Vile Pucker

Chapter 1

“Dr. Lindeth, my sweet angel, do you think you could do me a favor?”

My boyfriend’s rich, chestnutty voice went through me like the smoothest sip of aged scotch.

“What kind of favor?” I asked. “Is this about me wearing the silk garters again?”

Biting my lip, I looked teasingly over at Dr. Lucian Devereaux as he leaned against a library shelf in my office.

At 55, he was a tall, handsome man, with immaculate thick dark hair just beginning to go silver at the edges, strong but gentle, cultured and urbane.

I was one lucky lady.

Lucian ran one strong hand down the spine of one of my oldest psychiatry textbooks, his fingers gentle on the fragile leather backing.

“Not this time,” he said. “It’s a professional favor.”

I wrinkled my brow in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I need you to talk to my son. In your professional capacity.”

“Oh no,” I said. “I’m so sorry, but absolutely not. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Please,” he said coaxingly, taking a step closer to where I sat behind the office desk. “You’re so brilliant. I am well acquainted with your work, Dr. Lindeth. You do so much to help your patients.”

“Absolutely not,” I repeated. “A therapy session with your son? Who I’ve never met? That just wouldn’t be appropriate. Besides, you know I have a very distinct specialty. I don’t do general psychiatric practice.”

“Just a few sessions,” he said, sitting down in front of me. “Come to Ashgrove Manor with me this weekend. I know you’re on research sabbatical this semester. It’s beautiful there in the fall.”

I looked out my window at campus, the last of the brightly-colored October leaves clinging to the bare branches.

Ashgrove Manor

Of course I had heard of it. Who hadn’t?

Lucian had never invited me back to his famed ancestral home, only to the cozy, well-appointed cottage on campus reserved for the Dean of the College of Arts & Sciences.

The idea of seeing his manor was intoxicating.

“What do you want me to talk to him about?” I asked.

He had never really mentioned his only son Gabriel Devereaux.

Lucian folded his hands together neatly on the desk.

“Now that his college career is over, Gabriel is hoping to play in the Hockey National League season that starts in a few weeks.”

The HNL? I knew nothing about sports and had never been to a game, but of course everyone on campus was mad for hockey. It was a big deal here.

“And where do I come in?”

“There’s been some difficulties. The team who drafted him is our local Steelblades. But there are some. . . concerns.”

“What kind of concerns?” I asked, but Lucian had transferred his gaze outdoors to the busy campus.

Through the window, I heard students laughing and joking, tossing Frisbees and footballs around on the quad.

“Your specialty is psychopathy, right?”

I felt my spirit still, and I chose my words very carefully, although they came out sharper than I intended.

“Are you telling me your son is a psychopath?”

“No.”

Then he turned and looked at me, those gleaming silvery eyes locked on mine.

“I want you to affirm to the HNL that he’s not a psychopath.”

Immediately I was shaking my head.

“No. No. That’s a bad idea. My work is all about helping psychopaths practice kindness and empathy, and I am always scrupulously honest. I can’t go into a session with a patient with a preconceived idea. That’s totally antithetical to my ethics and morals as a scholar.”

“Please,” my boyfriend said. “And it’s important that you meet him. After all, I’m hoping our relationship is long term. Very long term.”

I hesitated. How likely was it that his son was a psychopath, really? They were very rare. I couldn’t count how many parents had eagerly shoved their offspring at me to be analyzed, only for me to find out they weren’t psychopaths at all, just spoiled.

“What’s he done?”

“Nothing much.” Lucian waved his hand. “A few fights throughout the years. Last year a drunk and disorderly charge. But, there’s still—hesitation on their part.”

“Why hesitation? Is he very good at hockey?”

“He’s a genius,” Lucian said seriously, meeting my eyes earnestly.

“Gabriel is a young man who has everything he could ever want—skilled enough to play in the major leagues, more money than he can spend, very intelligent, can get any girl he wants. It’s made him a bit—arrogant.

I think his lack of—a sympathetic personality makes the team reluctant to play him. They want assurances.”

“That doesn’t sound like psychopathy,” I said with relief. “Many young men of his age are arrogant. How old is he exactly?”

“22.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It sounds like perhaps a normal trajectory for a very privileged athlete. And you say he’s been good at sports his whole life?

It’s not uncommon for young men to think the whole world revolves around them.

It has nothing to do with psychopathy. Very few people are true psychopaths. ”

“I agree,” Lucian said, smiling at me.

God, he was handsome.

“It would mean a lot if you came down to Ashgrove for a few weeks. Just to observe him. A word from a scholar of your stature would convince the Steelblades management he’s safe to play.”

“I don’t know. . .” I parried, but I couldn’t help being curious.

A few weeks now? That was a good sign he really was serious.

Silver fox, considerate lover, good job, and he had a family manor.

There must be something wrong with Lucian, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out what.

“I will not promise to do anything but my professional duty,” I said firmly. “It doesn’t sound like anything much is wrong with Gabriel except perhaps he’s a little spoiled. But if there was, I warn you, I take my job very seriously. I won’t sugarcoat it for you.”

“Perfect,” Lucian said, bending down to kiss me. “That’s all I ask. After all, I don’t want to be presumptuous but. . . hopefully as his future stepmother. . . you have a vested interest in his health and well-being, too.”