Bloodlust

Chapter 8

Dylan tossed the notepad aside and was across the room in three strides. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“You didn’t tell John about the kiss.”

“You scared me half to death. How did you get in here?”

“I picked the locks.”

“You picked… Both? The downstairs exit, too? How did you—”

“I’m multi-skilled. Why didn’t you tell John?”

“You can’t just break in here.”

“Evidence to the contrary.” He spread his arms and grinned.

Grinned! His audacity was astonishing. “You’ll be caught on the security cameras.”

“Tsk, tsk, Dr. Reede. That’s a fib. There aren’t any security cameras. Do you think I’d break into a building without scouting it out first?”

“Leave. Now.”

“After killing so much time before getting in here? Un-huh. I saw Ellie leave. Hung around, planning to intercept you when you followed. Except you didn’t come out, and I got tired of waiting.”

She pointed to the door behind him. “Go.”

“Why?”

“I can think of a dozen reasons, but mainly because it’s a breach of protocol and ethics.”

“Kissing you was against the rules, too. How come you didn’t raise a ruckus over that?”

“Because you were clearly trying to manipulate me into dropping you as a patient. I planned to tell Lieutenant Bowie, but after thinking it over—”

“Every time you refer to him as Lieutenant Bowie it sets my teeth on edge. Make it John or Bowie, all right? It’s easier. Now, about the kiss. You were saying?”

“I wasn’t saying anything about the kiss per se.”

“I’ve never been quite sure what per se means, but I’m positive that our subject was the kiss.”

Although she was fuming, she kept her voice under strict control. “Tattling on you was exactly what you wanted me to do.”

“Oh, so you spent time analyzing it.”

Suddenly she realized that somehow the distance between them had shrunk, although she couldn’t say who had taken the steps necessary to bring that about. “Move back, please. You’re invading my space.”

She had to look up several inches in order to hold his gaze, but she did. She also held her ground. Although it didn’t feel like solid ground beneath her. More like the deck of a boat riding gentle swells.

He raised his hands shoulder high and took several steps back. “Invading your space wasn’t my intention. I came over here so I could see if my break-in had been noticed.”

He moved to the window and peered down at the street through the slits in the blinds. “Do you keep these half closed to create an intimate atmosphere?” he asked as he turned back to her.

Actually, yes. She kept them half shut to induce trust and confidentiality. But because of his terminology, she said, “The window has a southern exposure. Sunlight comes in at an uncomfortable angle for some patients.”

“Especially when they’re sharing the juicier aspects of their lives.”

She didn’t address that at all. “You should go before your break-in is discovered.”

“What’s gonna happen if it is? Every cop on the force knows me. I’d say that I’d seen your light on in an otherwise dark building without either security cameras or an alarm system. By the way, why is that?”

“The expense of installing them in a building this old was too much for some of the tenants.”

“Huh. Then aren’t you glad I’m the only one who broke in?”

“Not really. By the way, that amounted to a confession.”

“All right. I broke in. I’d tell any investigating officer that I was here to check things out, see if you were all right, and that would be the end of it.”

“No, because I would tell him differently.”

“Yeah?” He cocked his head to one side. “What would you tell him?”

The challenging question was as good as a thrown gauntlet. The smug hike of his left eyebrow indicated that he knew she didn’t have a comeback, because she’d made clear to him this morning that she would never betray a patient’s confidence.

Completely out of context, he said, “Your hair looks better loose like that.”

She had freed it from the tight ponytail she wore during office hours. Now, she reflexively hooked it behind her ears, and then cursed herself for that self-conscious response to his compliment, which she didn’t acknowledge.

“In fact,” he said, “you look looser all over. Blazer gone. Shirttail out.” He looked down at her bare feet. “No high heels.”

From the moment he’d appeared, she’d been well aware of her “looser” appearance and had tried not to let her embarrassment over it show. But she’d be damned before she simpered over his comments. “I wasn’t expecting an intruder.”

“Ain’t life just full of surprises?”

“Some of them unpleasant.”

That bounced right off him. With a frown of concentration, he was still assessing her. “You know, you might get more out of your patients if you let them see you like this. A little messy and undone instead of all buttoned up.”

“That wouldn’t be very professional.”

His grin faded slowly and, like twin lasers, his blue eyes sharpened on hers. “That detached, professional demeanor is your security blanket, isn’t it?”

Taken off guard again by both his sudden shift of mood and his disturbing insightfulness, she gave a slight shake of her head. It dislodged a hank of hair from one ear, but she didn’t call attention to it by correcting it. Coolly, she said, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Come on now, Dylan. Don’t pretend. You know damn well what I’m talking about.” He took a look around the room before coming back to her. “This morning, it struck me right off that your straitlaced appearance and poised manner were in direct contrast to the cozy atmosphere of this room.

“You came across as a role-playing actor who’d wandered onto the wrong set, but was still sure of her lines, and confident of her position. Don’t get me wrong. You play it well. A little too well. It makes one wonder if you’re a real person with a heartbeat.”

Every word of his monologue had stung, but she wasn’t about to let him know it. “If I were role-playing, my costume would have been baggy trousers and a food-stained vest.”

He gave a huff of amusement. “Good one, doc. But back to what we were saying.”

“What you were saying.”

“Okay, what I was saying, or was about to say, is that I freely admit that my defense mechanism is cracking jokes. I deflect by wisecracking. Yours is to assume a cool, calm, controlled professionalism. It’s like a… what do you call one of those things?”

“You called it a security blanket.”

“Yeah, but that’s too soft and cushy. Your composure is more like a…” He snapped his fingers several times. “A bell jar. That’s it. It encases you. It’s see-through, but impenetrable. What’s it there to protect you from, I wonder.”

Her arms went rigid at her sides. Her hands formed fists. And, of course, he noticed.

“Whoa. That observation struck a chord. Because I nailed it, didn’t I?”

Realizing that she was playing right into his hands by reacting to his prodding, she relaxed her hands and took a steadying breath. “Mitch, what’s see-through is your motivation for tonight’s surprise attack. You’re here because your attempted sabotage this morning failed.”

“Is that how you see it?”

“You’re trying to intimidate me into refusing to see you as a patient.”

“And you’re trying to keep that bell jar securely in place despite your…”

He made a gesture with both hands that seemed to indicate her dishevelment. She didn’t respond.

Again, he tipped his head inquisitively. “Not going to refute that?” When she still didn’t speak, he shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I think I know why you never let your guard down.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“But see, I want to, Dylan.” He took another look through the blinds, turning his head this way and that to take in the whole street below, then went over to the patient sofa, sat down, and stretched his arms across the back of it.

“Pretend I’ve lifted off that bell jar. Tell me something about Dylan Reede. ”

“I don’t discuss my personal life with patients.”

“Well now, that’s not fair. You want to poke around in my head, my heart, my psyche, but I don’t get to know anything about you?”

She remained silent and impassive.

“Tell you what. I’ll go first and reveal something about me.” He lowered his arms from the back of the sofa and sat forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped between them. He met her gaze directly.

“I love my son Andrew so much that when I watch him sleep, my heart hurts from the strain of loving him. Sometimes it’s so overwhelming, I’m moved to tears. I lie there, looking at him, listening to him breathe, and cry over the… the marvel… of having made this awesome little person.”

She searched his eyes, took in his body language and expression, and didn’t believe that this was another manipulation. Whether it was or not, she wanted to explore it. She sat down on the edge of the sofa behind her. “How old is Andrew?”

“Almost three. He lives with my in-laws. John probably told you that.”

“He did. He also told me that it was your decision, not a court mandate.”

“No, there was no legal hassle. Nothing official. I just thought it would be best for Andrew. He was only nine months old when Angela… when we lost her. I had to work, and, even if I could have afforded child care that met my standards, I didn’t want his formative years to be guided and overseen by strangers. Angela would have hated that, too.”

“Is it a good living arrangement?”

“No, it fucking sucks,” he said shortly. Then with more introspection, he added, “It’s just the best I can do right now.” A look of torment crossed his features, but it was quickly gone. “Okay, doc. Your turn.”

“I don’t take a turn.”

“Come on. Be a sport.”

“These sessions are for you, Mitch. You exclusively.”

“Hmm.” He sat up straight. Stroking his lower lip with his index finger, he stared at her with acute intensity.

Ponderous seconds ticked by. She reasoned that he was weighing either to disclose something that was difficult for him to address or to keep it to himself for now.

She didn’t nudge him in either direction.

Finally, he said, “Did you have any idea what you were getting into when you married a martyr?”

He’d posed the question quietly, but it rent the silence like crashing cymbals.

Or breaking glass. Like a bell jar shattering.

Her breath leaked out slowly through her lips, taking all her strength with it.

She sank against the back cushion of the sofa, staring at him with dismay and asking herself how he—?

But of course. He was a detective by trade. He had resources that were available only to law enforcement officers. He was multi-skilled. Canny and quick was how John Bowie had described him.

“I looked you up,” he said, still speaking in a voice with the texture of velvet. “I had to do some digging because you don’t go by your married name. Why not?”

She had to swallow before attempting to say something, and she was relieved to discover that she could speak at all. “Not in order to conceal it.”

“No?”

“No. A lot of women use their maiden name for their profession.”

“Where did you meet your husband?”

She swallowed again. “George. You can say his name. I won’t fall apart.”

Although she very well might, and soon, if she didn’t regain her sense of balance and reestablish boundaries. Now. She smoothed her hands over her skirt several times and then stood up.

“But you won’t be referring to him at all within my hearing, because I’ve made plain that we won’t be talking about my life.

Any aspect of it. I also told you this morning that I wanted to help you, and I meant that, Mitch.

I believe I can help you.” She paused before adding, “Besides, Lieutenant Bowie is paying me to try.”

That was a cheap shot, but it felt good to sling something back at him after the blow he’d dealt her.

She expected him to react to the snide remark, but he didn’t, so she continued.

“It really was outrageous of you to come here tonight, but your machinations are so transparent, I’m willing to disregard them.

We’ll resume on Thursday. For now, good night.

” She glanced toward the door. “I hope you didn’t break my lock. ”

“No, just picked it. You can still lock it behind me.”

He stood up, but, instead of making for the door, he walked slowly but purposefully toward her.

He didn’t stop until he took up her entire field of vision.

She could feel his body heat, his breath warm on her face.

Not for the first time, she sensed in him a coiled vitality ready to spring with dangerous unpredictability.

What stunned her now that they were standing so close—and, if she were being nakedly honest with herself, since he’d barged through the door—was her powerful reaction to his physicality, a response that hovered somewhere between anxiety and desire.

Yes, that. In spite of everything, and totally against her code of ethics and self-will, that.

Speaking low, he said, “I think I would enjoy watching you fall apart, Dylan. Because you’re not nearly as cool as you let on. Know how I know?”

Before she knew what he was about to do and prevent it, he had encircled her wrist and placed his thumb on the inside of it where her blood vessel was pulsing.

“You have a heartbeat, after all,” he said.

“Strong and fast, too. But that’s not the giveaway.

” He leaned in and whispered, “The dead giveaway is the red toenail polish.”

He gave her a second or two to think about that, then dropped her hand and grinned down into her face, which had been suffused with an ungoverned, unwanted, and unacceptable heat.

She pulled her wrist from his grasp. “Joke about something else.”

“Wasn’t joking.” He gave her another smile, but not the naughty-boy one, or the one laced with sarcasm. This one was rueful.

He left her and went over to the door. When he looked back at her, his smile was gone and so was any trace of arrogance. “This isn’t a joke, either, Dr. Reede. It’s a true story without a ‘once upon a time.’ It begins on the night I found my wife dead in our garage.”

His bluntness struck her; she caught her breath.

“Her death was ruled a suicide,” he said. “It wasn’t. She was murdered. People don’t believe that, but I know it, and I’m going to avenge it. I’m going to find the men who conspired to kill Andrew’s mother, and when I do, I’m going to kill them.”

He spoke with clarity, candor, and conviction. No comedy. In fact, his monotonal seriousness was chilling.

“After they’re dead,” he continued, “if the authorities come to you and ask to see your records on me, or ask what you know about my psyche, you have my permission to tell them that I confessed my intentions to you without qualification or remorse. Tell them that I was an ‘imminent threat’ to those men.” He motioned behind her to the sofa where her notepad lay.

“Write that down so you’ll be sure to remember. ”

He looked at her for several beats, then left through the door and gently pulled it closed behind him.