The Vampire Shrink (3 page)

Just as I exited the building, I caught a blurred movement out of the corner of my eye and noticed a shadow to my right. I felt the hairs on my arms rise and I froze. My stomach tightened and my breath caught as a male figure stepped away from where he'd been leaning against the wall. He stood there, gazing at me, smiling, almost close enough for me to touch. We locked eyes for a long moment. The light shining out of the front of my building was bright enough for me to notice that he was gorgeous: tall and toned, with long blond hair, dazzling eyes, and snug leather pants.

Hey, wait a minute. Stop ogling the good looks of the guy who's about to jump on you, and run!

And I did.

For someone who sits on her butt all day talking to people, I can still move pretty fast when I want to. I am blessed with one of those long, lean runners' bodies, an inheritance from my father's side of the family, and my body fat percentage is on the low end. But thanks to my mother's genetic contribution, I am too well-endowed to actually enjoy running on a regular basis.

The fight-or-flight instinct is an awesome thing.

I sprinted over to my car, clicked the lock, yanked the door open, jumped in, secured the door. My heart was pounding out a heavy-metal drum solo in my chest as I fumbled the key into the ignition. My hands shook so badly, it took a couple of tries to get the car started. My throat was so dry it hurt.

Once I was safely barricaded and the reasoning portion of my brain had sauntered back to the party, it occurred to me that I hadn't heard any footsteps following me as I ran. No voices yelling for me to stop. Still shaking, I scanned the area in all directions but could find no threat of any kind. The handsome mugger or rapist or whatever he was had vanished. Or maybe it had been some regular guy, enthralled by my grace and beauty, and I'd scared him off when I'd bolted.
Yeah, right, Nerd Woman.

Maybe he was just there waiting for a friend and I'd overreacted. He probably hadn't really been a danger at all. It certainly wouldn't have been the first time I'd freaked out over nothing.

But I had to admit I'd never seen such a fantastic-looking man in person anywhere before, much less standing in front of my building. What were the odds that such a magnificent hunk of manhood would need to troll the streets for female attention? Of course, as a psychologist, I know better than to judge a book by its cover. Perverts come in all shapes and sizes.

My heartbeat finally began to slow down to something approaching normal. I had to say that was the most exciting thing that'd happened in weeks, which said a lot about the pathetic state of my social life.

I sat there for a few minutes until the adrenaline rush subsided, and then shifted into drive.
I need a new office with a receptionist, a doorman, and underground parking
. I drove out of the parking lot and steered the car along one of the many one-way streets that confounded the traffic in downtown Denver.

I caught a red light a few streets over, which gave me a moment to check out the nightlife in this popular part of town. I usually left my office before the fun and games started, so the streets familiar to me in daylight were a whole new world after dark. A magnificent old church, apparently converted into a busy nightclub, took up an entire city block. It really was a beautiful building. Such incredible stained glass. Funny that I'd never noticed it before. Groups of partygoers stood on the sidewalk, laughing and talking, performing one illegal act or another. Many of them were dressed in the same kind of costume Midnight had been wearing: so many potential clients all in one place! I briefly considered parking the car, mingling with the crowd, and passing out my business cards. There had to be several books' worth of material to be gleaned from the characters hanging out in front of the gothic cathedral. But that would take bravery—or extroversion—I didn't have.

Just as the light turned green and I put my foot on the gas, I saw a tall man with long blond hair step down the entrance stairs. He nodded and waved at me when I passed.

Distracted and unnerved by the events of the last hour, I drove home to my new town house, punched in my security code, and locked myself into my own personal sanctuary.

I lit an aromatherapy candle, poured myself a glass of white wine, sat down in my favorite chair—one of those huge puffy types with an equally large ottoman—and stretched out, letting my thoughts wander back to the blond man who'd waved at me.

That was just too weird. My mind must have been playing tricks on me. It couldn't possibly have been the same guy I saw in front of my building, could it? Well, wait a minute. That club was only a couple of blocks from my office, and if he had been the man who saw me run to my car, then it made sense that he could have recognized the car again when I passed him. It was merely a coincidence he was at that particular club and that I noticed the place today.

Just a coincidence.

But the fact that he actually waved at me gave more weight to the notion that I'd overreacted and he hadn't meant me any harm.

Maybe.

Unless he was a sociopath who enjoyed messing with people's minds.

Oh well. No use fretting about that now. I would definitely be seeking a more secure office location. And some pepper spray.

I carried my glass of wine over to my desk, opened my briefcase, and spilled out all the vampire material I'd printed. Then I fired up my computer, clicked on the TV, and prepared to spend the next couple of hours researching possible topics for a new book.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Count Dracula,” blared from the speakers.

Startled, I looked up at the TV, then laughed. There he was, the sexiest vampire ever: Frank Langella as Dracula, circa late 1970s. He had the best lips—pouty, full, and definitely come-hither—and eyes that wouldn't be denied. One of my college roommates had been a real vampire fan, and she had an extensive collection of bloodsucker movies. This version was her favorite.

I sat back and enjoyed watching Frank's lips for a while, savoring my glass of wine. As the end of the movie approached, I clicked off the TV because I didn't want to watch those sweet lips get fried by the sun in the film's inevitable finale.

As I drank the last few sips in my glass, I had a sudden memory of the last time I'd watched that movie in college, sitting with my roommates and listening to them scream at the end, rooting for the vampire to break free and fly away. Afterward they all talked about what fun it would be to invite some dark, window-tapping stranger into their beds.

Hmmm. I linked my fingers together behind my head. Vampires as erotic fantasy material. Listening to my roommates that long-ago night, the budding psychologist in me had been intrigued, but I considered vampires to be horror movie and comic book fare. I was not the kind of person who believed in the supernatural or the mystical. I'd found that most things turned out to have mundane, predictable explanations.

Of course, since then I'd taken the required class in Jungian psychology in graduate school and I knew all about his theory of synchronicities—the interconnection between inner and outer realities based on the idea of a collective unconscious. Jung said that there are no coincidences and the universe functions through an unknowable intelligence. I could even agree with that on an abstract level. Yes, it did seem odd I was experiencing things that appeared to be related on the surface. But contemplating the cosmic possibilities of metaphysics was a helluva lot different from believing in vampires.

Still. This had been one strange day.

CHAPTER 2

I
spent most of Saturday immersed in my vampire research. It turned out there were millions of vampire pretenders in the world, and reading through some of the websites gave me a better understanding of the scope of the illusion. Most of the wannabes were very sad—young people searching for meaning, connection, and love in a world where they hadn't found any. Some were simply drawn to the excitement, danger, and forbidden fruit. Then there were the walking wounded who had crossed the line between acting out and psychosis.

By the time I woke up at dawn on Sunday morning, I had formulated a plan of action and I was excited. It had been a long time since I'd felt passionate about my work. I was going to become the Vampire Psychologist. Well, Vampire-Wannabe Psychologist, anyway. Starting Monday, I would run ads in all the local newspapers and online classifieds, offering both individual and group psychotherapy for vampires.

Yes, I thought, mentally rubbing my hands together, this had best seller written all over it. I had found a brand-new dysfunction of the week that mixed genuine mental illness with just enough scary occult sensationalism to make it a bona fide hit. Maybe I'd even get to go on
Dr. Phil
!

While I daydreamed about my impending stardom, my stomach growled in angry protest. When had I last eaten? I tended to forget mundane details such as food and strolled into the kitchen to forage for something edible. As usual, the refrigerator was cluttered with old takeout boxes, the contents of which were no longer recognizable, along with bottled water and a substance that had probably once been cheese. My kitchen was a potent reminder that while I was exceptionally organized and efficient in my professional life, I was completely oblivious to its other aspects.

Shopping falls into the category of torture for me. Not only do I have all the impatience of my type A personality to deal with, but being around all those people—their energy, I guess, for lack of a better word—wipes me out. According to my parents, I'd always been “too sensitive,” too receptive to the moods of those around me. I suppose that's why I became a psychologist, but my sensitivity certainly complicated the rest of my life.

I spent most of my childhood thinking I was crazy—or cursed. Normal kids didn't spend time hiding in closets, talking to invisible friends, and picking up bits of people's thoughts. I learned very early to keep my weirdness to myself, to isolate so nobody would notice. It took years for me to integrate my extra senses, to acclimate to the strange hand I'd been dealt.

And if my psychic “gifts” weren't stressful enough, I always got teased in school for being a nerd. The brainy girl with no fashion sense. The shy loner with her nose in a book, cowering in the corner. Thanks to my reclusive parents, I was the poster child for social anxiety. I just couldn't see the point of worrying about trivial things like parties, friends, or clothes when there were so many mind puzzles to solve. So many mental illnesses to cure. At least, that's what I told myself. I had a moment of feeling sad for the terrified child I'd been, always observing instead of living.

Another stomach growl prompted me to call my local deli for a breakfast bagel. Picking up the phone, I heard the beeping sound that told me I had messages.

I made coffee, poured myself a cup, then punched in the retrieval number to access my calls.

The first message made me grin. It was from Vaughan, the cute chiropractor I'd met when we'd both volunteered to answer phones at the local PBS fund-raiser a couple of months ago. I think he'd called me once before, but I couldn't remember if I'd returned the call or simply thought about returning it. He really was adorable, with his light-green eyes, curly chestnut hair, and that delicious dimple. It probably wouldn't hurt to call him back. After my spectacular failures with men, I'd become such a wimp about dating. It was just so much easier to hole up at the library.

Hearing the next voice made my breath catch and my knees go weak.

My heart pounded and my palms moistened. I grabbed the counter to keep my balance.

“How can he still do this to me after all this time?” I said aloud.

Dr. Thomas Radcliffe. My first love. The man I'd been willing to change my life for. The man I'd thought was the answer to my prayers. The man who had told me I didn't excite him anymore and who'd dumped me for an airy-fairy astrologer who wore crystals and smelled of patchouli oil. Even after all this time, thinking about him still made me want to cry. It had been two painful years, and I had only recently started to feel good about myself again. Two long years of going over everything I'd said and done, trying to understand what it was about me that hadn't been quite good enough for him. Shades of my lonely childhood.

“Kismet? Are you there? Tom Radcliffe here. Oh well, I guess I'll leave a message. I know you'll be sad you missed my call, but I wanted to let you know I'll be in Denver for a conference and we should get together for lunch, catch up and touch base, do some networking. You have my cell phone number. Give me a call.”

“Catch up and touch base? Do some networking? You arrogant ass.” I forced myself to breathe as my heart rate calmed.

He always talked that way. Pompous. Oblivious. I wondered if his vocabulary had expanded to include all the astrological information he surely must be privy to now. Would he tell me that Mercury was up Uranus, and that's why he'd broken my heart? No matter. I had no intention of meeting him for lunch or anything else. The welcome mat had definitely been pulled out from under Tom Radcliffe. He might still have the keys to my libido, but the rest of me wouldn't be going along for the ride anymore. I pressed the button to erase his message and called the deli.