So he was an artist. He understood color and texture, what worked together and what didn't, what complemented and contrasted and clashed.
She liked his work space, the only area of the room that was cluttered. There was an oak table, bearing tubes and pots, brushes, rags and splatters of every shade of paint known to an artist. Against one back wall was a short, squat chest, also oak, its drawers closed on the supplies it held and, set at an angle across the corner, was an armoire. Unlike the table and the chest, it was a fine piece, old and lovingly cared for. There wasn't a splatter of paint anywhere on it, no defects at all that she could see from here.
And, of course, there was an easel, situated close to the table, the canvas it held covered with a heavy piece of fabric.
It was a portrait, she realized, a shiver passing through her.
A portrait of her.
"Do you want to see it?"
Startled, she looked back to find him—he had a name, she reminded herself: Michael—standing directly in front of her, two mugs of coffee in hand. He didn't wait for her answer but set one cup on the table between them before returning to the armchair with his own. She glanced at the easel one last time before deliberately turning her back on it and reaching for the coffee. "No," she said shortly. She didn't want to see a picture of her own face painted by a man who hadn't yet seen it.
The coffee was fragrant, mild and liberally laced with cocoa, brown sugar and cinnamon. The cocoa reminded her of all the nights when she'd gone to live with the Sinclairs and Aunt Marie had brought hot chocolate to her room. For years she had associated the drink with tears and abandonment.
This morning, though, it was exactly what she needed: warming. Soothing. Worth savoring.
Unless it was Michael who'd created those comforting sensations.
Refusing to explore that line of thought, she settled back comfortably on the sofa and faced him. "I'm sorry about last night."
He simply shrugged.
"I've never done anything like this before."
"You've never had to go into hiding to stay alive before."
That answered a few questions, she thought, wrapping both hands around the hot mug and sipping. He knew. He knew she was in danger, and he had taken her in anyway. The knowledge made her feel a little bit safer and, at the same time, a little more uncomfortable. What else did he know about her? Just how finely tuned was this gift of his?
"Are you hungry?"
Pulling back from her own thoughts, she didn't need even a moment to consider his question. "Yes." She hadn't eaten at all yesterday, hadn't managed more than a few bites of anything since Monday. Yes, she was hungry, too hungry to be embarrassed about it.
"The bathroom's through there." He gestured with one hand toward a short hall as he got to his feet. "There are towels in the linen closet and toothbrushes in the medicine chest. Go ahead and clean up, and I'll get breakfast."
This time she watched him walk into the kitchen, noticing that his hair, brown and thick, was long enough in back to cover his collar; that in spite of his spending the night in his clothes, his shirt was neatly tucked in, his jeans too soft and faded to wrinkle.
She also noticed the pistol he wore and wondered why. Was he concerned for her safety, or for his own safety as long as she was around? Was he a cop, a crook, or just an extra-cautious citizen who knew he lived in a dangerous world?
Right now she didn't care. If she could trust him—and that weird sixth sense of hers said she could—that was all that mattered.
Untangling herself from the blanket, she left the sofa and went to the hall. It was less than ten feet long, with a single door at each end and a third one—a closet, she guessed—right in the middle. The open door at the right led into his bedroom. She caught a glimpse of a neatly made bed, a thick crimson comforter and a hunter-green wall.
The door on the left opened into the bathroom. It was a big, square room with a claw-foot tub, a pedestal sink and cut-crystal knobs on the doors. Although her own bathroom was as modern as any apartment in New Orleans—or perhaps because it was—Valery had a deep appreciation of old tubs and sinks, of their graceful curves and arches, of beauty combined with function.
The mirror over the sink was old, beveled and fronted a recessed medicine cabinet. Some of the silver in the corners had flaked off, leaving the reflection slightly distorted in places. She sighed, wishing she could blame the way she looked on those minor flaws, but these flaws were all her own. Her hair, damp when she'd fallen asleep, stood on end, and her face was seriously devoid of color, except for the dark shadows beneath her eyes. She looked thin. Pinched. Pathetic.
Inside the cabinet she found a tube of toothpaste and two new brushes. She used one, then gathered towels and a washcloth from the small closet built into one corner. It took only a moment to locate a bottle of shampoo, only a moment more to uncover a disposable razor and a can of shaving cream. Clean up, he'd said, and he very well might have meant wash your face and hands and brush your teeth. But after last night—after the last four days—she needed more than a washcloth, a bar of soap and a toothbrush. She needed a hot bath.
She needed rejuvenation.
Letting the water fill the tub, she peeled off her jeans, stiff and still damp on her legs from yesterday's hours in the rain, then paused to secure the lock on the door. It wasn't much of one—an old-fashioned hook that fit into an eyelet screw; she'd grown up with similar locks on the screen doors—but it added a degree or two to her comfort level. Then, as the last of her clothing hit the brightly woven mat, she sank into the warm water, letting it seep higher around her, letting it warm and soothe her.
She was past crazy, she acknowledged, nudging the handle with her toe to make the water hotter. Based on nothing more than a feeling, than premonitions that might very well be little more than lucky guesses, she had come to a total stranger, had invited herself into his home for the night and was now soaking in his bathtub. Desperation had taken her from a boringly normal life to utter madness.
But maybe madness wasn't so bad, she reflected.
At least she felt safe.
* * *
With breakfast cooked and warming in the oven and a fresh pot of coffee brewing on the stove, Michael picked up the cordless phone and settled into the armchair. He'd spent the night there, had slept the few hours between three o'clock and dawn with his feet propped on the coffee table and his head cushioned on a thin tapestry pillow. The rest of the night and all this morning, he had watched Valery. He had sat there for the better part of ten hours and simply watched her.
He had decided that he liked her hair black, liked it better than the angelic blond that was her natural color. He had seen that she needed rest, food and, most of all, a sense of security. A moment's freedom from fear. He had realized that she was prettier than he'd given her credit for, that if he had passed her on the street, he would have noticed her, and his interest would have been more than casual. If he had made contact with her, if their gazes had met or they had spoken or even simply bumped, he would have felt…
Just the right word with all the right connotations eluded him. Attraction was too simple, lust too one-dimensional. He would have felt something strong. He would have been touched.
He was touched, he thought with a cynical smile, or tetched, as his grandmother would say. He was touched in the head.
Turning the phone on, he began dialing Remy's number. On the last digit, though, his finger hovered above the button. He owed Remy this call—had owed it to him ten hours ago when he'd opened the door and found Valery standing there. Remy wouldn't have minded a middle-of-the-night call. He would have been grateful to find out that his cousin was alive and safe, would have been eager to get her into FBI custody, where they could ensure that she stayed that way.
But Michael hadn't made the call. He'd wanted to talk to her first. He'd wanted to ask her questions that he knew she had no answers for. He'd wanted to explore the mental connection, however tenuous, that linked
them.
And he'd wanted to watch her. Just for a while. Just for a few peaceful hours. Lately they'd both had so few of those that it had seemed a shame not to savor them.
He didn't call now, either. Disconnecting before the call could go through, he laid the phone on the table and pushed it out of reach.
From the bathroom he heard the sounds of water draining from the bathtub, the splashing as she got out, and an image formed in his mind of Valery, naked and wet, reaching for a thick towel. It wasn't a vision, wasn't anything so intimate and accurate, but rather the product of imagination—of an imagination too long unused, of a libido too long unsatisfied.
In other words, he thought with a genuine grin as he headed for his bedroom, for the first time in a long time he was thinking like a man. An ordinary man.
He found a pair of sweatpants in the back of his closet, old and too snug for him, and pulled a T-shirt from its hanger. At the opposite end of the hall, he tapped once on the door, then hung the clothes over the doorknob and returned to the kitchen. A moment later he heard the door open, then close again. He imagined he even heard the scrape of metal on metal as the lock was refastened.
Another ten minutes passed before she finally emerged from the bathroom. His clothing was too big for her, naturally, but at least it was clean and dry. It was something to wear until she got settled wherever the FBI took her.
Her hair was wet and combed straight back; even so, he could see that she'd taken advantage of the mirror and a pair of scissors to even the ragged edges, to shape the blunt cut. She was still pale, though, and still reminded him far too strongly of a delicate china doll. All she needed to complete the image was an antique dress of the sort she probably sold in her shop.
Thank God all he had for her was sweats and a T-shirt.
She came to the table, too one of the two chairs where he'd set places, and rested her knee on the seat, watching as he carried their plates, filled with eggs, bacon and French toast, from the kitchen. "I don't know why you're doing this."
Her voice was stronger. Under better circumstances, he imagined she was stronger. Maybe, now that she was off the streets, she would find that strength again.
Deliberately misunderstanding her comment, he shrugged. "I almost always eat around this time."
"I meant letting me stay here. Being polite. Acting as if I'm a perfectly normal guest instead of a complete stranger who came uninvited into your home."
"You're not a complete stranger."
"I'd never seen you before last night."
His mouth began curving in what would be a bitter smile if he let it form, but he didn't. "I've been seeing you for four days."
Sliding into the seat and scooting it closer to the table, she continued to watch him thoughtfully. She understood, at least to some extent, what he was saying, knew what he meant by seeing. Because she shared the same sort of ability?
The idea interested him as much as it repelled him. He'd never known anyone else who experienced visions, foreknowledge, clairvoyance. He had never sought out anyone, had never wanted to expand his own knowledge and understanding of the visions that haunted him. He had dealt with them on his own terms, hadn't shared them—not even their very existence—with anyone but Evan, Remy and Smith. He had never wanted to know more, had never wondered why the ability had been conferred on him instead of someone else, had never wanted to know anything but how to get rid of them and, failing that, how to live with them.
And now, sitting across from him, was someone with a power, a gift—a curse—all her very own.
"I know about the murder."
She nodded calmly. Of course, his statement meant nothing, proved nothing. Everyone in the city with a newspaper, television or radio knew about the murder.
"And that people are looking for you."
She didn't respond to that. Instead she picked up her fork and poked the pile of scrambled eggs, onions and sweet peppers that filled half her plate.
"You're the best witness the cops have."
She took a bite of eggs, washed it down with coffee and poured syrup over her French toast. "This is good. I don't believe I know many men who cook."
He started on his own meal, barely tasting the food. After a few moments of silence, though, he spoke again. "I like your hair better this way."
Gazing at him, she ate one strip of bacon, then another. At last she asked, "Better than what?"
"Long and blond."
"There have been pictures of me in the paper?"
"No. Only in my head."
She glanced over her shoulder toward the easel. The portrait intrigued her, but, at the same time, he thought, it frightened her. She might be more comfortable with the idea of visions than he was, but she wasn't sure how she felt about being the subject of them. She wasn't comfortable with how well a stranger could know her without even meeting her.
She used the growing silence to eat, to think and to study him. He knew well what other people saw—shaggy dark hair, dark eyes, a generally tired, grim expression. He couldn't help but think, though, that Valery Navarre would see more. More than he usually shared. More than he cared to see himself. Still, he let her look. He didn't try to distract her.
Finally she laid the fork down and pushed the plate away. It was empty but for the last bite of syrupy French toast. "This has happened to you before, hasn't it?"
His first impulse was to pretend to misunderstand her question, to dismiss it with a flippant response. Eating breakfast? Yes, I've done that before. Sharing a meal with a lovely woman? That's happened a time or two. Instead he simply, shortly answered, "Yes."
"You have … premonitions? Prescience? Second sight?"
He shrugged. "I call them visions, although I don't know if that's strictly correct. I not only see things—people—but I also hear voices, sense feelings."
"Visions can be auditory and sensory as well as visual," she remarked, her tone conversational and casual, as if she wasn't the subject of the aforementioned visions.
"So can hallucinations."
She smiled faintly, and damn her if she didn't suddenly look fragile again. "I assure you, I'm not a hallucination." Then, for the first time showing a little feminine vanity, she ran her fingers through her sleek hair. "I'm not much of a vision right now, either," she said with another smile and a tinge of regret.
He didn't say anything, didn't assure her that she was as appealing with her self-cut hair and too-big clothes as any other woman would be dressed to the teeth. He didn't tell her that she had been lovely when he'd opened the door last night and was growing even lovelier as the exhaustion, the tension and the fear drained away. He didn't even want to notice those facts himself, much less point them out.
Although, of course, he did notice.
"So…" She sighed. Unlike last night, when her sigh had been so whispery, so vulnerable, this one was a strong exhalation. "What happens when you have these visions?"
He thought of Evan, and his expression darkened, closed in. He'd gotten his best friend killed—that was what had happened last time. He'd saddled himself with a burden he would never escape from. He'd destroyed lives—his, Evan's, Evan's wife's.
Forcing the guilt and the sorrow back where they belonged, where they lived, he concentrated on providing a satisfactory answer. "I only have visions of people in trouble, people who need help."
"And you help them." Her tone wasn't exactly skeptical, but more curious. More wondering exactly what it was he could do for her.
"Yes." So far he'd managed to help every single one of them—except Evan. It was odd. He'd had countless visions of strangers, of people he'd never met, people he didn't know and didn't—in anything other than a broad humanitarian sort of way—care about, but he hadn't had any visions of Evan. He hadn't known that his best friend was in trouble until he was already dead. Until he had sacrificed his own life to save Michael's and that little girl's.
"And how will you help me, Michael Bennett?"
He smiled cynically. He would help her—and would help himself at the same time—by getting her out of his life and out of his head. It was simple: all he had to do, all he was obligated to do by either his own code of ethics or his obligation to Remy.
"Easy," he replied. "I'm turning you over to the FBI."
* * *
Chapter 3
« ^ »
Valery sat motionless. He made it sound so obvious, as if once she was placed in FBI custody, everything would be all right; she would be safe from harm. Of course, he didn't know that one FBI agent might have reasons of his own for finding her, reasons that had nothing to do with wanting her testimony in court but rather exactly the opposite. He didn't know that Remy—her own cousin Remy—might very well be involved with the murder from the wrong side. He didn't know that FBI Special Agent Remy Sinclair might—might—want her dead.
And she couldn't tell him. She couldn't tell anyone. If Remy was innocent—God, how she prayed he was!—even the suggestion of misconduct would be enough to irreparably damage his career, and that would be enough to irrevocably destroy the last of her family.
And if he was guilty?
It was possible. Much as she wanted to believe otherwise, it was possible. People changed. Kids grew up, and sometimes the adults they became had little in common with the children they had been. The Remy she'd known for the first eleven years of her life had been mischievous and rowdy but basically decent, had stood up for kids younger or weaker. The teenage Remy she had lived with after her parents' divorce had been sullen, resentful, with rarely a kind thought or word for the cousin whose presence in his home he so deeply resented. And the adult Remy…
MICHAEL'S GIFT Page 4
