She leaned back in her chair and wondered what he found so fascinating in the back room. Had he seen the mess her associates left? “There’s significant research indicating that dreams reflect our real-life concerns and are helpful in coping with conflict or solving problems. I operate on this theory.”
He stood suddenly. “You’re not psychoanalyzing me, Doc. No way. No how.”
“First of all, I’m not a doctor. Yet. Secondly, I have no intention of trying to psychoanalyze you or anyone else.” She exhaled sharply. “Could you sit down? You’re making me nervous.”
He muttered a mild oath, shrugged out of his leather jacket, and then tugged at the neckband of his T-shirt as if it were too tight. “Yeah, right.”
“Would you let me finish?”
Eyeing her with distrust, he lowered himself back to the chair as he tossed his jacket to the side. “Brenda told me there wouldn’t be any psychobabble involved.”
Emma bristled, but she kept her cool. “This is a science. Not psychobabble. And like I’ve already assured you, anything discussed here is confidential.”
“That’s the thing, Doc.” He ruffled his hair in a gesture of frustration. “Every time you remind me this is confidential, I get a rash.”
Her gaze flew to his arms, his neck, any exposed skin.
“Figuratively speaking, of course,” he added. “Exactly what kind of questions are you gonna ask me?”
It took her several seconds to realize he’d spoken to her. His plain white T-shirt stretched snugly across his chest. Every muscle group was nicely represented. His arms weren’t too shabby either. Firm, rounded biceps strained against the hem of his sleeves.
“Doc?”
“Stop calling me that.” She quickly met his gaze. He seemed bewildered. Thank God he didn’t know she’d been ogling him like a silly teenage girl.
“Why not? You’re going after your doctorate, right?”
“Ultimately.”
“So, start acting the part.”
“That’s called fraud.”
He drew his head back, clearly surprised. “No, it’s not. You have a vision of who you want to be. Fake it till you make it. You’ll get there faster.”
She frowned, not quite grasping his point, but both fascinated and irritated with his new authoritative demeanor. “May we get back to the study?”
“I’m serious.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on her desk. “What I’m talking about is a perfectly legitimate way to attain a goal. It’s the same principle as when job counselors tell you to dress for the job you want, and not the one you have.”
It was easy to understand why he’d achieved success early. His solemn tone of voice, and the intensity in his eyes gave her a glimpse of the man who’d been driven to succeed. What an intriguing side to him.
She tapped her pencil on the edge of the desk. “The study?”
“Sure.” He grinned suddenly, and leaned back, looking totally relaxed. “Doc.”
There it was.
That subtle indefinable quality that drew women to him like ants to a picnic. Was it his slightly mischievous grin?
Or was it the way his gaze held her captive, as if telling her he wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was she. Amazing really, how the attraction crept up before you knew what hit you.
Luckily she was able to respond in a strictly professional, scientific manner. She cleared her throat, checked her bun. “Okay, where was I?” she mumbled, her voice still sounding a bit creaky, so she cleared her throat again. “Oh, yes, my method and theories.” She was back in control, unmoved, untouched by the darn devil in his eyes.
“I won’t lie to you, I believe that dreams reveal important facets about ourselves in metaphorical forms. They show us how we feel about others, about our relationships, and about ourselves, for that matter. They help illustrate our hopes and fears and weaknesses, and as an interviewer and interpreter, I will be pointing out—” She stopped, frowned. “What are you doing?”
“Huh?” He raised his gaze to hers. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”
“No, you weren’t. You were—” She brought a hand to her mouth and futilely felt around for anything foreign. God, there was probably something stuck in her teeth.
“Okay, so you caught me.” That devilish grin again. “Did you know you have perfect lips?”
She squinted at him, certain she’d heard incorrectly.
“Perfectly shaped. Perfect fullness. Perfect shade of pink. You should be doing lipstick commercials.”
“Mr. Ryder, I don’t think—this isn’t the time or—just knock it off.”
“What?” His eyes widened in genuine surprise, and then he nodded with annoying understanding. “I embarrassed you. I apologize. However, I only meant it as a compliment.” His lips curved in that smile. “Besides, you caught me staring.”
“You didn’t embarrass me.” Right. Heat singed her cheeks and she knew they were redder than an August tomato. “But I would like to stick to the business of the study.”
He threw her a questioning look, and then shrugged. “Of course. I didn’t mean to distract you.”
The hell he hadn’t. She stared down at her notebook so she wouldn’t glare at her subject, piss him off, and then have to go beg and barter for a new one again.
“As I was saying,” she said, slowly, each word deliberate, “I believe dreams do tell us a lot about ourselves, and I will of course, interpret the information you give me, but ultimately only you will know what each dream means to you.”
He snorted.
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing.”
“You always make rude noises for nothing?”
Amusement lit his dark eyes, and his mouth started to curve in a slow smile. “Sorry, Doc, I didn’t mean to rile you.”
“Right,” she muttered, and stared down at her notes. They weren’t really notes. Just something to look at while she collected herself.
How could this guy be so charming and annoying at the same time? The laughter that seemed to spring to his eyes was the irritating part. As for the rest of him…
Well, he did have a great chest and shoulders, broad, muscled without being in-your-face. And though Emma couldn’t honestly remember being impressed by a man’s hands before, she found herself periodically studying the way his long lean fingers restlessly, silently tapped the desk. That in itself wasn’t remarkable, but they inspired a sudden erotic image of him caressing her breasts that about knocked her over.
She took a deep breath. What was wrong with her? Having lustful thoughts about a virtual stranger was not her style. Especially not one who could make or break her thesis.
“Are we done here, or what?”
Nick’s impatient voice broke into her preoccupation, and try as she might, she couldn’t do a darn thing about the flush that crept up her neck and ripened her cheeks.
“Tomorrow we’ll get started,” she said calmly. “So it’s important that you record anything and everything you remember about tonight’s dreams.”
“Sometimes they’re a little X-rated.” He smiled. “Is that a problem?”
Great. “Record everything.”
“Everything,”