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“That’s ridiculous,” Bianca had said. “Why would I do that?”

“Why wouldn’t you?” the woman had answered, ending the interview.

Score one for Dr. Edison. Bianca sighed as she checked the contents of her tote. Actually, score two, because she’d done as bad or worse with the male subjects.

So far, she’d interviewed nine of them.

Two had been informative and honest.

An astounding seven had found it difficult to believe that what she wanted from them was data, not hookups.

Men.

What was it that made them so arrogant? So sure of themselves? Even the ones who had nothing to be arrogant or sure about, not just the ones who did, not just the Chay Olivieris of this world…

And what was he doing in her head again? And what was that nonsense about him having something to be arrogant about?

Yes, he was good-looking. Yes, he could hold up his end of a conversation. And yes, he certainly knew how to dance.

Unfortunately, he was also a rat.

Bianca dug into her tote. She had a compact buried somewhere inside. There it was. She snapped it open and peered at herself in the mirror.

Good.

She looked professional. No makeup. Her hair was in its usual neat ponytail at the nape of her neck. Combined with a dark pantsuit plus sensible shoes—her usual outfit—the way she looked might keep tonight’s interviewee—Noah? Yes. Noah—from reading things wrong.

That hadn’t worked with seven other guys, but she still had hope, especially since Noah had come across as a low-key, quiet person in his responses to her questionnaire.

She needed, desperately, to end the research portion of her study and settle into writing her dissertation and preparing to defend it, and that kind of get-it-over-with attitude was not a good way to feel about the work she’d spent months planning and more months researching and collating.

She kept reminding herself that she had, in fact, gathered some useful data. Epstein had even suggested that once she had the dissertation written, it might be that rare paper that would pique interest outside the hallowed halls of academia.

“I know we’re supposed to gag at the possibility some TV show or magazine might sit up and take notice of something we do,” Dr. Epstein had said with a wink, “but a little commercial success never hurts.”

Bianca scooped up a couple of pens and a small notebook, and she tucked them into the tote.

Yes. But what she did in this office, working with patients Epstein called difficult—though calling them individuals with possible sociopathic leanings might be closer to the truth—made her feel as if she were doing something of value. The work was often draining and sometimes disturbing, but always rewarding.

Almost always.

Her thoughts bounced to the patient who’d called her in Texas. Only Epstein, who was also the founder of East Side Associates, knew what those calls had involved, the litan

y of sick perversions her caller had whispered he was planning for her.

Not even Bianca’s training had kept the horror of his words from making bile rise in her throat.

The man was out of her life now, someone else’s worry. He’d have been locked away in an institution if it weren’t for his family name, his money, his bristling denials—and the fact that his new therapist, a nationally famous psychiatrist, said he was responding well to treatment.

Still, the experience had left her jumpy. On edge. And she hated being like that.

Bianca rose from her desk and went to the closet. Maybe, with luck, she’d left an umbrella in it. Or a jacket. The rain had increased in intensity. She could hear it pelting against the window, and a couple of jagged streaks of lightning, accompanied by still-distant rolls of thunder, made it clear she wasn’t going to reach Cuppa Joe’s without getting wet.

Thud!

She spun around, heart racing—and breathed a sigh of relief. It was only the tote. It had fallen on its side.

Yes, she was definitely on edge.