by Kylie Brant
She stilled in the act of washing her hair. Unlike much of that day, she had a remarkably accurate memory of being undressed and placed under a mountain of covers to still her body's shaking. The memory stood out, starkly real against the jumbled mess her mind had been after finding Benjy. She'd been reduced that afternoon to a backdrop, a surreal mural splashed with dozens of strangers' worries, phobias and desires. She took a deep breath and pushed the thought away. She didn't want to remember parts of that day, or what the experience had reduced her to. It was enough to hold on to the fact that Benjy was finally safe.
Which meant her usefulness to Trey was at an end.
The ache in her heart kept time with the throbbing in her temples. Her joy and relief at Benjy's safe return were unconditional, but they brought with them an irrefutable finality. She should be eager to return to the peaceful valley to recover. Instead, she dreaded the time as it drew inexorably nearer. Stepping out of the shower, she wrapped herself in a towel and grabbed another for her hair. She walked back into the bedroom, her eyes needing a moment to adjust to the dimness.
She sensed his nearness before she'd taken more than a few steps. She froze. He was standing silently in the corner of her room, as if he'd just turned away from the windows. Belatedly aware of her attire, she dropped the towel she'd intended to use for her hair, and with both hands secured the one she'd wrapped around her body. It seemed a fragile barrier beneath his intent regard.
Without taking his eyes from her, Trey reached out and pulled the cord to open the draperies, immediately brightening the room. He examined her face. She still looked fragile. Twenty-six straight hours of sleep hadn't eliminated the delicate mauve shadows beneath her eyes. But there was a hint of color in her cheeks now. He wondered if it was a sign of her return to health or a reaction to his presence. The latter possibility was provoking.
The sight of her in that damn towel was provoking, too. Although his brain hadn't sent them a conscious signal, his feet started moving toward her. He bent down and picked up the spare towel she'd dropped.
"Need some help with this?" he asked.
Jaida remained frozen, her mind slow to interpret his intentions. And then it was too late. By the time her head was shaking in negation, he was behind her, blotting the dampness from her wet hair.
The water had turned it a dark, molten gold. He imagined it shedding beads of liquid gold across the thick, white towel. Bending closer, he inhaled deeply. Gardenias. The fragrance suited her somehow. It evoked images of long, hot, Southern nights spent in an old-fashioned four-poster with a lazy overhead ceiling fan doing little but stirring the humid air.
Deliberately, he slid one hand up her arm and cupped her shoulder. Almost as if he had summoned it, the familiar scene appeared in his mind. He could see them together, the black sheets beneath her back, her slim body twisting under his. Trey closed his eyes, savoring the vivid image.
Jaida gasped and jerked away from him. He watched her with heavy-lidded eyes. For one brief, heart-stopping second she imagined that he had read her mind and shared the erotic image that had reappeared there. It would account for the half dangerous, half hungry look on his face.
Then reality reasserted itself. She was the one prone to random snatches of surreal visions, not he. Still, she couldn't help sneaking a peek at her rumpled bed, rechecking the color of the sheets. White. Letting out a shaky sigh, she banished the sensual picture from her mind.
"I need to get dressed," she said shakily. She was experiencing an almost desperate need to be alone again.
"I brought you something to wear." He motioned to the chair near her bed, and she noticed for the first time the dress draped across it.
"I have clothes."
"Not for where we're going." He walked across the room toward her with slow, measured treads.
"Where we're going?" She repeated his words in a thready voice as she tracked his movement toward her.
"You need to eat," he replied, stopping in front of her. A small smile tilted his hard mouth. "A lot, knowing you. I had some spare time in the twenty-six hours or so you were sleeping. I scouted a restaurant I think you'll like." He had had time to do some shopping, also. He'd told himself it was because she wouldn't have brought anything appropriate to wear to the pricey restaurant. He had had to pick something up for himself, as well. But as soon as he'd bought that sapphire-blue dress he'd seen in a store window, he'd known he was a liar. He'd purchased it because it gave him pleasure to look at it, touch it and imagine her wearing it. Imagine himself taking it off her.
Her gasp interrupted his thoughts.
"Twenty-six hours!" She shook her head dazedly. "Fifteen or sixteen is usually enough. I've never slept around the clock like that, not even—"
She didn't complete the sentence, but she didn't need to. He knew she was alluding to the concert that had turned into a nightmare for her, the one that had destroyed her dreams of singing in public.
"You've never experienced anything as traumatic as what happened in the park when we found Benjy, either," he said, his voice harsh. "Do you think I don't know what that scene did to you? Why in hell did you put yourself through that? I told you to stay put while I searched the crowd."
She swallowed. She didn't want to think about that day, the impulses that had forced her decision. It had been the hardest one she'd ever had to make in her life, and she wasn't proud of the amount of time it had taken her to reach it. In the end, there hadn't been much of a choice after all.
"I had to go," she finally answered quietly. "You might not have found him—there were so many people…"
He saw the anguish that swept briefly over her face and cursed himself for putting that look there. He reached out and caught a long, damp strand of hair and trapped it between two fingers. Deliberately, he began winding it around his index finger. "I sounded ungrateful just then. I'm not. We owe you so much—if it wasn't for you, we would never have found Benjy in time. But, honey, you've got to start thinking of yourself. I won't pretend to know exactly what it cost you to go into that crowd, but dammit, I know what you were like when it was over."
She dropped her gaze, avoiding the intent look on his face.
"Why do you do it?" He sounded genuinely puzzled. "Why in God's name do you put yourself through this kind of pain to help strangers?"
Strangers. The word echoed in her mind. He hadn't been a stranger to her, not since the first time he'd touched her. She hadn't understood him, hadn't trusted him right away, but she'd never denied the immediate and violent reaction she'd had to him. Perhaps she didn't need to explain that to him. He'd shown her time and again that he was affected by it, too, and strangely compelled by it.
Belatedly, she answered his question. "Why do I even exist if I don't use my gift to help others? It's cost me so much in my life, and it would seem futile if it didn't mean something." She caught her breath, distracted for the moment by his thumb rubbing the moisture from the ribbon of hair he'd twined around his finger. "It's rare when it becomes … so intense."
Frowning, he corrected her. "You need to take prescription pain medication every time you have a vision. Don't tell me that's not intense."
She smiled slightly at the concern in his voice. It was foolish to be warmed by it, but she was nonetheless. "I choose to use my gift to help others. And when I'm successful, like when we found Benjy, there is nothing that can compare with that kind of joy or satisfaction."
He remained troubled despite her answer. She needed to be protected; she couldn't be trusted to take care of herself. What would stop some unscrupulous person from learning of her talents and taking advantage of her? If her gift ever became widely known, she'd be the target of every con artist in the country. Someone needed to watch over her, to make sure she didn't often put herself in the kind of situation she'd thrust herself into when she'd entered that crowd. He could appreciate what she had done for his family, but her disregard for her own emotional state was maddening.
Sudden
ly aware of the direction of his thoughts, he disentangled his fingers and stepped back from her, shaken. It wasn't the first time she'd elicited his protective instincts, but each time was equally troubling. He'd always had a strong need to protect his family. But Jaida wasn't family. So why did she spark the same urge to look after her?
He wasn't sure he wanted to examine the answer to that question.
"Where's Benjy? Is Lauren here yet?" she asked.
"She's been and gone, honey." At her disappointed face, he added, "Lauren was upset she didn't get to speak to you before she left, but I didn't want you disturbed. You needed to sleep. Mac flew her and Benjy to a safe house in the Rockies. They'll stay there for a while. You'll have a chance to talk to her later on the phone."
"What about the kidnapper they arrested? Has she told the police anything—"
"Jaida."
His voice was soft, but purposeful. She caught her breath at the look in his eyes. She'd often seen them impenetrable, unreadable, but the light in them now was all too easy to interpret.
"Do you really want to continue this conversation wearing that towel?"
She looked down quickly, newly reminded of her state of dishabille. She could feel heat suffuse her cheeks. It grew hotter at his next words.
"Because if you do, I'm not sure just how much longer you'll be wearing it."
His face was taut, a mask of frustration. His eyes glittered like hot emeralds, and the look he was painting her with made her bones weaken.
"Get dressed," he suggested finally. "I'll be back." He strode quickly from the room.
As the door to the adjoining room closed behind him, Jaida dropped to the bed. She was inexperienced, but not so naive that she'd had any difficulty reading the look he'd worn. It filled her with elation and wariness simultaneously. Everything womanly inside her responded to the blatant promise in his eyes. The caution that had been part of her nature for so long seemed to dissolve each time he got near her. A man like Trey would be a practiced, experienced lover, capable of satisfying a woman completely. She knew that instinctively.
She sat still on the edge of the bed, apprehension filling her. She just didn't know what a twenty-seven-year-old virgin would be able to offer him in return
* * *
"We'll order right away," Trey told the white-jacketed waiter. He inclined his head toward Jaida.
"The seafood Alfredo over fettucine noodles," she decided aloud. "And a small ladies' fillet. With a baked potato, please, and no dressing on the salad."
The waiter was too well trained to display his surprise by more than a flicker of an eyelash. "Very well, madam," he said, his pencil flying furiously. "Will there be anything else?"
"Not until dessert," Trey told him, amusement in his voice. He placed his order and ordered a bottle of wine for the meal, as well.
When the waiter disappeared, Trey returned his attention to Jaida. She was looking almost recovered from her ordeal, a process he hoped the meal would complete. But nothing could detract from her appearance. She'd pulled her hair into a chignon at the base of her scalp. The look was coolly elegant, and one he'd often admired on the women he'd dated.
He didn't like it at all on her.
He was used to seeing her with that sheaf of hair tumbling over her shoulders and down her back. He preferred the look. He liked to think that at any moment he could reach over and bury his hand in its washed-silk texture, or fantasize about having it spread across his chest. Right now his fingers were itching to find just how many pins he'd have to dispense with to send the mass of hair cascading.
The thought made his loins grow heavy. So did her appearance. He'd bought clothes for women before, and he had an eye for color and sizes. The dress he'd purchased for Jaida was a perfect frame for her unusual coloring and highlighted her exquisite figure. The straps were narrow pieces of material that defied gravity and left her shoulders and arms completely bare. He traced the neckline with his gaze. It delved to the top of her breasts, hinting at the delicate cleavage below. Although not snug, the dress draped her curves enticingly, ending several inches above her knees.
She had had the attention of every man in the room when they'd entered, and he'd been torn between the desire to cover her with his suit jacket and the urge to take her back to the motel room. He'd done neither. Instead, he was sitting across from her, suffering from the constant arousal that had been simmering in him since they'd shared the cabin.
"What's the matter?"
"Hmm?"
"Is there something wrong?" she asked again. "A moment ago, you looked, so … fierce." Her voice tapered off, and she wished she hadn't spoken. That intense, hooded regard was focused on her now, bathing her with heat.
"No," he answered belatedly. "There's nothing wrong."
"Is it the woman we had arrested?" she insisted. "You never told me if she's given the police any information that would be useful."
Trey shook his head. "So far all they know is that her name is Maria Kasem. She's refused to tell them anything more. I'm hoping to talk Garven into letting me speak with her tomorrow."
"I could help."
"No." His answer was immediate and so emphatic she blinked. "I know what you're offering, but you're not coming to the precinct with me, and you're not going to talk to Maria. And you most definitely are not going to touch her."
Her chin went up at his autocratic tone. "It isn't your decision to make."
Too late he recognized that he had angered her with his orders. But he wasn't about to back down.
"You need rest between your visions. You've told me that yourself."
"I've had rest."
"Not enough," he disputed with finality. "And you know as well as I that what happened at the park was more intense than you're used to. Your body and mind need time to recuperate, and that's just what you're going to give them time to do."
"We'll see."
It was apparent from her airy drawl that she didn't consider the matter closed. His mouth flattened. He'd been wondering earlier what would keep her safe from unscrupulous people who would use her gift for their own ends, but perhaps a bigger fear was who would protect her from herself. She didn't seem to have an ounce of self-preservation.
The wine arrived then and was presented to Trey for his approval. He signaled the waiter, and the man poured two glasses, setting one in front of Jaida, then him.
She eyed hers warily. "I don't usually drink."
"One glass won't hurt you," he said. He watched with a slight smile as she sipped cautiously from her glass. She probably shouldn't have more than one, anyway. With her strange metabolism there was no telling what effect an excess of alcohol would have on her. But he wouldn't let her drink to excess. He'd hoped that a little wine would relax muscles that were probably still much too tight and relieve some of the strain she'd been under. But instead, the strain on him was increasing.
The wine moistened her lips, making them glisten in the table's candlelight. He imagined himself leaning across the table and licking the moisture away. She'd taste of wine and the sweetness that was uniquely Jaida.
She looked up from her salad a few moments later to see Trey stabbing at his with fierce intent. For once she had a few seconds to watch him unobserved, and she savored the opportunity. The black suit and white shirt he was wearing provided a perfect foil for his dark good looks. Complete with a subtly patterned tie, he appeared remarkably similar to the man who had first approached her in the meadow in Arkansas.
He'd become so much more now. She'd known from the first time she'd seen him that he wasn't what he seemed. A master at pretense, he had from the beginning been able to shield his thoughts, while wielding that polished charm. That ability had made her wary and angry by turns. She would have done well to continue viewing him with only those two emotions. But the possibility of maintaining a distance from him had vanished the first time he'd touched her. She somehow knew that the flame that sprang to life under Trey's touch was not something
she'd ever experience with anyone else. She accepted the fact stoically.
It was not quite as easy to accept the fact that the man who evoked such a response would soon disappear from her life.
* * *
"I'm not tipsy," she insisted, preceding him into his motel room. "And I'm not the least bit tired. We should have gone for a drive or something."
He smiled. No, she wasn't tipsy, as he'd teasingly suggested, but the small amount of wine had flared color to her cheeks. Regardless of her protests, he'd brought her straight back to their rooms. It wasn't late, but he didn't want her to exhaust herself.
He changed the subject to distract her. "I have to get up early tomorrow, if I want to catch Garven at the precinct."
She was immediately disarmed. She had failed to consider that Trey had probably gotten by on very little sleep since Benjy was found. "Wouldn't he have called you if Maria Kasem had named her accomplice?"
Trey undid the knot from the tie and pulled it from his shirt. "I'd certainly hope so. I told him to. It appears she's keeping quiet, at least for the time being. I don't know what she's hoping to gain."
He kicked off his shoes and undid the top two buttons on his shirt. Her mouth went dry. He was still fully covered, but his actions were as seductive as if he were doing a striptease. His open buttons revealed a wedge of muscled chest, with an intriguing thatch of black, curling. hair.
He paused in the act of unbuttoning his cuffs. Frowning, he took a step toward Jaida. "What's wrong?" She was completely still, her gazed fixed on him.
She backed hastily away. "Nothing."
He surveyed her for a moment, noting the way her gaze kept slipping away from him and then sneaking back. Masculine satisfaction curled inside him. Deliberately, he finished unbuttoning his cuffs, then rolled them back on his forearms. She was watching him raptly, and his eyes drooped to half-mast. He strolled toward her.
"Are you sure you're feeling all right?"
She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue and shook her head dumbly. Her head screamed a message to her feet, but she remained rooted to the floor.
