The Hope Chest

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  She screamed again, and he winced. There was nothing fragile about her voice or the pain the nightmare had brought out.

  Striding quickly through the exit and the lighted foyer into the lobby, he noted from her disappearing violet aura that she was rousing slowly from her frightening nightmare. She blinked a few times, tucked her cheek into his shoulder and muttered a few muffled words he couldn’t understand. Lifting her hand, she skimmed her palm along his cheek, caressed the line of his jaw, trailed the pads of her fingertips over his shoulder.

  “You’ll be fine,” he murmured.

  Finally she opened her eyes and stared at him, strength evident in her eyes, her green irises flecked with golden sparks of confusion. Waking in a strange man’s arms must be disconcerting. Another woman might have slammed her fists between his shoulder blades or kneed his ribs or screamed hysterically, but she took in the people around them in the brightly lit lobby, then focused on him.

  “Why are you holding me?”

  He chuckled, pleased by her logical question. “You had a bad dream.”

  “I always have bad dreams. But no one has ever carried me out of a theater before.” Taking a deep breath, she stared at him, her perfectly arched eyebrows drawing together. “Please put me down and tell me what happened.”

  Casual on the surface, her tone was threaded with steel. He set her on her feet, and with her aura again locked down tight, she gave away nothing, not even a dim glow from the embers he sensed beneath her caged emotions. Not good. Especially when his goal was to get her to talk.

  “You fell asleep, screamed and disturbed the audience.” He jerked his chin over his shoulder at the security guard who’d trailed them into the lobby. “I carried you out.”

  Her lips tightened, then twitched, revealing she was both wary and amused. “Why didn’t you just wake me?”

  He shrugged. “I tried.”

  She laughed, her tone throaty and low, and she surprised him yet again by her seeming acceptance of his explanation. Shane had been out of the country so long that he’d forgotten the effect a sophisticated, confident and successful American woman could have on his senses. The memory of carrying her, the feel of her trim thighs under his arm, her hand reaching to touch his face, her slender waist beneath his hands as he’d set her down intrigued him. But it was her aura that fascinated him.

  “Kaylin Dancroft.” She offered her hand, her tone friendly. Her grip was firm, the nails bitten down to the quick, but smooth and straight and polished, as if she’d tried to repair the damage. “Thank you for getting me out of there.”

  “Shane Lynch, and you’re welcome.” Sensing the cool composure she’d wrapped around herself as a self-defense mechanism to keep him at a distance, he tried his charming smile. “Do you want to go next door for a coffee or a bite to eat?” He spoke softly, his voice inviting, allowing his interest to come through. If he remembered correctly, a woman usually responded by reciprocating with a brightening of the eyes, a luminous smile, or by letting him know that she was unavailable. Kaylin did none of the above.

  Cocking her head, she drank him in with a lingering appraisal, examining him from the cut of his hair to his casual sport coat and open-necked shirt to his ultra-comfy but slightly scuffed loafers, without revealing a clue to her thoughts. Shane rarely came across a civilian good at hiding her feelings.

  “Coffee sounds good,” she replied, but with a measure of reserve that told him he had opened a mere sliver in her armor. If he’d ever seen a woman who needed to relax, it was Kaylin, and as he searched for a topic that wouldn’t alarm her, he sent feelings of soothing calm her way.

  Shane had the advantage of knowing Kaylin’s background, thanks to her father. General Dancroft had briefed him last week when he’d requested Shane’s help. Apparently Kaylin had good reason to shut down. She’d been through hell since Jenna’s kidnapping. Wary of doctors, hypnotists, psychics and strangers, who’d poked and prodded her memory in an attempt to make her recall the kidnapper’s identity, Kaylin would likely oppose cooperating with a man who specialized in reading auras and transferring emotion. So her father had insisted that Shane approach her covertly and earn her trust before they attempted to reconstruct the image of the kidnapper’s face together.

  Privately, Shane had questioned if deception was the right way to go. Gaining her trust by lying seemed like a bad tactic. Yet Shane didn’t want to second-guess the wily general who’d been known as a brilliant strategist before his retirement. He’d agreed to Dancroft’s plan—with the understanding that he could alter it as he saw fit.

  Giving a firm nod to the security guard to signal the situation was under control, Shane led Kaylin out of the theater’s lobby and into the shop next door. The rich scent of coffee enveloped them, and the Rolling Stones played on the speakers. The only other customer lounged in the back, drinking coffee and using the wireless Internet service. While hoping the setting—with its aroma of exotic coffees, and pastries and confections enticingly displayed—would reassure Kaylin, Shane appreciated the smooth marketing angle of having related accessories and equipment for sale.

  It was good to be back in the States with all the comforts of home. And working with an interesting woman instead of infiltrating terrorist groups was a bonus long overdue.

  He ordered a cappuccino and she the espresso con panna. After taking a booth, he savored the first rich sip and noted her fingers tightly clutching her hot cup. She neither relaxed nor chattered to fill the silence with small talk.

  After allowing the caffeine to kick in, Shane tapped in to more of his calm, then wrapped her in a soothing cloud of relaxation, sympathy and compassion, and she rewarded his effort with a pink flickering flame in her aura. Like a survivalist dependent upon that fire for heat and warmth, he tended that pink with care, feeding it with dry twigs of tranquil energy.

  “How long since you last slept?” he asked.

  “Seventy-eight hours.” When he raised a skeptical eyebrow, she added, “My record is ninety-six. I’ll reach the walking-zombie stage soon. So please don’t hold that against me.” She plucked a napkin from the holder and dabbed at her lip. “Enough about me. Tell me about yourself.”

  She’d told him almost nothing about herself, but he let it go, sensing if he pushed too soon, she’d shut down again. “What do you want to know?”

  She eyed him a bit warily. “You came to the movie alone?”

  “Yes.” Habit kept him from saying more. He didn’t want to spook her by admitting he’d gone to the movie for the express purpose of meeting her. Then he realized that even if she wasn’t digging for information to satisfy her curiosity, he might help his cause and get her to relax by giving her some personal details. “I’m not currently seeing anyone. I’ve never married. Guess I haven’t stayed in one place long enough.”

  “And your family?” Her eyes bored into his, and he caught on quickly to what was important to her by how her question homed in on family, not what he did for a living.

  “There’s just me,” he said, “and my sister, Eileen.” And their sordid family history.

  He didn’t let himself dwell on what might have been. Now was not the time to think about Peggy Robards. He shoved down hard on the churning anger that filled his gut every time he recalled her rejection of his marriage proposal. She hadn’t wanted to marry a man who’d inherited such a violent nature, and he shouldn’t blame her. If he hadn’t learned to control himself most of the time he’d probably have ended up on death row—like his father, the bastard. Shane hoped he rotted in hell. Death had been too good for the son of a bitch who had abused his mother and Shane for years.

  He shouldn’t blame Peggy for her unwillingness to take a chance on him, but he did. Yes, he’d lost control. Yes, he’d used more force than he should have, but he’d had good reason—at least in his mind.

  Fortunately for Shane, his sister trusted him, even with her children. And that gave Shane hope. If Eileen could trust him, surely another woman could, t
oo.

  Although Shane knew Kaylin was single and free, he pretended otherwise. “What about yourself? You with anyone?”

  She shook her head and shot him a wry grin. “Most men are more frightened of my nightmares than I am.”

  With another woman he might have suggested that he’d awaken her if necessary, then make her forget her nightmare. But he didn’t tease Kaylin. Although she was talking to him about personal things—score one for him—Shane’s legendary charm was far from chipping away at her solid walls. Besides, he had too much compassion for what she’d gone through after the loss of her sister to make light of her nightmares.

  “You have these nightmares often?” He kept his voice casual, but sensing that she wouldn’t be honest with a stranger unless he maintained a balm of security wrapped around her, he sent out soothing calm and extra sympathy.

  She shrugged and licked a dab of whipped cream from her lip. “Sometimes…” she said, the words slow and hesitant, and he nudged his compassion up a notch to encourage her. “Sometimes I go for months without a dream. Sometimes I can’t close my eyes without…”

  The pink that had brightened suddenly faded. Shane refused to let her ability to open up to him wither—not after she’d begun to be honest. He packed encouragement and tranquility around her, nurturing the flickers that brightened and multiplied. “Can’t close your eyes without…what?”

  “Dreaming.” She shook her head. “I don’t usually talk to strangers about… Tonight was especially bad.”

  He softened his tone, didn’t let up his mental soothing. “What did you dream?”

  Shadows in her eyes, she stared into her coffee so long he wondered if she would answer. Finally she raised her pain-filled gaze and he wished he could take her into his arms. Instead, he forced himself to be patient and sent more psychic empathy her way.

  In contrast to her visible pain, her voice was strong. “Four years ago while I was home from college on spring break, my sister Jenna was kidnapped. She was never found.”

  He shook his head. “That’s horrible—to lose a loved one in such an awful way. Were you close?”

  “She was much younger than me and we were nothing alike, but yeah, we were…friends. I’m the typical first child, the one who wanted the parents’ approval and played by the rules, but Jenna’s middle name should have been rebel. She loved life, feared nothing and raised hell. She adored bad boys and fast cars…yet I admired her spirit of adventure, her zest to live every moment fully, and she envied my dedication.” Her voice filled with fondness. “We shared everything and I tried to keep her out of trouble. The one time she needed me…really needed me…I didn’t come through.”

  “What do you mean?” He kept his tone nonjudgmental and pushed comfort her way. He might be able to take the edge off her pain, but the wound was still too raw for him to heal. Shane often took missions where he felt sympathy for the people he helped, but Kaylin’s quiet strength combined with her suffering tugged at his heart, and he hoped he could lessen her pain.

  “Jenna’s kidnapper was coming for me that night. But when I hid, he took her instead.”

  “Sounds like survivor’s guilt.”

  “So over half a dozen shrinks have told me. Too bad they don’t have a clue how to cure it.” Disgust smoked up her voice. She sipped her coffee and stared over his shoulder, but he could still see the agony in her eyes.

  He couldn’t let her remain silent, especially now that he understood that keeping her past bottled up was her natural inclination. As an expert at persuasion, Shane drew upon his talents, again infusing her pink auras with encouragement.

  “Why did you hide from the kidnapper? Did you hear him coming?”

  “I dreamed it.” She thrummed her fingers on the tabletop. “You see, my dreams aren’t normal. Mine come true.”

  “Your dreams come true?” Shane repeated Kaylin’s words as if deciding if he liked the flavor. There was no doubt in his tone, no snide patronization, just acceptance and a compassion that she rarely saw in others. He spoke without the skepticism she’d come to expect from people, and maybe that’s why she found talking to him so easy. Still, she couldn’t believe she was opening up to a total stranger. Shane was affecting her oddly and she didn’t understand why she wanted to talk about such personal things. Perhaps it was simply because she’d kept her fears and thoughts contained for so long that at the first sympathetic ear, she’d opened up. Or maybe she’d spoken so freely because he had no ulterior motive. She could speak to him like someone beside her on an airplane, knowing she wouldn’t see him again.

  She had no idea how he could accept such a preposterous phenomenon as her clairvoyance without knowing more than she’d told him. From the moment she’d opened her eyes and seen him, he’d seemed so much a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of guy that she’d just enjoyed the moment, relaxed in his support.

  What woman wouldn’t? She swallowed a grin of pleasure at the memory of him cradling her easily against his powerful chest. After a tough day at the real estate office where she’d lost what would have been a lucrative listing to another saleswoman, then had to convince a home seller that the current buyer’s market required him to repair his roof in order for her to sell his home, she’d gone to the movies to watch Arnold Schwarzenegger and ended up with her very own action-movie hero. Shane might have that larger-than-life demeanor, but he also seemed gentle, considerate. And if he had trouble swallowing her claim of clairvoyance, he had the impeccable control not to show it. His gray eyes seemed open, warm and compassionate.

  On the surface, Shane appeared a man’s man with muscles and chiseled bones and honed edges. He seemed the kind who judged someone a friend or a foe with little room between. So when he followed up with another question, she was pleased to hear genuine curiosity, not skepticism, in his tone.

  “Have your dreams always come true?”

  “For as long as I can remember.” Although she couldn’t recall the last time she’d admitted her clairvoyance, it felt good to air her secret, the relief like lancing a boil.

  His eyebrows narrowed. “You sound as though you don’t appreciate your gift.”

  “Gift?” She snorted. “It’s more a curse.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Of course he didn’t, but his lack of comprehension didn’t surprise her. It was his seeming belief in her clairvoyance that brought her up short. Kaylin’s job involved meeting many people, but the nature of real estate entailed a steady stream of buyers and sellers coming and going, none of whom she got to know well. Her job suited her. She liked the freedom to set her own hours. She liked the contact with people—people who never knew her well enough to know she was different. People who would have thought she was crazy if she’d told them what she’d just spilled to Shane.

  Yet he believed her.

  She didn’t know why, but he did, and his belief in her must be what had allowed her to set aside her normal wariness of strangers. At the most primitive level of her psyche, Kaylin recognized Shane had an edge that made him see or accept what others didn’t or couldn’t. Something elemental was allowing her to overcome her customary suspicions. Something she couldn’t nail down. Something that she found damn attractive. Almost irresistible.

  She felt compelled to explain, to make him understand. For once she didn’t overanalyze the connection they seemed to share and went with her gut. “When I was eight, I dreamed that my puppy had gotten loose. As a result, for weeks I didn’t let that dog out of my sight. When a neighbor accidentally left our back door open and the dog escaped, I cried and cried that I’d failed to protect him.”

  “Did he get struck by a car?”

  She shook her head. “That’s what I feared, but that night he finally returned home safe and sound. But because of my dream, I’d spent weeks worrying over him…for nothing.”

  “Does that happen a lot?”

  “The dreams are never clear. I get haunting flashes, distorted images, and have no way of knowi
ng what the dreams mean. The most frustrating thing is how little control I have. When I was about six years old, I dreamed about drowning. I saw thrashing, arms slipping under the water, then a body floating, facedown, on the surface. But I never saw the child’s face.”

  “You knew him?” Sympathy oozed from his tone, but no pity. Pity would have stopped her, because she hated that more than the people who didn’t believe her. Even more than her mother’s belief that her clairvoyance came from some evil part of her.

  She saw only reassuring interest in Shane’s eyes. According to all the shrinks she’d seen, talking was supposed to help her survivor’s guilt, yet despite the difficulty she had finding people who could converse rationally about an irrational subject, she didn’t understand her almost compelling need to spill her story. “The following week I learned that a neighbor, Bobby Becker, had drowned. I became hysterical—because I’d seen his death, but not enough of the details to warn him.”

  “You were a child…”

  She sighed. “It never gets easier. Too many of my visions turn out correctly for me to ignore them. The bad ones haunt me, as well as the harmless ones. The timing is always a bitch.”

  “The timing?”

  “The most frustrating part of my clairvoyance isn’t that people don’t believe me—it’s that sometimes they do.”

  “You’re losing me.”

  “Last year I dreamed that my friend Leslie would break her arm in a car crash. So of course I cautioned her not to drive, and she didn’t for a week. Two days after she began again, a drunk driver smashed into her, and she broke her arm.”

  “You envisioned the crash, but not the date.” He caught on quickly.

  “Yeah. Leslie couldn’t give up driving for a lifetime. So not only is my foreknowledge useless, the inability to change what I see is no gift.”