“Yes, indeed I am.” He didn’t lift his gaze to Alun’s face, and who could blame him? “Don’t worry. Tracy filled me in—”
“Not Sandra?”
David shook his hair out of his eyes. “Sandra’s out with that bug that’s going around, I’m afraid, but you know she trusts Tracy to fill in for her or she wouldn’t employ her. Sandra insists on the best.”
She did, and she’d hear about this outrageous infraction, flu or no flu. Supe business, supe temps. That was the foundation—the absolute guarantee—of her company. She was a panther shifter, damn it, with the responsibility to adequately brief her staff.
“You’ve no business in here. My office is off-limits.” Especially to humans, however beautiful they might be.
“The lights above your desk. They . . .” David cast a brief glance at him from under unfairly long eyelashes and swallowed, his Adam’s apple sliding beneath the honey-smooth skin above his collar. “They were failing. I wanted to change them before they burned out so—”
“Did you not consider that I keep them dim on purpose?” Alun thrust his head forward into the merciless light. Flinching, David stumbled back, the unmistakable tang of fear tainting his seductive clean-man scent. Good. He should be afraid. He should be afraid, and he should be gone. “You think anyone wants to look at this face too closely while they’re spilling the secrets of their soul?”
David pressed his lips together, no doubt to hide their trembling. Alun should have felt gratified that he’d succeeded in intimidating the man. A necessary evil, for his own sake as well as for the safety of the supe communities. But a whisper of regret, the shadow of sorrow for something he could never have again, raised a lump in his throat and tightened his chest.
Yes, the human must leave, no matter how much Alun’s awakening libido regretted the necessity.
Instead of bolting out the door, however, David took a deep breath, a mulish cast to his pointed chin, and stared Alun straight in the eye. “If you prefer to remain in the dark, that’s your choice and privilege. After all, you’re the doctor.”
With his pulse thumping like a techno dance beat, David clamped his teeth together to keep his chin from wobbling. This was so not the way he’d envisioned meeting the owner of The Voice.
Dr. Kendrick picked up the handset of the desk phone and punched a button so hard it was a miracle the unit didn’t shatter. “Don’t get comfortable. I’m getting a replacement.”
While the doctor growled into his phone, David reached instinctively for his worry stone. Damn it. He’d left it in the pocket of the blazer currently draped over the back of his chair in the lobby. Out of reach, it did him precisely zero good in his face-off with his new boss.
And, judging by David’s slam-dancing nerves, Dr. Kendrick was winning that particular contest on points alone.
That face. What kind of birth defect or unfortunate medical syndrome caused skull disfigurement that severe? He looked like the victim of a failed experiment on the island of Dr. Moreau who’d tried to get the results fixed at a cut-rate back-alley plastic surgeon.
David’s compassion circuits would have been firing on all channels if it weren’t for the attitude.
Dr. Kendrick slammed his phone into its cradle. “Voice mail. Bloody hells.” He glared at David from under a brow ridge as craggy as the Nehalem jetty. “This situation is completely unacceptable.”
Maintain, Evans. You can do it—just imagine you’re Luke Skywalker, and he’s . . . he’s . . . David’s gaze drifted up and up and up. He’s Darth Really Freaking Huge. But if David bombed at this assignment before he’d been on the job for half an hour, Sandra would never let him near a medical office again.
Not that she’d let him near this one, but David never sweated the details.
“With all due respect, Doctor, you’ve known me for two minutes. How do you know it’s unacceptable?”
“In that time, you’ve violated at least three office policies. You.” He drew his shoulders back, making him even more ginormous than before. “Opened. The. Blinds.”
Seriously? The blinds? This was the unforgivable sin? “I could barely see to cross the room. Safety first, you know. I would have closed them before—”
Dr. Kendrick marched around the desk and invaded David’s personal comfort bubble. “You entered my office without permission.”
David loved big men, but he didn’t like bullies, and the good doctor’s body language was all me-Tarzan-you-twink. He took a baby step forward, tipping his head back so he could focus on Dr. Kendrick’s face and not his necktie. “You weren’t here. I knocked. According to the procedures manual, it’s the office manager’s job to make sure your office is ready for the day.”
“You changed my light bulbs. Without asking.” Dr. Kendrick took the last step, so they were practically toe-to-toe. As his nostrils flared, chest rising on a long inhale, something flickered across his misshapen features and in the depths of his shadowed hazel eyes.
With the nursing training David had already completed, and with his experience caring for his aunt, he had no trouble recognizing that something.
Pain.
Whether Dr. Kendrick wanted to admit it or not, and no matter how he camouflaged it with anger, he was in pain.
Maybe not physical pain, but if emotional pain was great enough, the brain processed it exactly the same. If David knew anything, he knew how to deal with pain, and it didn’t start with giving up or—unfortunately, drat it—getting confrontational. But that didn’t mean the man could get away with being a jackass, no matter how good it had felt cuddled up against his acres of chest.
David dialed his inner Jedi down a few notches.
“I’m sorry about that.” He backed up and reshelved the last of the scattered books. “I didn’t realize the lower light was intentional. Shall I put the original bulbs back?”
“No,” Dr. Kendrick barked. “Just go.”
“Very well. I’ll be at my desk. Buzz if you need anything.”
He closed the door of Dr. Kendrick’s office and was immediately plunged into gloom, the lobby blinds once again shut tight against the glorious afternoon sun. This was Oregon, for goodness sake. Wasn’t it gloomy enough most of the year to suit the man?
David flicked on the track lighting in the patient seating area. Ooorg. Whoever had decorated this office must have fond memories of fog banks and rainstorms because gray was a definite theme.
The L-shaped speckled gray Formica reception desk—his desk, damn it—and matching credenza guarded the doctor’s inner office door. Gray carpet extended down the hallway. Gray faux-suede chairs lined the gray walls. Gray granite end tables sat in each corner with accompanying gray ginger jar lamps.
Good grief. Whatever the patients’ diagnoses were when they arrived, they’d add clinical depression by the time they left. Luckily, David had come prepared with anti-gray accoutrements of all sorts. Since the procedures manual, holy of holies, said nothing whatsoever about the display of personal items, he intended to spread the love—and the color.
His practical pagan aunts—the real one and the six honorary ones—had gifted him with enough gorgeous handcrafted cheer on each solstice and equinox to transform a dozen dreary offices. He hummed the theme from Raiders of the Lost Ark as he unpacked his treasures. Blown-glass candy dish in flaming orange-red? Check. He filled it with Aunt Peggy’s pastilles and stationed it on the corner of the desk.
Hand-woven coasters in all the colors of the rainbow? Check. After stacking them on the coffee service table, he snagged his favorite green one for himself, and crowned it with his cobalt-blue ceramic mug.
Inspirational action figures? Check, check, check, and check. Arranged in heroic lockstep under the flat-screen computer monitor—Dr. Who (the eleventh incarnation, because bow ties truly were cool), Chewbacca, Legolas, and Lt. Commander Data—they’d have his back every time, no matter what poo Dr. Curmudgeon decided to fling at him.
Although he hunted for ten minutes, h
e couldn’t locate a sound system, but no worries. Once he got the word on acceptable lobby music, he could cue up mental-health-appropriate tunes on his phone so the place didn’t feel quite so much like the inside of a sensory-deprivation chamber.
He crawled under his desk, iPhone dock cord in hand, but while he was wrestling the cover off the outlet, the clinic door whooshed open.
Shoot, he hadn’t made the coffee yet, and his blazer was still hanging over the back of his chair. He’d planned to be sitting behind the desk when patients arrived, welcoming and professional and perfectly turned out. He scooted out, misjudged his position, and whacked his head on the edge of the desk.
“Ow. Son of a—” Oops. No swearing in front of patients. He peeked over the desktop and met the amused gaze of a guy who had obviously mistaken the clinic for the location of a photo shoot for Hot Men and Their Harleys. Leather bomber jacket (in June?), blinding white T-shirt (tight!), black leather pants (tighter!), windblown dark hair, and blue eyes that put David’s coffee mug to shame.
“All right there?” His voice had the same swoon-worthy British flavor as Dr. Kendrick’s.
“Absolutely. Nothing dented but my pride.” David stood up without any further close encounters with the furniture, and shrugged into his jacket, tugging the sleeves straight and smoothing his lapels. “How can I help you?”
“Depends on what you’re offering.” Dimples quivered in the man’s stubbled cheeks, a matched set to go with the chin cleft on his square jaw and his bad-boy attitude.
David didn’t roll his eyes, but it was a close call. He sooo knew this type. The Handsomeness God’s gift to horny club boys everywhere. No, thanks. That kind of arrogance didn’t get invited to play in David’s sandbox. “Depends on whether you have an appointment.”
“I don’t, but I rate special treatment. Mal Kendrick.” He jerked a thumb at the closed office door. “Brother.”
Holy cats. If poor Dr. Kendrick had had to grow up comparing himself with this pinnacle of male hotitude, no wonder he was Dr. Grumpypants. “In that case, I can offer a cup of coffee and the announcement of your arrival.”
Mal chuckled and raised one shoulder in a negligent shrug, conceding with more graciousness than David expected. “Half-and-half would be grand. No sugar.”
David delivered his best customer-service smile. “Coming up.” He lifted the phone handset and buzzed Dr. Kendrick.
“Aren’t you gone yet?”
“Your brother is here, Doctor.”
“Wonderful.” His growl implied the exact opposite.
“Shall I send him in?”
“I doubt you could stop him.”
The doctor hung up with a bang. David smiled with only a hint of teeth-gritting and settled the handset into its cradle.
“Please go right in. He’s thrilled.”
“I’ll just wager he is.” Mal grinned, and David was surprised sparkles didn’t glint off his teeth. “Thanks, love.”
As soon as the door closed behind Mr. Hot-and-knows-it, David leaped up from his chair. God, if he expected to keep this job, he had to pull a rabbit out of his ass tout de suite.
Luckily, he had the perfect secret weapon. He dug the precious package out of his messenger bag.
Coffee. Aunt Cassie’s special blend.
David chuckled to himself in his best evil minion impression. Oh yeah. The brothers Kendrick were freaking toast.
Two years. Two bloody years since Mal had last crossed this threshold, yet now he was lounging in the doorway, as if he dropped by for a visit every day. Maybe in Mal’s eyes, his last visit was only yesterday, since he was still living under the stars of Faerie, where time passed at a different rate. But Alun had felt Mal’s absence—indeed, the absence of both his brothers—every minute of every Outer World day, making his exile all the harder to bear.
Alun glared, derailing the prickle in his eyes. He gathered up half a dozen issues of Psychology Today to hide the trembling in his traitorous hands, and whacked their edges on his desk until they lined up. “What do you want?”
Chuckling, Mal kicked the door closed with one booted foot. He placed a hand on his chest and bowed. “A gracious good afternoon to you too, brother.” He sauntered forward at perfect ease, his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his leather pants, as if Alun’s office were his own personal domain. “You’re looking slightly better these days. Brow ridges less pronounced. Jaw not as Neanderthal. Cheekbones still capable of slicing a tough steak, but promising, brother, promising.”
“I can’t say the same for you. What in the hells is that on your face?” No high fae sported facial hair, yet stubble shadowed Mal’s jaw and chin.
Mal snagged Alun’s framed diploma off the wall and angled it to preen at his reflection in the glass. “Like it? They call it scruff.”
“You’re using glamourie to emulate poor grooming?”
“Men find it sexy, and it’s such a small illusion. Simple to maintain, expends no power to speak of. I recommend it.” He replaced the diploma, then flicked the corner so it hung a fraction off true, laughing at Alun’s resultant growl. “You’re so easy to wind up, Alun. Especially when you’re horny.”
The back of his neck heated with the memory of his reaction to David. “I’m not horny.”
“Don’t try that on with me, brother. The lad at the front desk? Exactly the type to make you play the fool.”
“You’re just as likely as I am.”
“Nah. The soft, pretty ones were never my taste. I like mine with a bit of steel. An edge.”
“Well he’s not my type either. He’s human.”
“So?”
“He doesn’t belong here. Humans aren’t equipped to face our world. They have enough trouble interacting with normal supes—”
Mal snorted and picked up the geode paperweight from the corner of Alun’s desk, tossing it from hand to hand. “Assuming any supe is ever normal.”
“Precisely my point. All my clients, with the exception of the PTSD group, are disturbed supes. Even if the councils tolerated the threat of human exposure, the danger to his psyche is too great.” Alun stood up and snatched the geode out of the air mid-toss. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”
“I’d stop by more often if you acted happier to see me.”
And I’d act happier if you could bear to look at me. “That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Maybe I just want to catch up.” Running a negligent finger down the stack of magazines, Mal shoved them into a sloppy fan over the polished oak desk. “Seen any good movies?”
“No.”
“Any new restaurants?”
“No.”
Abandoning any pretense of nonchalance, Mal actually met Alun’s gaze. “Goddess save us all, what do you do with your time?”
“I read. I listen to music.”
“What do you read?”
“Psychology texts. Magazines. I write self-help articles for the supe community.”
“There’s a bloody irony for you,” Mal muttered. “Who do you kick back with? Friends? Acquaintances?”
Alun raised a heavy eyebrow. “Brothers?”
Mal had the grace to flush. “A point. Sorry. I plan to do better. But what about supes? Do you socialize with any of the families you treat?”
“That would be unprofessional.”
“But it might be fun.”
Could his brother truly be that oblivious? He was the Queen’s Enforcer—did he restrict his knowledge of the supe races to what he required to track and kill them?
“I dare you to play poker with a clutch of dragon shifters. None will ever place a bet. They’re too busy hoarding their chips.” Still holding the geode, Alun ignored Mal’s wicked chuckle and walked to the wall to straighten the off-kilter diploma. “The top flight of the vampire council invited me out once. For drinks. It struck me as ill-advised.”
“All right. I can see how that might turn . . . unfortunate. What about sex? When was the last time you had a
date?”
Alun snorted. “The last man who agreed to sleep with me—whom I paid to agree—couldn’t bear to look me in the face.”
“He doesn’t have to look at you for you to shag him.”
Goddess preserve me. “Mal. I don’t have time for guessing games. Why are you really here?”
“Have you seen Gareth?”
Alun flinched, his fist clenching around the geode, and its rough surface bit into his palm. He hadn’t seen Mal for two years, but his youngest brother hadn’t spoken to him since the day of his exile. The day of Owain’s death. He forced his hand to relax and set the stone in its rightful spot on the desk. “Of course not. He’s still in LA, partying like a rock star.” He restacked the magazines and moved them out of Mal’s reach.
“He is a rock star. But I expected him to . . .” Mal took a deep breath, his shoulders rising under his leather jacket. “He’s in Portland. His band has a gig at the Moda Center.”
So close. Anger warred with hurt in Alun’s chest. He sat down heavily. “I didn’t know.”
“Here.” Mal removed a CD case from the pocket of his jacket and tossed it on Alun’s desk.
“What is it?”
“Gareth’s latest solo work.”
Anger won, burning like basilisk venom in his belly. Alun shoved the CD away with extra force. “Keep it.”
“Gwydion’s bollocks, man.” Mal flicked the case with his finger, sending it skating across the desk’s slick surface. Alun slapped his hand on it before it could fall into his lap. “You’re both over twenty-five hundred years old. When will you grow up?”
“He’s the one who turned away.”
“But you’re the one who let him.” Mal planted his fists on the desk. “Aren’t you over this shite by now? Stop wallowing and break the damn curse.”
“I can’t.”
“Have you ever tried? There must be a way. The end is always contained in the beginning.”
Alun stared his brother down until Mal’s gaze shifted to the corner, away from his unlovely features, as it always did. “I walked into the Stone Circle as a lord of the Sidhe. I walked out as something from a demon’s nightmares. Draw your own conclusions.”
Cutie and the Beast Page 2
