Free In Like a Lion by Karin Shah Page B

that first interview when he’d said—what were his exact words? I’m one hell of a threat .
    Tears seared her eyes. Even given her new suppositions, his earlier statement carried the ring of truth.
    Insane or not, who knew how much control he had in one of his other forms? As a dragon, he had been as massive as he’d been beautiful, not to mention the claws like knives and the three-inch teeth. And she had heard of lions in Africa reaching as much as five hundred pounds.
    He was a threat.
    Anjali wrapped her arms around her chest and headed for Mr. Kincaid’s office, arranging and re-arranging the words she had to say. “It has come to my notice that—”
    That what? That Jake is a . . . a . . . What word should she choose? Shapeshifter? Shapechanger? Were-something?
    She froze with her fist hanging over Mr. Kincaid’s door and backed away. It all sounded crazy.
    She needed more data.
    The elevator dinged. Darcy was probably heading back. Not wanting to make up a lie, Anjali lunged for the door leading to the stairs.
    Once on the stairwell, she halted, catching her breath, her inner scientist in control.
    This was a medical puzzle like any other. What she needed to do was dive into a solid scientific investigation.
    She started down the stairs, but a picture popped into her head.
    A cartoon coyote taking a swan dive into what he thinks is a crystal clear lake. Seeing the dry lakebed beneath him, his eyes bulge to the size of dinner plates. Arms windmilling, he tries to climb the empty air before punching a coyote-shaped hole in the dirt.
    She shook her head and trotted down the stairs. Where had that come from? This was a respectable company. She wasn’t going to end up a crater in the desert. She opened the door to the hallway, shooting a glance at the camera in the ceiling—most likely.
    After Anjali left, Jake closed his eyes. Thank God. No way did he want her to see him lost in the grip of his delusions.
    A lingering scent traced through the air on a current propelled by the HVAC system. Cinnamon, cardamom, ginger, and woman. He inhaled deeply. She smelled like heaven.
    She’d looked like a hell.
    At least, he was sure she probably thought so. Her hair had hung to her hips in a midnight black tumble of waves. Her eyes had seemed huge in her fine-boned face. He could see something was troubling her. Even in the tumult of his madness, he’d longed to comfort her. Wanted to be the person she ran to when she needed reassurance.
    Did she have someone like that? Was she married? He shouldn’t care, but he did.
    She wore no ring, but maybe Indians didn’t.
    No. He would have smelled the mark of another male. And she held herself with the self-contained consciousness of a woman without much experience.
    Far different from the women who’d wanted to use him, but found themselves his victims.
    He caught the beginnings of a growl at that thought and moved to the mirror over the washstand in the corner, finding his own human face staring back at him. He had been so swept up in his thoughts about Anjali, he hadn’t even noticed the ebb of his illness.
    Though he hated to look at himself—Anders, and others, had made it clear he was no prize in the appearance department—he’d never had any trouble convincing women to let him close enough to steal from them. What was it that women liked about this face? Eyes, nose, mouth, he had the same as any man. Sure his features were even, but he found them sharp, even ugly. Maybe the problem was he knew the man beneath the face.
    A man so at the mercy of his insanity, he would smile and sweet-talk a woman all while robbing her blind.
    Disgust made him turn away from the mirror.
    He had no right to think about Anjali. Still, her face lingered in his mind. Did she have someone to go home to? What would it be like to be that man?
    He stared at the metal grill over the bulb in the ceiling. A bulb covered so he couldn’t break it and use it to hurt himself, or someone else.
    Even