The question annoyed her. She looked briefly at her hands, neatly folded in her lap, and then raised her chin.
“I told you, I can deal with it.”
“You’re sure? I noticed that you kept your hands under your raincoat on your lap for most of the flight.”
“I would not have taken this assignment if I thought I couldn’t handle it.”
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.” She wrinkled her nose. “You’re fretting. I’m making you nervous.”
“Maybe I’m just curious?”
“You’re fretting,” she repeated evenly. “I suppose I can’t blame you for your lack of confidence but try looking at this situation from my perspective.”
“Which is?”
She raised her brows. “I’ve got a bodyguard who isn’t comfortable carrying a gun and needs a cane to get around.”
“Fallon told you about the gun thing?”
“Yes.”
He meditated on that for a long moment and then nodded once. “You know, you’re right. From your perspective, those facts would not at first glance appear to be reassuring.”
“Luckily for me,” she said coolly, “I took a second glance.”
“At my aura,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“I’m an aura talent. That’s what I do.”
To her surprise, he smiled faintly. “What did you see that was reassuring?”
She sat back in the seat and concentrated on savoring the wonderful air.
“I saw a lot of sheer bullheaded determination,” she said.
“Bullheaded determination is a good quality?”
“It means you’ll do whatever you need to do to complete this mission. What’s more, you know your own power and how to control it. You feel confident about your talent so I do, too.”
She saw a lot more than that but she was not prepared to go into details. Some things you just did not talk about on a first date. The thought made her smile.
Luther was silent for a moment, processing what she had said. Then his hands tightened on the steering wheel. “You can see things like determination in an aura?” he asked, half curious, half disbelieving.
She turned her head to look at him. “Didn’t Mr. Jones tell you about the little twist in my talent?”
“He said you could read a person’s psychic profile. Guess I didn’t understand exactly what that meant. I’m surprised they haven’t got you working as a parapsychologist.”
“I don’t have the academic background to work as a counselor.”
“How did you end up in Genealogy?”
“I applied for a position in the Bureau. I like psychic genealogy. It suits my talents. How did you end up as a bartender in Waikiki?”
“It suits my talents.”
She knew a conversational dead end when she ran into one.
“Right. Speaking of your talents, what’s the plan for finding our bad guy?” she asked. “Do I just stroll around the resort like a drug-sniffing dog looking at auras?”
His mouth twitched a little. “We’ll try to be a little more cool than that.”
“Even if we’re very cool, it probably won’t take long to spot Eubanks. Powerful talents of any kind are rare. What are the odds that there will be more than one level-nine strat staying at the resort?”
“That’s what Fallon Jones said.”
“If anyone knows probabilities, it’s Mr. Jones.”
“I’ll tell you a little secret about Fallon Jones,” Luther said.
“What’s that?”
“Most of the time he’s right but occasionally he screws up and when he does, it’s never in a small way.”
She thought about that. “Maybe that’s because he’s so sure of himself and his talent that he doesn’t always allow for other possibilities. Or maybe because he’s overworked. I have the impression that he’s under a tremendous amount of pressure these days.”
“You do realize that he’s a first-class conspiracy theorist who just happens to have a good track record?”
“Yes.” She cleared her throat. “But I admit that it is a bit unsettling to think of Mr. Jones in those terms.”
“Pay is good, though,” Luther said.
She smiled. “Yes, it is.”
SEVEN
It was after four o’clock by the time they checked into the beachfront hotel in the Wailea resort community. The suite was on the fourth floor with a view of the pool, the gardens and the ocean beyond. There were deeply shaded lanais off both the master bedroom and the living room. The perfect spot for a honeymoon, Luther thought, morosely. Not that he would know. He’d gone to Vegas for both of his.
He carried his small leather travel kit into the second bath and set it on the counter next to the sink, aware of Grace unpacking in the master bedroom. For a moment he indulged in a pleasant little erotic fantasy, thinking that it would have been very nice to be the real Mr. Carstairs on a real honeymoon with his real wife.
Don’t go there. She’s not your wife, she’s the partner you never wanted; one with zero field experience. That is not a good thing.
She was also the only woman who had revved up his senses and made him seriously hard in months. No way that could be a
bad thing. It was distracting, however. He was going to have to work in order to stay focused.
His leg ached. The combination of the flight from Honolulu and the drive from the airport had taken its toll. Annoyed, he removed the bottle of anti-inflammatory tablets from his kit and shook out four. He managed to resist the almost overwhelming urge to hurl the bottle across the room. The damn leg was never going to be the same. Get over it.
He dropped the bottle back into the kit, tightened his hand on the cane and made his way out of the bathroom. Grace was waiting for him. She had changed into a pair of lightweight trousers and another long-sleeved shirt. At least she wasn’t wearing the trench coat.
It occurred to him that she did not seem overly impressed with the suite. He was. He’d spent time in the army, put in several years as a cop and now he was a bartender and part-time contractor with J&J. None of those career paths had paid the kind of money that allowed him to check into classy suites like this one. Grace, however, seemed unfazed by the luxury accommodations. Maybe he should consider a position in the Bureau of Genealogy.
“Going somewhere?” he asked.
“Thought I’d take a walk on the beach,” she said. “I’ve been in a plane or on the road for most of the day. I’d like to unwind before dinner.”
It was time to explain the facts of life, he decided.
“Got one rule on this job,” he said. “We’ll call it Rule Number One.”
She raised her brows. “And that would be?”
“I give the orders, and the first order is that you don’t leave this room alone. No wandering off on your own unless I give permission.”
She inclined her head very politely. “I take it that means you’re coming down to the beach with me.”
“What the hell. I need to get a feel for the terrain, anyway.” He opened the door for her. “But the order still stands. You don’t go out of here on your own. Got it?”
She went past him, neatly avoiding any accidental contact. “Fallon Jones said that you were in charge on this mission.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
He followed her out into the hall and closed the door, waiting a beat until he heard it lock securely. Satisfied, he walked with Grace toward the elevator lobby, fighting the temptation to move into the invisible Don’t Touch Zone that enveloped her like another kind of aura. He noticed that her arms were folded beneath her breasts in a seemingly casual manner. If you looked closely, however, you could see that her fingers were tucked safely out of sight.
He brooded on what might have happened to a woman to make her dread touching another human being. The realization that a little skin-to-skin contact with him might actually cause her psychic pain was troubling. It just didn’t seem right th
at she might not be able to abide his touch; not when he was so certain that touching her would bring him nothing but pleasure.
“I’m starting to feel guilty about the glove thing,” he said.
“As well you should.”
“Damn it—”
“Don’t worry, I understand,” she said. She smiled wryly. “Wearing them on this mission would not be at all professional.”
He searched for another path through the Don’t Touch Zone.
“How long have you been in Genealogy?” he asked.
“A year.”
“That’s all? Fallon implied that he considered you very valuable.”
She glowed. “I’m delighted to hear that. Mr. Jones is not what you would call forthcoming with positive feedback.”
“He’s never going to be up for Boss of the Year, that’s for sure. But take it from me, he wouldn’t have used your professional services more than once if he hadn’t been impressed.”
“That’s good to know.”
“What did you do before you went to work for the Society?”
“Didn’t Mr. Jones tell you?” she asked.
“Fallon can be vague about details that he doesn’t consider important.”
“I used to work for a company called Crocker World.”
He stopped in front of the elevators and pressed the call button. “Martin Crocker’s company?”
“Yes.” She looked politely surprised. “You were aware of the company?”
“Crocker’s death made headlines. It was also big news within the Society. He was a member. Funded a lot of research projects.”
“Yes, I know.”
“What did you do at Crocker World?”
“I was on the corporate research library staff. After Mr. Crocker died, it became obvious that the firm was in trouble. Everyone knew that the company would fall apart without him at the helm. I could see the writing on the wall, so I started job hunting immediately.”
It was all said very smoothly, very casually, but there was something ever so slightly off. Luther jacked up his senses until he had a clear view of her aura. He might not be able to see details the way she apparently did, but he could make out certain strong emotions. There was tension in the energy field that blazed around her, the kind that, as a cop, he’d learned to associate with a well-crafted lie.
“How long have you been a member of the Society?” he asked.
“My mother registered me when I was born.” She paused a beat. “You?”
“My folks were both members. They registered me at birth.”
The elevator doors slid open, revealing a cab packed with people. He assessed the situation in a single glance. Joining the crowd would mean forcing Grace to run the risk of someone brushing against her. He could feel her sudden tension.
Luther smiled benignly at the cluster of faces.
“We’ll wait for the next one,” he said.
The elevator doors closed.
“Thank you,” Grace said quietly.
“No problem,” he said. “I’d suggest we take the stairs but—” He broke off, giving the cane a disgusted look. He refused to tell her that his leg was acting up and that descending four flights of stairs would make things worse. “I can make it down but it’s not the most graceful sight in the world,” he said instead.
“No problem,” Grace said gently. “It’s not as if we’re in a hurry.”
They stood together in silence and watched the illuminated numerals over the three elevators. Grace’s expression was calm and composed. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking.
Luther used the time to wonder why she had lied about the job at Crocker World.
EIGHT
They had a drink in the open-air bar and ate red snapper garnished with a light ginger and miso sauce in the restaurant. There were candles on the tables, moonlight on the sea and a slack-key guitar playing softly. If she closed her eyes and surrendered to the wonders of magical thinking, she could almost pretend she was on a real date, Grace thought. Of course, you had to overlook the fact that she did not dare to even hold her escort’s hand. Not that Luther had made any attempt to initiate such intimate contact, she reminded herself. Just the opposite. He seemed to be going out of his way to keep plenty of distance between them, no doubt afraid that if he even brushed against her by accident, she’d freak and destroy their cover.
She was more than a little surprised when he suggested a walk on the oceanfront path after dinner. Her first instinct was to refuse. She always felt more vulnerable after dark. The old fear that someone was creeping up on her was strongest at night, probably because that was when the Monster had visited her bedroom. But this evening she would not be facing the night alone. In spite of her own secrets, she felt curiously safe with Luther.
He was careful to keep at least a foot away from her as they made their way along the dimly lit path that linked the beachfront hotels. His cane tapped softly on the pavement. She sensed his barely suppressed irritation.
“Does your leg hurt?” she asked.
“Just a little stiff,” he muttered.
He was lying, she thought. But then, she had lied to him earlier when he tried to interrogate her. She knew that he had not been completely satisfied with her answers. The conversation in the hotel hallway after they had checked into their room had been the one that she worried about the most. She had gone over it again and again in her mind, however, and she knew she had aced it. Luther’s cop intuition might have been aroused, but if Fallon Jones hadn’t penetrated the veil of her carefully manufactured past, it was unlikely that Luther would discover the truth.
“How long have you lived in Hawaii?” she asked, watching the moonlit surf crash on the rocks below the path.
“Couple of years. Moved here after my second divorce. Quit my job with the department at the same time. Figured I needed a change of scene.”
“Sorry about the divorce,” she said quietly.
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t the biggest surprise in the world.”
“Were you deeply in love?”
“Whatever I felt for Tracey died the day I found her in bed with my partner.”
“Funny how finding out that someone you trusted has betrayed you can kill a relationship.”
“Been there?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Ex-husband?”
“No. We were never married.”
Good grief, what was she doing? Even with the names changed to protect the guilty, any attempt to explain her complicated association with Martin Crocker would not only be difficult, it would be extremely dangerous. She had kept secrets most of her life. She was a pro. But something about being out here in the night with Luther was threatening to make her careless.
“Does aura talent run in your family?” she asked.
“Sporadically. My grandfather was a strong aura. He told me that my father was a high strat talent though, and my mother had a mid-range talent for color and design, of all things.”
“Raw psychic power tends to be a strong genetic trait but the form the talent takes is often hard to predict. Your grandfather told you about your parents?”
“My folks were killed in a car crash by a drunk driver when I was a baby. I never knew them. My grandfather raised me.”
“Is your grandfather still alive?” she asked.
“No. He died the year I graduated from high school and went into the army.”
She told herself she should stop right there. But she couldn’t seem to help herself. “Is there anyone else in your family?”
“Maybe some distant cousins somewhere.” He sounded disinterested. “If they’re out there, they never bothered to show up after my parents were killed.”
“In other words, there’s no one?”
“Got a couple of good friends over on Oahu. They own the restaurant where I work as a bartender. What about you?”
“My mother died when I was thirteen. Some kind of rare infection.”
&
nbsp; “Tough,” he said.
“Yes, it was.”
“Your dad?”
“I never knew him.” She kept her voice perfectly neutral. “When my mother decided to have a child, she went to a sperm bank clinic.”
“Oh, shit,” he said softly.
She almost smiled. In that single, pithy statement he had told her in the most eloquent terms that he understood.
“Yes,” she said. “Oh, shit, indeed.”
“Talk about having a psychic hole in your life.” He turned his head to look at her. “You’re a genealogist. Ever try to find your father?”
“Of course. A lot of sperm bank kids go looking for their fathers. I eventually found the name of the facility that my mother used, the Burnside Clinic. It was established by a member of the Society. Dr. Burnside catered to clients who were members of the Arcane community. He guaranteed that all of his donors were high-level sensitives of one kind or another. He also promised absolute confidentiality to both donors and clients.”
“Were you able to find your father’s file?” he asked.
“No. The clinic burned to the ground a few years ago. All the records were destroyed. Arson was strongly suspected but no one was ever arrested.”
“Probably one of the donors who didn’t want to be found.”
“Do you think so? I did wonder about that possibility.”
“There are others,” he said, sounding thoughtful now. “Maybe one of the mothers who didn’t want a donor to find his offspring. Or maybe one of the kids who couldn’t find his father and got really pissed off. It also could have been someone who didn’t approve of the services the clinic offered.”
“In other words, the list of suspects would be a very long one.”
“Sounds like it.”
She was quiet for a moment. “I was never able to identify my father, but after I went to work in the Bureau of Genealogy I found some information about him that my mother had entered into the genealogical records when she registered me with the Society. Mostly a health and talent history.”
“And?”
She shrugged. “What can I tell you? My father was descended of sound genetic stock and he was a strong talent. But then, Dr. Burnside would have insisted on those qualities in all of his donors.”
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