There was simply no reason for anyone to spend so much money merely to fool one minor medical researcher. She had no pull, no connections. If there was something to be gained by such a hoax, she couldn’t decipher it.
Jake was able to turn into a dragon.
And if she was to believe the DVDs, a lion as well.
Before she even knew where she was going, Anjali found herself in the elevator on the way to Mr. Kincaid’s office.
Her feelings of menace earlier about her boss and the building were ridiculous. The man had never been anything but supportive and compassionate. He would explain everything. Plan firmly fixed in her mind, she rolled her shoulders. Mr. Kincaid must have a good reason for holding back this information.
Anjali caught a glimpse of herself in the reflective metal of the elevator doors. Her hair fell in a tangled mass around her shoulders, only a small portion still braided, and her eyes were dark pits in her face.
She combed her fingers through the thick strands and started to re-braid, but her hair was suddenly slippery and unmanageable. She gave up, settling for more finger combing.
The aluminum doors slid open, leaving Anjali staring into the hall across from the lift. An antique mirror showed that Darcy was not at her desk. Anjali heaved a sigh. Good, she wouldn’t have to explain why she wanted to see her employer.
Maybe the secretary knew about Jake’s otherworldly talent—maybe everybody did except her, but she just couldn’t see herself saying, “I want to ask Mr. Kincaid about the psychotic shapechanger downstairs.”
But was Jake psychotic? The thought stopped Anjali in her tracks.
He’d apparently killed. The names of his victims had been listed in her files. She had seen pictures from the scene of his foster father’s death.
But his foster father had been abusing him, and her boss had obviously withheld crucial information from her. What else might he have hidden—or distorted?
She found it suddenly difficult to get oxygen, and her heart stung at the violence of her emotions.
Jake could be innocent.
An innocent man imprisoned because of some agenda she could only guess at.
A man who believed he was insane. She remembered the defeated grief in his eyes during that first interview when he’d said—what were his exact words? I’m one hell of a threat.
Tears seared her eyes. Even given her new suppositions, his earlier statement carried the ring of truth.
Insane or not, who knew how much control he had in one of his other forms? As a dragon, he had been as massive as he’d been beautiful, not to mention the claws like knives and the three-inch teeth. And she had heard of lions in Africa reaching as much as five hundred pounds.
He was a threat.
Anjali wrapped her arms around her chest and headed for Mr. Kincaid’s office, arranging and re-arranging the words she had to say. “It has come to my notice that—”
That what? That Jake is a . . . a . . . What word should she choose? Shapeshifter? Shapechanger? Were-something?
She froze with her fist hanging over Mr. Kincaid’s door and backed away. It all sounded crazy.
She needed more data.
The elevator dinged. Darcy was probably heading back. Not wanting to make up a lie, Anjali lunged for the door leading to the stairs.
Once on the stairwell, she halted, catching her breath, her inner scientist in control.
This was a medical puzzle like any other. What she needed to do was dive into a solid scientific investigation.
She started down the stairs, but a picture popped into her head.
A cartoon coyote taking a swan dive into what he thinks is a crystal clear lake. Seeing the dry lakebed beneath him, his eyes bulge to the size of dinner plates. Arms windmilling, he tries to climb the empty air before punching a coyote-shaped hole in the dirt.
She shook her head and trotted down the stairs. Where had that come from? This was a respectable company. She wasn’t going to end up a crater in the desert. She opened the door to the hallway, shooting a glance at the camera in the ceiling—most likely.
After Anjali left, Jake closed his eyes. Thank God. No way did he want her to see him lost in the grip of his delusions.
A lingering scent traced through the air on a current propelled by the HVAC system. Cinnamon, cardamom, ginger, and woman. He inhaled deeply. She smelled like heaven.
She’d looked like a hell.
At least, he was sure she probably thought so. Her hair had hung to her hips in a midnight black tumble of waves. Her eyes had seemed huge in her fine-boned face. He could see something was troubling her. Even in the tumult of his madness, he’d longed to comfort her. Wanted to be the person she ran to when she needed reassurance.
Did she have someone like that? Was she married? He shouldn’t care, but he did.
She wore no ring, but maybe Indians didn’t.
No. He would have smelled the mark of another male. And she held herself with the self-contained consciousness of a woman without much experience.
Far different from the women who’d wanted to use him, but found themselves his victims.
He caught the beginnings of a growl at that thought and moved to the mirror over the washstand in the corner, finding his own human face staring back at him. He had been so swept up in his thoughts about Anjali, he hadn’t even noticed the ebb of his illness.
Though he hated to look at himself—Anders, and others, had made it clear he was no prize in the appearance department—he’d never had any trouble convincing women to let him close enough to steal from them. What was it that women liked about this face? Eyes, nose, mouth, he had the same as any man. Sure his features were even, but he found them sharp, even ugly. Maybe the problem was he knew the man beneath the face.
A man so at the mercy of his insanity, he would smile and sweet-talk a woman all while robbing her blind.
Disgust made him turn away from the mirror.
He had no right to think about Anjali. Still, her face lingered in his mind. Did she have someone to go home to? What would it be like to be that man?
He stared at the metal grill over the bulb in the ceiling. A bulb covered so he couldn’t break it and use it to hurt himself, or someone else.
Even if he were free, he could never trust himself. Anjali could never be more than a fantasy, a dream, like a normal life or having a family.
Anger made him growl, and he snagged his book from the bed, hurling the paperback against the back wall.
His hand trembled as he lowered it back to his side, and he realized it wasn’t just his hand, his whole body shook.
His knees buckled. He was barely conscious of the pain of hitting the rigid cement floor. How much longer could he continue like this?
The rational part of him knew he belonged locked away, but the other part of him, the part where the madness dwelled, grew more powerful every moment. And that part raged against his captivity. That part would do anything to be free.
Chapter 8
Anjali leaned back in her desk chair and checked her watch. Time to see Jake.
Since the strange, hell, bizarre events two days ago, she had tried to act as normally as possible. Part of that process was these interviews, but she both anticipated and dreaded them.
The first day he’d simply lay on his bed, his face to the wall, refusing to acknowledge her, nothing she had said drawing a reaction, reminding her of a friend’s rescue cat which had taken up residence under the couch the minute they’d brought it home.
The second day, Jake had raged at her, telling her to go away and leave him alone, before lapsing back into brooding silence.
Nor had he, despite her constant monitoring of his cell, changed shape. If she hadn’t watched the recordings, she would have dismissed the whole thing as a hallucination brought on by stress and lack of sleep.
None of his blood and tissue samples had shown any abnormalities at all, but that did nothing but raise more suspicion in her mind.
Hi
s muscular development should have resulted in higher serum testosterone levels then average and yet those numbers were so average as to be textbook. In her experience, no one was textbook.
Anjali faked a cheery wave at Anders when she arrived at the cellblock, though she hadn’t forgiven him for his brutal handling of Jake the other day. Koi ni sathay bagaadvu nahi, her mother would have said. The Gujarati equivalent of ‘Don’t burn your bridges behind you.’
The door clicked shut and she strode to Jake’s cell. He was doing a martial arts form in the limited space.
She cleared her throat, but he ignored her. The play of his muscles mesmerized in the irregular light.
“Jake?”
He flowed though the form, striking and kicking the air with swift purpose. His pants snapped with each kick. The air sighed as his fists sliced through it. She would hate to be on the other end of the lethal moves. Where had he learned them?
It was almost a relief to be ignored. The knowledge he might not be what they said gnawed at her defenses. Made him less of a subject and more of a man. A very sexy man.
Her gazed lingered on the line of his back. Well-defined muscles played hide and seek with the light, the ridge of his spine seemed as strong and solid as an aerial view of a mountain range, begging for the caress of a hand. To be traced by a pair of tender lips.
Dry-mouthed, she watched him for several minutes, then crossed her arms over her chest, scrounging up the professionalism the sight of him had driven away. “I saw you doing this before.”
He paused for a second then continued his movements. “How’s that?”
“The first day we met, I toured the facility and I saw you in the gym.”
He snorted. “My exercise sessions have been cut off since then.”
Damn. “You blame me?”
He stopped and almost met her eyes. “You. Me. My goddamn illness.”
Anjali licked her lips. How could she continue to let him believe he was ill, when everything he’d experienced could be explained by his abilities?
Jake sniffed the air. “What is that? Guilt?”
She tried to smile, but she knew she hadn’t done much more than twitch the corners of her lips. “Maybe.” She wasn’t in the position to tell him anything at the moment. He probably wouldn’t believe her if she did. “You’ve been worse since I came.”
“Who told you that?”
“I—”
“Sometimes when we’re alone, I feel better.” He leaned against the bars, his strong back to her, close enough to touch.
Warmth filled her face and settled in her chest. She considered his claim and the best way to answer. “And when we’re not?”
He huffed, a tiny humorless laugh, dry as fall leaves. “You don’t want to know.”
Anjali studied him, trying to gauge his mood, needing the answer, but afraid to push him and not just because he might stop cooperating. “It’s my job to know.”
“It’s a hell of a job, interviewing murderers.” The words were almost a growl and the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She pressed her lips together, heart pumping fast.
Would he change? Did she really want him to?
More data was necessary, but . . . The cutting intensity of seeing him change—the marvel and the fear. The anticipation and the dread. The power of the experience went beyond explanation.
He paced to his bed. For a second she thought the interview was over for the day. She bit her lip, throat tight, the bars between them a chasm she couldn’t cross. Shouldn’t want to, but God, she did.
He turned toward her, rolling against the bars, though still not looking at her, and rested his hands and forehead on them. “How many have you met?”
“How many of what?” She blanked, too caught up in her emotions to do more than stare at his large hands curled around the massive bars. Hands that made her think of hot, wild things she couldn’t do.
“Murderers.”
She ripped her attention away from the incredible strength in his hands. “Including you?”
He turned and she could see his profile. A muscle contracted in his cheek. “If you must.”
She hesitated. “One.”
That golden glance almost met hers. Her heart skipped a beat, hungry for the sight, but his gaze skated away. “Late start.”
She inhaled to steady her pulse. “I trained to be an obstetrician first.”
It was his turn to cross his arms as he leaned his left shoulder against the bars. “Hmmm.”
She tilted her chin, challenging him. “What does that mean?”
“From babies to murderers. I sense a story.”
The room seemed to dim. Anjali rubbed her temple with her fingers and smiled, hoping to disarm him with humor. “Your senses are good, young padawan, but you’re not going to hear it.”
He stared over her shoulder, as if the wall behind her was more than painted cinderblock. “You like Star Wars, huh?”
She nodded, grateful he’d taken the bait, happy to be on neutral territory. “Mostly the first three movies, that became the last three movies. Not a fan of the hero turned villain, I guess.”
He glanced at her, lion eyes intent. The sight, electric as always, put a hitch in her heart rate. “What about the villain turned hero?”
Her stomach dipped as if she rode the first dramatic upswing of a Ferris wheel. Unable to rip her focus away from the lure of his eyes, Anjali opened then closed her mouth, air in short supply. “Wha-What do you mean?”
“Han Solo?”
She ripped her gaze from his and blew out a puff of air. “Han wasn’t a villain.”
“He shot first at Mos Eisley.”
She grasped at familiar ground. “Greedo was going to take him to Jabba, who was probably going to kill him. It was clearly self-defense.”
“As you say.” He sent her a smirk that would have done Han proud.
“I do.” She lifted her chin, hiding the way the smirk sent her heart jetting faster than a plane in a flat spin. “You seem to know a lot about Star Wars, too.”
“There was a little independent movie theatre and comic shop in this one town. It was a warm place to sleep.”
Damn! Why had he admitted that? Jake pivoted his shoulders to face his bed. Simple, one whiff of Anjali or glance into her mahogany eyes and he was as weak as a starving alley cat begging for scraps.
He had never experienced an attraction as powerful as he felt for her and at times it seemed ready to bowl him over.
He grabbed the bars. The scent of pity washed over him. His chest tightened. “As you said, my senses are excellent. Do you want to know what else they tell me?”
Those liquid dark eyes regarded him with such trepidation he almost backed off, but he had to get her out of here and from her reaction the first day, there was one surefire way to do it.
He leaned closer. “My senses tell me, as much as you try to hide it from me and maybe even from yourself, you don’t just see me as a research subject.”
A muscle flexed in her jaw. She raised a dark eyebrow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He let his gaze linger on her face, then settle on her breasts, forced up by her crossed arms. She squirmed a bit beneath his scrutiny.
“Then why are your nipples hard?”
She coughed several times, slapping her collarbone as if she were choking, cheeks reddening. “What? That’s not true.”
“No?” He forced himself to continue holding her gaze. She appeared even more beautiful flustered, and he had to restrain his hand from reaching out to stroke her glowing cheek. He wanted to drive her away, not eat a cattle prod.
“This is an inappropriate conversation.” She wrapped her slender arms tighter around her body.
He could hear her grinding her teeth. He was getting to her.
“Tell me, Anjali.” He enjoyed watching her pupils expand as he said her name. “Do you dream of me?” He lowered his head, holding her gaze. It was a relief to let the tr
uth spill out. “I dream of you. I see you here on my bunk. I’m fucking you and you’re calling my name.”
He watched her throat work, her face flush darker. The hot scent of anger melded with the musk of arousal.
His delusion roused, her scent making it hard to think about anything but somehow escaping these bars and pulling her near. Tasting her skin again, learning the taste of her lips.
She drew up to her full height. If eyes could shoot lasers, the US Army would draft her tomorrow. “I know what you’re doing, but you’re not going to drive me away this time.”
He fought back his illness, made his smile as smug as he could. “I’m not? Are you sure?” He let his gaze rake her again. “I’m just getting warmed up.”
She regarded him for a moment, then pursed her lips. “You want to know what happened to my mother?” A step brought her closer to him, though not close enough to grab.
Thank God.
He shrank back a little inside, afraid of the inner demons she might raise. Fear not for himself, but for her.
She tightened her arms around her body as if protecting herself from a blow and her pointed chin quivered. “Some thugs broke into my apartment in Boston when I was at work. I suppose they wanted things they could pawn for drug money.” A shudder rocked her body. “They didn’t have to kill her. She would have—I would have—given them anything they wanted, if they wouldn’t hurt her.”
Jake exhaled long and loud, her distress slicing through him, subduing that thing inside that fought to break free. He raked a hand through his hair, glancing at the back wall. What an ass he was. “I’m sorry.”
She nodded, blinking. “That’s why I’m here. That’s why, instead of delivering babies, I’m talking to murderers.”
Her eyes were shiny and he wished he could offer her the comfort she had given him before, but even if he could reach her, that hadn’t turned out too well for either of them.
The sight of her pain bore into his chest like a drill and he held out a hand anyway, though he knew she wouldn’t take it. “Truce?”
His hand hung in the air, palm up, fingers outstretched. Empty, cold, and likely to remain so. No matter how much he wished otherwise.
In Like a Lion (The Chimera Chronicles) Page 7
