True Vision

by Joyce Lamb

  The ER doors swung outward and a hulking man in blue scrubs sauntered through, one hand under his scrubs shirt lazily scratching his belly. Logan approached with his hand outstretched. “Dr. Henderson, hi. How is she?”

  Henderson’s bushy salt-and-pepper brows drew together as he shook the detective’s hand, but he wasn’t scowling. He was smiling. “Good, really good. Remarkable, really. I expect a full, though puzzling, recovery. In fact, she’s already awake and asking for . . .” He trailed off, as though trying to remember the name.

  Noah rose, buoyed by hope.

  Dr. Henderson snapped his fingers. “Ah, yes, a fellow named Mac.”

  Noah felt his world deflate, his heart break.

  Logan said, “Mac is the other patient back there.”

  “Oh, is he? Dr. Phillips is working on him. Severe head trauma. Very serious. It’s been a bit touch and go, I’m afraid.”

  Noah turned away without hearing the rest. Charlie had regained consciousness and asked for Mac Hunter. And, really, that made sense. Hunter was the better man. Untainted by sins of the past. Worthy in a way that Noah could never be.

  He also knew who killed Laurette and why, and the murderer’s balls were under the knife. His work here was done.

  While Logan and Henderson continued their conversation, Noah turned and walked out of the ER.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  One week later

  The afternoon sun warmed the back of Charlie’s neck as she broke up clumps of dirt and sand with her gloved hands, smoothing out the topsoil in Nana’s garden. Several small clay pots and seed packets were lined up along the edge of the garden. She planned to start seedlings in the pots, then transfer them to the garden once they’d sprouted some leaves. She’d learned from books she’d gotten from the library that she was starting her herb garden about a month late, but maybe summer would start cool this year. You never knew.

  Besides, it felt good to work in the garden, good for her soul, just as Nana had professed so often when she’d been alive. When Charlie had her hands buried in the dirt, she didn’t think about the ache that resided so deep inside her that she didn’t think she’d ever be able to dig it out. The ache for Noah.

  If Alex had her way, Charlie would have been in Chicago three days ago. But Charlie held back, sensing Noah needed time to work something out. She didn’t know what, but she could be patient. For a while.

  In the meantime, she focused on helping Alex deal with healing. She wasn’t alone: Logan had been sticking to Alex like Velcro. So far, Alex had given no further indication that she was empathic, as Charlie had suspected after her sister had come to talking about the dead woman under the stairs. Just as well, Charlie thought. One of them with turbo empathy was enough.

  Mac’s recovery also was progressing nicely. He and Charlie had made their peace with each other, and though awkwardness still intruded, she knew they’d get through it. At first, he’d vowed to win her heart back from the Chicago cop. He said it shouldn’t be too difficult since the dirtbag had bolted on her. She hadn’t been able to argue with that. Noah had bolted. And at times, when she was feeling especially raw and hurt, she thought “dirtbag” was too kind a word for the man who’d stolen her vulnerable heart and shredded it.

  Regardless, she and Mac had talked a lot over the past week, and he’d come to the realization that he’d been so desperate to get her back because everything else in his life had fallen apart. He’d tried to cling to her, convinced she could make things right again. That job fell to him and only him.

  Now if only she could figure out what was up with Noah . . .

  “I hope you’re wearing sunscreen.”

  She looked up into the sun, her heart leaping. She had to shield her eyes to put a face on the hulking shape standing before her. Even then, his eyes were hidden by mirrored sunglasses.

  “Noah,” she breathed. She had to fight the simultaneous urges to jump him and scream at him. Instead, she rose gracefully, shedding the mud-caked gardening gloves, taking her time checking him out. He wore olive safari shorts and a white T-shirt that adhered so nicely to his chest that she could make out each tantalizing bulge and ripple.

  She sensed him checking her out in return, sensed his gaze as it traveled from her head, where her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, over her face tanned from hours of working in Nana’s garden, down her white, dirt-smeared tank top to the short-short navy cotton shorts she would wear only in the privacy of her own backyard.

  While she couldn’t see his eyes, she imagined she could feel their heat touching her. Or maybe that was wishful thinking. Maybe he’d come to tell her it was over, that he’d given it some thought and decided the best thing to do was go their separate ways. After all, he lived in Chicago. She lived in Lake Avalon. They’d fallen for each other during a stressful time. Relationships like that never lasted. But why come all this way to say something he could have said on the phone?

  Hope curled in the pit of her stomach. Please, please, please.

  He gave her an uncertain smile, shoving his hands into the back pockets of his shorts and rocking back on his heels before breaking the tense silence. “So, how’s it going?”

  How’s it going? How’s it going? She wanted to kick him. And then kiss him. No, kicking him would be so much more satisfying. But then she remembered his kisses. Now those were satisfying. “It’s going well,” she said, hating the telltale rasp in her voice. “And with you?”

  He looked past her shoulder at the garden, his expression ambiguous. “You’ve been busy.”

  She turned to look at the square area that she’d completely cleared of weeds. “I promised my grandmother I’d keep up her garden. And with another week before I go back to work, I should be able to get it in good shape.”

  “You’re going back to work at the newspaper?”

  She smiled. “Yes. Simon Walker is buying it.” She still couldn’t believe how generous he’d been about bailing the paper and her father out of a very deep financial pit. When she’d made the audacious suggestion to the billionaire that he make the LAG the test site for a new kind of journalism—the kind not hampered by advertisers or politics—she’d promised to make sure it was worth every penny to him. He’d laughed his belly laugh and agreed, saying he loved a challenge.

  “That’s good news.” He smiled, clearly pleased for her. “And you’re doing okay? Last time I saw you . . .”

  “I’m fine. I have alpha-blockers for the next time flash fatigue sets in. We won’t know whether they’ll work until it happens, but they seemed to work in the ER. In the meantime, I’ve been careful. No flashes for the past three days.” She realized she was babbling but couldn’t stop herself. “AnnaCoreen’s doctor has been a godsend. According to her brain scan, I’m not in any danger of my head exploding.” She paused, then added ruefully, “At the moment, anyway.”

  “Good, that’s good.” He tilted his head back, and the expanse of his long throat and corded neck muscles made her mouth water. She noticed he gazed up at the sky as though he’d never get enough of its bright blue vastness. He was stalling, she realized, and waited for him to say what he wanted to say. God help him, it had better be what she wanted to hear.

  He drew in a breath, let it out. “I got your messages,” he said.

  All forty million of them? But instead of succumbing to sarcasm, she said, as blandly as possible, “I didn’t get any of yours.”

  His face reddened, and he squinted behind the mirrored lenses. She wanted to rip those damn things off his face so she could see his incredible, green eyes. It’d been too long since she’d gotten to submerge in them. Her hands shook with the need.

  “How’s Mac?” he asked.

  She arched a brow at his flat tone. Was he just being polite because he knew how deeply she cared for Mac? “He’s doing well. No brain damage, and he should be good as new in a matter of months. Skip Alteen has pleaded guilty to a whole bunch of charges.”

  “I heard about that
,” he said, nodding. “Logan has kept me informed. About Alex, too. I’m glad she’s doing well.”

  Charlie sighed, tired of the game they were playing. “What’s going on, Noah? I came to in the hospital, and Logan said you took off. Now I find out he’s been keeping you informed when I can’t even get you to return one phone call?”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I didn’t want to get in the way.”

  “The way of what?”

  “You and Mac.”

  She stared up at him, shocked. “What did Logan tell you?”

  “Nothing. I . . . I saw it for myself.”

  “Saw what?”

  “He said he loved you, and you kissed him.” He paused, scowled. “Like you love him back. And then you asked for him instead of . . . well, me. I thought maybe . . . crap, Charlie. I thought maybe you might want him back. He’s a good man, a better man. And I didn’t want to get in the way of that, in case that’s what you wanted. He’s . . . damn it, he’s better for you.”

  She glared at him for a full minute, fighting the urge to shove him back with both hands and tell him he was an idiot for making such a huge, asinine assumption.

  Noah made a low growling sound. “So are you going to say something or what?”

  “You’re a nitwit.”

  His brows arched above his glasses. “What?”

  “Mac is a dear friend. Yes, I love him. And, yes, we have a history. But that’s it. History. Yeah, I asked for him in the ER. Last time I saw him, he looked like he was dying. And what’s this business about him being a better man? I don’t even know what you mean by that.”

  “He’s got a clean slate, Charlie. I’m . . . flawed.”

  “We’re all flawed.”

  “Some of us more than others.”

  She sighed, shook her head. “This isn’t about me being able to accept what you did. I do accept it. I accept you. This is about you being able to forgive yourself, and I don’t appreciate you pretending that it’s about me and Mac when it’s about your own insecurity. I mean, that’s what this week has been about, isn’t it? You’re trying to give me an easy out. Well, I’m not taking it. I love you, Noah. You. Accept it or don’t.” She dragged a hand back through her hair and squinted into the sun, giving her eyes another excuse to water. She wasn’t going to cry in front of him. Not this time. But, hell, the ball of emotion climbing up from her stomach into her throat expanded, making breathing evenly a challenge. Desperate to get away before she crumbled at his feet, she turned to walk away. Idiotic, insecure man.

  “Charlie.”

  She stopped but didn’t turn, closing her eyes. She wanted him to grab her, whirl her around and tell her he was staying. But, no. No drama, no emotion. Just a soft exhalation of her name. God, she wanted him to touch her so bad. She ached for it. Had missed it like she’d lost a piece of herself. A vital piece.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “You’re right. I’m going to have to work on that.”

  She faced him, struck breathless by how gorgeous he was, the sun washing his hair with golden highlights, his green eyes even more intense. She loved this man more than she ever thought possible. Love and want gripped her heart in a tight fist that refused to let go. And she didn’t want them to. Ever. “You’re the one, you know.”

  Noah cocked his head. “The one?”

  “You want me to spell it out for you?”

  A grin teased the corners of his mouth. “That would be nice, yes.”

  “T-H-E O-N-E. You’re The One.” She moved toward him, intending to kiss the growing smirk off his face, but he stepped back, raising a put-on-the-brakes hand. “What?” she asked, impatient to get her hands on the pecs so enticingly outlined by his T-shirt, impatient to get her hands on him.

  “I quit the Chicago PD,” he said.

  She blinked up at him. “Wow.”

  “I want to help you here, in Lake Avalon.”

  “Help me how? Do I need help?”

  “Logan and I talked about it before I went back to Chicago. I wanted to get his thoughts on my idea of starting a private detective agency. You and the newspaper are going to need some experienced assistance in that area if you’re going to go around exposing bad guys.”

  She pretended to consider that for a moment, while her heart launched into cartwheels. He was staying. Noah was staying. “An experienced detective could indeed be helpful.”

  “One other thing.”

  She couldn’t help but tense, thinking what he was going to say next would swipe the nimble feet out from under her cartwheeling heart. “What’s that?”

  “I need a place to live. At least until I can find my own place.”

  She casually nodded, thinking she knew enough people in Lake Avalon to ensure he never found a suitable place to live. “It just so happens I have a room for rent.”

  “Really?” He tried to suppress his grin but didn’t really succeed. “In your house here?”

  “Yes. In fact, it’s the master bedroom.”

  “Oh. Does that mean I’d have to share the bed?”

  “If you have a problem with that—”

  He hooked a hand around her waist and dragged her chest to chest with him. “I don’t have a problem with that at all.” He lowered his head, but paused with his lips an inch above hers. “Did I mention that I love you?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said, sliding her hands over his shoulders. God, she loved his shoulders. So strong. “Was it implied?”

  He grinned, still not kissing her, driving her crazy with not kissing her. “Just so we’re clear: I love you.”

  She smiled up at him, savoring the feel of soft, smooth cotton layered over the bunched muscles in his shoulders and back. “I love you, too.”

  “I want to make babies with you.”

  She blinked, thrown, but then started to grin. She liked the sound of that. A lot. “Okay. Wow.”

  “When it’s time, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “And don’t think I came back to you not bearing gifts.”

  “You brought me a present? Oh, goody. I hope it’s that you’re not wearing underwear.”

  He touched his lips to hers, and reality fell away as a flash of Noah’s pleasure erupted inside her. Her head dropped back on a ragged, involuntary moan, and the voice inside her head, Noah’s voice, chanted three words over and over again. I love you.

  Charlie shifted back into the present, disoriented and feeling oddly weightless. Noah was carrying her across the yard, toward the house. Laughing and breathless, she wrapped her arms around his neck and held on. “That was the best present ever,” she murmured, then attacked his ear with her tongue.

  His chuckle rumbled his chest against her body. “There’s more where that came from.”

  Keep reading for a special preview of

  TRUE COLORS

  The second romantic suspense in

  Joyce Lamb’s True trilogy

  Coming soon from Berkley Sensation!

  CHAPTER ONE

  The child looked up at her with wide, blue eyes, so young, so innocent, his bottom lip quivering as one tear tracked a dirt-smudged cheek. Her hand trembled, her finger poised on the trigger, her heart racing, pounding in her ears. Sweat trickled into her eyes, and she furiously blinked the stinging away. Focus. You have to focus.

  The chaos around her, someone shouting, someone else—another child?—screaming, seemed distant, surreal. All that mattered was the boy staring up at her, pleading with large, terrified eyes. He couldn’t have been more than six. Too thin, scraggly blond hair, dirty face and dirtier clothes. He had a scrape across the bridge of his nose, and he was desperately trying not to blubber, yet unable to stop.

  And then, as she helplessly watched, the little boy’s face screwed up, and he began to cry in earnest. “Daddy! Where’s Daddy?”

  Her finger jerked on the trigger.

  The gunshot was deafening.

  Alex bolted up, a scream of denial caught in her
throat. Strong hands held her down, and she began to thrash. Let go, let go, let go.

  “Hey! Whoa, whoa, it’s okay, it’s okay.”

  She struggled, panicking because she didn’t know where she was or who had hold of her. The hands that gripped her arms gave her a firm shake. “Alex, it’s okay. It was a dream.”

  The words finally penetrated the lingering shock and revulsion, the overwhelming guilt, and she sagged back into the sofa cushions, blinking against the light blinding her. In the distance, she heard the dogs barking frantically in the backyard.

  Logan braced over her, his tanned face pale as he peered anxiously into her face.

  She relaxed in slow degrees, her heartbeat still frantic, her lungs fighting for air. Everything was fine. Police Detective John Logan was here.

  “Nightmare,” she breathed. “I’m okay. The dogs—”

  “I’ll take care of them.”

  Before she could protest, he was striding into the kitchen. She heard him stop at the treat cabinet then open the back door and go outside. His voice, low and soothing, assured the animals that Mommy was fine, in words she couldn’t make out.

  She sat up from where she’d fallen asleep with her head resting on Logan’s shoulder and put her feet on the floor, dragging a hand through her damp, curling hair. Her whole body felt warm and sticky, her brain fuzzy with sleep.

  Dropping her head into her hands, she tried to calm her breathing as frustration, and horror, clutched at her throat. She’d shot a child in her dream. A small, helpless little boy. And it wasn’t the first time. She’d had the nightmare over and over for the past two months. What did it mean?

  The first time, she’d written it off as nothing more than a bad, albeit twisted, dream. But then it happened again. And again. Right about the time she’d started weaning herself off the powerful pain medication prescribed after she’d gotten shot in the chest three months ago by a psychopath gunning for her sister.

  Logan ambled back into the living room. God, he was stunning. Every time she looked at him lately, she lost her breath. Blue, blue eyes, like a starburst, full of life and vitality. Short, dark brown hair that curled in the Florida humidity. Straight nose. Full lips. Strong chin shaded by razor stubble thanks to a fast-growing beard and a reluctance to shaving more than once a day. And dimples. Honest-to-God dimples that deepened, taking her stomach along for the ride, when he smiled.