And the staff adored Adam, she mused. It was obvious. Collins—a sometimes footman and sometimes member of the serving staff—had noticed that her husband had finished his sautéed mushrooms, and he quickly dished out another serving. Of course, the trollish fellow managed to appropriate a few for himself, but Eve didn't begrudge them, since those with troll blood were notoriously fond of truffles.
Taking a bite of braised rabbit, Eve listened to Adam's response to one of Pavlov's remarks. Eve's lips twitched into a smile as she noted that even her assistant seemed impressed.
Pavlov began laughing at something Adam said. He did have a dry, wicked wit, she admitted, and he obviously relished playing doctor. She just wished he'd play it on her.
Watching his handsome face break into an engaging grin, Eve realized that she was more than fond of him. Until this dashing rogue had burst into her life like a Nosferatu springing from a coffin, Eve had preferred her heart just where it was. Life had been much simpler then, but it was so much more fulfilled now. Was this love, this awakening of the senses whenever he was near? When he was gone, she felt a hollowness inside. At times like that, she found that she had to actually resist the temptation to go running to find him.
As Collins sidled forward to pour her more wine, she pondered this marvelously scary feeling, and what would happen if love blossomed full force. Adam was an adventurer, an ex-privateer. If he got the urge to wander again, what would she do? What could she do? If he chose to someday leave her, whom would she tease about digging holes with Fester? Who was brave enough or foolish enough to dance and sing in the rain with frogs and Frankensteins? Who would wink at her over Mrs. Monkfort's shoulder? And how in the world would she live without Adam's impassioned kisses? Yet an adventurer was an adventurer, and prone to wander. She had to beware.
Adam choked back laughter. His wife's glances were quite different now from when he'd first arrived. Thank goodness he had always been difficult to discourage. She was everything he could have hoped for in a mate—a feisty little autocrat, yet tenderly concerned with her patients. She was a kind commander, but also managed to be firm. Coming to know her had been one of the high points in his life. He had formed a great respect for her accomplishments. She had become a psychiatrist at a time when most women were content to be put upon a pedestal and endlessly admired and feted for their great beauty. Not Eve.
It was beyond strange, Adam thought, that as lovely as she was, Eve was one of the least vain women he had ever met. It was due, he reasoned, to the fact that most of her time was taken up with helping others—which had ironically made her even more beautiful.
Her kind nature had actually worked against him recently, as she'd been tending to her patients. But he had a battle plan. Eve was a Bluebeard: deny her something she wanted and she would fight to the death to get it. She wanted him, and was just now beginning to realize it. His feigned disinterest should drive her mad with desire, and by the look in her eyes it was working. He was more than relieved, not knowing if his passion for her could go another unrequited night.
Pavlov concentrated on the cherries jubilee, but Adam sipped his wine, leaning back in his rose brocade chair. His eyes fixed firmly on Eve. His grand battle plan would come to an end tonight; it had been decided when she walked into the room in all her glory. She was ripe for the plucking. He would have her in bed and on his body or beneath his body, crying out in ecstasy. Theirs would be an earth-shaking release. Tonight he would get his cock in a position to be envied.
Her husband's heated eyes burned into her, causing Eve to blush. Flustered, she glanced at the grandfather clock on the wall. "We have an hour to reach the Scientific Museum of Supernatural Studies," she said. "Dr. Sigmund's lecture starts then. We can't be late."
"Absolument. Dr. Sigmund would have your head, Dr. Eve. He hates tardiness," Pavlov agreed. "My friend will arrive soon to take me with him. I dare not be late either. Those troll eyes of Dr. Sigmund's can be intimidating when burning with anger."
Adam grimaced. "I know we are engaged to attend, but I must confess that I hope this lecture isn't on chamber pots."
Eve sighed. "Since he is the head of the funding committee, I can't risk not attending." She added with a conspiratorial smile, "However, I feel we are both in luck. Tonight his lecture is not about chamber pots. He and Dr. Hartley will be discussing the treatment of bizarre behaviors of the chaos-ridden mind. Also, there's something about some werewolves named Petersen and Borden, and how multiple personalities can manifest with lycanthropy."
"Sounds riveting," Adam replied. But still. What could a troll really know about a werewolf?
"Fraud. I thought you enjoyed playing doctor," Eve said—so softly that Pavlov wouldn't hear, her teasing words fraught with fondness.
This, Adam understood, was a good sign. Eve was coming to value his talents, and to trust him. Both qualities he felt were essential in a truly harmonious and loving marriage.
Leaning toward her, he tenderly lifted her hand to his mouth and stared with heavy-lidded eyes into hers. "With you there, my dear, it will be highly entertaining. If nothing else I can absorb your beauty. Besides, I live in hope that Dr. Sigmund will mention his rooster theory again, as I do find that quite interesting. Perhaps you and I might discuss the applications of it later." Yes, from the look in her eyes, she was ripe for the plucking. And once Eve was plucked, they could settle down and nest for life. By thunder, how he loved her, even with her lair of lunatics.
Eve stifled a groan and felt another blush flushing her cheeks. Adam was such a little devil when he wanted to be.
Pavlov, missing the undercurrents of sexual tension, remarked thoughtfully, "Oui, I've taken several of his classes. His barnyard begrudgement is a more recent theory, however, and I feel that it is not that impressive. I believe my behavior patterning will someday overshadow it. Everyone will know of my bells. Still, I am interested in his theories on multiple personalities. I've always felt that shifting from animal to human form must take a toll on the psyche. So many werecreatures are insane."
Adam studied Eve's assistant, then turned back to her. "Do you agree?" he asked. "Do you think that all werecreatures are likely to be demented?" He didn't believe she felt that way, but he needed to know. He had thought to reveal his paranormal nature tonight, after they made love. But if she thought shape-shifters were basically unstable, he might think more about his confession first.
"Of course not," she replied, cocking a brow at her assistant. "Really, Pavlov, I've told you that your theory of rampant insanity among werecreatures is a fallacy—with the exception of wererats. I've always felt that they are a bit off balance."
Adam grinned, remarking, "Probably because of their tiny little feet." He knew she was talking about Captain Hook.
Pavlov looked surprised, then joined in Eve's laughter.
A loud noise shattered their mirth as bells began to toll, their loud peals filling the air. In unison, all three turned toward the huge stained-glass window, and they stared out at the bell tower. In unison, all three growled, "Hugo."
The bells continued to ring, and Pavlov's obese dog came flying through the dining room doors. With practiced ease he leaped onto the brocade chair next to his master. His expression was blissful, his speckled tongue hanging out, and he waited to be fed, panting and wriggling. Pavlov had trained him perhaps too well.