SECRET OF THE WOLF

by Susan Krinard

  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.

  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 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 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.

  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.

  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."

  "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.

  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 surprised to learn that the girl Mr. Ingram searched for was a patient of yours."

  At the moment, Johanna had scant interest in sorting out his motives. "Perhaps you had better start from the beginning."

  "Of course." He sat down and regarded her earnestly. "I had only recently come to San Francisco, with the intention of remaining a few months, when I met Mr. Ingram at a social occasion. You must have heard of him: He is a prominent banker in the city."

  Yes, she knew that much. Mr. Chester Ingram was a powerful man of great influence, no doubt. "Go on," she said.

  "While we were talking, I told Mr. Ingram of my theories involving hypnosis. Mr. Ingram expressed regret that I had not been on hand to look after his wife two years ago, when she ran off with their daughter and disappeared. It seemed that Mrs. Ingram, having become mentally unstable, had labored under the delusion that her life was in danger, though she'd had everything a woman could desire."

  Everything of material goods, he meant. "Was her condition diagnosed as insanity?"

  "You must know as well as anyone," Bolkonsky said gravely. "Did you not meet her yourself?"

  "Yes." There was no point in denying it now. "I did not find her to be insane, merely frightened."

  "Ah." Bolkonsky was a little less cool than before, which hardly rectified his less-than-honorable behavior. Johanna did not trust his cordiality. "Mr. Ingram deeply missed his wife and daughter, and since May was subject to hysterical fits, he was most worried that she would not be suitably cared for. During most of the past two years he had believed both of them unrecoverable. He but recently discovered that May might still be in the area, and was having the possibility investigated.

  "A few days later, he informed me that his daughter was a patient at a small private clinic in the Napa Valley, one administrated by the daughter of Dr. Wilhelm Schell. Naturally, I told him what I knew of your family's spotless reputation. He asked me if I might approach you about releasing his daughter into his care, so as to minimize the girl's discomfort. It is his desire that I should continue any treatment that may be necessary in light of what she has suffered."

  At least Bolkonsky was aware that some trauma might have been involved. He surely underestimated it.

  "I see," she said. "I believe I understand." Coldness seeped into her stomach. "It is true that Mrs. Ingram came to me two years ago, in an extreme state of distress, and begged me to look after her daughter, who was indeed suffering from hysteria. She said she was running from great danger, and could not care for May under the circum-stances. I took the girl in. Mrs. Ingram asked me to promise not to reveal May's location, or her true name, until such time as she returned."

  "But she did not come back."

  "No." Johanna wasn't giving Bolkonsky a whit more information than she had to, and that included news of Mrs. Ingram's recent letter hinting at an expeditious return from Europe.

  Bolkonsky shook his head. "It is a measure of your good heart and devotion to our profession that you have maintained the child at your own expense. Now that is no longer necessary. I know that you must have accepted Mrs. Ingram's mad tales, or you would have contacted May's father long ago."

  Mad tales. Her intuition had long since told her otherwise.

  "She was May's mother. I had no reason to disbelieve her, and I fully expected her to come back within a few months."

  "Of course." Bolkonsky smiled. "You could only offer help to those in need, and maintain your doctor's confidentiality. But now you can hear the truth. I have spoken at great length with May's father. His wife was profoundly disturbed, from a family with a history of madness. Mr. Ingram had her under a doctor's care, but he was unsuccessful in curing her madness. Due to the lapses of an inattentive servant, she escaped with May before dawn one morning."

  And made her way, evidently, to the Napa Valley. "I have seen many patients with such delusions," Johanna said.

  "And sometimes it is difficult to tell where delusion ends and reality begins. But May has been without a parent for two years. There is a certain fear that she might inherit her mother's madness, due to her tendency toward hysteria—"

  "May is not mad." Johanna gathered her feet under her and thought better of it. Be calm. Do not let him see your anger. He must believe you his ally, not his enemy. "She has not suffered an hysterical episode for a year."

  "If she is cured of hysteria, Mr. Ingram and I have you to thank."

  "Perhaps. But she still suffers from extreme shyness and a fear of the outside world, particularly men. You propose to take her from the Haven at a very critical time."

  Bolkonsky nodded with obvious sympathy. "I would prefer to leave her in your care and make the transition very slowly, but Mr. Ingram is eager to be reunited with the daughter he'd thought lost. I anticipated the awkwardness of this, and asked that we continue in consultation with you, and with all due caution, so as not to upset May unduly. Mr. Ingram has agreed."

  Johanna bit the inside of her lip. In spite of Bolkonsky's mild words, she had no doubt that he meant what he said. A parent had legal rights to his child that she, as a doctor, did not.

  Johanna had never known how Mrs. Ingram had heard of the Haven, then so newly founded in the Valley, or why she'd given a strange doctor so much trust. But Johanna had been determined not to betray that trust.

  If even half of what Johanna suspected were true, she dared not allow May to go back to her father.

  There was the chance, however slight, that she was wrong, and Mrs. Ingram was truly unstable. Johanna hadn't had time to assess the woman's condition properly. She'd taken
action based upon her own experience of similar cases over the years—upon that, and May's hysterical state.

  She had no facts, only supposition. Bolkonsky believed Mr. Ingram—or so he said. Only yesterday she'd judged the foreign doctor of sound mind and good heart, but her opinion of him had sunk considerably in twenty-four hours. Her previous trust was out of the question.

  That was grounds enough to proceed with extreme caution.

  "I am glad to hear that Mr. Ingram recognizes the necessity of moving slowly, for May's sake," she said. "She has come to regard the Haven as her home. She will not do well if she is forced to leave abruptly."

  "Quite understandable." Feodor had returned to his former elegant poise, leaving Johanna no doubt as to his confidence. "Between the two of us, I'm certain that we can achieve this in the best way possible." He reached for Johanna's hands. "Together, Johanna. You and I will work together to help May and reunite her with her loving father. I shall consider it a privilege."

  Johanna withdrew her hand before he could make contact. "I think that it might be best if you come to the Haven to visit May before we proceed further. I feel certain that when you see her, you will—"

  "That will not be advisable. As you said, the Haven has been her home for two years. Neutral ground would be better. I suggest that you bring May to me here at the hotel. I have large and comfortable rooms that can serve for any examination or necessary treatment."

  Johanna gazed at him through narrowed eyes. He was prevaricating. May would be better off being evaluated at the Haven, but Johanna sensed that Bolkonsky did not wish to visit her home for reasons of his own. Still, this was not the time to raise objections. She must save her ammunition, and buy time.

  "I will need to prepare her for coming into town. In a week—"

  "I'm afraid her father will not be content to wait so long. He is exerting a certain pressure upon me to act promptly. It must be tomorrow."

  Such coercion explained Bolkonsky's earlier signs of anger. No doubt he disliked being pressured by a client; he was a man who expected to get his own way. How foolish she'd been to be dazzled by him.