that hidden skin was as soft as her hands...the only part of her body he'd touched...unless you counted his dreams.
And he had no intention of counting them.
A film of perspiration broke out on his forehead as he tried desperately to control his feelings...his desires. Kay had excited his desires, and Kay was dead.
"Eliot," she said, "come on in. Thurman should be here any time. He always leaves things to the last possible moment."
Eliot rose and preceded her into the office. God, he hoped Thurman got there soon. At the same time, he hoped Thurman never got there, that he could be alone with Leanne.
He took a seat in the familiar gray leather recliner and looked around the office—anywhere but directly at her. She'd opened the curtains today. The considerate gesture didn't escape him.
Like her reception area, her office was furnished tastefully in a subdued, professional manner in contrast to her home which was cheerful and comfortable. In her living room last night he'd become entirely too relaxed. For a few minutes he'd forgotten that Leanne was a doctor doing a job. Especially with Thurman taking over that role, for a few minutes he'd fancied an emotional touch between Leanne and him.
He made a resolution to stay away from her house.
But how could he keep Edward away? If there was a connection between the women he was attracted to and Edward, then he had to keep all personal thoughts of Leanne from his mind.
She settled behind her desk and took out her tape recorder. Her actions, her expression, everything about her was completely businesslike. And still he was incredibly aware of her as a woman.
She might be his only chance to achieve sanity...yet at the same time being with her might provoke the next step in his descent into madness.
His palms on the soft leather chair arms were damp.
Leanne studied Eliot and fervently wished Thurman would get there. For the first time since she'd been an intern, she was nervous with a patient.
She'd like to believe that her fear was a normal concern for her personal safety in the presence of a mentally ill person who might be a murderer. But that wasn't all of it. In spite of her common sense and ethical training, something inside her responded to the barely-veiled desire in Eliot's eyes every time he looked at her.
Transference, she told herself sternly. The patient frequently became obsessed with the analyst. An occupational hazard. She was experienced enough to know that.
Maybe her brain knew that, but her emotions didn't.
As always Eliot wore a conservative suit and tie, but the expensive fabric and well-tailored lines failed to disguise the outlines of thigh muscles she knew would be hard and solid to the touch, of a broad chest that she fancied would be covered with a mat of hair the same color as that on his head.
She pressed the button on the recorder. "Did you have any more dreams last night?"
"No," he answered. "No more dreams. I didn't sleep very much after everything that happened.
"That's certainly understandable." She hadn't slept much either...had tossed and turned, kicked off the cover and pulled it up, dozed off only to wake with a start dreaming of Eliot's hands on her body, her throat, choking her, caressing her.
At the moment his long fingers clutched and massaged the leather fabric of the chair arms. She stared at them in hypnotic fascination, unable to look away.
A quick knock sounded on the door she'd left partially open, and she breathed a silent prayer of thanks. "Thurman? Come on in."
"Sorry I'm late. Rush-hour traffic. I'd forgotten what a misnomer that is. Nobody can possibly rush." The older man strode in looking ten years younger. Being back in practice seemed to agree with him.
He scooted over a chair and sat close to Eliot, facing him. "So how are you today, Eliot?"
"Good. No more dreams."
"Are you ready to find out what's happening to you?"
"Yes," Eliot replied, his voice firm.
She rose and drew the curtains over the wall of
And he had no intention of counting them.
A film of perspiration broke out on his forehead as he tried desperately to control his feelings...his desires. Kay had excited his desires, and Kay was dead.
"Eliot," she said, "come on in. Thurman should be here any time. He always leaves things to the last possible moment."
Eliot rose and preceded her into the office. God, he hoped Thurman got there soon. At the same time, he hoped Thurman never got there, that he could be alone with Leanne.
He took a seat in the familiar gray leather recliner and looked around the office—anywhere but directly at her. She'd opened the curtains today. The considerate gesture didn't escape him.
Like her reception area, her office was furnished tastefully in a subdued, professional manner in contrast to her home which was cheerful and comfortable. In her living room last night he'd become entirely too relaxed. For a few minutes he'd forgotten that Leanne was a doctor doing a job. Especially with Thurman taking over that role, for a few minutes he'd fancied an emotional touch between Leanne and him.
He made a resolution to stay away from her house.
But how could he keep Edward away? If there was a connection between the women he was attracted to and Edward, then he had to keep all personal thoughts of Leanne from his mind.
She settled behind her desk and took out her tape recorder. Her actions, her expression, everything about her was completely businesslike. And still he was incredibly aware of her as a woman.
She might be his only chance to achieve sanity...yet at the same time being with her might provoke the next step in his descent into madness.
His palms on the soft leather chair arms were damp.
Leanne studied Eliot and fervently wished Thurman would get there. For the first time since she'd been an intern, she was nervous with a patient.
She'd like to believe that her fear was a normal concern for her personal safety in the presence of a mentally ill person who might be a murderer. But that wasn't all of it. In spite of her common sense and ethical training, something inside her responded to the barely-veiled desire in Eliot's eyes every time he looked at her.
Transference, she told herself sternly. The patient frequently became obsessed with the analyst. An occupational hazard. She was experienced enough to know that.
Maybe her brain knew that, but her emotions didn't.
As always Eliot wore a conservative suit and tie, but the expensive fabric and well-tailored lines failed to disguise the outlines of thigh muscles she knew would be hard and solid to the touch, of a broad chest that she fancied would be covered with a mat of hair the same color as that on his head.
She pressed the button on the recorder. "Did you have any more dreams last night?"
"No," he answered. "No more dreams. I didn't sleep very much after everything that happened.
"That's certainly understandable." She hadn't slept much either...had tossed and turned, kicked off the cover and pulled it up, dozed off only to wake with a start dreaming of Eliot's hands on her body, her throat, choking her, caressing her.
At the moment his long fingers clutched and massaged the leather fabric of the chair arms. She stared at them in hypnotic fascination, unable to look away.
A quick knock sounded on the door she'd left partially open, and she breathed a silent prayer of thanks. "Thurman? Come on in."
"Sorry I'm late. Rush-hour traffic. I'd forgotten what a misnomer that is. Nobody can possibly rush." The older man strode in looking ten years younger. Being back in practice seemed to agree with him.
He scooted over a chair and sat close to Eliot, facing him. "So how are you today, Eliot?"
"Good. No more dreams."
"Are you ready to find out what's happening to you?"
"Yes," Eliot replied, his voice firm.
She rose and drew the curtains over the wall of
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