, my scent. What image comes to mind?”

  “The moon,” he said again. “A forest. A castle. Home.”

  “You live in a castle?”

  He offered a half smile. “How would I know?”

  I blushed, feeling out of my element. He seemed . . . I don’t know. Wise and strong and experienced. He was all too aware of my discomfort. He didn’t look away, or move back even an inch. Maybe it was his way of taking control. Or maybe he wasn’t aware of his own actions. Being the stronger, the leader, was his nature. His gaze was heavy-lidded, his eyes shiny jade. Whoops. Never mind. He knew exactly how to wield his sexuality. He hadn’t forgotten how to do that. Nope.

  I took in a shuddering breath. He leaned closer. My gaze skittered along his mouth and I heard a faint sound issue from him . . . something like a growl. My stomach jumped, and my pulse raced. Enough! I needed to switch tactics.

  “You don’t remember your captors, or what they did to you, Damian?”

  He eased back just a little. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “No.”

  “And you don’t remember being rescued, either?”

  His gaze shuttered. “No.”

  Hoo-kay, then. He didn’t like the idea of being rescued. I’d already come to the conclusion he didn’t like confinement, but then again, who did?