Page 32 of Truly, Madly Viking

"I like you better in those sheer hose you wore yesterday," he mentioned, "but tight braies have a certain allure, too."

As if she cared!

Okay, she hardly cared.

She was trying not to care.

Oh, lordy!

Heads pivoted as they passed, and not just those of the women staff and patients. Men gawked, too.

Joe Rand was a sight to see. It wasn't just his immense height or good looks. It was the way he carried himself, as if he were someone important. No, that wasn't quite it. It was pride, or grace, or an innate air of leadership... she couldn't say for sure which.

"Do I pass your inspection?" he asked, apparently aware of her scrutiny.

"Just checking out your new duds. Thank God for Goodwill."

She wasn't fooling him one bit. He was enjoying her discomfort immensely. That was especially obvious when his gaze snagged on her lips, and paused.

Was he remembering their kiss?

She had certainly been able to think of little else. And her dreams last night had been X-rated. For a man who disliked kisses, he'd sure known a whole lot of ways to kiss. In her dreams, at least.

"Oh, lady, if you're thinking what I think you are, I am not going to be able to concentrate on anything during this group-therapy business. Leastways, anything except how soon I can bed you."

Maggie gasped. "I was not thinking anything at all like that." Exactly . "I will tell you this, Joe: there can be no repeat of what happened yesterday. I'm willing to overlook one kiss. You caught me off guard. But if you try it again while you're my patient, I'm going to have to excuse myself from your case."

The knowing look he gave her didn't bode well for Maggie. This Viking was going to do whatever he wanted. And he wasn't fooled one bit by her insinuation that the kiss had been a one-sided deal. She had participated, too.

And enjoyed it immensely.

Luckily, they were interrupted then by Harry, who was on his way to a budget meeting.

"How do you do, Joe?" Harry reached out and shook Joe's hand... an action that Joe looked on with puzzlement. "I'm Dr. Harrison Seabold. I know we've met before, but I just thought I'd introduce myself again. Glad to see you moving around, buddy. And talking."

Joe looked at their joined hands, then at Maggie. "Is this a gesture of welcome in your land?"

"Yes. Exactly," she said, which prompted him to reach out and shake her hand, as well... heartily.

"How do you do?" he repeated woodenly.

"Not quite so tight," she advised, and he loosened his iron grip.

"See," he pointed out as they continued to the end of the hall. "I can adapt to your culture."

In little ways, he could. But Maggie wondered how he would handle the bigger things—like his first group-therapy session.

The others were already there when they arrived, sitting about in a circle of folding chairs.

Steve Askey was an attractive, fiftyish former professional baseball player and Navy SEAL vet, who suffered from PTSD, posttraumatic stress disorder. His alcoholism and subsequent self destructive behavior had already resulted in a broken marriage, which had further escalated his problems. Despite being on the wagon for a year, he thought he had no future. She could see it in his posture as he slumped in his chair, staring at nothing.

Chuck Belammy, thirty, was purported to have multiple-personality disorder, except that his was the darnedest case Maggie had ever heard of. His personalities were animals: a cow who ate grass and mooed all the time, a galloping horse, a chicken pecking for kernels of corn, a rooster crowing—which could be annoying in a hospital setting—and a slithering snake. His animal personas all had names. Right now he must be Bessie, because he was making mooing sounds and chewing his cud. Actually, Chuck's "animal MPD" was a sham... something the very intelligent young man had dreamed up to throw his doctors off track. Underneath, he hid some other mental problems that he deemed too horrible or embarrassing—to share... yet.

Natalie Blue, twenty-four, was agoraphobic—afraid to leave her house, even to go shopping. Ironically, she dreamed of being a country-western singer, which would be impossible if she was unable to perform before crowds. But she'd progressed tremendously in the past six months. At least now she came to them as an outpatient. There was a time when she'd been unable to leave the security of her bedroom.

Rosalyn Harris, twenty-eight, was a mousy librarian, when she was able to work. Most often she just rocked back and forth. Sometimes Rosalyn mutilated herself. Thus far Maggie had been unable to diagnose the cause of her condition, except that she had feelings of low self-worth. Rosalyn lived at home and was brought to the clinic weekly by her parents, who insisted on her getting therapy because they believed she was anorexic. Maggie thought there might be some other reason for her withdrawal...

something Rosalyn had yet to disclose.