Psychic Storm: Ten Dangerously Sexy Tales of Psychic Witches, Vampires, Mediums, Empaths and Seers

by Deanna Chase

  Unable to see from his own eyes, he blinked several times in an effort to clear his vision, but that didn't work. He tilted his head back and watched himself do it. He knew he must be staring directly at the person, yet couldn’t see him. He began to panic.

  Someone touched his arm and he jumped.

  “Are you okay, my friend?”

  Jon-Luc blinked again, his eyes finally focused on Claude. “Uh.” His gaze flew back up to the railing, but he had no way of knowing who it was he was looking for. Several pair of eyes stared back. He gulped and looked back at his friend.

  “Yeah, sorry. Were you saying something?”

  “I said perhaps there is something about this woman that made her murder more personal, more passionate, so to speak.”

  “What did the other murder scenes look like? Were they similar to this?”

  “Actually, we have not found them yet. The women were dumped in the river. We searched the banks for the actual murder sites, but the river is 43 miles long and we have not had any luck. I have a man calculating the currents and times from which the bodies were found to try to zero in on where the bodies actually went into the water, but I’m afraid this killer is keeping us all on our feet.”

  “You mean, on your toes?"

  "Yes, yes, this is the saying."

  "When did you find the first body?”

  "Let me see." Claude thought a moment. “The first girl was found about two months ago. But at the time, it was classified as a suicide. Many people jump into the river to end their life.”

  Jon-Luc raised his eyebrows. “With their wrists cut?”

  “Well, no, that was new. I am told they assumed she was very serious. The body was found in a part of the city that is not my jurisdiction. I read her story in the newspaper, then promptly forgot all about it. When the second girl was discovered, it was Mimi who remembered the article. Since the case was mine, I had the records brought to me immediately, but of course, too much time had lapsed to do much good.”

  Jon-Luc nodded. “So when and how was the second vic discovered?”

  “She was floating face down. A boat full of tourists noticed her and the captain called it in. So you see, not good for tourism, oui? That was one month ago.”

  Jon-Luc thought about that. “So you have roughly four weeks to stop this guy, if he sticks to his current timetable.”

  “Oui. Luc, I know you are on holiday, but if you do not mind, would you go over the files for me? Perhaps you might find something I may have missed, yes?”

  Jon-Luc clapped his hand on his friends shoulder. “Sure, buddy, no problem.” Then he stared at the body. “So this woman is well known?”

  “I do not keep up on such things. But now that I think about it, the face is familiar, no?”

  Jon-Luc shook his head. "Not by me, no." He hadn’t recognized her when he saw her earlier on the plane.

  “Excuse me, Inspector?” A young police officer in uniform caught their attention.

  “Oui?”

  “She is the face of that new perfume, Tres Unique. You’ve seen the advertisement on the side of buses and in magazines. My girlfriend made me buy her a bottle for her birthday.”

  Claude nodded. “Ah, oui, I knew I had seen her before.”

  The sun was well into the sky when they drove back through the city. Jon-Luc stared out the window at the commuter traffic. Both men were silent a good ten minutes until Jon-Luc turned to his friend. “You have a problem on your hands, Claude.”

  “Yes. I do not wish to impose, but I am grateful you have agreed to assist me.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “You are too modest, my friend. You hold the unofficial title of the most closed cases within your FBI. You are legendary even over here. I swear you must be psychic or something, oui?” Claude said.

  “Or something,” Jon-Luc answered, quietly, then turned toward the window once again in an attempt to hide his emotions.

  They were almost to his hotel when Jon-Luc spotted a Starbucks and asked Claude to drop him off. He retrieved his bags from the back seat and stood talking to his friend through the open window.

  “Maybe you can get a couple hours of sleep. I will have a messenger bring those files to you. I will ring you this evening and perhaps we can share a fine meal and catch up.”

  “Sounds great.” Jon-Luc stepped back, slapped the top of the car twice and watched as Claude sped off. He was exhausted. He had already been up twenty-four hours. He needed a shave and shower badly. He hoped the line inside wasn’t long. No such luck.

  4

  Angela Henderson was having a particularly bad morning: she’d overslept. The people living above her had an extremely loud night. First it was an argument; yelling, screaming, and breaking things, it went on for hours. Next the make-up sex, which was just as noisy. In all aspects of their lives, they were a very vocal couple. In other words, they were French.

  It must have been somewhere around dawn when she’d finally fallen asleep. That would explain the alarm clock on the other side of the room.

  The heat wasn’t working, again. She swore she could see her breath. She’d bought a down comforter weeks ago because this was a constant problem at this flea-bitten hotel. The idea of climbing out of the warm, albeit lumpy, bed sent shivers through her body just thinking about it.

  She threw back the covers, then searched the floor for her slippers before taking a step. She never knew if a cockroach was lurking somewhere just waiting to crawl over her feet.

  Because she went to bed wearing layers of clothes, there was no need to dress. So Angie gathered up her toiletries and towel, then trudged down the hall to the communal bathroom. It took a few minutes of testing the water before she realized there was no hot water left.

  "Shit! No shower again? That's twice this week!"

  Angie stomped over to the sink and brushed her teeth, then washed her face in the chilly water. A knock sounded on the door.

  "Just a minute!" she yelled.

  She freed her body from the many layers until she stood there naked, all but for her slippers. No way would she let her bare feet touch the icy, disease ridden, tile. She wet her washcloth.

  Someone began banging on the door.

  "It's occupied!" Dammit, can't a girl get some peace around here?

  She rubbed some soap on her washcloth and cleansed her stinky parts while she endured the insufferable racket. After she toweled herself off, she quickly dressed. The constant pounding was giving her an unbearable headache.

  Angie unlocked the door and swung it open dramatically. The act caught the person on the other side mid-knock and he almost clobbered her in the chin.

  "Watch it," she warned.

  The old man's back was hunched, so his head only reached Angie's chest. Of course, being taller than most men was not new to her. At almost six feet, she often towered above a crowd. The old man's gnarled hands began waving about as rapid French spewed forth.

  Nonplussed, Angie strode past him, then said, "Same to you, buddy," over her shoulder without missing a beat. She had no idea what he'd said. But she did know he wasn't telling her to have a nice day.

  Although her high school French had greatly improved since moving here from Washington, she still stumbled over her words at times. And when a native spoke as fast as that man, she caught maybe every fourth word.

  By the time she'd arrived downstairs in the lobby, all the coffee was gone. Granted, it wasn’t the best coffee in Paris, but today of all days, she needed her caffeine fix immediately. Now she would have to wait until she exited the train.

  It was standing room only as the train sped through the underground tunnel. Angie was thinking about her crappy living arrangements. They sucked big time, but for now, it was all she could afford, and it was only a short fifteen minute walk to the Metro. Other than that, she was having a hard time finding anything else to add to the plus column.

  It was better than living on the street? Okay, that made two. The
bottom line, she was an artist, and all great artists had to suffer for their art. The most important thing in the world was she was an assistant fashion designer again. And for that, she could endure almost anything. That made her smile.

  The small burst of happiness was short-lived when Angie found herself standing in line at Starbucks. Waiting, waiting, and waiting some more. Her mood did not improve with time.

  The matronly woman in line before her was definitely a tourist. And not just any tourist, but one who had to look up every word in her little English to French dictionary to place her order. Angie tapped her foot in frustration. Finally, she butted in. “Daniel speaks very good English. Maybe you should try that!”

  The woman turned around and stared up at Angie.

  “Oh, excuse me.” Her voice trembled, and suddenly Angie felt bad. She really didn't mean to scare the poor lady, she just needed her caffeine fix. Now!

  The woman turned back to the barista, who naturally wore an angry expression and ordered a coffee with cream.

  Daniel yelled over his shoulder, "Café au lait!"

  Angie all but screamed inside her head. The least the woman could have done was order something complicated. Instead, five minutes of diction lessons and that’s what she comes up with? Jeez!

  When Angie finally reached Daniel, he handed over her usual triple shot of espresso and croissant. Angie paid him, thanked him, then promptly swung around and—smack!

  “Dammit!” Her liquid gold had just decorated the idiot behind her. The one standing so close he could have been her Siamese twin. “What the hell is wrong with you? Give a girl some breathing room, why don’t you!” Angie grabbed a bunch of napkins and shoved them at him.

  “Oh, excuse me for getting in your way. For some reason I thought you would step to the left like everyone else.” The man took the offered napkins and deftly blotted at his shirt. “I don’t know what you’re so peeved about, I’m the one wearing hot coffee! I probably have third degree burns thanks to you. The least you could do is apologize.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry you got in my way and I have to order another espresso.” Angie turned back to Daniel who was obviously enjoying himself at her expense. “And what are you smirking at?”

  “Looks like you are having a bad day, no?” Smiling, Daniel yelled over his shoulder for another triple espresso. When he turned back, the man was standing there.

  “Make that two.” The man rifled through a handful of Euros.

  Daniel raised his brows. “Oui, monsieur. Deux.”

  The man looked back at Angie. “The least I could do is buy you another cup.” Amusement danced along his features.

  She stared at the man as if seeing him for the first time. He was tall, around 6’5”. His black hair was on the long side, with layers that feathered back away from his face. His eyes were a light gold surrounded by long dark, lashes. That really pissed Angie off. Hell, without mascara, her own blonde lashes were nearly invisible.

  He had a heavy five o’clock shadow going on and it was only eight in the morning. He either had a very serious beard, or he’d been up all night. Angie was certain it was the latter.

  As her eyes drank him in, her mind was reeling. He was sexy in that rough, dangerous kind of way. If you went for that sort of thing, which Angie did. Not. Not anymore. No way. She was never going there again. All she’d ever gotten from those bad boy types were tire tracks across her heart as they drove over her on their way out of town.

  He was wearing black from head to toe, including his well-worn leather jacket. Who the hell did he think he was? All he needed to complete the fantasy was, uh oh, he was wearing black biker boots. Damn, she had a particular fondness for men in biker boots and, oh hell, tight jeans.

  The guy wore his shirt open at the collar and what a teaser he was sporting. A tuft of curly dark hair sprang out with a hint of a thin gold chain. Whatever hung at the end of that chain was hidden by his shirt. Mix that with his broad shoulders and she found herself wondering what he looked like without his shirt. This was sooo not good.

  He was paying for their coffees when Angie hazarded a look at his butt, and oh, my, God, he was sporting a fine one at that. It was probably more the mere fact that Angie had not been with a man for going on two years now. Yes, that must be it.

  Why else would she be all but salivating over him? She brushed at her mouth to make sure she wasn’t actually drooling. That’s all she would need him to see. It would play nicely with the oversized ego she was certain he had.

  A man like this could have his pick of Parisian beauties and probably had. He wasn’t French, but did have a sexy accent that she couldn’t quite place. The low timbre of his voice reminded her of that actor, Sam Elliot. It gave her goose bumps. She had to mentally shake her head because he was now facing her and holding out a cup.

  “Try and drink this one, will you?”

  Angie wanted to smack that grin right off his face, but instead she turned to stare out the front window.

  “What are you looking for?” he asked.

  “Your Harley,” Angie answered as if it was a given.

  “My Harley’s at home.” He cocked his head. “What made you say that?”

  “Great, just great.” Angie snatched her coffee and headed toward the door. She could hardly believe her luck.

  Just as she reached out for the handle, she heard his voice behind her. “Wait, I thought we were going to have coffee!”

  “We just did!” Without turning around, she dashed through the door.

  Run as fast as you can. Get some distance from him. Don’t look back. Angie repeated those words in her mind like a mantra as she rushed down the street weaving in and out of pedestrians.

  Jon-Luc stood there perplexed. What had just happened? The woman was like a whirling dervish; she flew into the shop and disrupted everything in her path. She was intriguing, a 180 from anyone he'd ever met. She’d definitely gotten his attention. Then he realized he was standing in everyone's way, staring at the door like an idiot.

  Crap, I didn’t get her name!

  He ran out the door after her. Once on the sidewalk he surveyed the crowd. Too late, she was already gone.

  “Dammit!” A woman walking by gave him a dirty look.

  "Sorry," he said, and cringed.

  He pictured the woman in his mind’s eye. She reminded him of a pixie, although she wasn’t petite. In fact, he gauged her height about 5’ ll”, maybe even six feet. Her close-cropped hair was spiked on top. The color a pale blonde, the ends tipped in black. She kept her make-up to a minimum. Her aqua-blue eyes were amazing.

  She had been wearing a pair of painted on jeans with a black cut-off Moulin Rouge T-shirt that cropped just below her very ample bosom. A piece of silver filigree jewelry pierced her belly button and brought one’s eye to admire her flat stomach. Over this she’d worn a black leather jacket which zigzagged with numerous zippers. Around her neck a black lacy scarf hung down with shredded ends. What topped the look off was a pair of black leather thigh high boots. In other words, she was beyond hot.

  Luc finally ventured a taste of his coffee, then yanked the cup from his mouth. “Shit!” He’d burned his tongue and forgotten what he was doing, but it didn’t matter anyway. The most amazing woman he had ever met was gone and he would never see her again. “Good going.” Luc headed down the street toward his hotel.

  Jon-Luc was sitting at the bar, and Genevieve Lamont was rubbing her breasts against his arm. The blouse she wore left little to the imagination. Her stiff nipples poked at the silky green material, just begging him to take them into his mouth.

  Clearly, she was intoxicated, or well on her way. Her hand slid up his thigh; he stopped it just before it hit his crotch. He was rock hard, and finding it more and more difficult to resist her. She was dammed gorgeous and obviously ready. So why was he holding back? He knew there was a reason, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what it was.

  She hiked up her skirt and slipped onto his
lap. Jon-Luc’s head whipped around to see if anyone had noticed, but everyone in the bar seemed oblivious to her actions. He knew the French had a more laid back approach to sex, but this was pushing it, even for them. She rubbed her crotch over the bulge in his pants and he groaned. She wasn’t wearing any panties. She began to fumble with his zipper and he decided to help her along. What the hell? Whatever it was he forgot, it was probably not that important anyway.

  His cock sprang free and she eased herself down on him expertly. Oh yeah, she was ready all right. Genevieve began to rock back and forth, slowly. Luc could only give in and go along for the ride. Big sacrifice. He stared into her emerald green eyes and she smiled, as if to say she’d won. Yeah, well, it wasn’t like he’d put up much of a fight.

  He placed his hands on her hips as she picked up the pace. She moaned and leaned her head back. He closed his eyes and did the same. She rode him hard. He was just starting to come when he felt her lips on his mouth. He tried to kiss her back, but she wouldn’t let him. He felt the orgasm rip through him and hers along with it. He opened his eyes as he yelled his release.

  Genevieve’s head was tipped back, her eyes closed. Then her head came up, her mouth and eyes opened at the same time as a blood curdling scream ripped though the night. Sightless black holes stared back at Jon-Luc. He yelled and pushed at her with all his strength. She fixed him with that vacant stare and laughed.

  Now he remembered what niggled at the back of his mind. She was dead!

  “Shit. Fuck.” Jon-Luc sat straight up and found himself tangled in the sheets. He kicked and pulled. He had to get away. Finally free, he jumped out of bed and looked around. He was alone. Of course he was alone. It was just a dream. He staggered into the bathroom, his breathing labored. He splashed his face with cold water several times before cupping his hand under the faucet to take a drink.

  He stared at himself in the mirror. He looked like shit. Well, yeah, what did he expect? He’d just fucked a corpse.