The Vampire Shrink (19 page)

I smacked his hand away.

“A nasty hickey, if you must know. Nothing I'd want my clients to see.”

“A hickey, eh? Someone marking his territory?”

“You, Dr. Radcliffe, are a sexist pig.”

He trailed a finger across the top of my breast and gave me his “Aren't I a naughty boy?” face I remembered so well.

I grabbed the offending finger and bent it backward, causing him to yelp with pain and pull his hand away.

What a jerk. I guess you really can't teach an old horndog new tricks. Why am I even dealing with this fool? Is my old self-destructive pattern really that powerful?

“As usual, you've misinterpreted my actions and you're being irrational.” He rubbed his wounded digit. “Of course, all women are emotional basket cases. Freud was really on to something with his notions of female psychology. Hysterics, every last one of you. I was merely attempting to show you that I still find you attractive. You needn't have resorted to violence.”

Wow. I guess I'm angrier at him than I realized. But he's such an asshole.

I didn't address anything he said because I knew what he was up to, and I was already tired of his games. He just couldn't believe that a woman would turn him down—that his routine hadn't worked. I remember being jealous for most of the time we'd been together because Tom just couldn't resist flirting with every waitress, clerk, or secretary he encountered. Why hadn't I noticed his pitiful insecurity before? And why had I blamed myself?

He stood silent for a few seconds, watching me. “I'm sorry,” he said, so quietly I could barely make out the words.

“What?” I shifted my gaze to his. He couldn't have said what I thought I heard. He never apologized.

He cleared his throat. “I said I'm sorry.” His usual arrogant manner had vanished, like dropping a mask. His brown eyes appeared sincere.

I stared at him, my mouth open, frowning. I lowered the mascara wand. “Sorry? For what?”
What's going on? Is this a trap? Is he setting me up? I'm not sensing anything. Where are my abilities when I really need them?

He blinked a couple of times and sighed. “For the way I broke things off with you. I was an idiot. I regretted it immediately, but I always thought you deserved more than me, someone who could really be there for you—especially after what you went through with your parents—so I forced myself to stay away, to let you think what you now think of me. But I am sorry. I don't want you to hate me anymore.”

The mascara wand fell onto the counter with a clunk, leaving a gummy black blob. “You're sorry?” My brain couldn't process the words. I scanned his face and remembered times when we first got together that Tom had been warm and kind. Before he began to buy into the psychology department's promotion of him as the “next big thing.” Before his ego took over. Times when he really did live up to the potential I saw in him. That's why ending the relationship had been so hard for me. He was the only person I'd ever trusted. But I hadn't seen any evidence of that version of Tom for years. Who was this stranger in my bathroom?

“Yes. I'm sorry. I hope someday we can be friends again. I miss you. You were more important to me than I wanted to acknowledge. I made the decision to focus on my career, and I treated you poorly, pushed you away. I do sincerely apologize.” He rubbed his eyes, then cleared his throat. “But that's about as much self-disclosure as I can stand for one day, so I'm going to stop talking now.”

I watched the mask slip back into place.

We stared at each other for endless seconds; then I reached down for my mascara wand, the surreal spell broken.

I didn't know what to feel in that moment. Sad, confused, shocked? Who knew he could still be human under his shallow, relentless quest for outer success?

“I don't know how to treat you now.” I turned my attention back to the mirror. “You've blasted my assumptions out of the water. Who are you?”

He gave a talk-show-host smile. “I'm still the same Tom you've come to expect. Let's just leave it there. I intend to be the most famous psychologist in the world.”

“Okay.” Back to normal. Abnormal? I'd definitely need to take this bizarre development to Nancy. He'd just rewritten my reality. “A friend is coming by pretty soon,” I mumbled, my face close to the mirror so I could finish putting on my mascara without smudging it. My hands were still a little shaky. I hadn't expected to have such a deeply held truth overturned in a matter of minutes. “We're going out to a club downtown. I meant to call you and cancel for tonight, but I forgot.”

Right on cue, there was a knock at the door.

Sound carried easily in my small town house.

Tom turned and raced down the stairs, yelling, “I'll get it.”

I'd put money on the fact that he assumed my friend would be female.

“Is Kismet here?” Alan asked, giving each syllable a slightly higher pitch, as if he momentarily thought he'd come to the wrong door.

I didn't hear anything for a few seconds, and then Tom obviously recovered from his dashed expectations and reclaimed his innate pomposity. “Yes, of course, please come in. I'm an old friend of hers. Tom. Tom Radcliffe.”

“I'll be right there, Alan,” I called down the stairs. “Just give me a few minutes. Get him something to drink, Tom.”

I went into my bedroom thinking about the weird conversation with Tom and dressed in the outfit I'd laid out for the evening. Then I returned to the bathroom for some finishing touches to my makeup and hair. I even squirted on a hint of the perfume a friend had sent me from Paris on her last trip.

Not having been to a dance club in years, I hadn't known what to wear, but I figured jeans would probably work. I had an expensive pair that I'd bought a few months back and hadn't worn yet, and the length was great for the high heels on my favorite black boots. I'd be even taller than usual tonight, but I felt like taking up space.

I was glad to have an excuse to wear one of my new shirts. It was the color of a summer sky, formfitting and low cut. I'd had to buy a special bra for this top because none of my regular undergarments were skimpy enough.

Going out also gave me a chance to wear the beautiful Victorian azure-drop necklace and earring set I'd bought for myself as a birthday present last year. They matched my eyes perfectly and made me feel feminine—an unfamiliar experience.

Feeling rather excited about the evening, I came down the stairs and joined them in the living room. Alan's lips spread in a wicked grin. He'd dressed in fresh jeans and replaced the wrinkled white T-shirt with a deep-blue version that matched his eyes.

“Wow, you look great,” he said. “Positively edible. And you smell wonderful.”

“Yes, you really do,” echoed Tom.

I said a silent “thank you” to the helpful sales clerk who'd talked me into buying some bright colors and current fashions. Maybe it was time for me to go visit her again.

I felt pretty good, and I had to admit I was enjoying the appreciative expressions on their faces. It had been a long time since I'd dressed up on purpose. It was nice to see that my efforts had paid off. Hell, it had been a long time since I'd had two handsome men paying attention to me. A long time? Try never.

Alan continued staring at me, and I frowned. “What?”

“I'm just amazed by the transformation.” He laughed. “I came to pick up Kismet Knight, PhD, conservative scientist, and instead I find Xena, Warrior Princess. Not that I'm complaining.”

I laughed too, feeling surprisingly lighthearted. Evidently, kicking Tom's metaphorical butt and his unexpected apology had perked me right up. “You don't know me yet. Who can say what other personalities might be hiding in here?”

“I'm looking forward to finding out.” His eyes wandered down my body.

I could swear I physically felt the movement of his eyes.
Oh my. Either the wine is going to my head, or my pilot light just got turned up.

“Ahem,” Tom said, drawing my attention back to him. “I'm surprised, Kismet. It used to be worse than pulling teeth to get you to attend a dance club with me. You never enjoyed them. What's special about this one?”

Well, well. Is the most famous psychologist in the world jealous?

“We're doing some research. Alan is also a psychologist, and he's introducing me to a subculture I'm interested in writing about.”

“Hey, that's terrific. Can I come?” Tom asked.

What the hell's he up to now?

I turned my gaze to Alan, and he shrugged. “It's okay with me.”

“Are you sure, Tom?” I asked him. “Because it will probably be field study—just observation. I remember how you felt about that in grad school. You thought it was boring.”

But I could almost see the wheels turning in his mind as he imagined the sweet, young, scantily dressed subjects he'd be observing. No. Not boring at all.

“I'm sure it will be fun,” Tom asserted, flashing another of his game-show-host smiles. He ran his fingers through his abundant hair.

Hmmm. This could be interesting. A chance for me to hold my own, not only with old-baggage-laden Tom, but also with Alan, a handsome nonclient.

Am I up for the challenge? Hell, yes!

“Okay. Who wants to drive?”

CHAPTER 10

W
e wound up taking Alan's Jeep Cherokee because Tom and I had already put a healthy dent in the bottle of wine.

“What kind of subculture are we observing tonight?” Tom asked from the backseat in a disdainful tone.

Alan and I glanced at each other, grinned, and voiced in unison, “Vampires.”

Tom pressed himself against the front seats. “Excuse me? Vampires? Dracula pretenders?”

His ability to saturate certain words with such arrogance and affectation had to be an art form. Insufferable Tom, once again present and accounted for.

I had to give Alan points for keeping his eyes on the road and not laughing in Tom's face. Half turning within the confines of my seat belt, I fixed my eyes on Tom and gave him my best blank expression. “Yes. Vampires.”

He rested his hand on my shoulder. “
Please
tell me you're not serious.”

I shook off his hand. “I've stumbled across a group of people who believe they're vampires, and I'm going to write about them. I think it's a valid topic for research.”

I sounded way more defensive than I meant to. As if I dared him to contradict me. I didn't know why I felt the need to explain my work to Tom, but I did. Or maybe I was just trying to convince myself.

Tom moved his head from side to side, exaggerating the theatrical back-and-forth motion, his lips tightly compressed. “Kismet, Kismet. You had so much potential. You could have gone to California with me and shared the limelight. You could have been interviewed by Leno. You could have taken a meeting with Dr. Phil. Now here you are, studying pathetic fringe elements in Cow Town. I had no idea my breaking up with you would hit you so hard.”

I must have hallucinated the human Tom in the bathroom.

I straightened rigidly in my seat, kept my eyes riveted directly in front of me, and took a deep breath. My hands automatically fisted in my lap, and I bit my lower lip to hold back the avalanche of words gathering there. I wasn't going to allow the only female psychologist in the group to have a public meltdown. I wouldn't let him push me over the edge.

Apology, my ass. Arrogant jerk. Self-centered, obnoxious, smarmy asshole. Once again, his brain is caught in his zipper. Maybe I can push him out of the car at the next stop sign.

My muscles tensed, and sweat dampened my armpits. It was all I could do to keep myself buckled into my seat, because I was seriously fantasizing about diving into the back and pummeling a little color into Dr. California's face with my knuckles. Maybe give him youthfully puffy lips without him having to go visit his plastic surgeon. Of course, he might have to check in with his dentist afterward. It was so thoughtful of him to remind me he hadn't invited me to accompany him to the West Coast, and that he was now a big shot.

I'd never had a chance to confront him after he dumped me and left town. All those repressed feelings now threatened to break free. No matter how supposedly
sorry
he was for the past, my anger obviously had unfinished business.

Breathe, Kismet. Don't let him press your buttons.

Alan glanced at me, his tongue pushing against the inside of his cheek. “Tom,” he quickly interjected, probably catching my hostile intentions. “Do you remember a series of murders in Los Angeles a while back? They got a lot of media coverage—several bodies found drained of blood? I'm searching for those killers, and I'll find them in the vampire subculture.”

Alan sounded a lot more formal than I'd ever heard him. Psychologists are a competitive lot, and we never miss an opportunity to puff ourselves up for each other. Or maybe it was Tom's hyperpomposity that brought out the pretentiousness in everyone. Regardless of the reason, he did give me a moment to rein myself in. Lucky for Tom.

Oblivious, Tom droned on. “So what are you, a forensic psychologist? What are you going to do with the killers after you find them?”

Alan ignored the superior attitude Tom displayed in his overpronunciation of the words “forensic psychologist,” but I heard him sigh.

“I work for the FBI. I'm an expert on serial killers, in addition to other psychotics, and I'm the agent assigned to the case.”

“How did Kismet get involved in all this?”

“She's the Vampire Psychologist.” Alan grinned. “Here we are.”

Our heads pivoted toward the window as we passed the Crypt, cruising for a place to park. Milling about in front of the main entrance were large groups of twentysomethings: goths, vampire wannabes, heavy metal gods and goddesses, Lady Gaga pretenders, androgynous individuals covered in body art and piercings, and some reincarnated hippies.