The Reunited

by Shiloh Walker

  “Uh-oh.”

  He looked up and saw that Dez had shifted on the couch and was studying him, chin propped in her hand. “That look on your face spells trouble, Taylor.”

  “Tell me about it.” Pinching the bridge of his nose, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. It was bizarre, how easily she could read him now. And to think, a year ago, she hadn’t even been in his life . . . because he’d pushed her away.

  What in the hell had he been thinking?

  A soft sound caught his attention and he lowered his hand, opened his eyes. Dez stood at his side. She lightly pushed on his shoulder and he obliged, turning away from the table. As she straddled him, he loosely wrapped his arms around her waist and stared up at her face. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, reaching up and cupping her cheek, his tanned skin pale against the dark, smooth brown of hers. She felt like satin under his hand . . . soft, warm . . .

  “You’re trying to distract me.”

  “No. I’m just telling you that you’re beautiful.” He slid a hand under her shirt, went to flick her bra open, only to discover it had a front clasp. Improvising, he eased her back and pushed her shirt up, burying his face between her breasts. “If I wanted to distract you, I’d do this.”

  “And it would work.” She combed a hand through his hair. “But you need to tell me what’s up . . . what’s the deal, Jones?”

  “I’m going to have to call Taige.” He closed his eyes and rested his head on her shoulder.

  Dez stroked the back of his neck, her fingers soothing, gentle. “Okay. That doesn’t usually have you so glum. Besides, I know her . . . if you tell her what’s at stake, she’ll help out.”

  “It’s not Taige’s help I need.” Lifting his head, he traced his finger over the bow of her lip. “Last month, they took Jillian to Disney. She started having nightmares almost right away, but she didn’t tell them.”

  She nipped his finger and then caught his wrist, tugged his hand away. “That’s odd. Wouldn’t Taige feel it if Jillian’s nightmares were that bad? Both of them have the same kind of gift. Living together as long as they have, you’d think they’d be a little more in tune than that.”

  “Nobody is in tune with Jillian anymore, I don’t think. They don’t have the same gifts. Not anymore. Jillian has the same sort of telepathy that Taige does, but . . .” Taylor rested his head against Dez’s chest again, eyes closed, breathing her in, letting the warmth of her soothe him. “She’s far surpassed anything Taige will ever be able to do. And she’s fourteen. Fourteen years old, Dez. How can she handle it?”

  Dez was quiet. Her fingers stroked through his hair, and he concentrated on that simple gesture for a minute before he made himself continue. A kid. Jillian was just a kid. And she had to live with all that darkness in her head. Everything she saw, everything she knew . . . it was hard enough for him to live with, and he did it because it was the job, because he knew he made a difference.

  “She ended up calling me. Last month when I had to leave for a few days? It was to come down here. I met her in the park.”

  “Jillian . . . you met Jillian in Disney World. Taige let you?”

  “Taige didn’t know,” Taylor said grimly. “She took off for a few minutes—the kid didn’t bother to tell me that part until after we’d met up. She pushed a notebook into my hands and then disappeared. I never saw Taige or Cullen.”

  “She disappeared? After what happened to her?”

  Taylor shook his head. “I tried to tell her that—the girl has a mind of her own. I think I feel sorry for her parents.”

  When Jillian Morgan had been younger, she’d been kidnapped. Taylor’s unit had been put on the task, and he’d learned some interesting facts about the young girl—namely that she’d actually known she would be kidnapped . . . she’d seen it. So far, Taylor had narrowed her gifts down to precognition, psychometry, and telepathy.

  He only hoped that was all she had inside that brain of hers. But she’d gotten stronger over the years, and it was entirely possible new gifts had emerged as she’d gotten older.

  Many of his psychics hadn’t even developed any of their gifts until puberty. By the time Jillian had hit that age, she’d already hit a level of control that made some of his people look like rank amateurs.

  Now the teenager was living another nightmare . . . somebody else’s nightmare. He knew that didn’t always make it any easier. Trapped inside somebody else’s misery, somebody else’s pain. And when she wasn’t able to do much more than watch from the sidelines . . .

  Except Jillian hadn’t watched. There were missing kids. Missing women.

  Some of them, Jillian had said, were already gone. The missing . . . For Jillian, that meant they’d been killed. And she had decided she’d stop it.

  Frustration chewed at him; he’d told Taige this would happen. He’d seen it, even when Jillian had just been a child, just like he’d seen in Taige. His people were his for a reason . . . they were warriors. Jillian was already walking down that road.

  He hated it. Taige, Cullen, they had no idea how much he hated it.

  He’d never track her down, but in the end, it wouldn’t matter, because she’d come to him.

  His phone started to ring, cutting through the dark, heavy cloud of his thoughts.

  He wasn’t the least bit amused, or surprised, when Evanescence’s “Haunted” came blaring from it. Dez had programmed the ring. He didn’t do ringtones—exactly what he needed, to have a ringtone like that go off in the middle of a meeting. But his wife wasn’t part of his unit . . . not anymore . . . and she had a sense of humor that was, at best, strange.

  It was the ringtone she’d programmed for Taige. Thankfully, he could count on his hands the number of times Taige had called him.

  Sighing, he accepted the call, already bracing himself. Jilly, kid, what have you done now . . .

  “What is your damned room number?”

  SIX

  "ELLA . . . I’d like you to meet Patrick Whitmore.”

  Finally. Dru had damn near had to bend over backward just to get a damned invite to the party, and then she’d spent most of the night working the crowd just to get this close to Whitmore.

  Just as she’d done three other times, all unsuccessfully.

  Whitmore wasn’t exactly the easiest man to get up close and personal with, something she’d discovered the hard way. She’d used the time to learn everything she could about him. The type of woman who seemed to catch his eye, their style, their looks . . . she’d made them her own and it was finally paying off.

  As Whitmore gave her a casual glance, then a longer second look, Dru smiled, pretending to be just a little nervous as she held out a hand.

  Mentally, she braced herself. It wasn’t always pleasant, that first touch of bared skin on bared skin, leaving an impression for her to study, for her to learn and understand . . . her ability might be labeled as psychometry. She didn’t know. It worked best on people rather than things and it didn’t work on everybody. But sometimes when she touched a person, she took in chunks of memory—good things, bad things, she never knew which it would be.

  The second Whitmore’s fingers closed over her hand, she wanted to jerk away.

  Flash, flash, flash.

  Screams, terror, pain . . . and it made him smile. She pushed it all down inside and locked it down tight.

  As his hand tightened, ever so intimately, on hers, she gave him a demure smile.

  As he leaned in closer to her, she resisted the urge to pull away.

  “Ella . . . a lovely name.” He lifted her hand to his lips.

  She wanted to back away and put as much distance between her and the monster as she could—that wasn’t an option, so she would have been happy to grab something big and heavy—like a sledgehammer—and pound him across the head with it.

  In reality, she did none of that.

  She pretended to be pleased with his attention, letting her hand linger in his . . . even as the screams continued
to rage.

  Nobody else heard it, of course. It was just in his mind, buried in his memories. But that was where she excelled . . . peering into those dark places. Unraveling sticky threads . . .

  Dru sat at the table across from Patrick and fought the urge to scream. Her head pounded. Her gut was a quesy, roiling mess. Nothing like a hangover and her murderous, slaving fiancé to make for a lovely breakfast.

  He’d shown up while she was still in the shower, and when she’d come out to find him in her bedroom, she hadn’t had time to brace herself, shield herself, before he touched her.

  And the memory flash was just . . . a blow.

  Heavy, solid, almost completely formed. He’d looked at her as she came out of the bathroom, and something had made him think of the first time he’d seen her.

  Now she had that in her head, and it had triggered her own memories.

  “Are you all right?”

  Looking up, she met Patrick’s gaze and smiled. “Yes, I’m quite lovely . . . I was just thinking of the time we first met, actually.”

  “Hmmm.” He continued to study her, that critical, dark look on his face, like he was measuring everything about her. Measuring and something about her was lacking today. “Did you sleep well?”

  Dru reached for her tea and took a sip. “Yes. It took a while to fall asleep . . . the fireworks.” She gave a deprecating smile. “I’d forgotten about the fireworks.”

  “If you need other accommodations, let me know. You need to have your rest.”

  “Not necessary, Patrick.” She set her cup down and said, “I’ll just see about buying some earplugs or perhaps one of those little machines that make white noise. I used to have one, but it broke and I never got around to purchasing a new one.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” He rose from the table and came around to stand beside her.

  She lifted her head to gaze up at him, pasting that fake as hell, demure smile on her face. I hate you, you sodding bastard. He cupped her chin and stroked his thumb across her lower lip. “Will you be running today?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure. I might just take a lazy day or call your assistant about setting up the spa day. I haven’t decided.”

  He nodded. “The fitting is coming up. Don’t forget about it,” he reminded her as he dipped his head.

  And as his mouth brushed hers, her breath locked up in her throat and her heart slammed hard against her ribs.

  Flash, flash, flash.

  “The disposal is complete?”

  “Yes, Mr. Whitmore.”

  She felt his satisfaction. Not pleasure. He wasn’t pleased, Dru knew. He was irritated over the loss of money. There . . . an image floated through his mind, a woman, as she’d been before she died.

  Dru locked on it, froze it in her mind.

  He was satisfied that his point had been made, even as he was disgusted by the loss of merchandise. But he was willing to admit sometimes a loss was needed to make a point.

  A point—as she tried to puzzle that through, the memories she’d taken from him were revealed to her.

  “Make sure the others see the recording. This should make sure everybody understands what happens when they cause trouble.” Patrick, again. Recording . . .

  And just like that, the connection severed.

  Dru couldn’t hold it any longer, because she was fighting the urge to puke her guts out, fighting not to let him see as he pulled away and then said something else. Through the rush of blood, she heard his voice, but the words didn’t connect.

  All that mattered was that he was leaving.

  Once the door clicked, she wiped her lips on a napkin and rose.

  Even though her knees were shaking, even though she wanted to scream, she walked carefully, slowly, sedately into the bathroom. Once there, she went to her knees in front of the toilet. If the cameras or audio devices outside the bathroom caught the sound of her puking, so what? She’d lie and say she had a stomach virus.

  Maybe it would get her out of Patrick’s tender charms for a few days.

  * * *

  “CAN you describe her any better than that?”

  Dru glanced around, keeping it subtle.

  She’d swiped the phone. It was one of her best tactics for making untraceable phone calls. But she still had to get off the phone before one of her babysitters showed up—they’d follow her into the loo if she took too long, public or not.

  “Not much. They’d worked her over rather bad,” she said. “Young, early twenties, I would think. Brown and brown, hair was straight and short, looked like that style where it was longer in the front, shorter in the back. Highlights. Biracial. Early twenties, max. Light-skinned. Can’t speak to height, so her weight would be hard to guess, but I can say she was slender, verging on skinny. Had an almost muscular look, like she was really into fitness. Maybe an instructor or something.” The muscles she’d seen on that woman didn’t come from hitting the gym three or four times a week, she knew that much. “If I could sit down with a sketch artist, I could do better, but I don’t see me getting access to one just yet.”

  On the other end of the phone, her contact sighed. “I’ll do what I can, honey, but that’s not much to work with.”

  “I know . . . I’ll try to get more info.” Go back into the memory. Look for more.

  “Be careful.”

  She grimaced as she finished the phone call. She went into the phone’s memory and deleted it. It would show on the phone bill, but that would be some time from now and the call had been short. Hopefully, nobody would think to look twice. Carefully, she wiped it down and left it sitting in one of the stalls before she slid out of the bathroom.

  She had a spa day ahead of her. What a bloody joke.

  * * *

  BIG blue eyes stared up at hers.

  Taige Morgan stared right back at her stepdaughter, not the least bit swayed by that projected air of innocence.

  She might have been, once. But she was no longer a newbie at the mom game, and Jillian was going to have to try just a little bit harder and do more than bat her eyes to get out of this mess. The girl was fourteen years old and bordering on genius, too. She should know better than to think batting her lashes was going to do the trick.

  Jillian would drive her crazy, Taige thought. Fear, frustration, and love tangled in her gut. She was a mess. And it wasn’t going to get any better anytime soon, she knew.

  “You can’t let him go up there first,” Jillian said again.

  “Yes.” Taige smiled. “I can. I just did.”

  She’d already given Cullen, her husband, and Jillian’s very protective father, Taylor’s room number. He’d disappeared into the elevator. She was giving him a five-minute head start. Much longer than that and she might have to bail his fine ass out of jail.

  Of course, it might be worth it.

  And if Cullen didn’t pop Taylor one, Taige was going to. That son of a bitch had pulled her baby into his world . . . she’d warned him about doing that. She’d warned him. He hadn’t listened.

  Over the past few hours, Jillian had explained just why she hadn’t been sleeping. Just why she hadn’t been eating. Just why she’d been having nightmares. And just why they’d caught her slipping out of the house. Taige sometimes wished she hadn’t trained the girl so well.

  But that wouldn’t have been a blessing. As strong as Jillian was, she needed to be trained. Unfortunately, Taige now stood in Jillian’s shadow—the girl’s abilities far eclipsed her own, and it had been sheer dumb luck that she’d sensed something . . . off earlier in the day.

  If Taige hadn’t picked up on that strange little vibe, they wouldn’t have realized Jillian was planning anything until the kid had already disappeared.

  “Look, Mom . . .” Jillian shuffled her feet, acting like the teenager she was, for once. Sheepish, nervous, embarrassed at being caught in the act. “It’s not Taylor’s fault I was trying to sneak out. I was doing it. It was my idea. I just knew . . . well, I knew he needed me.
It’s not like he told me to do it or anything.”

  Taige just stared at her. “Not impressed, darling. You see . . . Taylor knows how you are. And he should have called me the second he knew something was going on with you.”

  “If he’d done that, you and Dad wouldn’t have let me help.” She crossed her arms across her chest, glaring at Taige. Sullen temper sparked in those pretty eyes now.

  It made Taige smile inwardly. Too often, this kid didn’t act anything like the kid she still was. Even when she was completely in the wrong, it was nice to see Jillian act like a teenager. Hell, it was even kind of nice to see her screw up, see her rebel.

  Although Taige wished it had been over almost anything but this.

  Not this world, she thought, her heart aching. Not my world.

  “There’s no other world I belong in, Mom.”

  Sighing, Taige closed her eyes. “Shut the door, Jilly.”

  “I can’t always do it.” They’d trained Jillian to keep out unwanted thoughts by envisioning other people’s minds as rooms . . . and she kept those thoughts out of her head by shutting the door. It usually worked. Not always.

  There was a muffled noise and Taige opened her eyes to see the girl coming across the heavily carpeted floor. They were waiting in a little alcove of the hotel, waiting while Cullen and Taylor had a “chat.”

  Jillian stopped in front of Taige, her eyes solemn and sad.

  The look on the child’s face was far too adult, far too wise. It just about broke Taige’s heart.

  “Mom . . . this is what I’m meant for.”

  “It doesn’t have to be.” She brushed back the dark, spiraling curls from Jillian’s face. Man, she was growing up so fast. It seemed like just yesterday . . .

  Unable to think about that . . . about all the yesterdays, while the very pressing reality of today was right here, Taige pushed it aside. “You’re a bright girl, Jilly. You’ve got so much more you can do, but you’ve always been so focused on this, sometimes I wonder if you’ve ever let yourself look at the other options you have.”

  “Other options.” Jillian shook her head and held out a hand. “Can I show you?”