MIND READER

by Hinze, Vicki

  So Grace hadn’t connected Caron and Sanders for the money. Back to square one. Frowning, Parker flipped off the light. “Everyone should have an aunt Grace.”

  “Mmm, yes. She makes awful tea, though. It’s so weak you can read a newspaper through it.”

  The frown faded, and he looked back at her. “That’s pretty weak.”

  “Well, almost that weak.”

  The smile in Caron’s voice skimmed warmth over him. She drank again from the glass; he swallowed with her.

  “So tell me about you.” She finger-combed her hair back from her face. “Did you have an aunt Grace?”

  The lamplight turned her hair gold. “No, I had a mother like her, though. She’s as feisty now as she was when I was growing up. ‘Never accept anything at face value.’ That was her prescription for a happy life.’’

  Parker walked to the window and looked out. A light wind feathered through the trees. Moonlight pooled on the manicured lawn. To get trust, you have to give it. He wanted—no, needed—her trust. “Mom had a bucketful of washboard philosophy. So did Charley.”

  “Why do you call him by name?”

  Parker shrugged. “We were buddies more than father and son.” He scratched his temple and smiled. “Charley was a strange kind of guy. He loved his family—don’t get me wrong. But it was like...I don’t know, like he didn’t want us to love him back too much.”

  “Maybe he was afraid he’d have to leave you, and he didn’t want you hurt.”

  “Maybe,” Parker said, gaining insight. Maybe that was why Charley had given to a certain point, then pulled back emotionally. Parker smiled at Caron. “Are you a shrink?”

  “No.” She slid him an enchanting grin. “Aunt Grace relies heavily on washboard philosophy, too.”

  “You’re fond of her.”

  “Sure. She’s a terrific lady. A bit eccentric, by most people’s standards. But she’s always been there for me.”

  And no one else had. What had it been like growing up with a mother who resented you, and no father?

  Parker fingered the wingtip of a fragile glass dove sitting on a chest of drawers. Damn lonely. And, for a kid, frightening.

  “Did your mom bake cookies?” Parker asked.

  “Are you kidding? My mother thought the kitchen was just a room you walked through to get out to the garage to the car. Aunt Grace did, though. Double chocolate chip with fudge icing.”

  He pulled a face. “Chocolate.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “Yep.”

  He sat on the foot of the bed. “In grade school, when I came home, Mom was there with cookies and milk.”

  “Every day?”

  “Yeah.” He hadn’t thought about that before. She’d given him and Megan time she might have wanted for herself.

  “Tell me more.”

  He saw the hunger in Caron’s eyes. Her childhood had been very different. Maybe sharing his with her would keep her mind off what had happened. “I’m too tired.”

  She patted the bed beside her. “Rest here.”

  There was nothing sexual in the invitation, but still he hesitated.

  “What? Afraid you can’t control yourself?”

  There was a warm, teasing light in her eyes that he hadn’t seen before. “I was worried about your control.”

  “Don’t.”

  He slid down onto the bed and stuffed a pillow against the headboard, then leaned back. He could smell her perfume, the scent lingering on her skin.

  “Did you and your mother talk about what went on at school?” She scooted closer, until she was looking right into his eyes.

  He swallowed a boulder that had somehow lodged in his throat. “Yeah, we did.” From her smile, he thought that made her happy.

  “What did you talk about?” Her voice dropped a notch. A very sexy notch.

  “I talked about Johnny Seaberry stealing Lisa Sanger. She was the first woman to break my heart.”

  Caron laughed softly. “How old were you?”

  “Six.” He grunted and scooted down on the bed. “I thought I’d never love again. But Mom assured me that I’d be heartbroken at least a dozen times.”

  “Have you?” Caron snuggled against his side.

  “At least a dozen.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Really?”

  “Uh-huh.” Caron tentatively touched his chest with just a fingertip.

  He ground his teeth to keep from reaching out. It would be so easy just to lift his hand and wrap his arm around her.

  “When I was little, my dad talked about the old days.” She yawned and pressed her cheek against his chest, rubbing his hair with her skin. “His father immigrated from Sweden.”

  The friction aroused him. He looked down and saw that his nipple had peaked. “Urn, we’re all-American mutts.”

  “All-American mutts.” She stroked his chest. “I like that.”

  What the hell. Parker gave in to the urge and circled her shoulder. She purred like a satisfied cat. He gave her a smile she couldn’t see. “Are you still scared?”

  “Yes, but it’s better.” She gave his ribs a little squeeze. “Tell me more about when you were a boy, Parker.”

  With her being so close, he thought it’d be a major miracle if he managed to string together a coherent sentence. But she’d stopped shaking, and if hearing his voice would help her through the night, then he’d give it his best shot.

  He started talking about his high school days, when Charley was still alive. She seemed to need to hear about his father. He told her about growing up in New Orleans and playing football. And about Peggy Shores, the foxiest cheerleader at St. Nicholas, breaking his foolish heart because he’d failed to score the winning homecoming touchdown. He continued on, revealing the intimate details of his life, his college years at Loyola, and his stint in the Gulf— something he’d never spoken of to anyone.

  There was only one facet of his life he avoided: his relationship with Harlan, and the resulting investigation of Caron upon Harlan’s death.

  By the time he finished, her lids were droopy. “When you want to be,” she said, a scant breath away from sleep, “you’re a very nice man.”

  Shadows danced across her face. Beautiful. How nice would she think he was if she knew he was deceiving her? He rubbed tiny circles on her shoulder, feeling guilty as hell.

  “Parker?”

  Drowsy, he closed his eyes. “Mmm?”

  “Tomorrow we need to check out that phone number I found at Decker’s. It’s important, after all.”

  An uneasy feeling crept through his chest. He had to force his fingers not to go hard against her tender skin. “How do you know?”

  She looked at him through sleepy eyes. Her skin was smudged by dark circles. “It’s the reason the man wants to kill me.”

  Parker’s heart skipped, then thudded. “Decker?”

  She hesitated. “No.”

  “Who, then?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  She knew. Feeling oddly betrayed that she wouldn’t tell him after the intimacies he’d shared with her, Parker narrowed his eyes and pushed. “But you know he’s a man.”

  “Yes.” She licked her lips and burrowed deeper into Parker’s chest. “I smell him.”

  “What?” He sat up slightly.

  She frowned, shoved him down onto the pillow and tugged the covers back up over her shoulder and his chest. “Men smell...different.”

  He couldn’t disagree. She smelled...fresh and warm. A heady mixture of soap and—passion? He sniffed her subtle scent again to be sure. Yes, Passion. Her choice of perfume surprised him. Hardly the pick for a prim and proper schoolteacher. His voice grew husky. “Give me the number.”

  She told it to him from memory. Parker stretched over and grabbed the phone. His jeans pinched at the waist, and he wished that, if they couldn’t be skin to skin, then at least something softer than denim could be between them.

  He could strip down, he supposed. But he’d probably be giv
en his marching orders immediately. Hauling himself off to his room would be the wisest move he could make. Sharing a bed with Caron Chalmers—even if that was all they shared—had to be the dumbest thing he could ever do in his life.

  He looked at her sleep-soft face and surrendered. Well, at least it wouldn’t be the first dumb thing he’d ever done.

  Accepting that he’d made his decision, he dialed the phone and connected with an answering machine. When it had played out and beeped, he dropped the receiver back into the cradle and looked at Caron. “B. J. Hunt’s.”

  She nodded, bumping her chin against his chest. “I’ll tell Sandy in the morning and see what he knows about him.” With a little yawn, she closed her eyes.

  “There’s no need.” Parker brushed back a strand of hair that was clinging to her cheek. Why did she feel so soft? So warm? So smooth and creamy? “B. J. Hunt’s is an investment firm, Caron. They handle only six-figure accounts.”

  Her eyes snapped open. “What would Decker be doing with their number?”

  “I don’t know.” Parker guided her head back to his chest. “And we won’t find out tonight. Rest now, hmm?”

  “Will you stay with me...just till I fall asleep?”

  He felt as if he were being forced to choose. Loyalty to Harlan, or to Caron. But Caron didn’t know about Harlan, and she wasn’t really asking for loyalty. She was asking for the warmth of another human being to get her through a rough night after a rougher day. “I’ll be here,” he finally said.

  Parker clicked off the lamp, curled Caron’s soft body into his arms and stared blindly into the darkness. He didn’t like this B. J. Hunt development at all. And he liked even less that his worry for Caron’s safety was growing by leaps and bounds. He didn’t know why Decker had Hunt’s number. But he intended to find out.

  Chapter 5

  “I don’t like it, Parker.” Caron adjusted the seat belt in the white limo and nodded to the driver to close the door. “I feel like a kid playing grown-up. Are you sure your mother won’t mind?”

  “I’m sure. When she and Megan get back from Europe, they’ll have half the clothes in Paris with them.” Parker smiled. “Stop worrying. You look great.”

  Stop worrying. Right. It wasn’t every day she wore a genuine Chanel suit—and she didn’t want to be wearing one today. Especially one that belonged to Parker Simms’s mother.

  Caron slid him a glare. “Why the show? Why can’t we just walk into Hunt’s and ask a few questions?”

  “Play it straight and aboveboard, you mean?”

  “Exactly.” She shrugged and quickly checked to make sure she hadn’t wrinkled the jacket. If anything happened to this outfit, it’d take her the rest of her life to pay for it. “It doesn’t make sense to lie when the truth will do.”

  “The truth won’t do.” He tapped on the glass and motioned to his mother’s driver, Fred, to go on, then stretched out his legs. “You can’t just walk into a place like Hunt’s and get answers. Those people are trained to avoid questions—especially ones that might tick off a six-figure client.”

  Caron sighed and checked the tilt of her black hat in the window. The brim seemed a shade too wide, but the effect was good. With her hair slicked back smooth, she looked filthy rich. The problem was, she didn’t feel filthy rich. “Okay, you’ve got a point. We play out the charade. But I still don’t like it.”

  “Stop checking,” Parker said, giving her a warm onceover that set her to tingling. “You look great.”

  “Thanks.” There was an easiness between them today that hadn’t been there before last night. One she feared a woman could get used to too fast. She narrowed her brows and checked him over just as thoroughly. From the tips of his handmade Italian shoes up to his navy Savile Row suit, he looked perfect. Not to mention gorgeous...and rich. He’d let her into his life, told her things she instinctively knew he hadn’t told anyone else. Warmed by that thought, she straightened his red tie. “You don’t look bad yourself.”

  Her fingers brushed his throat. The intimate vibration had her feeling, more than hearing, his chuckle.

  “Careful,” he said. “You’ll give me a swelled head. I might even think you like me.”

  “Let’s don’t get carried away.” The teasing lilt in her voice took the punch right out of her words.

  He lifted a brow and feigned an innocence that set her to worrying. “Do you always sleep with men you don’t like?”

  He’d left himself wide-open. She swept a nonexistent speck from her sleeve. “Only the ones Peggy Shores dumped for blowing the homecoming game.”

  “Ouch, that’s low.” His eyes twinkled; he hadn’t really taken offense.

  “Yeah.” She smiled and pecked a kiss to the tip of his perfect nose, betting Peggy Shores was eating her heart out regretting that decision now.

  The car slid to a halt near the curb on Canal Street. Fred got out, came around and opened the door. He was about sixty-five, Caron figured, tall and lean and very proper.

  “Shall I wait, Mr. Simms?”

  “I think so, Fred. Mrs. Simms and I won’t be too long.”

  “Yes, sir.” The older man touched his fingers to the brim of his uniform hat, shut the door and struck a pose beside the car. A fly buzzed his nose. Like some character out of The Great Gatsby, he didn’t swat at it.

  Amused, Caron linked arms with Parker. “Mrs. Simms?”

  “That’s right.” He slid her a sidelong look. “We slept together in my home, Caron. I’ve got a rep to protect.”

  “Right.” She was excited that he’d given her another insightful glimpse of him. A darling glimpse. Parker Simms—charming and gorgeous and hostile on demand-was terribly old-fashioned.

  Wishing he would look her way so that she could read his expression, Caron walked toward the office. “I think your little disclosure shocked Fred.” The man hadn’t so much as batted an eyelash, but she’d sure sensed his surprise.

  “Probably.”

  Caron glanced back. “If he keeps his knees locked like that for very long in this heat, we’ll be peeling him off the sidewalk.”

  “He won’t,” Parker assured her. “Once we’re out of sight, he’ll relax.”

  She shouldn’t push, but of course she would. And, knowing his response did matter, she told herself it didn’t, then asked the question she really wasn’t sure she wanted answered. “Just how many Mrs. Simmses has Fred met?”

  The devil danced in Parker’s eyes. “One.”

  “Oh.” Her breath shriveled to a puffy wisp.

  Smiling, Parker paused. “Surprised, I see. You really do have me pegged as a womanizer, don’t you, Caron?”

  That was exactly what she’d thought. But his saying it openly had heat rushing to her face.

  “I’m not, you know.”

  She was beginning to doubt it herself. And, though she wondered, how he intended to explain her absence to Fred later was low on her list of priorities. A flip answer was definitely required. She hiked her chin. “Time will tell.”

  “Yes, it will. For both of us.” The smile became a leer. Just on the other side of a brass nameplate bolted to a tall column—and just out of hearing distance of the doorman—Parker again paused. “Remember, Mrs. Simms, you’re a little eccentric, a little dazed— No, don’t object. They’ll be less cautious if they think you’re an airhead.”

  She squinted against the strong sunlight. “I think there’s a backhanded compliment in there somewhere.”

  The look in Parker’s eyes heated, became lazy and dangerous. “I’ll help you find it later. For now, you’re an eccentric airhead who’s crazy about me.”

  If he kept looking at her the way he was, the crazy-about-him part might be too easy to play. Caron groaned. “This pretending really rubs me the wrong way. Can’t I just be me?”

  Something odd flashed in his eyes, a hard glint that told her he couldn’t believe what she’d said. He rolled his gaze heavenward, then dipped his chin and gave her a quelling look. Still, whe
n he spoke, his voice softened. “We’ve been through this, and we agreed this way is best.”

  They had. At dawn, and again at seven this morning. Both times, Parker had made a strong case. “All right, all right.” Caron plastered a smile on her face. “But, for the record, I don’t like lying. So let’s get this over with.”

  The doorman swung the tinted glass door wide. A blast of cool air raised gooseflesh on Caron’s skin.

  The interior of the building was as sleek and angular as the smoky-mirrored exterior. Cool white tile floors gleamed glossy and smelled of wax. Black leather sofas and chairs were arranged in three groups and separated by small gardens of lush green foliage. And at a desk near the far wall sat a woman who could have modeled for the swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated. By no stretch of the imagination did her being seated mask her assets: tall, perfect bones, and elegantly dressed in a quiet blue suit that perfectly matched her eyes.

  Caron straightened. Parker had known. If she’d come in here in her mackintosh and jeans, she would have been disregarded. Her time with her students had dulled her memory. Rich responds to rich. Upscale firms take only upscale people seriously. And for the first time since she’d put on the cream Chanel suit, Caron was glad that she had.

  Parker spoke to the receptionist, his voice cordial but authoritative. “We have an eleven-o’clock appointment with all of your counselors.”

  Caron clamped her jaw to keep from gaping. What lies had Parker told to finagle an appointment with all of the counselors? If she could keep her libido intact when she looked at the man, she’d know what he had done—and what he was thinking. Unfortunately, she hadn’t mastered that control—at least not so far.

  She slid him a sidelong look. He wasn’t smiling. Taking her cue from him, she lifted her chin, doing her best to look snobbish, and certain she only looked ridiculous.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Simms, yes.” The receptionist flickered her gaze over Caron, then it landed on Parker and warmed.

  Caron resisted an urge to groan. Did he affect every woman he met that way? As she followed the receptionist into an inner office, Caron decided he did. He had so far.