by Eve Langlais
She recoiled. “Prison.”
He shook his head. “I won’t lock you up.” Did she sense the lie?
For a moment, she gazed at him, intent, her eyes a maelstrom of color. Hypnotic almost in their effect. Then she moved past him, an enigmatic expression on her face as she walked into his house.
He ate one last marshmallow before following.
Inside, she prowled the space, dancing her fingers over the flickering candles on the mantel. Stepping into the kitchen, she grabbed an apple from the bowl of fruit and bit into it, looking so very much in that moment like Eve in the garden with the forbidden fruit. No wonder Adam forsook his place in Eden to join her.
I’d do the same.
Utter foolishness. He didn’t believe in religion. The only thing forbidden in this room was Jane herself. He would just have to turn a blind eye to her charms, remind himself that he was her doctor.
“Where have you been staying?” he asked.
Rather than speak, she pointed out the door.
“You camped in the woods? Or did you find a house?”
Crunch. Crunch. Rather than give a reply, she steadily demolished the apple while perched on a kitchen stool.
Should have offered my face.
It wasn’t just Adrian who wanted to smack that voice. A few others inside thought it rude, too.
“I see you lost the robe.” Might as well address the naked nymph in the room.
Her lips curved. “Burnt.” She didn’t specify whether intentionally by fire or if her skin itself consumed it.
Could she actually exude enough heat to burn something? Would she incinerate a lover in the throes of passion?
It wasn’t compassion for a possible poor victim that kept him from planning to find out. There was something repugnant about the idea of Jane with another man. It bothered him when he was a teen and she dated Benedict. And it agitated him to contemplate it now.
“Would you like something else to wear?”
He knew she understood him by the way she glanced down at her lower body primly perched with pinned knees, the soles of her feet hooked over the bar on the stool. She sat straight and lifted a leg, crossing it over the other. A blatantly sexual move that had her arching a brow as if saying, your turn.
She subtly propositioned him, but he didn’t react. Mostly because the doctor in him grasped there could be a variety of reasons for her actions.
One, she actually desired him. The thing he doubted the most. Adrian might be a decent-looking guy, but this was Jane. He must look old to her. A man almost in his forties, fit, though, passing for much younger. But still… It seemed too improbable that she’d want him. She was drop-dead gorgeous, a woman in her prime who could have any man she wanted.
I’ll never be that man. And not just because of doctor/patient ethics. A psychiatrist might claim he conflated his feelings of rejection from when he was crippled.
He’d tell them to fuck themselves. Mostly because they’d be right. He knew he didn’t deserve Jane.
She’s too good for me.
Damned right she is. Which is why no one else can have her, either.
A dichotomy in his mind that he might never be able to resolve.
Anyhow, she wasn’t trying to seduce him, which left what other option for her blatant flirting?
Perhaps she did it unconsciously. Sensuality in some was just as natural as breathing. She might not understand the power she had over men.
Over me.
Or she did know exactly what she did and hoped to use her wiles to soften him up. Relax him that she might get close enough to kill. Was her next step to wrap herself around him, enveloping him in the heat of her presence?
What a way to die.
No dying. Not today. He turned from her.
“I bought you some clothes.” He headed for the bags sitting by the couch. Several of them. He’d had Jett take Becky shopping, unsure what Jane would find most comfortable.
He held out the offerings, and a tiny frown creased Jane’s brow.
A long finger extended. “Mine?” No mistaking the questioning lilt.
“Yes, yours. I was hoping you’d come back and got you some clothes.”
He took a step forward and dropped the bags a few feet from her. “Check it out. See if you like anything.”
He retreated, parking his ass on edge of the couch, watching.
It took Jane a second before she slid off the stool and went to the heap. She crouched and rustled around inside a paper bag. She pulled out a dress. Not much of one, though, he should add. According to the name, it belonged in some trendy young store. Keyword being young. The party dress got balled up and tossed with a disdainful sound.
“Not your style I take it.” Which he’d known. Or assumed since he’d never seen her in anything like it.
The next bag held blouses and a skirt, also tossed aside. Then there were jeans and a T-shirt. Those got fingered and kept by her feet. The last bag had another robe. Just like the one she’d burnt but in pink.
On it went. This time she remembered to tie up the sash. She snuggled into the thick collar and heaved a happy sigh.
“You forgot the slippers,” he said and indicated with his head the bag with a lump still inside.
She met his gaze for a brief moment before diving on it. She emerged with flamingo-head slippers, the pink matching her robe. She held them aloft and stared before a wide smile stretched her lips. On went the slippers and she beamed at him. “Pink.”
“Your favorite color. I know.” He knew everything that was humanly possible to know about her. Favorite shows. Color. Food. Like Red Delicious apples.
“Hungry.” She rubbed her belly and eyed him expectantly.
“I’m not much of a chef, but I’m a hell of a re-heater,” he declared as he moved toward the kitchen. She didn’t scatter but perched once more on a stool. He kept talking, something that felt easy and natural given how often he used to talk to her while she was in her coma. “I did a bit of shopping because I wasn’t sure what you’d be in the mood for.” He opened a cupboard and swept a hand. “I’ve got canned noodles with tomato sauce. Chili. Some beef stews. Creamy soups. Macaroni and cheese.” The kind that came in a blue box and was a staple in so many homes.
Her hands clapped together.
“Want some hotdogs with it, too?” The question was casual, but he watched her to see if she understood.
“Yesss.” She hissed the word quite happily. “K. Chup.” The word struggled past her lips.
He understood and then pretended to be horrified. “Ketchup on macaroni and cheese deluxe? What is wrong with you? Everyone knows you only use it on burgers, fries, and Shepherd’s pie.”
She squealed, and as they jested, him doing most of the jokes, she responded, either by laughter or simple syllable words. Her interaction growing by bounds.
Soon he was sliding a plate across to her heaped high with orange-colored pasta and boiled chunks of sausage on the side.
Some things hadn’t changed, such as her love for this simple dish. He paired it with a glass of chocolate milk, which she guzzled with a happy hum.
Then asked for, “More.”
He knew she was done when she pushed the plate away and declared, “Happy tummy.”
Her third glass of chocolate milk was half-full still. But it didn’t matter.
The drugs he’d given her took effect, her eyelids getting heavy, and she began to sway. Her lips pursed.
“Whatdidyoudo?” The words slurred together.
“I’m helping you.”
“No.” She stood and staggered from the stool. “Bad.” Her knees crumpled.
When she fell, he was there to catch her.
Chapter Eleven
Fluttering her lashes, the first thing Jane noticed was the ceiling over her. Given she’d been sleeping outside since her rebirth, she understandably panicked to find herself inside and, horror of all horrors, in a bed.
I’m a prisoner again!
>
With an exclamation, she burst out of the sheets, and her feet hit the floor. By the time she realized she could move, she was running, heading straight for the window, the same one she’d crashed through once before. Jane held up her arms braced over her face, readying for impact.
Boing. She bounced off the surface. Stunned at the development, she didn’t stop to think. She punched the thing in her way, hurting her knuckles, which, in turn, had her yelling and pounding at the glass.
“Jane!” His voice cut through her panting agitation. “Calm down.”
Rather, she swung harder, and the glass vibrated in the frame. It just wouldn’t break. “Aaaaah!” she wailed, verbally expressing her frustration.
Which didn’t do a thing to help her.
“Stop it before you hurt yourself.” Again, with his firm tone. “No matter how many times you hit it, the glass won’t shatter. After the incident, I had it replaced with something hybrid proof.”
She understood what he said and, at the same time, didn’t. Panic fluttered in her as she found herself trapped. She flipped to face him and noted he stood a few paces away, hands outstretched. Doing his best to appear benign.
Failing.
Her eyes narrowed. He’d done this to her. Trapped her!
“Arrrrrgh.” She lunged at him, but he sidestepped, narrowly missing her outstretched fingers.
“Behave yourself, Jane. This is not how a lady acts.”
The remark enraged her. “Bad man,” she yelled. Because she never would have fallen asleep in front of him. He’d done something to her. Put her to sleep. Imprisoned her inside. Betrayed her fragile trust.
She stalked him, the heat rising from her skin and smoking from her fingertips. She wore a thin shift that went to her ankles rather than the fluffy robe she last recalled while her feet were encased in socks rather than those pink bird slippers.
“Jesus. You’re smoking.” He breathed the claim in wonder and then talked fast as she neared. “Jane, you need to calm down.”
Why?
She didn’t want to be calm. She wanted to understand why the world seemed so familiar and difficult at the same time. Needed to understand why she hated him, knew he was to blame, and yet was drawn to him.
She reached for him with molten fingertips, but he evaded her once more. Faster than he should have been able to.
“Jane, you need to stop and listen. “
The firm command only served to heat her rage, and she ignited.
“Holy fucking shit. You’re on fire!”
Not for long, she couldn’t sustain the flames without a heat source. But she held it long enough that the gown she wore drifted to the floor as ash.
He gaped, and during his moment of inattention, she drove herself into him, her momentum slamming them into the wall. She pressed into him, snarling in his face, getting the full effect of his scent. His solidness. His lack of fear.
He didn’t fear. The very idea stilled her.
He kept talking. “I know you’re scared.”
“Not scared.” The reply emerged, rusty but understandable.
“It’s okay to be afraid. I’d be afraid, too, if I woke in a strange place and didn’t understand what was happening.”
The very fact he’d pinpointed part of her angst tempered her inner heat. It didn’t loosen her grip on his shirt, though, especially as she recalled why she woke in a bed. “Bad man.”
“I won’t deny it. There are plenty of people who would agree with you. But just so you know, I’m sorry I put you to sleep.”
The easy admission caused her to blink. “Drugged me?”
“Yes.”
“Kill you.” She really should. She leaned in close, staring at him.
Still no hint of fear. But his scent did change. Turned into something hungry, which, in turn, kindled something within her.
“I should have asked instead of lacing your cocoa with the sleeping agent.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew you wouldn’t let me test you.”
The claim caused a brief flash of sensations of sharp things being inserted into skin. Pinching as they took blood and tissue samples without permission. “No test.”
“Why not?” he asked. “You didn’t come to any harm. On the contrary, I think a proper rest in a warm place has actually helped you.”
Helped? Her brow knit as she finally took stock of herself. Despite the fact she’d incinerated the gown, she remained warm. Had been warm since she woke, actually. Her body didn’t ache. Her skin didn’t feel dry. She glanced at the hands gripping him by the shirt. Soft hands lightly scented with an oily substance.
He’d touched her! “What do?” she growled.
“Nothing, so calm down. The lotion wasn’t me. I had Becky, a certified nurse I might add, come over and give me a hand with you. She’s the one who bathed you then slathered you with lotion. She left the bottle behind.” He inclined his head, and she almost turned to look.
Ha. As if she’d trust him. Her gaze narrowed.
“No one hurt or molested you. I swear. All I did was take some blood and tissue samples to get a handle on what’s happening to you.”
“I dreaming.” She knew enough about what was real to comprehend none of this could be happening.
He appeared startled she knew the truth. “You think this is but a dream?”
She shrugged. “Not real. Look.” She held up a finger, and it lit like a candle. Even with muddled thoughts, she understood people couldn’t do that.
He frowned and didn’t reply immediately. She walked past him and exclaimed as she caught sight of her robe hanging on the wall and her slippers under it. She snuggled into them and then headed for the stairs.
“Jane, where are you going?”
He didn’t demand she stay. A good thing, because she might have laughed.
Heading up the stairs, she didn’t need to look to know he followed. Blame it on the strange awareness of him that she had. Almost as if they were connected.
Upstairs, she headed for the cold box—the refrigerator—which oozed frigid air when opened. She ignored the nasty temperature to eye what was inside. Better stuff than in the metal cans and cardboard boxes he’d offered before.
Seeing a loaf of bread, she grabbed it, along with an unopened package of meat and a yellow bottle. She threw the stuff on the counter, working by rote, intrigued as her hands appeared to understand what she wanted, handling the bread, slathering the mustard, and stacking it with ham. She eyed the two halves with their layers and pursed her lips.
He provided the answer. “The cheese is in the fridge in the drawer on the left.”
Before he’d even stopped talking, she’d flipped around and got the chunk of white wrapped in plastic. He handed her a knife before she could tear into the package.
A moment later, with a thick slice of cheese in place, the sandwich was made and meeting her lips.
As she chewed, he talked. Again. The man never shut up.
“This isn’t a dream, Jane.”
“Yes, it is,” she mumbled between bites. Her certainty only increased the longer she thought about it. How else to explain how she stood in the strange kitchen of some kind of giant cabin in the woods, the log beam walls not something she’d ever seen, even on vacation. The kitchen with its granite was really nice though, as was the two-story bank of windows.
But it wasn’t the location that was oddest of all, but the man facing her.
Man, and not a boy, yet the Adrian Chimera she remembered was a hunched teen in a wheelchair with bottle-thick glasses and hands that had a tendency to twitch.
“What makes you think this is a dream? Can you taste the sandwich you made?”
The tart mustard and the salty ham? “Yup.” She took another bite.
“You feel emotions. Sensation. Way more than any hallucination.”
“Fire.” One word to stop all his arguing. People didn’t make fire with their fingers.
“You’re spec
ial, Jane. You’ve been through a lot. Is it any wonder you were reborn with a few unusual attributes? Think of yourself as Spiderman.”
She snorted, momentarily amused by the image of the man in the red suit swinging on a thread. She poked herself. “Wonder Woman.”
For some reason that made him smile. “Indeed, you are. I, on the other hand, am not a superhero, unfortunately. Do you remember me? Adrian Chimera.”
“Not Adrian,” she stated. He couldn’t be because this guy was old. Perhaps it was his dad?
“I assure you, Jane, it’s me.”
“Old.”
He stiffened. “Older than you might recall, but in excellent shape.”
She eyed him. Yes, he was.
He spread his hands. “Listen, this might be a little weird, but I can explain. You’ve been in a coma.”
“Yup, nightmare.” She nodded, finished her sandwich, and immediately made another.
“No, that’s just it. This is real. You finally woke up after twenty-some years—”
At his claim, she laughed. Twenty years? That was a long time. No one slept that long except for– “Rip Van Winkle.”
“Excuse me? What?” He blinked at her, his expression so like his son Adrian, and yet at the same time, he was nothing like that boy. This man was virile. Strong. Capable.
“Rip Van Winkle. He slept.”
For some reason her reply made him smile. “He did. Just as long as you, too. Twenty years.”
“Still sleeping.” Having the longest dream of her life. But obviously getting close to waking given how clear her thoughts were getting. No more of that weird dream state where nothing made sense. No more screaming without a sound coming out. She’d screamed a lot during her long sleep.
“Oh, Jane.” He shook his head, his expression sad. “This isn’t a dream. All of what you’ve seen and experienced is real. You really were in a coma.”
She frowned. “Accident?”
“Of a sort. Do you remember taking the drugs after prom?”
“I don’t—” She began to say she didn’t do that kind of stuff, instantly indignant, only to see herself with a boy. Benedict. The bottle he pulled from a coat pocket. The tiny white pills in the palm of her hand.