For one flicker of an instant, she thought she had it A magician—a mask—a cape. Then the image vanished into that part of the brain reserved for dreams.
She was just tired. That had to be the explanation. She wasn’t even sure whether she and Chance had embraced just now or whether she had imagined it.
THE BOOK CAUGHT Chance’s eye as he passed through the living room on the way to his suite. He collected it with the intention of reading it tomorrow.
But when he reached his rooms, he couldn’t find a place to put it. It might slide off the small table and suffer damage; on the couch, he might sit on it by accident, and the shelves were already crammed with too many books and CDs.
Without making a conscious decision, he walked into the courtyard. Once he’d gone that far, it made sense to climb the staircase to the tower.
The round room smelled stale from disuse. He ordered the computer to unlock a window, and open it to the night.
Cool air blew in, flavored with springtime. Unlike the rest of the house, this chamber didn’t automatically light itself when he entered, and the darkness lay upon him like a balm.
He had intended to store the volume in a hidden bookcase, but sleep seemed far away. As long as he was here, Chance might as well read the passage his aunt had marked.
“Desk!” he said. Partitions slid aside in the wall and a desk, chair and reading lamp rotated out.
Settling onto the carved chair, he told the computer to turn on the lamp, laid the heavy volume on the desk and opened it to the place marked by a worn velvet ribbon attached to the binding.
The handwritten words swam before Chance’s eyes, and he wondered if it were too late at night for reading. He closed his eyelids to rest them, and immediately a picture of Tara formed. Her face was soft, near sleep, yet he could feel desire pulsating beneath the surface.
She had begun to yield to him tonight exactly the way she had seven years ago, almost as if hypnotized. Was he unintentionally exerting power over her?
He must find out why they were so susceptible to each other, and what sort of things Cynda believed they were stirring up. Leaning forward, he forced the handwriting into focus.
”…Rudolf fathered Otemar and Magda, who was the mother of Luther, who was wed with Ilona of Moldavia. Ilona bore Luther four dead infants and one who lived but whose name is lost, only that he was the father of Valdemar and grandfather of Halden, the bastard, possessor of the far vision….”
Chance decided to check the previous page to find out when and precisely where these ancestors had lived When he tried, however, he found it impossible because the book gave such dates as “in the fourth year of the reign of Prince Stefan” and such locations as “near the battleground of Seldonia.”
With a sigh, he returned to the marked pages to find out more about Halden the illegitimate, who was born with the gift of seeing the future. But it was not, he soon saw, the story of Halden himself but of his parents that filled these pages.
Extracting the facts from the archaic language, Chance learned that Valdemar had fallen in love with a lady named Ardath, a fair woman who came from far away. But she was married to a cruel man, the Count of Fredaria, who had kidnapped her from her homeland.
While the count was away at war, Ardath and Valdemar ran off and hid themselves in a forest. After she bore a s on’ they determined to kill the count upon his return so they could marry.
“They did mingle their spirits, and went together to the count’s castle to sicken him so that he would die.” That was vague enough that it could mean almost anything, Chance grumped to himself. Mingle their spirits how? Sicken him with what? And what had they done, walked up to the front door and announced themselves?
“The count fell to the floor of his dining chamber, weakened but not killed, and a candle was overturned. A flame sprang up, consuming the lovers. The count ordered their son slain, but he was taken to a cottage by his kin and raised in secret.”
Through the spare words, Chance felt the pain and terror of that moment. Before he could grasp what was happening, he lost all awareness of the tower, as if he had suddenly become someone else, or himself in another existence.
He stood in a long, dank room. Icy droplets seeped from the stone walls and foul-smelling mold crept along the woven hangings. Near the head of a great table, a candelabra cast elongated shadows across a coarse man with a ragged beard.
Reaching for his silver goblet, the count quaffed wine that glowed ruby red. He did not see Chance and Tara lingering in the shadows, for their minds were joined in suppressing his thoughts. He did not taste the tang of the poison as he sipped it.
Chance realized they had been controlling the count’s mind, drawing strength from a love so forceful it linked his soul to Tara’s. Driven by desperation, the two of them had formed a psychic link that gave them formidable power.
His scarred face contorting in pain, the count slumped forward. His hand brushed a candelabra, knocking it onto the table. As the man slid to the floor, a piece of cloth flared.
The thud of his fall summoned a servant, who screamed for the guards. They reached the dining hall as the fire spread, and pulled their master to safety.
Retching up the poison as he was hauled away, the count recovered himself enough to see the figures in the shadow. “Death to the assassins!” he rasped. “Leave them in the flames!”
Thick smoke filled the air. Heat scorched Chance’s face, but worst of all were Tara’s cries. She was sobbing not for herself but for their little son, Halden, and what would become of him left orphaned and alone.
He tried to push her to safety, but guards thrust forward their long lances, forcing her back. Either way lay death. As the killing fumes choked him, Chance sank to his knees, gasping, refusing to believe the end had come, vowing to return and make things right…
With a groan, he tore himself back to the present. A cool breeze murmured through the tower window and eased the smarting of his skin.
He could still smell the acrid smoke and hear Tara’s screams. The scene seemed more real than this house and this time.
Brushing back a hank of hair, he began to pace. Aunt Cynda’s gifts were limited, but well-defined. She saw little of the future but much of the past, which was why she had assumed the role of family historian.
She had seen that Chance and Tara were Valdemar and Ardath in a previous lifetime, and she had been right to notify him. Their story echoed with unresolved longings, with anguish and with the need to put things right.
Pausing by the window, Chance stared down into the courtyard. Small white Malibu lights pricked the darkness, outlining the curving spaces with fairy-tale fragility. As if the computer were amusing itself, the fountain sprang to life, flinging glittering droplets into the night in a soothing play of pink and blue lights, before falling silent again.
He had sensed since adolescence that it would be wrong to abuse his powers. His father, of course, had disagreed, calling him selfish and shortsighted for refusing to take advantage of others. Sometimes Chance had wondered how he came by such a fierce determination to stick to his principles.
Now he saw the temptation and the danger more clearly than ever. Valdemar and Ardath, blinded by their love for each other and their hatred of the count, had joined their minds to attempt murder.
It had backfired. The count had survived, and their son was left alone.
Now they were living again, in new bodies. There was no evil count here. But now, as then, they had created a son together.
Perhaps it was the emotional echoes of the story, but Chance got a strong sense, as Cynda had also, that his reunion with Tara had revived an unresolved conflict. Anything left unfinished, in any lifetime, would seek to close the circle.
Would they be tempted to misuse their psychic link again? That would be playing with fire, figuratively if not literally.
Chance could not and would not remove Tara from his life. But what had happened between them that night seven years
ago must never be allowed to happen again.
Chapter Six
It wasn’t a formal softball game, but the kids were getting excited, including Harry. He jumped up and down after he hit the ball and ran two bases, sending one player home.
They were still behind, 3-2, but Sammi was on third base and he was on second. All the next batter needed to do was get to first base, and they’d at least tie the score before the recess bell sounded.
“Who’s next?” yelled Sammi, shaking her dark-blond ponytail. As the best player in the first grade, she got to boss other people around.
“Me! Me! It’s my turn!” Al loped forward, tried to snatch the bat from the ground and missed. He had to turn around and bend to pick it up.
Harry’s heart sank. In the past few days, he’d enjoyed Al’s friendship, and it was fun swapping secret codes for video games. But the boy couldn’t hit a ball to save his life.
“Let somebody else play!” shouted Sammi, and the other kids chorused their agreement.
Behind his thick glasses, Al’s face crumpled. “But I got skipped last time!” His voice quavered. “It’s my turn. You’re not being fair!”
Sammi made a quick check to be sure the playground monitor wasn’t watching, then yelled, “We want to win, you wimp! Now get out of here!”
Harry wanted to win, too. But it wasn’t fair to make Al miss two turns. Besides, he knew what his mom would say, that the point wasn’t to win but for everyone to have a good time.
“Let him play!” he shouted. “Come on, Sammi. Fair’s fair!”
Her mouth twisted as she glared at him, but then she shrugged. “If you say so.”
The first time Al swung at an impossibly high ball and missed, Harry winced. The second time, when Al tried to hit a ball so far from the bat it was nearly to Mongolia, the other kids groaned.
The pitcher was grinning. Staring into her cocky freckled face, Harry listened to her thoughts. I could fling anything at the little sucker, and he’d go for it.
His hands got sweaty. It was the first time he’d heard anybody thinking. Was this more of the magic he and Chance had talked about?
Mostly he was sweating because this girl was going to strike Al out. Harry hadn’t meant to let his team down.
Why did he have to pick between what was fair to his friend and what would make the others happy?. And why did Al have to be such a lousy player?
Again, Harry caught the drift of the pitcher’s thoughts. She was going to throw the next ball low. It’s cinchy! We win!
It wouldn’t take much to correct the girl’s aim. Just a little concentrated attention on Harry’s part, a slight tweak upward—why, he could make it smack right into Al’s bat! Even a bunt would be enough to send Sammi to home plate.
The pitcher began rotating her arm, and then, after an impossibly long time, the ball launched itself forward. For Harry, everything slowed as he poured his energy into that small orb, easing it upward, getting it in line with the bat.
But he’d promised Chance not to use his powers where other people might see. He’d given his word!
With a wrench, Harry tore his thoughts from the ball. Still in slow motion, watching in horror, he saw the thing wobble in midair and drop downward, passing beneath the flailing bat.
From behind his glasses, Al stared in disbelief at the empty air. Everyone else was staring, too. The recess bell went off like an earthquake warning siren, so loud it made Harry jump.
The other team cheered. Sammi’s face was a volcano about to explode. Other kids stalked by Al, not looking at him, and the boy began to cry.
In trying to help, Harry had made things worse. Nobody could have hit that weird ball, the way it had jerked in midair, and it was his fault.
Feeling miserable, he trudged over to put his arm around Al’s shoulders, the way he’d seen athletes do on TV. No one spoke to them as they walked to class, and Al didn’t stop crying until he’d used up all the tissues in his desk.
Harry stared at his New Math book, with its little blobby shapes that he was supposed to sort and count until his teeth hurt from sheer boredom. The blobs looked like baseballs, every one of them jeering at him.
He needed to have a serious talk with Chance.
SITTING BESIDE CHANCE at his desk, trying to ignore the inviting dance of late-afternoon sunlight through the trees outside, Tara watched her employer zap a message into the computer. Around them, the airy home office hummed with the energy emanating from its owner.
Every time she observed him at work, she became more impressed with Chance’s abilities. He was knowledgeable and thorough, checking and rechecking his facts.
Right now, he was E-mailing a group of his more-risktaking clients to recommend purchase of stock in a genetic engineering firm. Such companies, he’d explained earlier, had been hot when they first came on the market, then sagged as they failed to produce major breakthroughs.
Chance kept tabs on a variety of firms whose stock he considered undervalued. In this case, he’d been reading medical journals and summaries of seminars and conferences.
He believed one particular company was on the verge of winning FDA approval to test an exciting new treatment for diabetes. It would be illegal to manipulate stocks on the basis of inside information, so everything Chance had learned was available to the general public. But hardly anyone had the expertise and determination—and perhaps the instincts—to do the right research.
No wonder people called him a wizard. Tara smiled to herself. She lacked his talent but was learning quickly, and there were moments when she could almost read Chance’s mind. They worked well together.
“Incoming message!” A few keystrokes, and the first of the client responses popped into view: “Go for it!”
“All right!” Tara cheered.
“Let’s hope I’m right about this one,” Chance cautioned, but he didn’t appear worried as he began executing the buy order.
When he was finished, he leaned back in the chair and stretched, his polo shirt taut across his wide shoulders. Tara could feel his muscles beneath her hands as she held him last night….
Last night? Confused, she tried to make sense of the random thought. The only thing that had happened yesterday was that they’d returned home late from Cynda’s apartment and Tara had fallen into bed, exhausted.
She must have dreamed about Chance. Some of her dreams were quite vivid. She even remembered how it had felt to hold him. He had been solid and powerful, and she could smell the muskiness that bespoke awakening passion.
Tara gave herself a mental slap. A person couldn’t control her dreams, but she must not fantasize about her boss. For a lot of reasons, she needed to keep Chance at arm’s length.
Certainly he’d been all business when he returned from his main office this morning after leaving Tara to sleep late. His plan had been to take the afternoon off, but then he’d skimmed some medical abstracts from a just-ended seminar and here he was, helping his clients earn money.
“Think you can keep tabs on the messages and place the orders?” he asked. Tara nodded eagerly, pleased when he let her handle the next one.
“You’re a quick study,” he said. “I’ll put in a call to Cousin Lois. I did promise Aunt Cynda to make sure she’s all right.”
“Why wouldn’t she be?”
“My dad has an old-fashioned sense of business ethics.” Chance’s mischievous grin turned his gray eyes to silver. “‘Old-fashioned’ as in pillaging and looting. We wouldn’t want him corrupting my innocent young cousin.”
The screen flashed an alert of another incoming message, and for the next few minutes Tara was too busy to do more than register the fact that her boss was on the phone. Then Chance signaled her and put his call on hold.
“Lois wants us to come for dinner tonight” he said. “You and me. What do you think?”
“Why on earth would she invite me?” Tara was surprised that such a young woman would even think about giving a dinner party, let alone welc
ome a stranger.
“Apparently Aunt Cynda told her about our supposed past lives”, Chance said. “She thinks it’s cute.”
He’d sketched the bizarre story for Tara at lunch, about illicit lovers in some bygone century who’d tried to murder a count and had died in a blaze instead. It was true that she’d always had a particular fear of fire, but that wasn’t unusual. “I’d love to meet Lois, but I’m afraid we’d be imposing.”
“She insists,” he said, and, receiving a nod, conveyed her acceptance to his cousin.
After hanging up, he checked Tara’s work and was complimenting her when the door from the courtyard banged open and Harry barreled through. Behind him, Rajeev, who had picked the boy up at school, shrugged apologetically.
“Honey, Mr. Powers is working,” Tara began, but Chase waved down the admonition.
“It’s all right,” he said. “He looks upset. What’s the matter?”
“Oh, it’s—at school—these kids were playing softball,” the little boy blurted. “I tried to help my friend, but then I stopped, and it messed things up worse.”
The words didn’t make sense to Tara, but Chase seemed to understand “I guess it’s time we practiced.”
“Practiced what?” Tara asked.
Two faces turned toward her, wearing identical startled expressions. Sometimes it amazed her how much the two resembled each other, especially their eyes, although Harry’s hair was much lighter than Chance’s.
“Technique,” said her boss.
“You’re teaching him to play softball?” she said in surprise.
“Not exactly.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Although it relates to softball. I guess you might call it hand-eye coordination.”
“Couldn’t she watch us?” asked Harry.
Chance nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, of course she. could. Tara?”
Another message was incoming on the computer, she noticed. Besides, although from time to time she helped Harry practice his pitching and catching, it wasn’t an activity she relished. “You go ahead.”
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