Page 20 of Truly, Madly Viking

"Precisely," he answered. But then the mischievous god Loki whispered in his ear, and a tantalizing idea tugged at him. With as much casualness as he could garner, he remarked, "Except in your case I might consider being your..." He deliberately let his words trail off.

He wasn't really serious. Leastways, he did not think he was. Jorund was a man little bent toward humor. And the teasing taunt he'd thrown out to the wench was so out of character it fairly boggled his already boggled mind. It must be the confinement, and the shock of his death or whatever the hell had happened to him, even the influence of his frivolous brother or the damned orca. Or mayhap the blame could be laid on the first temptation he'd felt in a long, long while.

"What?" she prodded finally. "I want you to be free to speak your mind, Joe. Nothing is out of bounds in the psychologist/patient relationship. So tell me. You might consider being my... what?"

"Love slave."

"Love slave?" Maggie squeaked out.

As a professional, Maggie shouldn't have been shocked. Patients made outrageous suggestions to her all the time. But when the proposition came from a compellingly handsome man with pale blond hair, translucent gray eyes, and suntanned skin... well, Maggie had to admit to a teensy bit of temptation.

She would have to be extra careful not to cross that ethical line between patient and doctor... even if the patient was drop-dead gorgeous, despite the fact that he wore boring blue hospital issue pajama bottoms, ankle restraints, and a white straitjacket. Even his bare feet, which were huge—a narrow size thirteen, she would guess—were surprisingly sexy.

She had to smile at that latter whimsy. Yep, there were strange goings-on inside Maggie these days, if she was getting turned on by feet. Actually, the psychiatrist in her had a ready, logical explanation: on a big, strong man like Joe, his bare feet appeared vulnerable and open to... well, touch as other parts of his covered body were not.

Her face flushing with heat at the mere thought of touch, Maggie experienced a twinge of guilt as she glanced at the restraints that were put on him whenever she entered his room. They were necessary, though, even with a security guard posted outside the door, because he fought confinement. Fighting back was a natural reaction, of course, but it proved that he could be dangerous, until hospital experts could complete a diagnosis.

He was lounging on the bed now, his back propped up by two fluffy pillows and his long legs spread out on the narrow mattress, crossed at the ankles. His posture said he was relaxed, but the tension of the corded muscles in his neck said he was ready to pounce at the first opportunity.

He nodded in response to her question, which she'd already forgotten with all her musings. Oh, yes, she'd exclaimed at his ridiculous loveslave proposition.

"Yea, a love slave." He spoke slowly, with a strong foreign accent. Clearly English was not his first language. "Release me from these restraints, and we can negotiate an agreement."

She shook her head and pulled her chair closer to the bed, pencil and notepad at the ready. It was time she got a more complete background on this guy, now that he'd finally deigned to speak. "I can't release you till we're certain you won't harm others, or yourself."

"Why would I harm myself?" he scoffed.

She shrugged. "Lots of people do."

He looked skeptical at that statement.

She smiled as some of his words flitted through her brain. "You would actually negotiate a contract to be a... love slave?" Her face heated up over those last words.

To her dismay, his intelligent eyes registered her embarrassment, and he winked.

Oh, my God! He winked at me. Whoa! Since when is a wink an erotic signal? Maybe my girls are right. Maybe I really do need a man. No, no, no. That's the last thing I need.

Maggie also saw the way his eyes scanned her body, from the top of her short hairdo, over her silk blouse, short skirt, and sheer stockings, down to her high heels. The jacket that matched the skirt hung on a wall peg back in her office.

She was attending a seminar later today.

Joe liked what he saw—Maggie could tell by the brief flicker of his eyelids and the dilating of his pupils, especially as his gaze paused over her breasts—and she had to force herself not to react, either in anger or withdrawal.

It had taken Maggie years to become comfortable with her body. As a young girl who had developed much earlier than her friends, and as a young woman who had always had a curvy, voluptuous figure that made males think she was "easy," Maggie had gone out of her way to dress in a manner that would hide her figure, and to behave contrary to her sensual nature. But she was changing—her short, saucy hairdo and the belly-button ring being the most recent signs— and she no longer dressed repressively. If people wanted to form the wrong opinions of her, that was their problem, not hers. She didn't wear slut clothes, but then she didn't dress like a librarian, either.

That didn't mean she felt entirely comfortable under the carnal scrutiny of this handsome fellow. But she wasn't dying of mortification, either.

She held her chin high in defiance, and he chuckled, as if he understood... which was impossible, of course. She hoped.

"You would actually negotiate a contract to be a love slave?" Even as Maggie repeated her question, she wondered why she was pursuing this line of questioning. In her own defense, psychologists were taught to go with the flow of the patient's dialogue... to lead unobtrusively, when necessary, but mostly to follow, without censorship.

"Yea... if it would bring me closer to freedom."

"Have you ever been a love slave before?"

His eyes shot wide at her question. "Nay. Have you?"

"No," she answered with a nervous laugh. "And I'm not interested now.'"