He’s a man lover. “I am delighted to be of service, Dr. Angelus,” I said with false enthusiasm as I stuck my hand into his to shake it. A shiver shot up my spine as our skin connected, a warm tingle that ran up and down my body before it centered itself in my cleft-a surprisingly pleasant sensation. Startled, I took a step back and let my hand slip from his. He seemed to notice nothing amiss and turned abruptly from me to head back out to the hall.

I gaped at his retreating body. Where is he going? I didn’t give him permission to leave. With the choice of yodeling after him like some fisherwife or scurrying after him like a peon, I chose neither. He was here to examine me. He’d have to come back.

I draped myself on a couch and had little time to ponder my strange reaction to him and his lack thereof to me. He returned almost immediately-his gait smooth and unlike the shuffle I’d expected of a man who spent days in labs. A thick briefcase dangled from one of his hands and a laptop case from the other. He set them both down and opened the fat one. He rummaged for a moment and pulled out a notepad. He immediately jotted some notes. His head bent over his task, he said not a word to me.

Curiosity burned me, but I refused to give in and ask what he noted. I’d find out later when he slept and I snooped through his things. Privacy was for stupid people who didn’t have enemies. Me, I trusted no one.

The scratching of his pen stopped and he raised his eyes to meet mine. “Sorry, but I wanted to write down my first observations.”

“And they are?” I asked before I could curb my tongue.

I could have sworn mirth flashed in eyes, but he dropped his gaze too quickly for me to be sure. “Um, I wrote that you are an attractive woman appearing to be in her mid to late twenties.”

I preened at attractive-maybe not as immune as I’d surmised. “I was forty when my human side died,” I supplied.