Mind Over Matter

by Nora Roberts

  soft spot to show. And a woman—a woman took terrifying chances if she let a man see that which was vulnerable. A. J. Fields wasn’t taking any chances.

  Tugging down the hem of her jacket, she took a last survey before grabbing her briefcase. In less than twenty minutes, she was unlocking the door to her suite of offices.

  It wasn’t an unusual occurrence for A.J. to open the offices herself. Ever since she’d rented her first one-room walk-up early in her career, she’d developed the habit of arriving ahead of her staff. In those days her staff had consisted of a part-time receptionist who’d dreamed of a modeling career. Now she had two receptionists, a secretary and an assistant, as well as a stable of agents. A.J. turned the switch so that light gleamed on brass pots and rose-colored walls. She’d never regretted calling in a decorator. There was class here, discreet, understated class with subtle hints of power. Left to herself, she knew she’d have settled for a couple of sturdy desks and gooseneck lamps.

  A glance at her watch showed her she could get in several calls to the East Coast. She left the one light burning in the reception area and closeted herself in her own office. Within a half-hour she’d verbally agreed to have her nervous brunch appointment fly east to do a pilot for a weekly series, set out pre-negotiation feelers for a contract renewal for another client who worked on a daytime drama and lit a fire under a producer by refusing his offer on a projected mini-series.

  A good morning’s work, A.J. decided, reflecting back on the producer’s assessment that she was a nearsighted, money-grubbing python. He would counteroffer. She leaned back in her chair and let her shoes drop to the floor. When he did, her client would get over-the-title billing and a cool quarter million. He’d work for it, A.J. thought with a long stretch. She’d read the script and understood that the part would be physically demanding and emotionally draining. She understood just how much blood and sweat a good actor put into a role. As far as she was concerned, they deserved every penny they could get, and it was up to her to squeeze it from the producer’s tightfisted hand.

  Satisfied, she decided to delve into paperwork before her own phone started to ring. Then she heard the footsteps.

  At first she simply glanced at her watch, wondering who was in early. Then it occurred to her that though her staff was certainly dedicated enough, she couldn’t think of anyone who’d come to work thirty minutes before they were due. A.J. rose, fully intending to see for herself, when the footsteps stopped. She should just call out, she thought, then found herself remembering every suspense movie she’d ever seen. The trusting heroine called out, then found herself trapped in a room with a maniac. Swallowing, she picked up a heavy metal paperweight.

  The footsteps started again, coming closer. Still closer. Struggling to keep her breathing even and quiet, A.J. walked across the carpet and stood beside the door. The footsteps halted directly on the other side. With the paperweight held high, she put her hand on the knob, held her breath, then yanked it open. David managed to grab her wrist before she knocked him out cold.

  “Always greet clients this way, A.J.?”

  “Damn it!” She let the paperweight slip to the floor as relief flooded through her. “You scared me to death, Brady. What are you doing sneaking around here at this hour?”

  “The same thing you’re doing sneaking around here at this hour. I got up early.”

  Because her knees were shaking, she gave in to the urge to sit, heavily. “The difference is this is my office. I can sneak around anytime I like. What do you want?”

  “I could claim I couldn’t stay away from your sparkling personality.”

  “Cut it.”

  “The truth is I have to fly to New York for a location shoot. I’ll be tied up for a couple of days and wanted you to pass a message on to Clarissa for me.” It wasn’t the truth at all, but he didn’t mind lying. It was easier to swallow than the fact that he’d needed to see her again. He’d woken up that morning knowing he had to see her before he left. Admit that to a woman like A.J. Fields and she’d either run like hell or toss you out.

  “Fine.” She was already up and reaching for a pad. “I’ll be glad to pass on a message. But next time try to remember some people shoot other people who wander into places before hours.”

  “The door was unlocked,” he pointed out. “There was no one at reception, so I decided to see if anyone was around before I just left a note.”

  It sounded reasonable. Was reasonable. But it didn’t suit A.J. to be scared out of her wits before 9:00 a.m. “What’s the message, Brady?”

  He didn’t have the vaguest idea. Tucking his hands in his pockets, he glanced around her meticulously ordered, pastel-toned office. “Nice place,” he commented. He noticed even the papers she’d obviously been working with on her desk were in neat piles. There wasn’t so much as a paper clip out of place. “You’re a tidy creature, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” She tapped the pencil impatiently on the pad. “The message for Clarissa?”

  “How is she, by the way?”

  “She’s fine.”

  He took a moment to stroll over to study the single painting she had on the wall. A seascape, very tranquil and soothing. “I remember you were concerned about her—about her having dinner with Alex.”

  “She had a lovely time,” A.J. mumbled. “She told me Alex Marshall was a complete gentleman with a fascinating mind.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  “Clarissa doesn’t see men. Not that way.” Feeling foolish, she dropped the pad on her desk and walked to her window.

  “Is something wrong with her seeing men? That way?”

  “No, no, of course not. It’s just…”

  “Just what, Aurora?”

  She shouldn’t be discussing her mother, but so few people knew of their relationship, A.J. opened up before she could stop herself. “She gets sort of breathy and vague whenever she mentions him. They spent the day together on Sunday. On his boat. I don’t remember Clarissa ever stepping foot on a boat.”

  “So she’s trying something new.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” she said under her breath. “Have you any idea what it’s like to see your mother in the first stages of infatuation?”

  “No.” He thought of his own mother’s comfortable relationship with his father. She cooked dinner and sewed his buttons. He took out the trash and fixed the toaster. “I can’t say I have.”

  “Well, it’s not the most comfortable feeling, I can tell you. What do I know about this man, anyway? Oh, he’s smooth,” she muttered. “For all I know he’s been smooth with half the women in Southern California.”

  “Do you hear yourself?” Half-amused, David joined her at the window. “You sound like a mother fussing over her teenage daughter. If Clarissa were an ordinary middle-aged woman there’d be little enough to worry about. Don’t you think the fact that she is what she is gives her an advantage? It seems she’d be an excellent judge of character.”

  “You don’t understand. Emotions can block things, especially when it’s important.”

  “If that’s true, maybe you should look to your own emotions.” He felt her freeze. He didn’t have to touch her; he didn’t have to move any closer. He simply felt it. “You’re letting your affection and concern for your mother cause you to over-react to a very simple thing. Maybe you should give some thought to targeting some of that emotion elsewhere.”

  “Clarissa’s all I can afford to be emotional about.”

  “An odd way of phrasing things. Do you ever give any thought to your own needs? Emotional,” he murmured, then ran a hand down her hair. “Physical.”

  “That’s none of your business.” She would have turned away, but he kept his hand on her hair.

  “You can cut a lot of people off.” He felt the first edge of her anger as she stared up at him. Oddly he enjoyed it. “I think you’d be extremely good at picking up the spear and jabbing men out of your way. But it won’t work with me.”

&nbs
p; “I don’t know why I thought I could talk to you.”

  “But you did. That should give you something to consider.”

  “Why are you pushing me?” she demanded. Fire came into her eyes. She remembered the dream too clearly. The dream, the desire, the fears.

  “Because I want you.” He stood close, close enough for her scent to twine around him. Close enough so that the doubts and distrust in her eyes were very clear. “I want to make love with you for a long, long time in a very quiet place. When we’re finished I might find out why I don’t seem to be able to sleep for dreaming of it.”

  Her throat was dry enough to ache and her hands felt like ice. “I told you once I don’t sleep around.”

  “That’s good,” he murmured. “That’s very good, because I don’t think either of us needs a lot of comparisons.” He heard the sound of the front door of the offices opening. “Sounds like you’re open for business, A.J. Just one more personal note. I’m willing to negotiate terms, times and places, but the bottom line is that I’m going to spend more than one night with you. Give it some thought.”

  A.J. conquered the urge to pick up the paperweight and heave it at him as he walked to the door. Instead she reminded herself that she was a professional and it was business hours. “Brady.”

  He turned, and with a hand on the knob smiled at her. “Yeah, Fields?”

  “You never gave me the message for Clarissa.”

  “Didn’t I?” The hell with the gingerbread, he decided. “Give her my best. See you around, lady.”

  David didn’t even know what time it was when he unlocked the door of his hotel suite. The two-day shoot had stretched into three. Now all he had to do was figure out which threads to cut and remain in budget. Per instructions, the maid hadn’t touched the stacks and piles of paper on the table in the parlor. They were as he’d left them, a chaotic jumble of balance sheets, schedules and production notes.

  After a twelve-hour day, he’d ordered his crew to hit the sheets. David buzzed room service and ordered a pot of coffee before he sat down and began to work. After two hours, he was satisfied enough with the figures to go back over the two and a half days of taping.

  The Danjason Institute of Parapsychology itself had been impressive, and oddly stuffy, in the way of institutes. It was difficult to imagine that an organization devoted to the study of bending spoons by will and telepathy could be stuffy. The team of parapsychologists they’d worked with had been as dry and precise as any staff of scientists. So dry, in fact, David wondered whether they’d convince the audience or simply put them to sleep. He’d have to supervise the editing carefully.

  The testing had been interesting enough, he decided. The fact that they used not only sensitives but people more or less off the street. The testing and conclusions were done in the strictest scientific manner. How had it been put? The application of math probability theory to massive accumulation of data. It sounded formal and supercilious. To David it was card guessing.

  Still, put sophisticated equipment and intelligent, highly educated scientists together, and it was understood that psychic phenomena were being researched seriously and intensely. It was, as a science, just beginning to be recognized after decades of slow, exhaustive experimentation.

  Then there had been the interview on Wall Street with the thirty-two-year-old stockbroker-psychic. David let out a stream of smoke and watched it float toward the ceiling as he let that particular segment play in his mind. The man had made no secret of the fact that he used his abilities to play the market and become many times a millionaire. It was a skill, he’d explained, much like reading, writing and calculating were skills. He’d also claimed that several top executives in some of the most powerful companies in the world had used psychic powers to get there and to stay there. He’d described ESP as a tool, as important in the business world as a computer system or a slide rule.

  A science, a business and a performance.

  It made David think of Clarissa. She hadn’t tossed around confusing technology or littered her speech with mathematical probabilities. She hadn’t discussed market trends or the Dow Jones Average. She’d simply talked, person to person. Whatever powers she had…

  With a shake of his head, David cut himself off. Listen to this, he thought as he ran his hands over his face. He was beginning to buy the whole business himself, though he knew from his own research that for every lab-contained experiment there were dozens of card-wielding, bell-ringing charlatans bilking a gullible audience. He drew smoke down an already raw throat before he crushed out the cigarette. If he didn’t continue to look at the documentary objectively, he’d have a biased mess on his hands.

  But even looking objectively, he could see Clarissa as the center of the work. She could be the hinge on which everything else hung. With his eyes half-closed, David could picture it—the interview with the somber-eyed, white-coated parapsychologists, with their no-nonsense laboratory conditions. Then a cut to Clarissa talking with Alex, covering more or less the same ground in her simpler style. Then there’d be the clip of the stockbroker in his sky-high Wall Street office, then back to Clarissa again, seated on the homey sofa. He’d have the tuxedoed mentalist they’d lined up in Vegas doing his flashy, fast-paced demonstration. Then Clarissa again, calmly identifying cards without looking at them. Contrasts, angles, information, but everything would lead back to Clarissa DeBasse. She was the hook—instinct, intuition or paranormal powers, she was the hook. He could all but see the finished product unfolding.

  Still, he wanted the big pull, something with punch and drama. This brought him right back to Clarissa. He needed that interview with Alice Van Camp, and another with someone who’d been directly involved in the Ridehour case. A.J. might try to block his way. He’d just have to roll over her.

  How many times had he thought of her in the past three days? Too many. How often did he catch his mind drifting back to those few moments on the beach? Too often. And how much did he want to hold her like that again, close and hard? Too much.

  Aurora. He knew it was dangerous to think of her as Aurora. Aurora was soft and accessible. Aurora was passionate and giving and just a little unsure of herself. He’d be smarter to remember A. J. Fields, tough, uncompromising and prickly around the edges. But it was late and his rooms were quiet. It was Aurora he thought of. It was Aurora he wanted.

  On impulse, David picked up the phone. He punched buttons quickly, without giving himself a chance to think the action through. The phone rang four times before she answered.

  “Fields.”

  “Good morning.”

  “David?” A.J. reached up to grab the towel before it slipped from her dripping hair.

  “Yeah. How are you?”

  “Wet.” She switched the phone from hand to hand as she struggled into a robe. “I just stepped out of the shower. Is there a problem?”

  The problem was, he mused, that he was three thousand miles away and was wondering what her skin would look like gleaming with water. He reached for another cigarette and found the pack empty. “No, should there be?”

  “I don’t usually get calls at this hour unless there is. When did you get back?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You didn’t? You mean you’re still in New York?”

  He stretched back in his chair and closed his eyes. Funny, he hadn’t realized just how much he’d wanted to hear her voice. “Last time I looked.”

  “It’s only ten your time. What are you doing up so early?”

  “Haven’t been to bed yet.”

  This time she wasn’t quick enough to snatch the towel before it landed on her bare feet. A.J. ignored it as she dragged her fingers through the tangle of wet hair. “I see. The night life in Manhattan’s very demanding, isn’t it?”

  He opened his eyes to glance at his piles of papers, overflowing ashtrays and empty coffee cups. “Yeah, it’s all dancing till dawn.”

  “I’m sure.” Scowling, she bent down to pick up her towel. “
Well, you must have something important on your mind to break off the partying and call. What is it?”

  “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “So I gathered.” She began, more roughly than necessary, to rub the towel over her hair. “About what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Brady, have you been drinking?”

  He gave a quick laugh as he settled back again. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d eaten. “No. Don’t you believe in friendly conversations, A.J.?”

  “Sure, but not between agents and producers long-distance at dawn.”

  “Try something new,” he suggested. “How are you?”

  Cautious, she sat on the bed. “I’m fine. How are you?”

  “That’s good. That’s a very good start.” With a yawn, he realized he could sleep in the chair without any trouble at all. “I’m a little tired, actually. We spent most of the day interviewing parapsychologists who use computers and mathematical equations. I talked to a woman who claims to have had a half a dozen out-of-body experiences. ‘OOBs.’”

  She couldn’t prevent the smile. “Yes, I’ve heard the term.”

  “Claimed she traveled to Europe that way.”

  “Saves on airfare.”

  “I suppose.”