by Rebecca York
And she wanted him. He knew it by the way her lips moved over his and by the desire reverberating through her mind. Those signals were as clear to him as their shared memories.
He gathered her close, rocking on the weedy grass, frustrated by the layers of clothing separating them. He wanted her naked. In a bed. This would have to do.
Those heated thoughts and the pain pounding through his brain almost wiped out his ability to think, but not quite. Somewhere in his consciousness, he understood that what they were doing was dangerous. That knowledge was as sharp and insistent as the desire binding them together. And the pain in his head.
And she understood, too. He felt her wrench her mouth away, felt her push at his shoulder to free herself.
“No,” she gasped. “We can’t.”
Strange as it sounded, in that frantic moment, he knew he had come close to having his brain explode.
Oh, come on!
Even as he dismissed that notion, he rolled away from her, panting, his head spinning. Still, he was as aware of her as he was of himself. He heard her breath coming fast and sharp. Felt the beating of her heart, although that should be impossible.
He couldn’t label what had happened. Not the psychic…exchange of information. Or the swell of desire. Or the conviction that they skated on the edge of disaster.
Not yet. Maybe never. He was too shaken by the whole encounter. And the worst part was that he knew what she always struggled to conceal—how alone she felt. And she knew the same thing about him.
Both of them had learned to bury that innermost truth but not when someone had invaded your mind.
Invasion? Was that the right word? What the hell had happened?
She broke into his thoughts, speaking in a shaky voice.
“Luke Buckley,” she said. They were meeting for the first time, but she knew his name. “The man who rented Cypress Cottage.”
“Yes,” he answered, knowing her mom could have told her that much. But that didn’t account for her absolute conviction that it was him.
And, unfortunately, she zeroed in on a fact that he needed to keep hidden. “That’s not your real name. You’re…”
“Don’t say it.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
He clenched his teeth. The whole situation was so damned weird that he wanted to shout a string of curses, if that wouldn’t have made things worse.
This wasn’t the way he would have wanted to meet anyone. Particularly not this woman who—what? Who had connected with him in ways that he still could hardly believe.
He heard himself say, “We have to talk.”
He was sure she wanted to refuse, for a whole host of reasons, starting with the way he’d thrown her to the ground, but she answered with a small sound that signaled acquiescence.
The wind had picked up, and a few fat drops of rain began to fall.
“We’d better get inside before it starts to pour. Come to my cottage.”
She dragged in a breath. “You’ve got to be kidding. You just attacked me on my own property.”
“And you know why,” he said again.
He understood she was still making up her mind as more drops plopped down.
“You left the plantation house,” he said. “Because you were afraid to be there alone in the dark.”
She didn’t bother denying it or asking how he knew. It was the same way she knew that he’d changed his name when he fled to Lafayette, Louisiana.
“I was going to Water Iris, not to you,” she answered in a strained voice.
“You might as well come to Cypress. I’ve got some battery lights.”
She looked toward his cottage. “They’re not on.”
“They can be.”
Luke waited while Gabriella made up her mind. He knew she had to be going over the scene between them. His throwing her to the ground and fastening his hands around her neck. The opening of their minds to a level of intimacy that should have been impossible. The pressure building inside each of their heads. And the sexual need that had overwhelmed them.
That might turn out to be the final factor that sent her running from him. But perhaps she was pretending it hadn’t happened because she finally said, “All right.”
Wordlessly, he started for Cypress, and she followed a few paces behind him.
FROM THE SHADOWS, George Camden watched and listened, his hands clenched as he cursed the way his excellent plans had just gotten screwed up.
When he’d heard the thunder, he’d thought the storm would give him some cover when he broke into the mansion again so he could grab Gabriella. Then he’d watched her come out of the house and thought, what luck.
He’d been on his way toward her when Luke Buckley had tackled her. There was something strange about him, although George hadn’t figured it out yet. But it looked as if the guy had started to assault her, then changed his mind. Yeah, assault had turned into a pretty heated scene.
He laughed. That was an interesting development.
Too bad the guy had stuck his nose in where it didn’t belong.
But why?
He’d heard them talking. It had been a strange conversation, as if George was only hearing part of it. Which could have been true from the way the wind was howling. Maybe it had carried away words spoken softly, but he had caught that Luke Buckley wasn’t his real name. Interesting.
Did they know each other or not? Part of the time it had sounded as if they did—then not so much.
Or maybe the mom had given the daughter an earful about the renter. Did Mrs. Boudreaux know that the guy was using an alias? Or just the daughter?
As drops of rain hit his head, George narrowed his eyes. He hadn’t signed up for this job to be wet and miserable. However, Gabriella had to come out of the guy’s cottage some time, and when she did, he wanted to be ready.
Lips set in a grim line, he moved cautiously across the lawn, finding a spot under a tree that gave him a little shelter—and where he could still watch the cottage door.
Of course, you weren’t supposed to stand under a tree in a lightning storm, but he’d take a chance on that.
As he huddled in the cold, he played the scene again in his mind. Why had Buckley come out in the first place? Did he suspect someone else was on the property? Or was he just jumpy about something to do with his alias?
One thing was sure: renting a cottage on the plantation had put Luke Buckley in the wrong place at the wrong time—as far as George was concerned. Too bad for him.
LUKE AND GABRIELLA HURRIED onto the porch as the storm finally broke, sending rain pouring down.
“Close call,” he muttered as he opened the door.
When she hung back, he stepped quickly inside and turned on two of the battery-powered lamps that he’d bought after Mrs. Boudreaux had told him the electricity often went out in the middle of a storm.
Gabriella came in after him. As she looked around at the mess he’d made of the living room, he suddenly wished that he hadn’t been so quick to offer the lamps. However, if he hadn’t, she might not have come inside.
He knew she was staring at the epitome of a junked-up bachelor pad. He’d been working, and he’d left papers all over the desk. Books and other research materials were stacked on the coffee and end tables. Sitting on top of them were several plates and glasses that he hadn’t carried to the kitchen area, which was at the side of the room.
Of course, he hadn’t expected company, but still, he should have kept the place a little neater. What if his landlady dropped by?
Well, that wasn’t going to happen, he reminded himself.
He quickly picked up the glasses and plates and ferried them to the sink. Probably he should have hired a maid. But then he’d have to put his papers away. They were confidential, and dangerous, come to that.
He swept them into a pile now, putting them into a desk drawer.
He didn’t want Gabriella poking around his research, for her sake as well as his. T
he less she knew about the New Jersey mob, the better.
Of course, she’d been poking around in his mind, he reminded himself. Which meant she already knew too much.
Turning, he said, “I’m sorry about your mother.”
“Thank you. Or whatever you’re supposed to say.”
“That works. Why don’t you sit down,” he offered, thinking how lame that sounded.
Without comment, she took one of the easy chairs facing the sofa.
He leaned his hips against the kitchen counter, trying to look as if he wasn’t studying her, seeing in person what he’d only seen in his mind. Her short blond hair framed a narrow face, and her large, expressive eyes were either green or blue. She was staring back, taking his measure with as much interest. He knew his dark hair was too long and that he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. Probably he looked like a criminal. Which might be what she was already thinking.
To break the silence, he asked, “Can I get you something? A beer? I’ve got some from the local brewery.”
She pursed her lips. “Okay. Maybe I could use one.”
“Yeah, I guess you had a rough day.”
“Uh-huh.”
It was a strange conversation, two people who should know nothing about each other. But not really. Not when they’d suddenly gotten inside each other’s heads.
Although he wanted to ask, that mind to mind thing ever happen to you before? he hadn’t worked up the nerve yet.
He pulled out two bottles out of the refrigerator and twisted off the caps.
“Do you want a glass?”
“No, this is fine.”
He moved back to the living area and set one of the bottles on the coffee table, then lowered himself to the other easy chair.
Outside the rain pounded down, giving him a feeling of two people meeting at the end of the world, like in the science fiction stories he’d read as a kid. Science fiction had appealed to him, maybe because he’d been disappointed with reality.
They each took a sip of beer.
Although he’d turned on a couple of battery lights, he thought the conversation might go better in semidarkness.
She ran her finger around the outside of the beer bottle before breaking the silence. “What happened out there?”
He winced. “I thought you were sneaking up on me.”
“Lucky you didn’t shoot me.”
“Yeah.”
“That was a gun I felt in your waistband.”
“Yeah,” he said again, pulling it out and setting it on the table between them.
She stared down at it and took another sip of beer before saying, “I didn’t mean—why did you tackle me. I meant—what happened when we touched?”
She’d been brave enough to ask the question. All he could say was, “We read each other’s thoughts and memories.”
“Which should be impossible.” She added, “So the next question is—how did it happen?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.” The silence stretched again before he asked, “Do you have some psychic ability?”
She hesitated. “Not that you could…document.”
“Which means what?”
She raised one shoulder. “It means, there were times when I got a glimpse of the future.”
“Like what?”
“My mom called this afternoon. I knew it was going to be her, and I sensed that something bad…” Her voice trailed off, and she started again, “Something bad was going to happen. I didn’t know she was going to…die.” Her voice cracked, and he could see she was struggling not to cry.
He wanted to cross the room and put his arms around her, pull her close and stroke her back, her hair. But he stayed where he was.
When it looked as if she’d regained control, he said, “And you feel guilty about not dropping everything and coming here.”
“Yes.”
“But you were too far away to change what happened.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
He nodded.
“What about you?” she asked. “I mean have you had psychic experiences?”
He tried to answer as honestly as he could. “I’m an investigative journalist.”
“Working on a book that will blow Rudy Maglioni’s New Jersey mob operation wide open.”
“Yeah. But let’s not get sidetracked,” he said in a tight voice.
“Okay.”
“I always thought that I had better than average instincts for stories. Good instincts for interviews. I’ve got a pretty good idea when someone’s lying to me. I know when I can push them to say more than they intended. I know when letting the silence stretch will make them jump to fill the vacuum.”
“Useful.”
“But nothing like…that thing outside has ever happened to me.”
“So what was different tonight?” she pressed.
“We’re both on edge. I mean, your mother just died, and I…”
“You’re hiding out from the…wiseguys. You’re willing to risk your life to finish the book.”
“Like I said, let’s drop it,” he snapped. “And that doesn’t explain the weird stuff.”
“I guess not.”
They stared at each other.
“I should leave,” she said.
“I wouldn’t advise it. You said you sometimes have an inkling of the future. What if you didn’t want to stay in the house because of…the stalker.”
“What stalker?”
“Come on. That’s what your mom called about.”
She sighed. “Inconvenient that you picked that up from my mind.”
“Like your knowing too much about my damn book. Inconvenient.”
Again, they lapsed into a tense silence.
He was used to letting the other person do the talking, but he ventured, “We picked up all that stuff from each other…when we touched.”
“Yes.”
He shifted in the chair. “We could try it again. See what happens.”
Her posture became more guarded. “There was more than just an exchange of information,” she said in a hard voice. “You wanted…me.”
“It wasn’t exactly one-sided. You wanted me, too.”
She kept her gaze fixed on him as she asked in a hard voice, “Did you do something to me?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Use some kind of voodoo hex?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Okay, maybe not voodoo. What about some kind of hypnosis technique you learned from your vast research?”
He spread his hands. “I don’t have any secret techniques.”
“I’m just trying to figure it out.”
“We both are. And you must know I was as confounded as you by what happened.” He paused a beat before asking, “Did it give you a headache?”
She stared back at him. “Yes. Did it do that to you, too?”
“Yes.”
He wanted to press her for information. No, he wanted to touch her again, badly. And it was almost impossible not to act on the impulse. He pictured himself leaping out of the chair, crossing the room and pulling her into his arms. To get information?
Perhaps, but the sexual component was as strong as the need to explore the psychic link. He had touched her, kissed her, and felt an instant craving like nothing else he had ever experienced. It was as if the two of them had been born to connect.
Well, he might think that, but he didn’t dare say it because he didn’t want to send her running out into the night.
To cool his ardor, he asked, “Did you have trouble making friends with people?”
By the look on her face, he knew the directness of the question had caught her by surprise.
She swallowed. “You know I did. You did, too. We found that out when we touched.”
No use denying it. Most people formed easy relationships. He couldn’t do it because it always seemed that something was missing. Which was probably why he’d chosen his profession. I
f he couldn’t get close to people on a personal level, he could know more about them than anybody else. Sometimes he dug up secrets that the world needed to know. Or was that putting it in terms that were too grandiose?
“If we have trouble making friends, then what happened tonight?” he challenged.
“I don’t know, but we’re not friends.”
“What are we?”
She moistened her lips, and he had to wrench his gaze away from her mouth. It was more difficult than ever not to cross the room and wrap his arms around her. Something would happen when he did.
“Don’t.”
“You’re reading my mind?”
“Your expression.” She lifted one shoulder as she stared at him.
“I’m not going to do anything you don’t want.”
“Isn’t that a standard male line?”
“Yeah, but in this case it’s true. You could make sure I’m telling the truth by touching me.”
“No, thanks.”
When she stood up abruptly, he knew he had pushed the suggestion too hard.
“Stay here.” The command came out more sharply than he’d intended.
“Why?”
“Someone’s out there,” he said in a harsh voice.
“Back to the stalker?”
“Yeah. You’d better sleep here.”
“So you can…”
“Protect you.”
He held his breath while she considered the advice. If she said no, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do.
Another lie. He would grab her arm to stop her. And then what? Give her another peek into his private fears and longings?
“You were here most of the time. Did you see anyone sneaking around?”
“I was inside most of the time—busy working.”
“But you didn’t see anybody,” she insisted.
“No, but in the absence of proof, I think you have to act cautiously.”
“Like you did when you started writing about Rudy Maglioni?”
“Somebody has to expose him.”
“Why you?”
“Because I’m willing to take the chance.” He could have added that nobody besides his editor would miss him if the mob caught up with him. Changing the subject, he said, “You can have my bed.”
“No, thanks.” She glanced toward the couch. “I’ll stay out here.”
