Cold Sight

by Parrish, Leslie

  More than all that, she knew she liked him. A lot.

  It was too much to digest. Especially under the watchful eyes of his observant friends. Hardly fair, really, to get involved with a guy who palled around with psychics and mind readers and, well, whatever Olivia was.

  Involved. Funny word. But it fit. They were involved, whether either of them had intended it that way or not. There was no if, no maybe, no could be. It was a done deal; even the three relative strangers in the backseat knew it.

  The only thing she didn’t know was how Aidan felt about it. Seventy-two hours ago he’d been a growling, semiretired loner. Now he was hip deep in a case, surrounded by people, and engaging in flirtatious banter with her, a woman who worked in a profession he hated and didn’t have, as he called it, an off switch between brain and mouth.

  They were nothing alike, completely mismatched, absolutely wrong for each other in every way. And yet . . .

  And yet . . .

  They were involved.

  Saturday, 10:10 p.m.

  Like most of the teenagers in Granville, the Kirby twins had spent a good bit of Saturday talking about the previous night’s game. Or, at least, the half-time portion of it, when students from both schools had taken a stand in defiance of their coaches and teachers, demanding attention and justice for Vonnie.

  It had been incredibly cool. It had also been Taylor’s idea, and she was proud of herself for having thought of it. Jenny had participated, too. She was the one who’d written the speech the guys had delivered. Which had, quite simply, rocked.

  So much for it being just her dad and Lexie trying to do something about all the recent disappearances that everybody knew were connected but nobody wanted to acknowledge. Now the whole town was talking about nothing else. She had heard from friends who said their parents were setting up neighborhood watch meetings, and others who were volunteering to do searches or go door-to-door passing out flyers. The usually-douchey principals of both schools were supposedly organizing a rally after school Monday, and she’d heard the phone lines at the police station had been jammed.

  Everybody wanted to be involved. Finally.

  Adults always accused kids her age of being spoiled, not caring for other people. Well, they were learning better now. It might take a while to get her generation moving in one unified direction, but once they had, they could be an unstoppable force. Chief Dunston and his skeevy friends couldn’t tape closed thousands of angry mouths all screaming for justice.

  The whole thing almost made Taylor feel better about the lie she and her twin were continuing to perpetuate about which of them had really been the last one to see Vonnie Jackson Monday night. Almost.

  “You sure you’re okay to drive?” Jenny asked. “Not too tired? I saw you falling asleep halfway through the movie.”

  “No kidding,” she said as they left Granville’s pathetic little two-screen theater, heading for Taylor’s car in the dark parking lot. It was almost totally empty of other vehicles, the few remaining ones probably belonging to the workers who were inside cleaning up. All the normal, rational moviegoers, who’d gone to see a good film—the one Taylor had wanted to see—had gotten out forty minutes ago.

  The movies had both started at seven. They’d just had the misfortune to see the excruciatingly long one, filled with scene after scene of sad-faced whiners crying about how miserable their lives were. If she could have climbed up into the screen, she would have gladly put them out of their misery.

  “Come to think of it, I am exhausted. So you can drive,” she said, tossing her keys to her sister and moving to Jenny’s right, so she could head not toward the driver’s side of her Beetle but the passenger’s one. “If you’re wondering why I’m sleepy, it’s because that was the boringest flick ever made. You, Jenny Kirby, have the worst taste in movies. Geez, did you not notice that other than that couple who looked like they went to school with George Washington, we were the only people in the whole entire theater? And they had the good sense to get up and leave halfway through!”

  “Everybody says it’s going to win the Oscar,” her sister replied, sounding lofty and prim in her oh-so-Jenny way.

  “Okay, well, maybe it’ll win the Oscar for putting the audience in a coma, but as for Best Picture? I’ve seen more exciting stuff growing in my gym locker.”

  “That’s disgusting,” Jenny said, playfully punching her upper arm.

  “Next time, I pick. The preview for that 3- D slasher flick looked way cool,” Taylor added. “You can’t fall asleep when there’s a knife aiming at . . .”

  Her words were cut off by a sudden sharp, vicious blow to her head. She flew forward, crashing to her hands and knees, crying out in pain. She couldn’t think for a second, couldn’t process what had happened, what could have struck her, why she’d fallen.

  Then she heard a scream. Jenny collapsed onto the ground a few feet away, landing hard on her stomach. Her twin’s body was limp, her eyes closed. One pale hand was extended toward Taylor, as if she’d reached for her as she fell.

  “Jenny?” she whispered, but another sharp pain sliced through her and she was unable to speak further. Tears of agony spilling from her eyes. Nothing made sense, nothing seemed real.

  Jen?

  She tried to reach out, tried to touch her sister, the person with whom she’d spent every day for the past seventeen years. But her hand felt heavy. So heavy. She couldn’t hold it up, having to let it fall onto the blacktop close to Jenny’s.

  As it dropped, she realized she’d somehow managed it. She’d gotten so close, the very tips of their middle fingers touched.

  It was one infinitesimal brush of skin on skin between two people who’d shared a womb. And it was what she most needed at that moment, just as she’d always needed to feel that unbreakable bond with Jenny at the most stressful times of her life.

  Taylor stared at their hands, the seam where their skin met, and thought they must be lying like perfect mirror images, finger-to-finger, face-to-face. Tears filled her eyes, she stared so hard, and soon it became too hard to stare. Because for some reason her tears had turned red.

  Not tears. No. She finally realized the red she was seeing was the pool of blood separating her from Jenny.

  She just couldn’t figure out, before blackness descended completely, whether that blood was hers, or her sister’s.

  Chapter 12

  Sunday, 5:55 a.m.

  Aidan had fully intended to drive Lexie home the previous night. He really had. So why he’d cruised past her neighborhood and gone back to his place, rather than taking the simple detour down her street, he honestly couldn’t say.

  It was as if he’d been on autopilot. His mind was churning with everything he’d experienced at that house, not to mention all the rest of the day’s events, and he’d zoned in on home and hadn’t let anything else stop him from getting there.

  Once they’d arrived, of course she’d stayed with the group. Everyone was tired, and he knew Lexie’s throat was hurting her—she’d taken a couple of over-the-counter pain pills, not wanting to muddle her thinking with anything stronger. But hunger outweighed fatigue and he’d ordered some pizzas, not wanting Julia and the others to make the drive back to Savannah without having a bite to eat.

  When they were leaving, at around ten, Julia had offered to drop Lexie off on her way out of town. Since the house wasn’t on the way, though, Aidan had insisted it was no problem to take her home. And it wouldn’t have been a problem—she lived a few minutes away. Only, when he’d gone into his living room to see if she was ready, he’d found her sound asleep on the couch.

  Staring down at her, he just hadn’t been able to bring himself to wake her up, for two reasons. First, those bruises on her throat stood out like her assailant’s fingers had been dipped in neon paint. The idea of taking Lexie home and dropping her off there, to spend the night alone, when they knew a psychotic killer was on the loose, had made him sick to his stomach.

  Second, he liked having
her here. Hard to believe, hard to know why. But it was true.

  So he’d simply covered her up, turned off the light, then moved to a chair to watch over her, the illumination in the room growing, then dimming, as the moon moved across the sky during the night. He’d spent the night hours as he always did, drifting into short bouts of sleep; more often, drifting out of it.

  There had been no shared dreams. He’d put up that mental wall to guard against them. The one they’d shared might have been hotter than hell, but it didn’t mean the woman wanted him slipping into her sleep like a Peeping Tom.

  Still, even without his front- row, center seat, he knew when Lexie started dreaming again. This time, judging by the sounds she was making, it wasn’t a smooth, sultry interlude playing in her head. It was a horror movie.

  “No, don’t,” she whispered, jerking on the couch. He’d been awake for about a half hour, lost in thought, focused on Vonnie and the other girls. On that house. On Lexie and the blast of energy she seemed to have brought back into his life.

  Her tiny cries grabbed his attention; the pain and fear in her wounded, husky voice as she tried to stop some unknown assault, kept it.

  “Please!”

  He slid off the chair and knelt by the couch, brushing her hair off her brow. “Shh. It’s okay, Lex. It’s just a bad dream.” He’d whispered the words, hoping to simply reassure her back into sleep. But instead, she awoke. Her eyes flickered, then opened, and she stared up at him.

  Given her nightmare, he would have expected her first reaction to be one of fear at finding a man kneeling above her in the shadowy, predawn darkness of the room. Lexie, though, slowly smiled, as if she’d seen exactly what she’d hoped to see the minute she opened her eyes.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.” He didn’t move away, liking the feel of her silky hair against his fingers, and the warmth of her body so close to his. There was intimacy in the moment and he didn’t want to give it up right away, liking the soft look in her eyes and her languid, sleepy mood.

  “I fell asleep here?” she asked with a yawn.

  He nodded. “I wasn’t crazy about the idea of you staying alone at your place, anyway, so I just let you be. I didn’t want to wake you up, but you were having a nightmare.”

  “Don’t remember it.”

  That was probably just as well.

  She looked down, seeing he was still dressed, and asked, “Where were you?”

  He nodded toward the chair.

  “I’m sorry I kept you from your bed.”

  “You didn’t. I never actually sleep in it.”

  “What do you do in it, Aidan?” she asked after the slightest hesitation.

  Aidan’s breath slowed, even though his heart rate kicked up a notch. There had been nothing subtle about the question, nor did her suddenly hot stare hold any coyness. They both knew what she was really asking, and what she wanted the answer to be. “Your throat . . .”

  “Is fine.” She didn’t seem willing to risk him backing away. Lifting her arms, she twined her fingers in his hair, tugging him closer. “Please, Aidan. I want this. I want you. I want us.”

  So did he. Oh God, yes. But he didn’t want to hurt her. He’d kissed her yesterday, then worried he could have caused her pain. Now the things he wanted to do to her—with her—well, he didn’t know that he should even allow himself to start until she was one hundred percent well.

  “I know it hasn’t been very long since we met. But I’ve experienced things with you that I haven’t shared with people I’ve known for years.”

  “Ditto,” he said, thinking particularly of their dream. And of the instant desire he’d felt for her, which had almost immediately overcome his natural resistance to touching anyone.

  “We could dance around this, keep dreaming and thinking about it and satisfy whatever convention that says nice people wait until they’ve known each other a month before having sex,” she whispered. “But frankly, I just don’t want to.”

  He let her pull him closer, until their lips were close enough to share a breath. Their stares met one more time, silently acknowledging how far they’d come and where this was going. What it meant, he couldn’t say. He only knew he had to have her.

  “You’re absolutely certain?”

  “Yes,” she growled. “And if you ask me that again I’ll have to hit you.”

  “I guess you are feeling better if you’re threatening me with bodily injury,” he teased.

  But his laughter quickly faded. Unwilling to resist his overwhelming desire for her—and hers for him—Aidan didn’t wait any longer before eliminating the sliver of air that separated them. He covered her mouth with his, gently at first, savoring the softness of her beautiful lips, the taste that was uniquely Lexie. She groaned, deep in her throat, twining her hands harder in his hair even as she tilted her head. Arching up toward him, she pressed against his body, her feminine curves the perfect complement to his hardness.

  Aidan moved over her, onto the couch, holding his weight off her, but letting their legs tangle and their hips meet. She made no secret of what she wanted, thrusting her tongue against his, demanding the passion, the heat he’d worried she wasn’t physically capable of handling.

  She was handling it, all right. Taking every warm touch he offered, throwing accelerant on it, and turning it into an inferno.

  “God, Lex,” he muttered against her mouth before plunging his tongue deep. He ground against her, knowing that as good it felt to be between her clothed thighs, being between her naked ones was going to drive him out of his ever-loving mind.

  Not content with devouring just her mouth, he tasted his way across to her jaw, then down the side of her neck. He slowed to press warm, tender kisses to the bruises on her throat, wishing he could take away the pain, determined to at least make her forget it for a while.

  Any farther downward progress was halted by her clothes. He pulled away from her, wanting to see, feel, and taste every bare inch of her. Lexie sat up and wriggled to help him, tugging at the soft sweater. Aidan gently pushed her hands away, pulling it up himself, avoiding her bruises. He didn’t want to risk even the scrape of fabric against her injured skin.

  Once it was gone, he had to just drink her in, feeling hot blood rush through him, heat pulsing in his groin as the desire he’d already thought was overwhelming built to an even greater inferno. “Beautiful,” he said, staring at her, now clad in only her jeans and a pretty, pale pink bra that wasn’t nearly as attractive as the curves it contained.

  Lexie pushed at him, until he was sitting up on the couch. Then she rose to her feet, standing right in front of him.

  It was still a few minutes before sunrise, but the light coming in through the slotted blinds on the front windows had already begun to take on that purplish hue that came whenever midnight melted into morning. Lexie seemed a part of both—as darkly sensual as the night, but as beautiful and breathtaking as the dawn.

  He wanted her with every ounce of his soul.

  Standing before him, Lexie saw the intense, covetous look on Aidan’s face. And, in that moment, she realized what she’d been missing all her adult life. She’d had sex before. She’d had relationships before. But she’d never been absolutely devoured by the ravenous stare of a man desperate to have her or die trying. Not once.

  “I want you, too,” she admitted, though he had said nothing. He hadn’t needed to. She got it.

  Never taking her eyes off him, she reached around and unclasped her bra. She dipped one shoulder, letting the strap fall. Then the other, and the lacy fabric dropped onto the floor.

  He stared, hissed, and the tension rose.

  When he reached for her, she shook her head, backing up a step. Once she was back in his arms, she wanted absolutely no impediment, nothing to stop him from thrusting into her and taking her until his body became an extension of her own.

  She reached for her waistband, unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans, then pushed them down. Kicking them off, she remained
there, nearly naked, wearing only the skimpiest of underwear, letting him look the way she knew he wanted to.

  “Ask me that question again—the one you asked at the game. About whether you’re sexy,” he growled.

  When she moved her fingers to the elastic edge of her panties, he stopped her. Putting his big, warm hands on her hips, his fingers squeezing her bottom, he drew her closer, until his mouth was an inch from her stomach. His warm exhalations flowed over her skin, bringing goose bumps and the most delicious sense of anticipation.

  “There it is,” he murmured.

  She didn’t know what he meant until he pressed his hot mouth to her hip, kissing her birthmark, which was shaped as if it had been formed solely for this man to taste.

  And suddenly she recalled their shared dream, where that wicked mouth had moved when it had left her hip. “Oh God,” she whispered, every inch of her remembering at once. Remembering—and wanting to do everything they’d done then, for real this time.

  Every single thing.

  Aidan rose from the couch, his hands and mouth brushing against her every inch of the way until he stood right in front of her. His thick, muscular arms flexed as he pulled his shirt up and off. And it was her turn to stare, stunned that he truly was as perfectly formed, as utterly magnificent, as she’d dreamed him to be. Thick shouldered, broad chested, with a flat, muscled stomach and lean hips, the man should star in every woman’s most erotic dreams.

  But only in her reality. At least for now.

  He drew her closer, until her hard nipples scraped in the wiry hair on his chest. She quivered, even that tiny contact sending spasms of delight through her.

  Knowing, already, just how to touch her, just how she liked it, Aidan lifted a big hand to her breast. She arched back, wanting more, and he gave it to her, bending to cover her incredibly sensitive nipple with his mouth. He licked lightly, then sucked hard and both sensations competed to be the one that would make her legs give out first.