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have a dinner engagement.”
    His glance took in my bare fingers. He may not have remembered his life, but he sure remembered how to scope out a girl’s status. “Your boyfriend?”
    “With my boss, Mr. Dante. He owns the clinic. He’s the one who rescued you. And it’s a business dinner. That’s all.” Terfreakingrific. I was babbling. I had to go before I did something else really stupid.
    “When will I see you again?”
    “Tomorrow morning. I usually have breakfast in the main dining hall with everyone else. That’s served between seven a.m. and nine a.m. We can meet in my office at nine thirty.”
    He inclined his head. “Until then.”
    “Good night, Damian.”
    “Good night, Frau Morningstone.”
    I should’ve been glad Damian took the hint to keep our relationship on the required level, but disappointment still whispered through me. I had to work through these inappropriate feelings if I hoped to help the man. That was motivation enough to tell my libido to take a hike. Damian needed me, and I wouldn’t fail him.
    “One more thing, Kelsey.”
    I gasped and spun around. Damian was right behind me. How he’d managed to get so close without making a sound—not to mention how fast he moved—I had no idea. He pulled me into his arms. I stared up at him, wide-eyed.
    “When I get my memories back, I will no longer be your patient.” His confidence bordered on arrogance. “We will be equals.”
    “I would be thrilled if that were the case,” I said. “I want nothing more for you than for you to be happy and healthy.”
    “I want nothing else … but you.” His gaze bore into mine, and I was absolutely astounded by the surety that shone there. He wanted me, he would have me, and that was that. The problem, the really big problem, was that I wanted him back. Shame washed through me. I truly sucked as a psychotherapist. I couldn’t separate my libidinous emotions from my professional ethics. I hadn’t ever been attracted to any of my clients like this, but that hardly earned me a gold star on the morals chart. (Yes, my mother kept a real morals chart. It would’ve been easier to find gold than it was to earn one of those stars.)
    I slid out of his embrace. “Until tomorrow, Damian.”
    “Tschüss, Schätzchen.”
    “What does that mean?” I asked.
    He grinned. “How am I supposed to know?”
     
    I stared into the full-length mirror, examining myself from head to toe. After my shower, I’d pulled on a blue satin camisole with matching lace panties in anticipation of wearing a dress of the same color. My boobage wasn’t plentiful, which is why I often wore bras that made the most of what little I had. On the up side, my B cups made it possible for me to wear camisoles instead of cleavage-enhancing instruments of torture. No way was I gonna give Mr. Dante the impression that I was interested in sexual bennies. That’s why the dress I’d chosen for our evening together opened only a little at the throat and ended midcalf. I was also gonna wear decidedly unsexy black flats instead of slipping into the silver stilettos.
    I studied my hair. It was dark brown, the color of mud, and since I almost always wore it in either a bun or a French braid or sometimes even a ponytail, it hardly seemed worthwhile to worry about its lack of style. It was straight and fine, and always had been. Attempts to put in waves or curls either by chemical or machine always met with disastrous results. I’d resigned myself to the fact that I could only keep it trimmed and brushed.
    My eyes were blue and fringed with thick lashes, probably the most normal feature of my face. I kept my brows waxed, but as natural as possible. Once, I tried that thin, arched look, and it made me appear constantly surprised. My nose was okay, I guess, though a little too pert for my liking. I had good cheekbones, but my lips were too big. And my chin was too pointed. My face looked like a heart, especially the way my hairline curved around