The door clicked shut behind her and it was only several years in patient treatment and the possession of a great bedside manner that made her able to resist a violent start when she first laid eyes on him.

Erik was seated at ease in her usual chair, the comfortable leather wheeled chair that made her job a little more comfortable. One leg was easily draped over the other, and his arms were folded. As their eyes met, he made an infernal tsk, tsk noise with his tongue. She felt her face flush, and that in turn made her fumble for her papers.

"I do apologize, sir," she said, realizing that she had no idea what his last name was, "I was held up with another patient."

He smiled and rose, gesturing her to her own seat, which she took without quite realizing what she was doing. He contented himself with one of the small wooden chairs that rested against the wall in the examination room. Christine had been expecting an answer, but when she was greeted with silence, she realized that she was staring, and, blushing again, she turned her gaze to the file on her lap.

She had almost no idea about how to start this conversation. She covered her discomfort by flipping rapidly through the morass of papers, and it was around thirty seconds later that she realized she would never learn anything about this guy unless it came from his own mouth.

"I must admit, sir, that I was less than adequately prepared for this meeting." Honesty was usually a good thing to start out with, and her awkwardness increased tenfold when she looked into his face. Well…

"Your previous doctor, Dr. Guidicelli, did not supply me with your case history until approximately ten minutes ago, so you'll forgive me if I'm a little flummoxed."

Flummoxed? Cool it Christine, this is an examination, not the SATs.

Another small quirk at the corner of his mouth.

"Quite understandable."

Oh…

"Dr. Guidicelli did impress me as not being quite…professional, shall we say."

Christine had to stop herself once again from staring. If you spoke like that around her, I think I can understand why!

"Well," Christine said, turning her attention once more to the papers on her lap, "why don't I have you tell me something about yourself. I would hate to waste your time by just reviewing these papers."

She nearly bit her tongue as his eyes sparkled with amusement. Great, she'd overbalanced from zealous schoolgirl to kindergarten teacher. She'd never been this off-balance around a patient before, and it was really telling in her manner.

"What can I tell you about myself that is not covered by those eminent physicians who have had the benefit of examining me?" He said, gesturing to the folder in her lap. "I would hate to make a mistake in my own diagnosis, especially should it mean wasting your own valuable time."

Christine felt the beginnings of hyperventilation settling in. Instinct told her that he was playing with her, dangling clues and witticisms high above her head, waiting for her to make a leap that would make her appear at best ridiculous and at worst inept. She stood, and placed the folder on the counter behind her, taking out a clipboard and attaching a questionnaire to it. Usually she despised questionnaires, considering them to be Freudian (whom she hated) and very, very graduate student. But the moments facing away from him were absolutely necessary. Her breathing slowed, and she once again took a tenuous control of her fluttering heart.

I've been trained to do this, she thought. He's smart, but he's obviously disturbed. I can help him. I know I can.

Her smile was in place when she turned towards him and sat.

"I'd like to ask you a few simple questions, just to get the two of us used to each other, all right?" she said, trying not to listen to her own silly platitudes, "It's often hard for a new patient and a doctor to become well acquainted, and I would like you to be able to trust me. If there is anything about me that you would like to know, I'll do my best to answer your questions, all right?"

"Very well, Dr. Dale."

Her lips tightened. "It's pronounced 'dah-leh', actually."

He looked her directly in the eyes. "Why did it bother so that I made a very simple mistake?"

Damn.

She tried to pass it off with a bit of light laughter. "You try going through elementary, middle, and high school with every teacher you ever had saying your name the wrong way!" She scratched some nonsense on the questionnaire, hoping to break his interest in the subject. When she looked up, his eyes were no less intense.

"Did your mother take the name of her new husband?"

Her heart skipped a beat. "H-How did you know that my mother had remarried?"

He nodded towards the two pictures that she kept on the counter. "You have a picture of the man who is obviously your father by himself. Then, a picture of the woman who is your mother with another husband and a new child. Tell me, do you feel obligated to your father to carry on his name? If you got married, I suppose you would insist on keeping your maiden name, wouldn't you? Or maybe you would be more modern and hyphenate? That might be more likely; you do seem to believe most strongly in compromise."

Christine was aware that her throat was very, very dry.

She smiled. "A fair bit of perception. I suppose years of psycho-analysis rubs off on one?"

He placed his hands against his chest and said, "A hit, my Lady, a most palpable hit!"

Her smile broadened. "Romeo and Juliet!"

He nodded, smile matching her own. "Indeed. I was not sure that you would know."

"I have an Associate's degree in theatre."

If she could have seen his eyebrows, she was almost certain that they would have been raised in astonishment.

"Pre-med and theatre? A rather…eclectic mix."

"Medical school is my passion," she said concisely, "but I'd be lying if I said I'd never had dreams of the spotlight. What girl doesn't, really?"

He nodded, his eyes drifting, for the first time, away from her face. She felt as if an enormous weight had been lifted off her shoulders, but almost as soon as she felt that relief, she realized that she should have been questioning him.

"It seems we have no time in which to continue our discussion."

She jumped again at the sound of his voice and glanced at her right wrist. Damn! Where had the half-hour gone?

"Well," she said, feeling the blood rush to her face, "I will need to see you again. Please call the office or stop by on your way out to schedule a new appointment. If we continue to work together, maybe we can consider some kind of weekly regimen."

"Christine," he said, taking her hand and bending over it, "since I am sure we shall continue to meet, I say 'farewell' and not 'good bye'."

He took his black blazer from the back of her chair and, swinging it over his shoulder, left the room.

Christine sank down into her chair, wringing her hands anxiously together. She shivered when she realized she had never told him her name.

She busied herself immediately then, straightening papers in his file and throwing away her questionnaire, sliding chairs back into place and trying desperately to regain her ruffled calm. Of course he was perceptive, of course he was suave. He was afraid, he was insecure, he was nothing more than a man. Nothing more than that.

Christine nearly burst out laughing when she passed the door of her little office, realizing that the plague affixed next to the window had her full name on it. The relief she felt was frightening in its intensity. She giggled and braced herself against the doorjamb, feeling rather as if she could fall over from the strain.

What a little idiot, she thought scornfully. Getting worked up because he could make a couple of close guesses that anyone with a whole brain could manage to come up with. Overwrought and under-prepared. Damn Carly. I should never have gone into that appointment blind!

Oh, yes, tonight was a night for the bottle of very expensive brandy that she kept in her pantry. It had been one of those days