In Too Deep lgt-1

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  If they knew the full extent of what he could do with his talent, the whisperers would be appalled, he thought. But he was a Jones. He knew how to keep secrets. He was pretty sure Isabella Valdez knew how to keep them, too. Always nice to have something in common with a woman who aroused all the basic instincts in a man. That, of course, was one of the big complications in his life these days. He had been fascinated with Isabella from the moment he had met her.

  The other baffling aspect of Isabella’s personality was that she did not have a problem with his moods or a temperament that required a lot of time spent walking alone on the beach down in the Cove. She simply accepted him as he was.

  He understood the physical attraction. Isabella lacked the generic perfection that made so many female movie stars and fashion models look as if they had popped out of the same mold. But her strong, striking features and mysterious golden brown eyes had riveted him from the start.

  She wore her shoulder-length dark hair in a severe, no-nonsense twist that highlighted the sharply sculpted angles of her chin, nose and cheekbones. She was curvy in all the right places but he had yet to see her in a skirt or dress. Her daily uniform invariably consisted of jeans or dark trousers, a long-sleeved shirt that she wore with the sleeves rolled up, and low boots or flats. She carried a backpack instead of a purse. The backpack was not a fashion statement. It was sturdy and functional, and it was filled with stuff.

  It was as if Isabella was always dressed to go for a hike. Or maybe dressed to run? The thought had floated through his head on more than one occasion during the past month.

  He was quite certain that she was a strong intuitive talent of some kind, although she seemed reluctant to discuss the exact nature of her ability. Fair enough. She did not press him about his talent, either. In addition, she had no problem with the concept of working for an investigation agency that specialized in the paranormal. In fact, she acted as if she’d had some experience in that line. That was not a huge surprise. A lot of powerful intuitives found themselves in the investigation or security business. If they didn’t follow that career path, they sometimes wound up as shrinks or storefront psychics.

  When he had pointed out that Jones & Jones was closely affiliated with an organization devoted to research into the paranormal, she had simply shrugged. She had then proceeded to inform him that every office, even one run by a psychic detective, required sound, efficient management.

  “I realize that you are a bit obsessed with control,” she said. “But I believe we have established that the time has come for you to learn to prioritize and delegate. You should be devoting your talents to investigation, not to keeping your office organized.”

  He had no clear recollection of having actually hired her. True, he had been toying with the notion of employing someone to help him get a handle on the heaps of papers, books and computer printouts that littered the small office. Even the thought of having someone around to make sure he did not run out of coffee had become an increasingly attractive notion. But he had not gotten to the point of advertising the position. For one thing, he had no idea how or where to go about the business of finding the kind of office assistant he needed.

  But Isabella had taken the matter out of his hands. She had quit her job as a waitress at the Sunshine Café across the street, walked into J&J and announced that she was his new assistant.

  The transformation of the headquarters of the West Coast office of Jones & Jones had happened within a matter of days. Where once controlled chaos had reigned, there was now efficiency and order. Isabella had even managed to unearth the small kitchen off the main room of the office.

  The only problem in the arrangement as far as he could see was that, having accomplished her initial objectives, Isabella now wanted to do some real investigation work.

  “Norma is willing to pay us for our time,” Isabella said. “The house is only a few miles from here. Why not let me check it out?”

  “There’s nothing to check out,” Fallon said. “Norma is new to the local real estate scene. She’ll soon figure out that the reason she can’t sell the old Zander mansion isn’t because of the rumors. It’s because the place is more than a hundred years old. Every potential buyer who walks through the front door realizes immediately that it would be a nightmare to remodel the house and bring it up to code.”

  “Norma thinks it’s the mansion’s reputation that is killing the deals. She’s convinced that if she can advertise that she had the place certified as ghost-free by a real psychic investigation agency she could sell it.”

  “This is a joke, not a legitimate case. It’s bad for the image of J&J.”

  “J&J is so low profile it doesn’t have an image,” Isabella said in a tone of sweet reason. “Why not take the easy money? I’ll spend an afternoon at the house and report to Norma that all the ghosts have been dispatched. She’ll write a check that will go straight to our bottom line.”

  “Arcane keeps J&J on retainer,” Fallon pointed out. “We get plenty of other business from members of the Society. We don’t have to go after the Lost Dogs and Haunted Houses trade. And on the rare occasion when we do take on that kind of job, we hand it off to one of our contract agents who doesn’t mind the work.”

  “Norma’s office is over in Willow Creek. She says the Zander house is about three miles from there somewhere out on the bluffs. There are no other J&J agents available for a radius of nearly a hundred miles. We’re all she’s got.”

  “Forget it,” Fallon said. “I need you here.”

  “This will only take an afternoon. I think we should develop new revenue streams.”

  He wasn’t into the zone. Nevertheless, his intuition went ping, sounding a lot like his computer when a new bit of data arrived.

  “You were a waitress before you took this job,” he said thoughtfully. “Don’t tell me you picked up the term revenue stream in the food-and-beverage business?”

  She ignored that. “You said yourself that the Governing Council or whatever it is that runs the Arcane Society is starting to whine about the costs of the recent operations against that Nightshade conspiracy you’re chasing. It would be sound policy for J&J to find other sources of income in case our budget gets cut by the Council.”

  “The Council can grumble all it wants. Zack is the Master of the Society and he understands what’s at stake. He’ll see to it that I get the funding I need.”

  “Fine.” Isabella gave him another radiant smile. “Then I’ll take Norma Spaulding’s payment as a commission for my work. I could use the money, given the lousy salary you’re paying me.”

  He felt like a deer in the headlights when she used that smile on him. It was more dangerous than the crystal gun that had turned up in the Hawaii case. His finely tuned brain seemed to short-circuit when she glowed the way she was glowing now.

  “You’re the one who told me how much to pay you,” he said, grasping at straws. “If you wanted more money, why didn’t you ask for it?”

  “Because I needed the job,” she said smoothly. “I didn’t want to scare you by asking for what I’m really worth.”

  “I don’t scare that easily.”

  “Are you kidding?” She chuckled. “You should have seen the look on your face when the new desk and chair arrived.”

  “If I flinched, it wasn’t because of the price of the damn furniture,” he said.

  “I know.” Her tone gentled. “It was the shock of realizing that you were going to be sharing your working space with me. I understand.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re accustomed to being alone,” she said. “By now you’ve probably convinced yourself that you need solitude in order to do your work. And it’s true, up to a point. But you don’t require as much of it as you think you do. You’ve built a fortress around yourself. That’s not good.”

  “Now you’re analyzing me? I sure as hell didn’t hire you to do that.”

  “You’re right. You don’t pay me
nearly enough for that kind of work. Do you have any idea how much a psychologist charges per hour these days? And good luck even finding one who understands those of us who are psychic. Most respectable shrinks would take one look at you and conclude that you’re crazy.”

  He went cold and still.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake,” Isabella said. She made a face. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re not crazy. Not even close. I wouldn’t work for you if I thought you were. Now let’s get back to the Zander house case.”

  He exhaled slowly. “Fine. Your case, your commission. But don’t spend too much time on it. Like I said, I’m not paying you to chase ghosts.”

  “Right.” She got to her feet and plucked her yellow raincoat off the Victorian wrought iron coatrack. “Norma told me that there is a key box on the Zander house. She gave me the code to open it. I’ll drive out to the mansion now, check it out and pronounce it a ghost-free zone.”

  “Have fun.”

  Isabella flew out the door, taking all the light and energy that had illuminated the office with her.

  He contemplated the closed door for a long time.

  I need you here at the office. I need you.

  He listened to her light footsteps on the stairs. After a moment he got up and went to the window. Isabella appeared on the street. She paused long enough to hoist her umbrella against the rain and then hurried along Scargill Cove’s twisted little main street to Toomey’s Treasures. Toomey’s window was filled with a lot of New Agey, so-called metaphysical tools, chimes, tarot cards, crystals and exotic oils.

  Instead of going up the outside stairs to the rooms she had rented above the shop, Isabella disappeared around back. A short time later she emerged behind the wheel of a little yellow and white Mini Cooper. She had bought the car from Bud Yeager, who operated the Cove’s sole gas station and garage. No one knew where Yeager had obtained the vehicle. In the Cove you did not ask those kinds of questions. Fallon braced one hand against the windowsill and watched Isabella drive out of town toward the road that would take her to the old highway.

  She had not arrived in Scargill Cove in a car. She had appeared, as if by magic, late one night, carrying only the backpack. That was not so unusual in the Cove. The tiny community had always been a magnet for misfits, drifters and others who did not fit in with mainstream society. But most people moved on. The Cove was not for everyone. Something about the energy of the place, Fallon thought.

  The aura of power that shimmered around Isabella Valdez had sent up a lot of red flags. He did not like coincidences. Having another strong talent move into town and take a job at the café directly across the street from J&J had struck him as highly suspicious. The fact that he had been blindsided by the sudden and acute physical attraction he had experienced had been even more disturbing. He had not been able to explain away the sensation by reminding himself that he had been living a celibate life far too long.

  His first thought was that Isabella was a Nightshade spy. When he researched her online, he found a very neat, very tidy bio that, as far as he was concerned, only added to the mystery. Nobody had such a pristine personal history. According to what few records existed, she had been raised outside the Arcane community by a single mother who had died when Isabella was in her sophomore year in college. Her father had been killed in a traffic accident shortly before she was born. She had no siblings or close relatives. Until her arrival in the Cove, she had made her living in a series of low-level jobs, the kind that did not leave a lot of footprints in government databases or corporate personnel files.

  Hungry for answers and the need to make certain that Isabella was not a Nightshade operative, he had brought Grace and Luther, his best aura-talent agents, all the way from Hawaii, just to take a look. They had detected no signs of the formula in Isabella’s energy field. Grace’s verdict was that the town’s newest resident was just one more lost soul who had found her way to a community that specialized in lost souls.

  But Fallon knew that there was more to Isabella’s story. Sooner or later he would get the answers. For now he was left with his questions.

  And an inexplicable need to keep Isabella close and safe.

  2

  The old Zander place definitely fit the classic image of a haunted house, Isabella thought. A three-story stone monstrosity from the early 1900s, it hunkered like some great, brooding gargoyle on the cliffs above a skeletal beach.

  She brought the Mini Cooper to a halt in the drive and contemplated the weathered mansion. She was still not certain why she had felt compelled to take the case. Fallon was right. J&J was a for-real psychic investigation agency. The firm had enough to do handling the weird Nightshade conspiracy that obsessed Fallon, as well as the routine jobs commissioned by members of the Arcane Society. The agency did not need to take on Lost Dogs and Haunted Houses cases.

  But her intuition had kicked in after talking to Norma Spaulding on the phone. The familiar shiver of awareness and the compulsion to find that which was hidden had only grown more fierce in the past twenty-four hours. Now, looking at the old house, she knew that there was something important inside, something that needed to be found.

  A shiver of awareness ghosted her nerves. She slipped into her other senses. The house was enveloped in screaming cold fog. Ice crystals shimmered in the mist.

  The paranormal light that swirled around the mansion was very different from the fog she had perceived in Scargill Cove a month ago when she had walked into town late on a rainy night. The driver of the truck who had picked her up outside Point Arena had driven her north on Highway One, past Mendocino, had let her out at a gas station. She had walked the rest of the way to the Cove, following the faint sheen of energy.

  It had been a long hike, but the closer she got to the tiny town tucked away in the forgotten little cove, the brighter the eerie fog had become. It told her that she was going in the right direction. It was after midnight when she finally reached the heart of the community.

  The town had been enveloped in the other kind of fog, the damp, gray stuff that rolled in off the ocean. Every window, save one, was dark. The single window that was illuminated was on the second floor of a building directly across from the café. The light in that window glowed with the luminous aura of a computer screen. The paranormal fog that wreathed the upper level of the building was infused with power and heat. It was a place filled with secrets.

  She walked close and aimed her flashlight at the name on the front door. JONES & JONES.

  She switched off the flashlight and stood there in the fogbound street for a long time wondering if she should knock. Before she could make up her mind, a thin, scraggly-looking man strode briskly toward her out of the shadows of a narrow alley. He did not have a flashlight, but he moved as if he had no difficulty seeing in the dark. His hair and beard were long and unkempt. He wore a heavy, black all-weather coat and a pair of hiking boots. Everything about him spelled homeless man but the coat and the boots looked surprisingly new.

  Her senses were still heightened. She could see that the man was enveloped in a lot of fog but she did not sense any threat.

  “You’re n-new here,” he said. His voice was hoarse and he stammered a little as if he was not in the habit of speech. “You’ll be w-wanting the inn. They’ll have a room for you. C-come with me. I’ll take you there.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  She allowed him to lead her to the darkened inn. She rang the bell. A light went on in the hall, and a short time later two women in their midfifties, dressed in robes and slippers, opened the door. They smiled when they saw Isabella standing on the porch.

  “Yes, of course, we’ve got a room,” one of them said.

  “It’s January,” the second one explained. “We rarely have any guests at this time of year. Come on in.”

  Isabella turned to thank the stranger in the long black coat, but he was gone.

  “Something wrong?” the first woman asked, stepping back to let Isabella into the
hall.

  “There was a man,” Isabella said. “He brought me here.”

  “Oh, that must have been Walker,” the woman said. “He’s what you might call our night watchman here in the Cove. My name is Violet, by the way. This is Patty. Come on upstairs and I’ll show you to your room. You must be exhausted.”

  “Shouldn’t I register?” Isabella asked.

  “We’re not real big on the formalities here in the Cove,” Patty explained. “You can register in the morning.”

  Half an hour later, Isabella had crawled into a cozy bed and pulled a down quilt up over her shoulders. For the first time in weeks she slept through the night.

  The following day no one remembered to ask her to register as a guest at the inn. She handed over enough cash to cover the first week and then, on Patty’s advice, went down the street to see about the gig at the Sunshine. Marge Fuller, the proprietor of the small café, immediately put her to work waiting tables and helping out in the kitchen. There were no pesky applications or tax forms to fill out. Isabella knew then that Scargill Cove was her kind of town.

  Fallon Jones had walked through the front door of the café that same morning and sat down at the counter to order coffee. When she emerged from the kitchen, she had seen him talking to Marge Fuller. A thrill swept through her, igniting all of her senses.

  Everything about Fallon Jones whispered of power. He wore the fierce energy like a dark cloak but something in the atmosphere around him told her that he was living on the edge of exhaustion.

  A dark, ice-cold fever burned in Fallon Jones. With her senses cranked up, she could see the glacial heat in his eyes. The para-fog swirled around him, indicating deep secrets and mysteries.

  He had the hard, unyielding face of a man who lived life on his own terms. He was big, too, tall, broad-shouldered and solid as a boulder. She had never been attracted to physically overpowering men. She stood five-foot-three and three-quarters in her bare feet and she had always preferred males who did not tower over her. Usually when she was around men Fallon’s size, her instinct was to put some distance between herself and a creature who could pin her down with one hand.