Secret of the Wolf (31 page)

emotion
.

"Is this what you wished to see?" she asked. "Look, then.”

Oblivious to shame, Quentin complied. He devoured her with his eyes. Her face was

flushed, as he'd imagined it; her hair fell in wanton disarray about her shoulders, an

errant lock trailing over one full breast
.

Her breasts were magnificent. Firm, lush, begging to be suckled. Her shoulders were

broad enough to support them in perfect proportion. Her waist narrowed beneath them,

flaring out into generous hips. She held her legs close together, but he glimpsed the

blush of her sex behind the screen of curls
.

And he smelled her. That body, such fertile ground for a man's seed, revealed her true

desires, the ones she dared not show with her fearless blue gaze
.

Arousal. Moisture that gathered and spilled over to ease a man's passage, perfume

surely even a human male could scent
.

His own body was more than ready. He ached. He throbbed. Satiation was only

moments away. He could seize her now and she would hardly resist. On the floor,

against the wall; lying beneath him or on her knees, again and again until he'd had

enough

He rose. He fumbled for the buttons of his trousers. She watched and didn't move,

silently pleading with him to take her. Take her
.

One step. Another. He dragged his gaze from her body to her face. Her eyes
.

Johanna's eyes. Waiting for him to betray her trust
.

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No
.

His feet sealed to the floor. His muscles spasmed. He managed to make them function

at last, moving him back. Away from Johanna, one inch at a time, toward the door
.

Howling. He heard howling, from somewhere in the center of his being. The rage of a

thwarted monster. If Johanna spoke, he couldn't hear her. By touch alone he found the

doorknob and turned it. The howling pursued him all the way back to his room
.

Johanna's legs buckled. She dropped to her knees on the floor, giving her trembling

muscles a chance to recover. Never in her life had she felt so weak, or so confused
.

Not afraid. That was the remarkable thing. She'd seen as soon as she stepped out from

behind the screen what Quentin intended
.

But Quentin would never commit rape. That certainty helped her to stand still and wait

for Quentin to realize it himself
.

Not before she had been driven nearly to the very edge of her faith and reason. Not

before she'd realized that some part of her almost wished he had followed through with

the impulses that ruled him
.

Gott in Himmel. Self-disgust tightened her throat. She pushed herself to her feet and

went to the door. The hallway was quiet and dark. Her door had a lock, like all the

rooms in the house, but she hadn't felt the need to use it since taking up residence here
.

If she turned the key now, would it be to protect herself from Quentin, or impose an

artificial defense against her own emotions? She left the door unlocked and stumbled to

the bed, feeling for her dressing gown. She had to concentrate to get the sleeves over

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her arms and the sash tied about her waist. By the time that simple task was finished,

her sense was restored
.

Sense, but not equilibrium. That would take a little more effort
.

She sat on the edge of the bed, where Quentin had been. The spot was still warm from

his body, but she didn't flinch away. This had to be faced, and squarely
.

What had happened? She could only guess what had set off Quentin's bizarre

behavior—and her own equally aberrant response to it
.

Revealing herself to Quentin had been the height of folly. Had she actually believed it

might help him?

She backed away from the painful thought of her own lapse and tried to consider the

causes for Quentin's conduct
.

She'd been gone all day, true. She didn't know what might have happened during her

absence, except that Mrs. Daugherty had nothing to report
.

Quentin had acted as though intoxicated, but she hadn't smelled alcohol. Something

had gone very wrong
.

The wrongness was the same she'd seen yesterday in their last session, and in the

parlor. In his eyes lurked a shadow Quentin, a man-beast filled with lust, irrational

hunger, even a kind of cruelty. A creature who wanted her, making no attempt to hide it.

And Quentin wanted her just as much
.

That was the truth she had avoided, danced around, regarded with the sham of a

scientist's detachment. Just as she had failed to admit that Quentin might be far more

afflicted than he appeared. The part of his mind that controlled the darkest human

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instincts had briefly lost some interior battle, here in this room, a battle in which she was

the prize
.

Hypnosis released the shadow Quentin. So, she suspected, did drink. Neither had been

used tonight. What had triggered it? Could it possibly be the kiss in the vineyard, and

jealousy the ordinary Quentin couldn't admit?

The only way to be sure was to hypnotize him again. And she couldn't trust herself to do

it. She'd come too close to forsaking everything she believed in
.

She wanted him
.

There. It was said, admitted fully, if only in her mind. She wanted to know what it would

be like to lie in his arms, feel his kisses all over her body, experience the joining of flesh

she had only read about. She wanted to explore the lean, honed muscles she had only

glimpsed before, see those red-gold eyes alight with the pleasure she gave him, and

know ecstasy in return
.

Quentin would give her ecstasy. She had no doubt that he was a superb and

experienced lover, as accomplished in that skill as he was articulate and charming. And

even if the Quentin she wanted had been temporarily absent, replaced by someone

feral and dangerous, her feelings had not vanished. She saw now that they were a

permanent part of her being. She understood that she had stepped out from behind the

screen, knowing he was waiting, because of them
.

Mere modesty did not keep her from his bed. Society's conventions did not trouble her.

A woman was physically capable of enjoying the act of love, and should be free to do

so. She understood fully what was involved in the practice of sexual intercourse, in

theory at least
.

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As long as she remained Quentin's doctor, that theory would never be tested. But if

Bolkonsky were able to treat him

Good God. Had she been fooling herself? She had assumed that sending Quentin to

another doctor was best for him, because she had begun to lose both control and

objectivity in his particular case. He was unable to regard her as a doctor, and she

hadn't been successful in maintaining the necessary distance and authority. Better to

send him away than fail him
.

Oh, yes, she found him attractive, fascinating, impossible to ignore. She had reacted too

strongly to his kisses. She was never so aware of being a woman as in his presence
.

But she had not envisioned a lasting relationship between them, not even in her

dreams. Now she saw the selfishness of her motives
.

If Bolkonsky took Quentin's case, he wouldn't be her patient. He'd be able to get well,

without distractions. And then

Then he could come back to her, man to woman, and all would happen naturally as it

was meant to. She'd have Quentin for herself
.

Unless, when he was cured, he didn't want her. Unless his interest was a patient's

preoccupation with his doctor, the desires of a man separated from the rest of humanity,

bound to vanish when he was restored to health and sanity
.

She laughed. How you build castles of air, Johanna. Be careful, lest they send you

smashing back to the earth
.

He waited for her in the hotel lobby as he had yesterday, a little more serious and less

inclined to light conversation than he'd previously been
.

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That suited Johanna very well. They had much ground to cover, not least of all the issue

of Quentin's future care
.

She refused to dwell on last night's dreams, or how she'd awakened drenched in

perspiration and aching with unsated needs. Quentin Forster was at the center of those

dreams: red, seething, burning. Feodor Bolkonsky was cool, collected, the consummate

professional, and just being in his presence reminded her that she was first and

foremost a doctor
.

She'd momentarily considered discussing Bolkonsky with Quentin that morning, but

Quentin was nowhere to be found. Harper mentioned seeing him heading for the

woods, and he hadn't returned for luncheon
.

Was he feeling chagrined about last night? Did he remember it at all? She was almost

glad not to have to face him again so soon. Today's meeting with Bolkonsky would

surely give her a much-needed sounding board
.

"I am very glad to see you again, Feodor," she said when she and Bolkonsky were

seated in the private room. "I have an important subject to discuss with you." She

readied herself. "Yesterday I mentioned the case of Quentin Forster, and you seemed

particularly—”

He held up a gloved hand. "I beg forgiveness for interrupting you, but there is an urgent

matter I must bring up before we continue.”

"Urgent?" She saw now that she had overestimated his tranquillity. His fair skin was

flushed, and his lips were pressed tightly together. She determined that he was angry,

though not with her. Someone—or something—else had upset him before her arrival
.

"Of course," she said. "Please go on.”

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"You must understand, Johanna. I had not planned for it to be this way, or to introduce

the topic in such unseemly haste, so soon after we met. I have no choice." He cleared

his throat. "It concerns another patient of yours, one May Ingram.”

May had been so far from Johanna's mind that at first she was certain she'd

misunderstood. "May? You know of her?”

"Yes. You see, I have been retained by May's father, Chester Ingram, to consult with

you about returning her to his care.”

With one brief sentence, Feodor set Johanna's thoughts in complete disorder. May's

father
.

Caught between fear and anger, she got up from her chair and paced to the window.

She'd hoped never to be put in this position, though she had always known it was a

possibility, ever since that night two years ago when a frantic Mrs. Ingram had brought

May to the Haven
.

Rain. A mother and young girl on the doorstep, soaking wet, carrying a pair of small

traveling bags as if they were on a weekend visit to friends in the country
.

"You are Dr. Johanna Schell?" the woman had asked. "I need your help.”

Johanna had let them in. In short bursts of speech, the woman—young, well-dressed,

and with a haggard, careworn face, told Johanna why she'd come. Not very coherently,

not in great detail, but enough to make clear the extremity of her errand
.

May had confirmed the truth of her mother's words when she'd suffered an hysterical fit

right there in the parlor, and Johanna made her decision. With it had come certain

promises and assumptions. May's mother vanished into the night, and didn't return
.

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Now May's father had appeared out of the blue, a man whose role in her flight had only

been hinted at in Mrs. In-gram's hushed narrative. Those hints had been enough, more

than enough at the time

"Johanna?" Feodor stood at her elbow, frowning in concern. "I have upset you.”

"You have surprised me." She made her way back to the chair and sat down, willing her

heartbeat to slow. "I did not expect such deception from you, Doctor. This is the real

reason you sought me out, is it not?”

Feodor sighed. "I would have wished to find you in any case, Johanna, for the work you

and your father have done. This simply provided an additional excuse. I was quite