by Vivi Andrews
Ciara glanced at him, surprised by the sharpness of his voice. “Are you offended by my impugning the Donald’s sterling character? Oh my God, you totally have a man crush on him, don’t you?”
“Of course not. I just respect his accomplishments.”
“Total man love. Wow. The Donald. What is it about him that turns you on, Nate? Is it the billions or the Trump-fro?” Ciara giggled to herself, disproportionately amused. “The Donald. That is so kinky.”
“Do you have any real recommendations on how to find the damn necklace?”
“Other than getting a hotel room with a bathtub in it?”
“Despite what the movies might show you, federal agents do not have unlimited budgets.”
“The fancy hotels are cheaper during the week,” Ciara wheedled. “It’s Wednesday.”
“Confess and I’ll get you a suite with a private hot tub.”
Ciara sighed. If she’d had anything to confess, he would have worn her down days ago. She’d actually started wishing she were really a criminal. It would have made him so happy. If his persistence hadn’t been so annoying, it might have been comic.
Nate slowed, absently rubbing at his thigh.
“Does it hurt?”
“No.”
Ciara stopped walking. Nate hobbled forward a few more steps, then turned to glare over his shoulder.
“Sometimes,” he admitted grudgingly. “It’s fine. I’m supposed to use it as much as I’m able. Physical therapy.”
A young family veered around them, their small children staring at Nate’s cane. Thanks to his all-too-visible disability, the other pedestrians gave them a wide berth. Ciara wondered how many times she would have been bumped into if she hadn’t been with Nate. Funny that the people around them veered away from him, when she was the real freak.
Ciara started walking again, easily making up the distance between them. “Does physical therapy mean it’s getting better?”
Nate grimaced, bitterness raw on his face. “It isn’t going to get better. The damage is permanent.”
She’d been dying to know for days, but he didn’t seem to want to talk. This was the most relaxed he’d been, so Ciara groped for the right words. “When…? How did it…?”
“Gunshot. Four weeks ago. I was working a job. The snitch we’d flipped to get me in flipped back and blew my cover. I went to the meet—public place, seemed safe enough. Bastard shot me under the table. Three in the leg. Nicked my femoral artery and completely pulped the muscles. They repaired the tendons where they could, but the muscle is still fucked. With all the blood I lost, the doctors were amazed I even lived. Kept feeding me this bullshit line about how I should be grateful for my life. Walking with a cane for the rest of my life isn’t such a big deal when I should be dead, right?”
Ciara heard the anger in his voice like an echo from her past. She remembered how hard it had been when her gift first developed. How the pain at human contact hadn’t been nearly as horrifying as the idea of living her entire life crippled by her own senses. She’d gotten through it. She’d bounced back and found her optimism again, but those first few months had been hell and she’d ruined more relationships than she cared to think about during that time—her foster parents, childhood friends, there weren’t many people she hadn’t alienated.
Ciara didn’t insult Nate’s intelligence by telling him he was lucky. “That sucks. What happened to the guy who shot you?”
“I shot his ass right back.” He tapped his shoulder just above his heart. “You can bet your sweet ass I was carrying. Of course, my aim sucked with three in my leg. He’ll live to see his trial and I get stuck behind a desk for the rest of my life. How’s that for justice?”
“You really loved your job, didn’t you?”
“Sure beat sitting on my ass all day.” He bared his teeth in the feral grin of a hardcore adrenaline junkie.
Since sitting on her ass—or rather floating around her pool—was exactly what Ciara did all day, she let the conversation drop. Thrill seeking and running into danger to get the bad guys wasn’t exactly an option with her skill set.
Lapsing into silence, she studied Nate out of the corner of her eye.
In the last four days, he hadn’t let her out of his sight for more than a few seconds (even the FBI made allowances for bodily functions, thank goodness). He would grill her about her supposed crimes, then they would both stew in silence, but it hadn’t taken her long to figure out that neither of them were very good at holding grudges. All too often, when they weren’t focusing on hating one another, they found themselves chatting comfortably.
Surprising as it was, Nate Smith was actually a pretty likable guy, when he wasn’t accusing her of a felony.
They approached the steel pier, with the garish Ferris wheel and carnival atmosphere. Nate steered them toward the arcade—it was one of the few places along the Boardwalk they hadn’t already looked for the necklace, though neither of them held out any hope of finding it just wandering around town. Nate was trying to wait her out, get her to admit she’d lied. Under other circumstances, his persistence might even be attractive. As it was, it was a major pain in the ass.
Ciara’d been trying to find a chance to use her gift all week. If she could just prove she really was a psychic finder, they could grab the necklace and return home. Maybe she wouldn’t have Nate reassigned. He was pretty to look at, if nothing else.
“Why do you find it so hard to believe I might be telling the truth?” Ciara asked. “That I might actually be able to find things with my mind? Do you think everyone who claims to be psychic is full of shit?”
He shrugged. “There’s a lot of crap in this world I don’t understand. You say there are ghosts and demons? It kinda makes sense. So, no, I don’t have a personal grudge against psychics.”
“Then what is your problem?”
“It’s too easy.”
“Too easy?” Irritation lanced through Ciara. She was a housebound freak of nature who couldn’t touch another human being and her ability was too easy?
“Don’t get all pissy,” he grumbled. “It isn’t you. It’s the whole idea. Magical solutions to tough problems. It’s a fucking copout.” Nate leaned against the fence surrounding the carousel. He was too stubborn to admit he needed to rest, but after the long walk up the boardwalk, his leg must be killing him. “I busted my ass for years, scrounging for evidence, building cases, bringing down the bad guys. I lost my fucking leg for the job. And now you want me to believe all I had to do this whole time was jump naked into a hot tub and make a wish? Sorry, sweetheart, the world doesn’t work like that. If it sounds too good to be true, it is. You tell me you’re psychic? Fine. Whatever. But don’t ask me to believe in the easy way out. There isn’t one.”
Ciara folded her arms across her chest and fixed her gaze on the horizon. The sun had come out today, blazing hot and making the grayish expanse of the Atlantic Ocean look almost blue. The bright light made the beaches seem more appealing and the casinos more tawdry. Atlantic City was an odd mix of wholesomeness and cheap thrills, and beneath it all ran a thrumming undercurrent of vice and addiction. Ciara felt it all, a constant vibration in the back of her mind.
“It isn’t easy,” she said quietly. “I’m alone. I can’t have real relationships. And whenever I’m not floating in water, the psychic dissonance bouncing off objects and people around me is a constant static in the back of my mind. It’s like an alarm you can’t turn off. Even if I’ve learned to tune it out, it’s always there, buzzing in my mind. Finding lost and stolen things is the one thing about my life that isn’t noisy or painful, but don’t think for a second that it’s easy.”
Nate shook his head, watching the screaming children running through the arcade, competing for stuffed animals not worth the price of playing the games. “I can’t figure you out. What’s the angle? Is it just the reward money? It’s so much less than you would get by fencing the jewels. Why would a thief tell you where he stashed his take if he
knew you were just going to turn around and give it over to the FBI? We’ve thoroughly checked all the recovered items and none of them are fakes. I can’t figure out what scheme you’re running.”
“Eventually, you’re going to realize it isn’t a scheme. I’m not in cahoots. I’m just a girl with weird abilities. No Machiavellian plans. No dramatic underworld connections. Just a somewhat pathetic, isolated weirdo whose brain is tuned to an unusual psychic frequency.”
Nate met her eyes. He seemed to be searching for clues there, answers. Ciara kept her gaze steady, striving for an appearance of innocence and honesty, hoping he would see the truth.
But then he shook his head, that irritating stubbornness suffusing his face. “No. You’ll tell me what you’re up to. Come on.” He shoved away from the fence and headed back toward the boardwalk.
Ciara felt a weight drop on her chest. He was never going to believe her. She’d tried logic, persistence and calm. She’d tried screaming and begging, laughter and charm. He wouldn’t change his mind.
She was going to have to show him.
She could strip and jump into the ocean, but she’d need a head start on him. She’d never tried her powers in salt water, but they should work, shouldn’t they? If chlorine didn’t impact her abilities, salt wouldn’t. Probably.
Then, like a mirage, she saw the answer to her prayers. Just beyond the ring-toss game was a dunk tank, full of water, with a semipermanent Back in Thirty Minutes sign hanging crookedly on the front.
Ciara glanced toward Nate. He was walking away, making his usual slow progress. If she ran, there was no way he’d be able to get to her before she was in the dunk tank. She didn’t see any security guards either. By the time they were called over to fish her out, or by the time Nate reached her, she would know where the necklace was. She could show him. He would have to believe her then.
She didn’t have time to think about her decision. Any second now Nate would realize she wasn’t following him. He moved slowly, but not that slowly. He was learning how to maneuver more quickly with the cane every day. She’d already seen his balance improving as he adjusted to his new situation. He wasn’t quite up to running with the cane, but she didn’t doubt he could work up a shuffling trot when called upon.
If she was going to do this, she had to do it now.
She’d played it safe too long. For a decade she’d hidden in her house, convincing herself she was happy and didn’t regret the chances she was afraid to take. She was in Atlantic City with a man who thought she was a jewel thief. Now was not the time to play it safe.
Ciara released her grip on her shawl, sprinting toward the tank as the fabric fluttered to the ground.
Chapter Five—Suicidal Psychics & Mouth to Mouth
Nate realized Ciara wasn’t following him a fraction of a second before the first startled shout. He pivoted, nearly losing his balance and bracing himself with the damned cane. Had she run off to meet her fence? He’d actually started to wonder if she was telling the truth. She’d almost had him convinced a time or two. Was it all just an attempt to sucker him in so she could sneak off?
At first he didn’t see her.
Then everyone saw her.
Nate’s mouth went dry. She perched on the platform above the murky dunk tank, bare-ass naked. The smooth black length of her hair slid over her shoulders, but instead of concealing her nakedness, it just seemed to accent it. Her arms crossed over her breasts, and the way she drew up one knee and bent at the waist maintained the impression of decency.
Nate began shouldering his way toward her. A crowd gathered around the foot of the tank—the spectators evenly divided between the amused and the enraged.
“Ciara,” he shouted, hoping she could hear him over the rising chatter of the crowd. “Don’t you dare.”
Before he finished speaking, she plunged into the tank.
“Dammit.”
The crowd ooohed, and a murmur rippled through, as if they were watching a floorshow at the Flamingo. Nate fought his way through the mass of people who pressed closer to the tank. As he shoved past, he heard snatches of speculation.
“Is she an escape artist?”
“No, she isn’t tied up. She must be a showgirl from the Trump.”
“Nah, she’s just nuts. Another crazy who lost her shirt.” The speaker snickered, pleased with the joke.
“Is that Lucy Liu? Oh my God, it’s a movie. They’re totally filming us right now! How’s my hair?”
They would never believe the truth. He hadn’t believed the truth. She’d told him over and over again, but it took her jumping naked into a vat of water on the Atlantic City pier before the reality that she really was a psychic finder of lost things crashed into his brain.
She was actually, honestly a psychic. Dammit.
Nate rammed through the crowd, finally breaking free next to the tank. She hadn’t come up for air or even twitched a muscle. She floated, gracefully suspended in the water, looking utterly at peace, but for all the crowd knew she was drowning. And not one of them had moved to get her out. They just oohed and aahed and stared.
At the back of the crowd, a pair of uniformed security guards began plowing through the spectators.
Nate winced. Technically, they weren’t supposed to be here. He’d been given a desk. He was supposed to be sitting at it. Ciara was supposed to be at home, floating in her own pool. He had some leeway since he’d just come off medical leave. His bosses probably thought he’d taken a few extra days to recover. They wouldn’t start questioning his absence at his assigned desk for another week, if he was lucky.
Unless he and his valuable contact got arrested for public indecency in Atlantic City. That was the kind of mishap they paid attention to.
He needed to get Ciara and get the hell out of there. The last thing he wanted was to get stuck answering questions about why, exactly, paid federal informant Ciara Liung was naked in public.
Behind the tank, a ladder led up to the platform above the water. Nate dropped his cane on top of the pile of Ciara’s clothing and grabbed the sides of the ladder. Using his arms as much as his legs, he hopped and pulled himself up rung by rung.
Ciara still hadn’t moved. Her hair swirled around her in the water, brushing against the sides of the tank in artistic sweeps.
Nate hauled himself up another three rungs until his shoulders rose above the edge of the tank. If she’d been telling the truth about everything, this was going to hurt her, but he didn’t see an alternative. They didn’t have time to waste.
He sank a hand into the water to fish her out. His fingers closed around her upper arm.
Ciara’s body jerked, contorting and thrashing in the water, but she didn’t rise toward the surface. If anything, she sank deeper, as if to escape his touch. Nate kept his hand tight on her arm. If he let her go now, he’d never get a grip on her again with the way she was writhing around. He yanked hard, trying to pull her out, but something jerked back and kept her down.
Her hair had caught on the metal fittings inside the tank. Her mouth worked as if she were screaming and bubbles burst to the surface.
Shit. She was drowning. Unacceptable. He had to get her out of there and he had to do it now.
Nate yanked again, pulling as hard as he could, but wavering with one leg on the ladder, he didn’t have the leverage to apply enough force. “Dammit.” He clambered up another rung, forcing the weight through his damaged leg, hoping it would hold and give him the leverage needed to get her out. Tightening his fingers, he jerked again on her arm. She came loose suddenly, surging upward, her body still seizing uncontrollably.
Her face broke the surface and she gagged, sputtering and coughing out a stream of water. His muscles strained as he continued to pull her out, dragging her upward until she sat on the narrow platform atop the tank. She drew her legs up out of the water without his urging, curling into a ball on the platform as she continued to cough and retch.
Nate became aware of a roaring cheer. He looked
up to see the crowd around them applauding like they’d just seen a fabulous show. The security guards were closer now, but hesitating, as if they weren’t sure whether the show was staged or illegal.
Nate slipped off his linen suit jacket, wrapping it around Ciara’s shoulders. He tugged her close against his chest. Only when she stopped heaving and rested her cheek against his soaked shirt did his heart start beating again.
He needed to get her out of here before security decided they didn’t like the show, but he couldn’t make his hands stop shaking. “What the hell were you thinking?” he asked against her hair, pressing her tight against him.
“The Borgata. The necklace is at the Borgata.”
“Who the fuck cares?” he snarled. He cradled her tight against his chest, lifting her weight off the platform and into his arms.
It was an idiotic move. For a second, in his relief that she was all right, he forgot he didn’t have two good legs underneath him anymore. His bad leg buckled on the rung. He nearly pitched them both off the ladder for an eight-foot fall to the asphalt below. He grabbed the side of the ladder, hauling himself forward with his other arm wrapped protectively around Ciara.
Her arms clenched convulsively, one clinging to his shoulder as the other wound tight around his neck, the bare skin of her arm pressed warm and wet against the back of his neck.
He froze as he remembered her words about not being able to be touched. Had he caused her seizure? Was she in pain even now as her skin pressed against his?
Nate raised his head to peer down at her. “Ciara? Are you all right?”
She lifted her face to him. An awestruck expression softened her features with wonder. “Holy crap.”
Chapter Six—Epiphanies and Backseat Hookups
She could touch him.
Ciara felt the foundations of her entire world shatter and reform beneath her. A thousand questions poured through her mind, so quickly she could barely register them all. Was it him? Was there something different, something special about him? Or had she changed on some fundamental level? How long had she been able to do this? Had she been hiding out all this time for nothing?
