As Eve listened, she couldn't help but be a tad impressed. This Adam character certainly had a way with words. Whoever he was or wasn't, he was quick on his feet, just like her good old da.
"I see. Then it's much like your wife's Verbal Intercourse treatment," Dr. Sigmund remarked. He gave a nod of his head, pleased at making the connection so swiftly.
Adam caught a glimpse of his wife's fleeting admiration. Even so, he felt some little demon urging him to provoke her further. He found he couldn't resist. "I know, and I must say that my wife's intercourse therapy has always aroused my interest. It keeps me up nights, I must say."
Hold steady, Eve told herself silently; don't fire your cannons yet. "Lord love a duck," she muttered to herself. Boiling in oil, walking the plank, fifty lashes tied to a mast, and being fed to the sharks—absolutely none of these punishments was enough for the devious, demented deviant before her. Just get through the dinner party and then you'll get the answers you need, she added. Totally ignoring Adam, she marched up to the next patient's door and inclined her head toward the heavy oak. "Here we go."
All eyes swung to the door. "And this room is held by whom?" Dr. Crane asked.
"This particular patient is a werewolf who has delusions. Mr. Pryce sometimes thinks he's a common housefly," Eve explained.
"I can imagine he's quite the desperate housefly," Adam remarked with a strange gleam in his eye. "One night you're a four-footed wolf running free; the next you're a flying pest."
Eve knocked on the door, wishing it were Adam's fat head. "Mr. Pryce, we're here to see you. I have brought the guests I spoke to you about."
Opening the door, Eve walked in. The room was disorderly, but the others followed closely behind, their curiosity piqued.
Mr. Pryce, a rather sallow-faced man with thinning hair, was not handsome at the best of times. At present he was on his hands and knees, his scrawny buttocks thrust up in the air. He made a buzzing noise as he licked a substance off his table.
Wandering over, Adam glanced down at the sticky golden goo. "I see it's true. You do catch more flies with honey. And there's always a Pryce to pay."
Eve sent him a speaking glance, which clearly indicated for him to shut his mouth. He obliged momentarily, since he was fascinated by her patient.
"Cos'e'questo?" Count Caligari questioned, and then, realizing he had spoken in Italian, repeated his words. "What's this, a fly?"
"Yes," Eve said, "so it will do precious little good to try to communicate with him."
"Fascinating!" Dr. Sigmund cried as he eyed the man before him like a bug under glass, even if he was a werewolf on a table. "Does he ever talk when he's like this? Does he hear voices, or the call of the wild in this altered state? What's the buzz?"
"The buzz? When he is in this altered state, he only makes that odd humming noise, as you can hear."
"Yes, I see," Dr. Sigmund remarked, staring at the wiry little man on the table. "Not in essence moonstruck. When he is in possession of himself, what has he revealed of his relationship with the chamber pot? What do you know about his potty training?"
Eve shook her head. "His potty training was perfectly normal. I talked with his mother about it."
Adam couldn't help himself. "Is the mother a fly-by-night insect as well?" he asked. He hadn't been so amused since he helped sink the Flying Dutchman with the Dutchman aboard. "Does being bugger-all run in the family?" As he looked at Eve's glaring face, the word mulish came to mind.
"Of course not! His mother is perfectly normal."
Adam grinned at her reply. For most humans, werewolfism wasn't a normal state.
They all walked out and back down the hall, and Eve said, "Mr. Pryce is quite a nice man when he is not in his insect delusion, or tearing up the countryside as a wolf. He has few debilitating fears… except for the conservatory."
"Fear of the conservatory?" Dr. Crane questioned, arching his neck.
"We have several large Venus flytraps in the conservatory," Eve answered. "I thought of getting rid of them, but I… didn't want to pamper the patients' phobias to excess," she added, not altogether truthfully. The last part of her statement had been added strictly for the odious count's beastly benefit. Her mother had brought those flytraps from Greece to celebrate Eve's tenth birthday. The two women had decorated them with tiny silver bells and pink seashells, but the flytraps had eaten them, mistaking the decorations for lunch. Eve and her mother had laughed for hours. Therefore, Eve would never get rid of the flytraps, not even for a patient.
Adam's face broke into a wide grin, and there was more than a trace of laughter in his voice. "Yes, I can see where those plants might be a problem."
"You have the compassion of a goat," Eve hissed at him softly.
He turned and smiled. "I know you are wishing me to Jericho right now, but the trip would take me away from you. And I don't want to deprive you of my company any longer," he replied.
"You're utterly maddening. Impossible! Just wait until I get you alone!"
Adam found the threat terribly interesting. "I wait with bated breath."
He didn't have to wait long. Dr. Sigmund soon took his leave, telling them all that the funding committee would be making its decision in the upcoming weeks, and then all the guests said farewell.
Adam heard the front doors bang closed as Eve ushered him into her study. She slammed that door herself, and turned to face him. A lesser man would have taken flight at the look of utter fury in her eyes.
He grinned, for he was not a lesser man.
Chapter Eight
Analyze That, Barnacle Breath!
"Blast you to smithereens, you bounder! What in the bloody hell do you want?" Eve demanded.
"I already have it," Adam replied. The little imp within him couldn't help but enjoy the spectacle of vexation that flowed over Eve's beautiful face. Her dark blue eyes glittered like stars in the sky, her cheeks were flushed a becoming peach, and her bosom was heaving. He very much liked how it heaved.
She was magnificent in her fury. Hopefully, he would soon have her beneath him. Perhaps not this night, but soon, very soon. His world had tilted the moment he had seen Eve. She had set his bachelor life to sinking.
"Who told you about me? Who else knows?" Eve questioned, a ruthless gleam in her eye. Her heart was thundering in her chest. Who was this man, and exactly what knowledge did he hold in his grubby little hands? Would he reveal her hoax? Would all and sundry soon know of her deception? She needed to analyze the situation and stop imagining the worst. "Is this blackmail? What exactly are you after—money? If so, you're extremely foolish." No one blackmailed a Bluebeard.
"It's not blackmail, and how utterly insulting an accusation," Adam retorted with disgust. "I have seen and done many illegal things, but blackmail isn't one of them."
"Who told you about the nonexistent Adam? How in the bloody world did you get here?" she pushed, even though deep down inside she knew the answer: her fiend of a father and his infernal interference.
He batted not an eyelash as he answered, "By carriage."
Infuriated, Eve grabbed a porcelain figurine off a shelf and threw it at the brigand. "How did you know to come to the Towers, blast it? How did you know a real husband might not be lurking in the shadows to call you out? I could have a husband waiting in the wings to duel you."