by Linda Barlow
He was waiting, his fist still clenched on the table between them. "Do you want me to cross your palm with silver first?" He didn’t bother to disguise the snarkiness in his voice.
As she looked down at his hand, she had a fuzzy mental image of the injured paw of a jungle beast. She felt a powerful need to stroke the injured paw and heal it. This odd impression was succeeded by a sense of the man across from her as fiercely predatory on the surface but tender deep inside—pierced by the same thorn of loneliness and sorrow that tormented her.
She shook her head, feeling a little dizzy. For a moment or two, the room seemed to tilt. Maybe she shouldn’t have had that second glass of wine. "Your name is Daniel," she heard herself say. "First or last, I don't know, but one of your names is Daniel."
His eyes opened wider for an instant before the lids half closed, hiding his reaction. "Very clever. Although I don’t know why I'm still so surprised when people recognize me. You're going to have to do better than that to impress me."
"You mean your name is Daniel?"
"Of course it is."
Dear heavens. Could it be that she...her mother had always said...no. Surely not. Get hold of yourself, Kate. It was a lucky guess, that's all.
Daniel. She liked the name.
"I'm Kate."
"I already know your name, Ms. Carter."
"I'm not a Ms., I'm a Mrs.," she corrected him, puzzled. Carter was her birth name, but she hadn't used it for years. Even on stage, she had always called herself by her married name, Kate Kingsley. "Have we met?"
The fist on the table between them seemed to tighten even more. "You're married?" He sounded so shocked at the idea that Kate was taken aback. She was tempted to lie, sensing that the sensual threat in this man would be reined in if he believed she was married. But she couldn’t lie to him, at least, not any more than she was already doing by enacting this masquerade.
"I'm a widow."
"How long?"
"What?"
"How long have you been a widow?"
The usual response to her widowhood was a polite statement like, "I'm so sorry," or "How sad." Not that most new acquaintances felt any real sympathy, she reminded herself. How could they? They didn't know her, and they hadn't known Arthur. At least Daniel didn't pretend a sympathy that he couldn't possibly feel. "It's been nearly three years now."
"And you still say it so mournfully? Such devotion."
A seed of anger burst inside her. How dare he mock her grief? A sharp longing for Arthur rose, as it still so often did. Three years? Sometimes it felt more like three months, or even three weeks since she had lost him. Wasn't the pain ever going to go away?
"Look, I’m not here to be baited and snarled at. If you want a reading, fine; if you don't, kindly take yourself back to the same dark corner where you've spent the evening so far."
He shifted, looking abashed. "I’m sorry. I was just surprised. You look much too young to be a widow. Was your husband in the military? We've lost some fine, brave guys over there."
"No. It was a car accident."
"Again, I'm sorry to hear it." In a much friendlier tone he added, "Open my hand, Kate. Please."
Her anger faded, and her Arthur-yearning receded into its normal place, too. Those painful pulses of grief and desolation used to haunt her spirits constantly, but now, at last, they had receded somewhat. She was starting to feel alive again, finally. There were many things she took joy in, and she had wonderful, caring friends. She had even begun to notice attractive men, and to feel her body’s urges to connect, indulge, and savor the pleasures a lover could offer her.
This man, combative though he was, held a certain appeal for her, if only because he was so unlike the affable, easy-going Arthur. Perhaps it would be easier if she connected with guys who didn't remind her of her dead husband.
His hand was right there, offered up to her. But still she hesitated. Again she felt that peculiar rush of blood to her head which seemed to spawn a riot of vibrant jungle colors, an earthly paradise of temptations and delights. Yet, somewhere in the midst of this profusion, she also sensed a hole gaping, as dark and deep as any pit. She was afraid to move, to take a step in any direction, and most of all, she was afraid to touch him.
His eyes had darkened to near black, compelling her. Get it together, Kate! Her fingers covered his. His fingers were still curled, but his hand looked less like a fist than an intriguing gift about to be opened. He was warm. His heat radiated through her like a sunburst. She felt herself flush, and hoped he wouldn't notice, but his eyes wouldn't release hers. There was magic in those dark-pool depths, a strong, hypnotizing pull on all her senses. Who was he? A real psychic? A sorcerer from another world?
Kate tore her gaze away, calling on all her inner reserves of calm. Her imagination was running away with her. She was tired and overly fanciful. She never should have allowed Graham to talk her into this. She ought to get up right this minute and leave.
But Daniel's flesh was firm and pliant beneath her fingertips, and she couldn't resist a look into his palm. Gently she pried open his fingers. Touching him felt a little forbidden, and very exciting. His hand was nicely shaped, firm and masculine, its palm richly covered with clearly defined lines.
"Your hand is ruled by fire, the most passionate of the four elements," she said as she compared the relative length of his fingers to his palm. Her mind had slipped into analysis mode.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
If there was anything to palmistry, it meant that he was emotional and intuitive. A man radiant with energy who lived life to the fullest. But she knew that already, simply from looking into his eyes.
Without answering, she turned his hand over and examined the shape of his nails, then turned it back to compare the individual fingers. He had a strong, forceful thumb. That was a good sign. The mount of Jupiter, from which sprang the index finger, governor of earthly ambitions, was particularly well developed.
"Well?" he drawled. "Are you estimating how many years I've got left on my lifeline?"
"I'm not even looking at the lines yet. The shape of the hand, the position of the fingers and their relative lengths, and the condition of the fleshy mounts beneath the fingers are at least as important as the lines."
"Is that so? What do these marvelous signposts of personality tell you about me?"
The sarcasm was back, but it was beginning to amuse her. She tried not to show that she was on the verge of laughing at him. He would probably be offended. But why should she care if he was? "You’re dynamic, energetic, and determined to succeed in whatever you undertake. The strength of Jupiter—your index finger—confirms that you have the ability to be both a leader and an innovator, and the willpower to follow through." She tilted her head a little to one side as she added, "I would even go so far as to say that when you set your mind on something, you are driven to achieve it, no matter what the cost."
"That's true. But I don't believe you're getting it from my index finger."
Shrugging, she touched the fleshy mount of the moon, on the outside edge of his palm. "The shape of this part of your hand suggests that there's a conflict going on between reason and intuition, logic and imagination." She moved her fingertips inward. "Note the lines of the head and heart." She traced them on his palm, highly conscious of the texture of his skin beneath her fingertips. "Both lines are firm and deep, but the headline swings down into the mount of the moon—imagination—while the heart line moves upward toward Jupiter—practicality."
She raised her eyes to meet his. "A lot of conflict, Daniel. An interesting hand."
He raised his eyebrows and smiled. She had the impression that despite his skepticism, he was intrigued. Then his strong thumb curved down over her fingers and began softly massaging them. "Tell me about my love life, witch."
His touch was light and sensual, and her hormones responded with enthusiasm, sending crazy hot signals pulsing through her bloodstream. She probably ought to snatch her hand away
. But something about him challenged her, daring her to take risks that would have seemed unthinkable only a few minutes ago.
Deliberately she ran her nails over the base of his thumb. She kept the touch delicate, but she could have sworn he shivered a little. The flesh there was warm and firm. She had another of those odd mental images—his hand stroking her flesh, slowly, with erotic expertise, and she shivered too.
Concentrate, girl!
The semicircular line known as the girdle of Venus showed clearly under his middle finger. That area was known in palmistry as the mount of Saturn. "You are an extremely sensual man. You have unruly passions. Sex is important to you. But the nature of fire is to burn brightly and consume, leaving ashes in its wake."
"So let my lovers beware? Is that what you're intimating?"
"Yes," she said, a tad irritated at the satisfaction he seemed to be deriving from this. Looking up, she smiled at him. "But I wouldn't get too smug if I were you. Your heart line is ragged at the beginning," she slid the tip of her finger slowly along the line in question, "but here, you see, it deepens into one smoothly flowing groove."
He seemed fixated on the sight of her finger stroking his palm. "What does that mean?"
"It suggests that you might end up channeling all your sensual energy into a single relationship someday."
"Ah, your first prediction. I'm going to meet a beautiful stranger, I suppose, and fall madly and permanently in love with her?"
She lifted her fingers away from his hand. Her fingers were not happy about this. They itched to keep touching him, stroking him, feeling the delicious friction of his flesh against hers. "Please don't put words into my mouth. I don't make predictions. You make your own future. It grows out of your character."
This was a slip, she knew—the actress of Shakespearean tragedy speaking, not the psychic. She hoped Daniel wouldn't catch it, but he immediately pounced.
"A fortune-teller who believes in free will? Now that is original."
"I'm not really a fortune-teller," she said, sick of the pretense. So what if he found her out? Somebody was bound to; she had known that from the start. She pushed his hand away. "The truth is, I'm an actress."
"All fortune-tellers are actresses, so don't waste your touching confessions on me. I'm not as gullible as the people who usually sit across the table from you."
Kate heard his words and laughed, a spontaneous burst of amusement. So much for being honest about her profession. He had drawn his own conclusions about her, and that was that. "You're much too self-assured to be gullible. You have strong opinions, and you make harsh judgments. Tolerance of other people's foibles is not your long suit, is it?"
His eyes met hers and he seemed to consider her words. After a couple of seconds, he smiled. It was a warm smile that made his eyes sparkle. "I don't believe in psychic abilities, but you're pretty perceptive. Yes, I'm opinionated, judgmental, and intolerant. I'm also aggressive and hot-tempered. But I have some good qualities, too."
"You admit your faults. That’s a good quality."
"I'm honest. I'm constant. And I’m trustworthy. When I make a friend, the tie endures for life."
"And when you make an enemy?"
His blue eyes glimmered. "Chalk up a few more points on the negative side of the ledger. Let my enemies beware: I will hold a grudge for years and hound them relentlessly."
She shivered a little. She believed him.
"You're reluctant to make predictions for me," he said after a brief silence. "Let me give it a try." He raised his eyes to hers again. "I will leave this party with a dark, mysterious, and utterly feminine stranger." His fingers closed over hers, sending waves of heat radiating through her body. "I'll develop such an obsession with a certain beautiful witch that it's almost going to make me forget my intentions regarding her."
Kate wanted to look away, but he held her mesmerized.
"Almost," he repeated, his voice deceptively mild. "But, like a stern old Puritan, I know my duty. Witchcraft cannot be allowed to flourish. Obsession or no, I'm going to have to break all her spells."
She jerked her hand away as all the danger she'd felt in him coalesced. "Who are you?"
He smiled in a charming manner, but there was a steely undertone to his words as he said, "You're a witch, and I'm a witch-hunter. Daniel B. Haggarty is my name, and I intend to see that your tricks are discredited forever. I'm going to lead you to a very public stake, Witch Kate, and then I'm going to burn you."
Chapter 2
Kate's immediate reaction to Daniel's threat was to stare round-eyed at him for a moment, then burst into peals of laughter. "You're making a big mistake." He looked so surprised to see her laughing that she giggled even more, bringing several of the guests wandering over in their direction, clearly wondering what was so funny.
"I'm damned if I see anything to be so riproaringly amused about," Daniel growled. But there was an affable glint in his eyes as he watched her laugh, and Kate sensed that on some deep level her refusal to take him seriously appealed to him.
"You will when I explain. You see, I'm here this evening only as a favor to a friend, and—"
"You don't usually perform at private parties? No, I imagine not. And for charity, too. I suppose you prefer to work in the privacy of your own home, where you can control the environment and manipulate the sound effects and the lighting?"
Her eyebrows rose in an exaggerated gesture of continuing mirth. He was determined not to alter his initial impression of her. She supposed she couldn't blame him: First she had billed herself as a psychic; then Graham had declared her a witch; and just now she'd charged right ahead, reading his palm and analyzing his character. If it was true that he hated psychics and made it his business to expose frauds, naturally he'd be out to get her.
She was seized with an irresistible desire to take the formidable D. B. Haggarty down a peg. He was going to feel foolish when he discovered the truth about her, and in the meantime, she could have a little fun with him. It would serve him right for glowering at her all evening.
"I'm only reading cards and palms. I'm not claiming to be a medium or anything like that."
"Fortune-tellers, witches, mediums—you're all in it together. Cheating people, preying on their superstitions. In some cases you cause grave psychological harm." He was glaring at her. "You with your sixth sense. You do realize that several of the guests here tonight don't even have a fifth sense? But you are 'sighted,' aren't you. You are 'gifted'—"
"Kate," Graham's voice interrupted. He had unobtrusively made his way to their side, and Kate looked up at him in amused relief. "I've just found out which one D. B. Haggarty is."
"So have I. You told me he was fiftyish and balding."
To her surprise, Daniel laughed at this description, a rich, full-bodied laugh not unlike her own. Kate shot him a reconsidering look from under her eyelashes. Until this moment she would have characterized him as fairly humorless, much like the dour Puritans he had compared himself to. "It must have been that photo in the Globe," he said. "Mislabeled. It should have said 'from right to left' instead of 'from left to right.' I was the tall, dark, and borderline handsome one."
"Opinionated, judgmental, intolerant, and borderline egotistical," said Kate. She smiled wryly at Graham. "You see what you got me into? He's threatening to burn me at the stake." She turned her gaze back to Daniel. "Burn Graham instead."
Haggarty was regarding her with the intent concentration a cat lavishes on an injured bird. "But it's you I'm after," he said, making the threat into a kind of sensual promise.
She laughed.
"You're not intimidated by me, are you?" He tilted his head to one side as he considered this apparently significant piece of information. "I like that."
"If I were what you think I am, I probably would be. As it is, I can afford to laugh at you, Mr. Haggarty."
"Daniel."
"Daniel," she agreed with a slight shrug of her shoulders. "What does the B stand for?"
"The B?"
"You said your name was Daniel B. Haggarty."
"Ah. Just a silly middle name. It's not important."
Before either of them could speak again, an elderly woman decked out in elaborate copper jewelry came to the table, pointing triumphantly at her watch. "This gentleman's time is up," she said, tapping Daniel on the shoulder. "I'm so excited, Madame Katrina. I just can't wait to hear whether or not Rudy is going to propose to me."
Kate smiled at the woman. "Mr. Haggarty was just leaving. Please take a seat."
Daniel shrugged and rose. He was about to move away when Kate touched his arm. He stopped, looking as electrified as she felt. "What?"
She pointed to the canister marked National Foundation for the Blind. "My fee."
If she expected annoyance, she was disappointed. He was gracious about opening his wallet and dropping a hundred-dollar bill into the slot.
"I'll get my money's worth later," he promised, and strolled away.
* * *
An hour later, Kate gathered up the tools of a fortuneteller's trade and looked around for Graham, who had offered her a ride home. She found him draped over the sofa in the living room with a beautiful blind redhead, who was guiding his hand as he ran his fingertips over her bare shoulders. When Kate signaled, pointing at the door and raising her eyebrows, he called over to her, "Wait a bit, luv. Marissa's teaching me braille."
She decided to take a taxi home.
As she collected her jacket and said good-bye to the hostess, who gushed over her spurious psychic abilities, Kate couldn't help noticing that there was no sign of Daniel B. Haggarty anywhere in the apartment. He must have left. She felt a flicker of regret. She suppressed it, reminding herself that she ought to be glad if she'd escaped the further attentions of the Scorpio brooder.
As she started down the narrow staircase of the old Beacon Hill town house, Kate ran their conversation through her mind. Why had he stared at her for so long before approaching her? How had he known her maiden name? And why had he left without making good on any of his threats? He didn't seem like the type who would back down without the confrontation he had promised her. Maybe he had a short attention span.
