Dance with the Devil: Chapter 5

The next couple of days pass similarly. Doctor Devil has work dinners the next two nights, so I end up wandering around downtown for a place to eat alone. So far, it’s Frankie: 0, San Francisco: 2. The food hasn’t been terrible, but both places I’ve tried have been touristy and busy. I debate asking Dr. Kincaid for some recommendations, seeing as Sam Wo was delicious when we went together. I debate going back, too. Since he lived here, he probably knows of all the good places to eat. However, I don’t want to seem desperate to have a meal with him again, and it might come off that way if I ask.

I’m usually asleep by the time he gets back to the room, and in the mornings he’s gone—presumably to give me space to get ready. The only thing giving me proof of life are his brief and detached emails to accompany him to certain talks and panels. He’s quiet when we’re together—almost like he’s lost in thought. My hands are sore by the end of each day from taking copious amounts of notes, and I clean the notes up and send them to him via our shared cloud folder every afternoon before catching up on emails in his stead.

On the third night, I happen upon a small restaurant in North Beach that has decent food, so now the score is Frankie: 1, San Francisco: 2. However, halfway through my meal, a young family sits down at the table next to me. It doesn’t help that the mom—a young woman with long, dark hair and her partner—look just like my ex-fiancé and me. To rub even more salt in the wound, their son appears to be about three, and he gleefully chews on his breadsticks and giggles in the way that can make even the most-hardened person crack a smile.

June was his due date, I think glumly. He’d be almost three today, like this child.

This family could have very easily been me if things hadn’t gone completely wrong.

If I hadn’t lost everything.

My food turns to lead in my stomach and I can hardly touch the rest of the delicious pasta I ordered. My skin tingles with envy and grief all at once—and a yearning so strong that I have to blink away tears as I quickly walk away from the restaurant and away from the ghosts of my past.

I’m hardly paying attention when I turn a corner to catch the touristy cable car back to Powell Street when someone says my name.

Not just anyone, either.

The last person I want to see right now.

“Francesca?”

I inwardly groan as I look up at Dr. Kincaid, who appears to be walking in the same direction with a couple of colleagues. One of them is holding his leftovers in a brown paper bag, and they all stare at me with concerned expressions.

I hate it.

I hate when people look at me with pity, I’d had enough of it to last a lifetime.

I swipe at my wet cheeks. “Hi,” I say quickly.

His brows pull together and he looks around, as if the reason I’m crying is nearby. I want to tell him that it’s worse—that I’m crying over something that might not happen again.

Something that almost was.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I tell him. “It’s just allergies.”

The screeching brakes of a nearby cable car down the street catches our attention, and we both quickly walk over to board the cable car together. I choose the outside where I have to hold on because I enjoyed it on the way here, and Dr. Kincaid and his colleagues take the nearby bench. To my surprise, Dr. Kincaid settles right in front of me. His legs are so long that his knees bump into mine, so he spreads them slightly to accommodate me. It takes me a second to realize that I’m essentially standing between his legs now.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, green eyes flicking between mine.

And fuck, I want to tell him. I want to talk about how a little over three years ago, I thought I was living my happily ever after. Maybe it was the two glasses of wine that I had with dinner, or maybe it was seeing that young family. My mouth opens and I almost tell him everything.

But something stops me.

I’d been hired on the spot during the interview process, and this job—while vexing most of the time—had saved my life. I’d been spiraling badly when Ari saw the job posting and had applied for me in the midst of my grief journey. But I was living with my mom in Encinitas and I was declining mentally every single day. After everything happened and Jake—my ex—asked me to move out, I had almost no money to my name. I’d quit my job and had planned on staying home since he made enough money to support us.

Dr. Kincaid had offered me more than Jake’s yearly salary to start, and I couldn’t say no.

Not when it was my one chance to start over.

Several months later, I’d saved enough for a minuscule down payment and I bought the house I currently own. Day by day, I started picking up the pieces of my life.

What if I told Dr. Kincaid what had happened to me and he fired me for oversharing? I hated my job most days, but I needed it.

Still, the way he’s looking at me…

I decide to offer him a half-truth—a vague morsel of my past.

“I’m not, but I will be tomorrow. I just saw something that spooked me.”

His eyes are so bright, green, and intense. It makes me wonder if he can see all the way down to the bottom of my soul.

It certainly feels like that with the way he’s looking at me.

“Your ex-fiancé?” he asks, his voice low enough so that only I can hear it.

I huff a laugh. “Yeah.”

“Can I ask you something?” I swear I see his eyes flick to my wrist, where my small, pink orchid tattoo is peaking out.

Does he know what it means?

His brows are pulled together as he awaits my response, like he’s genuinely curious.

God, he looks good—legs spread, a dark gray suit with a black overcoat…

I could so easily step closer.

I could so easily risk my job another way.

My stomach drops somewhere deep and low when I imagine one of his large hands coming to my bare thigh, moving under my skirt slightly, the calloused tip of his thumb brushing against my underwear…

“Yes,” I answer, my voice a little too husky.

“The baby blankets… is there a reason you make them?”

His question startles me, and I stare down at him with my mouth hanging open. He must sense my surprise, because he shakes his head and continues talking.

“Your Etsy shop was on your application, and I’ve been meaning to ask you about them since I hired you.”

Anger lashes through me, and I press my lips together before I can shout what I’m thinking: That’s none of your fucking business.

“Sorry, that’s a personal question,” he adds gruffly, clearing his throat. His face is resigned, though, which tells me he’s inferred what it could possibly mean. It’s not hard—why would a single woman spend her free time making baby blankets? It’s not exactly a lucrative business, so it must be because I want to.

I don’t answer him or elaborate. A small part of me is still terrified of losing this job, and I’m mortified that he knows I call him Doctor Devil. He could—and should—fire me for that alone. Why would I want to give him even more ammunition to let me go?

The cable car bounces up a steep hill before we crest and even out, and I nearly gasp when the view of the city comes into view. The sun is nearly done setting, and the purple sky enhances the deep blue color of the bay and light-colored Victorian buildings around us.

“Gorgeous, right?” Dr. Kincaid asks me.

I look at him just as we begin a descent down the next hill. The cable car lurches. My hands are sweaty because of his earlier question, which causes me to lose my grip on the wooden pole. I yelp as I begin to lose my footing, arms flying out for the next pole, but Dr. Kincaid grabs hold of my coat and roughly pulls me onto his lap.

“Christ, Francesca,” he murmurs, nearly panting. His eyes are wild as they search my face, and my heart thrashes against my ribs, from nearly falling off the cable car, or from the way he’s looking at me, I’m not entirely sure.

“I’m fine,” I say softly, shifting so that I can stand up again.

He lets me, but something in his expression is hard and protective. Like he doesn’t want to let me go.

I stand up again and grab a hold of the wooden pole, and this time, Dr. Kincaid’s legs come to either side of mine again—this time, he hooks his ankles around my feet to keep me in place. I can feel the warmth of his thighs against my bare legs—the latter of which I have to press together to quell the pulsing sensation between my legs.

A few tense minutes later, we arrive at the end of Powell Street. It’s another couple of blocks to the hotel. The other doctors who’d gotten on the cable car with us turn to face Dr. Kincaid and me.

“We’re going for drinks down the street,” one of them says directly to Dr. Kincaid. I notice he doesn’t attempt to invite me, which is typical. Men like him don’t see me as an equal, they see me as the help.

“I should make sure Francesca gets back safely,” he says sternly.

“Aw, she’ll be fine. We can see the hotel from here,” one of the other doctors says, hands in his pockets. “Come on. It’s the one and only time I can have fun without worrying about the wife.”

I grimace. “I’m just going to go,” I tell Dr. Kincaid. “You should go out. It’s early, and I have plans with Netflix and a large bowl of room service ice cream.”

One of the doctors snorts his disapproval, and Dr. Kincaid glares at him as one of his hands comes to the small of my back.

“I’d rather ensure my assistant gets back safely. Have fun,” he practically growls before turning away, his hand on my back guiding me with him.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I tell him. “He’s right, you can practically see the hotel from here⁠—”

“You’re doing me a favor, Francesca. Trust me.”

“How so?” I ask.

“Every year, those three convince me to go out with them to dinner, and it usually entails going out, drinking too much, and fucking anyone that’s not their wives. It sickens me, and I’m glad I had an excuse to spend my night with you instead.”

My stomach flips at that last part, but I ignore it as we walk closer to the hotel.

“It’s terrifying that they’re some of the best pioneers in psychiatric medicine and research.”

“Not everyone can be as chivalrous as you,” I tease.

He frowns. “Chivalrous? That’s a first. I’m not known for my chivalry.”

Goosebumps spread across my skin. “What are you known for? Obviously nothing like them,” I add.

He stops walking and turns to face me. “Just because I’m against evil doesn’t make me good. Trust me.”

I laugh. “You help people every day. I’ve seen it,” I reply, trailing after him as he opens the door of the hotel for me.

“I help my patients, but we’re not talking about that, are we?” he asks, not looking at me as he strides toward the private elevator.

Once we’re inside, the doors shut us in together, and I turn to face him. “You’re not a bad person, in case that’s what you’re insinuating.”

“Let me ask you this,” he drawls, his voice a low purr. “Do you think men like my colleagues are born like that, or do you think it’s circumstantial? Are monsters born, or are they made?”

I open and close my mouth as the elevator dings and the doors slide open. Dr. Kincaid exits the elevator and walks over to the door of the suite.

“It depends,” I offer, crossing my arms and leaning against the door so that he can’t open it.

Instead of asking me to move, however, he takes a step into my personal space and reaches for the key card in his back pocket. My breath hitches and I nearly gasp as his hand brushes mine, pressing the key card against the black pad right next to my waist. I expect him to push the door open, but he doesn’t. One hand comes to the door, laying flat just above my head and pinning me to the spot.

“I’ve spent my career trying to figure out that question. Are monsters born, or are they made? Are we predisposed to certain things, or are we forced into them due to the environment we’re raised in?”

“Both,” I offer, chest rising and falling. He’s so close⁠—

He lets out a cruel laugh. “I think we’re born with darkness. And I think certain things cause that darkness to seep into our bloodstreams. Like a chemical being activated and turned on. My colleagues are having some harmless fun, sure, but what about the rest of the population who think about the most depraved things imaginable? What stops a person like them from raping or assaulting the women they fuck?” he asks, his voice laced with venom.

My eyes flick between his, which are now a dark emerald rather than the light, lime color they typically are.

“Just food for thought,” he muses, eyes trailing down to my lips.

An electric shock zaps through me when he does, ending between my legs and causing my nipples to harden. His breath smells like wine and cinnamon, and this close I can see the gold flecks sparkling in his eyes—which are accentuated by his dark, thick lashes.

“That’s the second time you’ve no-so-subtly told me to stay away from you,” I breathe, trying to get oxygen to my lust-filled brain.

“And you should listen,” he nearly growls.

He taps the key card again and pushes the door open, causing me to stumble backward.

I take a few steps into the room and watch as he closes and locks the door.

Just keep your door locked, Francesca.

Since there’s nowhere for me to go other than the bedroom, I start walking toward that part of the suite.

“Good night, Francesca,” he murmurs, sifting through some paperwork he picked up during one of the sessions earlier today.

“Night.”

I walk inside the bedroom and close the door, but I don’t lock it.