The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance

had a shred of self-control left from years of martial arts training.
    Run.
    The cops were staring at me. I made myself breathe normally, but fought an urge to blast my fists into John Doe’s gut and knock him away from me.
    “It’s OK,” I told the officers, keeping my voice even and calm no matter how much I wanted to scream. Whatever was happening here, I had to find out what the hell it was - and without the audience. “I’ll take it from here. You can go.”
    Both uniformed men regarded me like I might belong on a patient floor.
    “Doc.” One of the NYPD’s finest looked hesitant. “Maybe we should cuff him for you. Leave you the key. The way he cut himself up, I’m not sure you’ll be safe.”
    I waved them off. “I’ve got plenty of help. I’ll just call a tech down here from the second floor.” The lie came easily and I didn’t know why I didn’t take the officers up on the offer to cuff this Adonis when all of my instincts were saying, Run.
    My frown must have let them know I was serious. “You have real sickos to go after and this guy doesn’t look like a threat I can’t handle.”
    After a pause they gave me nods and left without argument.
    As the metal door swung closed behind them, leaving me in the dimly-lit hall facing a man carved up just like my murdered mother, I growled, “What’s your name?”
    John Doe kept looking at me. His lips didn’t so much as twitch. Except for the cuts, the man was as perfect as an Italian Renaissance sculpture. I was caught between a desire to touch him or to slug him and get the hell away from those marks on his chest.
    Was this it for me? Was I finally losing my mind?
    That design on John Doe’s chest. Right over his heart. Sweet Christ. How could it be there? That picture, in that exact place? I was definitely losing my mind. This wasn’t possible. This couldn’t be happening.
    But it was.
    I picked at the edges of my lab coat to remind myself I was a doctor, and I did have a job to do.
    “Come with me.” I motioned towards my office, then took a few steps back down the admissions hallway and waited to see if John Doe would follow.
    He did.
    Slowly. Gracefully.
    Which was a good thing, because even if I called every nurse in the hospital, shots and restraints notwithstanding, I doubted we could have moved that rock-hard body anywhere it didn’t want to go.
    At my office door, I glanced back again, and my senses catalogued every tiny detail about him: the black curls, the tanned face, the greener than green eyes. John Doe’s muscles flexed as he followed me into the room and stood quietly on the polished tile floor.
    I walked to my desk, then turned and leaned against the front. The clock on my right and the window on my left felt familiar. Normal. Some kind of balance when otherwise I might just tip over.
    “What’s your name?” I tried again, in the kindest, calmest voice I could muster.
    Nothing.
    I took a centring breath this time, and refused to let my annoyance rise. “Do you know what day it is?”
    He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown. He didn’t move at all, except for slow, even breathing. I kept trying not to appraise him like a piece of art, but I did it anyway. I couldn’t stop myself. He was absolutely riveting.
    “Do you know where you are?” I asked, my voice cracking as I stumbled through the last of my standard orientation questions. When John Doe didn’t respond to that either, I shifted gears. “Why did you cut yourself?”
    At this, John Doe glanced at his chest, then at me, snagging me once again with the power of his stare, of his presence. I left off the bigger questions about his wounds. Why did you cut yourself like that? Why did you choose exactly that design? But the brightness in his green eyes made me wonder if he didn’t hear my unspoken words.
    Long, heated seconds later, John Doe glanced at my office window and cocked his head, like he was listening to something other than me. His expression darkened, and his muscles bunched as he clenched his fists.
    My chest tightened even as my heart sank, and my hand crept towards the phone on my desk.
    Damn it, but this guy was probably hallucinating.
    What was I thinking, bringing him back here alone?
    Then, as I watched, John Doe’s jeans just . . . changed.
    I froze. Outwardly. Inwardly, I was falling back down that rabbit hole. My lips moved, but I didn’t say anything. My pulse pounded so hard I could hear it in both ears.
    Not my imagination.