Cross Your Heart

by Michele Bardsley

  His lips flickered at the corners, and I swore he’d tried to smile.

  Realizing that I’d been sitting on the edge of my chair gaping up at him, I rose to my feet. “Mr. Dante, please, come in.”

  He was already inside, but he didn’t call me on the obvious flub. Instead, he strode to one of the wingbacks that faced my desk and sat down. I retook my seat and scooted closer to my desk. Mr. Danvers’s and Damian’s files were beneath my fingertips.

  “Are you settling in well, Kelsey?”

  I nodded. He’d switched from Dr. Morningstone to Kelsey. The informality suggested an intimacy in our relationship that made me uneasy. Was he attempting to create a more congenial relationship? Or trying to throw me off guard so he could whammy me?

  Overanalyze much, Kel? Sheesh. Sometimes, being a psychotherapist sucked. I was constantly looking for motives in even the most mundane of gestures.

  “What are your thoughts on our new patient?”

  “He’s confused. Angry. He’s also very intelligent. I got the impression he doesn’t react so much as act.”

  “He will assess his environment to determine the best routes for escape.”

  “More than likely.”

  “You asked Sven to assign him a suite.”

  “A gesture of trust,” I said, feeling rattled. I never realized how much I relied on my empathic abilities until I conversed with Jarron. He spoke in a pleasant tone with a razor edge. He could be halfway into ripping me a new one before I would even realize it.

  “I agree. The sooner Damian is able to accept he is our guest, the sooner we can begin the healing process. Do you believe his amnesia is permanent?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “After I meet with Dr. Ruthers to discuss Damian’s physical injuries and get his assessment, I’ll have a better idea. And, of course, I’ll need to speak with Damian. My gut instinct is that the amnesia is temporary.”

  “Oh?”

  “He was cursing in German,” I said. “But I bet he didn’t realize it. It may be an indicator that his memories are already returning.”

  “I see.”

  I couldn’t tell if Jarron was pleased or dismayed by the idea Damian might regain his memory.

  “Are you free this evening?”

  I stared at him. I was free every evening. I never left the compound because there was no point. I had no friends, my family had disowned me, and going out into public venues, with all those people and their emotions, exhausted me.

  “Kelsey?”

  “I’m sorry.” I blushed, and looked down at the desk. “Yes. I’m free.”

  “Excellent. Please join me in my private suite for a dinner.”

  I blinked up at him.

  “We’ll talk about your plans for the clinic, and your innovative approaches to therapy,” he said.

  His expression was bland, as usual, but there was something dangerous lurking in his eyes. It was like the wolf extending an invitation to Little Red Riding Hood. Did he really want to talk about the clinic? Or did he have something more carnal in mind?

  My stomach squeezed as trepidation spun coldly through me.

  That odd smile fluttered on his lips again, and then he stood up. “I’ll see you tonight, Kelsey.” He paused, tilting his head as he studied me. “Wear something nice.”

  1 Direct descendents of the five families who founded Broken Heart: the McCrees, the LeRoys, the Silverstones, the Allens, and the Clarks.