Reason to Believe

by Roxanne St Claire

  She didn’t wait for permission or a response, but continued right into the office, Chase close behind. As soon as she was in the office, she spun around and looked at him, her eyes bright.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  She didn’t say anything, but shook her head, like she was thinking or unable to speak.

  “What is it?” he asked again, putting a hand on her shoulder.

  She pointed to the door. “Close that. Quick.”

  He did, noticing that her complexion had turned pale and she’d started to shake. “Arianna, what’s the matter?”

  “I don’t know.” Her voice was tight and breathy as she turned in a slow circle, her gaze darting around the room, over a wide flat-screen TV that took up most of one wall, a scarred and ancient oak desk, a round conference table with two mismatched chairs, one tucked in tight, the other turned to face the TV. “But there’s something in this room. Something I never felt before. There’s a very weird aura in here.”

  Despite himself, the hair on the back of Chase’s neck rose. She wasn’t faking this, whatever it was.

  “Is it the vision? The one you had in the studio?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Is it . . . what was going on in here a few minutes ago?”

  “No.”

  He waited while she closed her eyes, and, trancelike, touched her ring and swayed slightly left to right.

  The door popped open with a bang loud enough for Chase to spin and reach for his weapon.

  “What the hell are you doing in here?”

  He recognized the venom-mouthed production assistant from the set the day before, so he kept his gun in the holster.

  Arianna opened her eyes slowly, like a woman being pulled out of a deep sleep. “Looking for Brian,” she said. “Why is that a problem?”

  “It’s not,” Carla said quickly, throwing a glance at Chase. “It’s just that nobody expected you here today.”

  “I was called in for pickups,” Arianna said, shoving a fistful of curls off her face. “Do you know who called me?”

  Carla screwed up her face. “Pickups? Nobody would call you for those. The show’s in the can. We were finished last night.”

  “I need to see the raw footage,” Arianna said. “I need to get a good look at everyone in the audience.”

  “I can get you the log, and all the releases. Why?”

  “No, I want to see the tapes. I’m looking for someone who was on the log, but not in the studio.”

  Carla’s dark eyes flickered, and again she threw a curious look at Chase. “I don’t think we’ve met,” she said, sticking her hand out toward him. “I’m Carla Lynch. And you are?”

  “Chase Ryker.” He purposely didn’t identify himself, even though she obviously waited.

  After an awkward beat, she looked at Arianna. “There is no more raw footage, hon. Just the show, which you are welcome to see, of course. Everything else has been destroyed.”

  There was a hint of arrogance and challenge in that accented voice, as if she had an overblown sense of superiority, but that might just be posturing.

  “Destroyed?” Arianna asked. “Why?”

  She shrugged. “Boss’s orders. So, are you leaving now?” She held the door open in an obvious invitation.

  “No,” Arianna said, shooting back with just as much authority and superiority. There was definitely some posturing going on between these two. “And we need some privacy,” she said, pointing to the door. “If you don’t mind.”

  Carla looked piqued at the dismissal, but she backed out. “Whatever.”

  “Something’s not right in here,” Arianna said softly the second the door latched.

  “What is it?”

  She rubbed her arms, and fiddled with her ring again. “I don’t know. It’s not like anything I’ve ever felt.”

  “What do you feel?” He couldn’t believe he was even asking, but nothing in her demeanor said she was pretending.

  Again, she turned around, stopping this time at the TV. “I know what we heard, or think we heard. But the energy in here is full of . . . hate. That’s the only way I can describe it.” She picked up an oversized remote and glanced at it. “What was he watching?” she asked, half to herself, as she clicked it on.

  The screen lit with a familiar, beautiful face. She gasped softly at her own image. It was obviously not footage that would ever be on air, but something pulled from when she sat in her chair, getting made up, chatting lightly with the stylist, lifting the sweater she wore yesterday to be miked.

  “Guess he didn’t destroy all the footage,” she said softly.

  Had the guy been in here jacking off to her image? “Is that the only disc in the changer?” he asked.

  “There are others, but . . .” She turned it off and carefully set the remote on the conference table. Once more, she touched her ring, staring at the blank screen. “I’ve gotta get out of here.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  * * *

  “YOU GET BIG POINTS for not asking a million questions.” Arianna leaned back in the deli booth, pushing away a barely eaten green salad. “About Brian, and our past, and what I was feeling in that room. I know you want to know all that.”

  “As much as I like getting big points, those aren’t the questions I want to ask.” He reached across the table and touched the thin gold band she wore. “Why do you handle this thing the way you do?”

  She jerked her hand away, staring at him. “How . . . when did you notice that?”

  “The first time I watched you on the set.” He ate one of his French fries. “It’s kind of hard to miss.”

  Was it? “And what did you think?”

  “That you had a nervous habit.” He wiped his mouth, and set the napkin on the table. “But then you proved that the ring has an inordinately high value to you. And back in Brian’s office, you practically broke your finger yanking on it while you were . . .” He paused, and when she didn’t offer a word, he said, “Thinking.”

  “I wasn’t yanking on it,” she replied. Or thinking.

  “I’m exaggerating for effect. You were playing with it, twisting it . . .” He pushed the ring a little, turning it on her finger. The act of letting someone else touch it was as intimate as if he’d touched her body, and it sent the same kind of shiver through her. “You were using it,” he said softly.

  She felt her jaw drop, then snapped it closed. “You’re right. A nervous habit.”

  “You need it, don’t you? It gives you . . . whatever you need to do what you do.”

  Her whole body sagged with the shock of his observation. “You couldn’t know that.”

  “But I do know that.”

  She covered the ring protectively, as if she could keep the secret to herself. “I’ve never told anyone,” she said, looking hard at him so he understood the magnitude of the statement. “Not even my father knows.”

  She considered, and discarded, various forms of the truth. Why lie to this man? For the first time that she could ever remember, she utterly trusted someone. It was that golden aura. And those intense blue eyes. His pure heart and raw courage and unfettered intensity. She trusted him. And here, in a crowded deli in the San Fernando Valley, she decided to reveal her innermost secret to a man she’d known for less than two days.

  “My mother gave this ring to me when she died. On her deathbed, in the hospital, if you want the whole melodramatic truth.”

  “I do.”

  She took a deep breath, and barely realized she’d threaded her fingers through his. While she talked, he gently turned and twirled her ring, stroking her knuckles, soothing her, eliminating her fear. That was his gift, and it was powerful.

  “My mother was a well-known crime psychic who helped the LAPD solve some of their most unsolvable crimes.” She watched his fingers on the ring, strong and clean and gentle. “In fact, that’s how she met my father. He was a detective, and if you think you’re skeptical . . .” She laughed lightly and
pointed at him with her free hand. “You haven’t met skeptical until you’ve met my dad.”

  “He didn’t believe in her?”

  “Oh, he believed, all right. Once she dragged his ass to a dead body in Woodland Hills, then gave him enough information to bring in one of the county’s worst serial killers, he believed so much that he married her a month later.” She smiled, thinking how he loved to tell that story. “But then—well, I told you. She was killed by a man who had something dark and sinister to hide, a man who knew she’d figure him out.”

  “Was that man ever caught?”

  She shook her head. “She was on her way to a crime scene and someone got to her, told her that my dad needed to meet her. And she went, and . . .” Arianna closed her eyes, her head suddenly filled with the smell of the antiseptic hospital, the ice-cold chill of the ICU, the barely whispered final words of a mother to a daughter as she handed over a legacy. “No, the crime was never solved. But before she died, she gave me her wedding ring and told me to continue her work.”

  “As a psychic.”

  “As a crime psychic,” she corrected. “Which was pretty amazing, because at the time of her death I hadn’t even a whisper of psychic ability. Then she gave me her ring, and wham.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “I hear dead people.”

  She appreciated that he didn’t laugh, that he got the seriousness of what she was telling him. Even if he didn’t believe a word of it, he got props for being such a good listener. That golden aura warmed her as effectively as the sun through the blinds.

  “And when you’re not wearing the ring?”

  “Nothing happens. Ever. I . . .” She tried to say the hard, ugly truth. “I can’t do anything without this ring. It’s the only way I ever see or hear anything. And that’s why I was willing to risk everything—my life and yours—to get it. Do you understand?”

  “I do,” he said. “But I don’t understand why you didn’t do what your mother asked, when she said to continue her work.”

  Oh, Lord. Did he have to know absolutely everything about her? A lesser man wouldn’t have even thought about that. Another man would focus on the gift, the power, the curious ability. That tingle started through her again. The tingle of trust. And . . . more.

  “I’m terrified of being killed,” she admitted. “I’m scared of the ability to know who bad guys are, and what they will do to me to shut me up. I’m a total chickenshit. And that, my friend, is why you are here today.”

  He smiled. “You’re not a chickenshit, but I’m glad I’m here.”

  “Me, too,” she admitted. Really, really glad. She decided to push it one step further, just to see. Now that he knew, if he believed, then maybe this could be more than trust. Maybe, if he believed her . . . it could be . . .

  She took a breath and jumped into murky waters. “So, why don’t you go ahead and think about your friend Michael, and I’ll show you what I can do.”

  The slightest bit of color drained from his face and he almost let her hand go, but she grabbed his fingers. “Or not—it’s okay,” she added quickly. It didn’t have to be love. Lust and trust worked for her.

  “He wasn’t my friend.”

  Something in his voice squeezed her heart. “I just mean the person you knew. The one you were thinking about when—”

  “He was my brother.” The words fell hard, and his expression matched.

  “Your brother?”

  “My younger brother, by eighteen months. We joined NASA at the same time, in the same class. It was a first for the agency, and a real kick for my parents.” He half smiled, as though that memory held a lot of happiness, however tainted. “It was his first mission, and it was supposed to be . . .” He closed his eyes for a second; blew out some disgust. “I was supposed to fly that mission. Not him. But in typical NASA fashion, they decided to use me for some stupid PR program that lasted a whole year, and he got my slot. He sat in that shuttle where I should have been, and . . .” He couldn’t even finish the sentence.

  “He was killed and you weren’t.”

  “He wasn’t the only one killed,” he said. “But I should have been piloting that thing.”

  She remembered how that third loss of a shuttle had rocked the space program. She tried to remember the names of the lost astronauts, but couldn’t.

  “You have survivor’s guilt,” she said. “It hurts.”

  “I have grief,” he shot back. “It hurts more.” He tapped her ring. “And don’t suggest closure. I don’t want it or need it.”

  She knew better than to try. Yet she felt something warm, and lovely. She felt so close to this man, it almost stole her breath.

  “Chase,” she whispered, rubbing her thumb on his callused palm, “will you take me home?”

  He searched her face. “You don’t want to go to Cal Tech and rattle that geek who’s sending you threatening e-mails?”

  “No. I want to go home and show you my surprise.”

  He looked intrigued. “Another tattoo?”

  “I made my bed.”

  He laughed softly and picked up the check. “Too bad we’re just going to mess it up again.”

  Chase woke hard, desperately wanting her for a third time. But Arianna’s soft, even breaths stopped him from doing more than nestling her warm body into his and inhaling the delicate smell of her, the lingering essence of their lovemaking almost as dizzying as the scent of her hair and skin.

  Hoping it didn’t wake her, but half wishing it would, he stroked the silky thigh that curled over his leg, slid his hand over the roundness of her backside and smiled, thinking of the angel tattooed on her rump. Tinkerbells and butterflies and angels. Wild hair, a wicked mouth, and the tightest, hottest, sweetest envelope of womanhood he’d ever known.

  Under the covers, he found her hand, and turned her magic ring.

  Did he believe her? Or had he kissed and touched and tasted and entered this extraordinary woman under false pretenses? He never said he believed her story about her mother’s ring, but he never said he didn’t, either.

  Did that make him a hypocrite? A pragmatic, hardheaded scientist? A man who just wanted to get inside the sexiest woman he’d ever known?

  His aching hard-on certainly proved the last one was true. He wanted to be inside her again, that minute and all night. And all day.

  He exhaled, ruffling her hair, and she curled closer to him. Did it matter if he believed her or not? What would it get him? Oh, right—closure.

  His gaze moved to the moonlight reflected in her mirror, making him think of Michael. The man who still had enthusiasm when Chase had grown cynical, the teenager who idolized his high-achieving big brother, the boy who once woke him in the middle of the night to ask if shit was a bad word.

  What about shit, Chase? Is shit a bad word?

  Arianna stirred suddenly, and sucked in a breath. In the moonlight, he could see her eyes were open, and locked on him.

  How long had he been thinking about Michael?

  How much did she . . . hear?

  “Hell, yeah,” she whispered. “Now go back to sleep, kiddo.”

  He felt like he’d been punched. That was the exact answer he’d given his little brother when he asked if shit was a bad word. Hell, yeah. Now go back to sleep, kiddo.

  “Oh, man,” he groaned. “I can’t do this.”

  “And you shouldn’t have to.” She sat up and pulled off her ring. “Don’t torture yourself, honey,” she said softly, then set the ring on the nightstand with finality. “Just relax.” She burrowed her fingers into his hair, slipped back into her warm nest against him, and slid her heavenly thigh between his legs. “Don’t think, Chase,” she crooned. “Don’t hurt. Don’t regret. Don’t.”

  She was magic—really, truly. Sexual, sensual, psychic healing magic. She kissed his mouth, splayed her fingers over his chest, then traveled lower to close her hands around his erection. Slowly, with so much tenderness it almost made him cry out, she stroked him, soothed him, suckled his tongue in her m
outh, and let her whole body rise and fall against him, using her breasts, her hands, her legs for every imaginable, insane, impossible form of body-to-body contact.

  Without a word, just murmured sounds and whispers of breath, she climbed on top of him, letting her hair tickle his face and chest, feathering kisses on his forehead and eyes.

  He held her hips, helpless as she took ownership. Before, she’d been under him, conquered. Now he was hers. She rose up on her knees and, with two hands, she took his erection and placed it between her legs. Then she eased him in, all comfort and heat and deep, warm enclosure. She cooed and spread her legs, taking him all the way, as far as he could go, until he touched the very deepest part of her.

  “There,” she whispered gently, “Now, don’t think about anything but this.” She rose and fell, squeezed and released.

  The effect was mind-boggling. His cock ramrod hard, his heart thumping with desperate effort, blinding pleasure pushed him deeper. He thrust and plunged into her, his thumbs digging into her body.

  The need for release burned and welled in his balls, shocking him with the sheer force of it. His chest hurt, his back hurt, every muscle was on fire with focus. She arched, her hair tumbling down her back, her breasts pointed up like some kind of goddess, his name on her lips like she purely loved the sound of it.

  There was no build to his release, just a furious, fierce, fast explosion. He shot everything into her, his juice erupting farther and harder with each helpless, uncontrolled thrust. Finally, when there was nothing left at all, she fell on top of him and rocked until he could breathe and think again.

  “If that’s closure,” he whispered, “I’ll take some every day.”

  She gave a soft little laugh, and kissed him. It was only then that he realized her face was wet with tears. And he knew why.

  “Arianna,” he said, wiping her cheek. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you sooner.”

  She didn’t answer, but laid her head on his chest and quietly cried for both of them.

  • • •

  Arianna was certain that Chase believed her; he’d proven that the night before. Deep into the night, after they’d made love, she told him about the black-and-white visions she’d had in the studio. She’d used her hands to show the placement of two cars, explaining that one disappeared over a guardrail on a dark, rainy night, pushed by the other. He’d coaxed her for details until she finally remembered the hood ornament on the car that went over the cliff.