Zinnia

by Jayne Castle

  Nick stared hard at her moonlit profile. “They are?”

  “Yes, but they live their lives under a constant and very unique kind of stress. No one who isn’t a matrix or who hasn’t focused for one can possibly comprehend the incredible struggle they go through to control their psychic energy.”

  “No kidding.” He was disgusted by the unmistakable note of sympathy in her voice.

  “It’s a very different, very powerful form of paranormal energy. Matrix-talents obsess on patterns of any kind. They can get lost in them for hours on end. The problem is that their instinct to see the underlying design in everything, the need to make connections, sometimes causes them to see patterns where most people think that none exist.”

  “In other words, they become paranoid.”

  “Who knows? Maybe they simply see deeper and more clearly.” She shrugged. “Or maybe they are inclined toward paranoia. There simply has not been enough research done on them or on the handful of prisms such as myself who seem to be able to work with them.”

  Nick hesitated. Curiosity finally overrode his good sense. “How did you learn that you could focus for matrix-talents?”

  “I had a friend in college who was a matrix. She and I practiced together for hours. Interestingly enough, the more we worked together, the more relaxed she became with her talent.”

  Nick spread his fingers and gripped the back of the seat. “She didn’t go super-paranoid?”

  “No.” Zinnia smiled slightly. “Okay, she’s a bit more suspicious than most people. And she does tend to overanalyze everything, but, then, so do a lot of non-matrix-talents. She’s doing just fine, though. She’s working in a think tank which has a prism on staff who can focus fairly well for her. She’s happily married and expecting a baby.”

  Nick could feel the tension gathering in him. “What class is she?”

  “Linda is a class-four or -five.”

  “Mid-range.” His excitement faded.

  “There are almost no high-class matrix-talents,” Zinnia reminded him. “In fact, the one I picked up briefly in your casino was the only one I’ve ever encountered who was stronger than Linda. By the way, did your security people find him?”

  “No. But there were no big winners last night. Whoever he was, he didn’t break the bank.”

  “Lucky for you. Just the same, I wish your people had caught him.”

  “Why?”

  She glanced hastily at her watch. “It’s the general principle of the thing,” she said with patently false unconcern. “It’s very late. You’d better take me home.”

  “About Fenwick’s murder,” Nick said deliberately. “Promise me you’ll let the police deal with it.”

  “There’s not much else I can do.”

  “Don’t give me that. I can almost feel you making plans. What are you thinking?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Five hells.” Nick reached out and caught her chin with his hand. He forced her to look directly at him. “Tell me.”

  “Well, it just occurred to me that now that Morris is dead, Polly and Omar are free to marry.”

  Nick stared at her, astounded. “Polly and Omar? Wait a second. You don’t actually believe that they had anything to do with Fenwick’s murder, do you?”

  “Why not?” She sounded aggrieved by his lack of support. “They couldn’t marry as long as poor Morris was alive.”

  “Polly and Omar are obviously involved in a longstanding affair. Why would they suddenly decide to murder Fenwick after all this time?”

  “I don’t know.” Zinnia’s jaw was set in stubborn lines. “But you have to admit, it’s a possibility.”

  “An extremely remote one. I’d estimate the odds at about the same as those of the Curtain reopening in our lifetime. Damn it, Zinnia, I do not want you messing around in a murder investigation, do you understand?”

  She tilted her head, gazing at him as if he were not making sense. “Why are you getting worked up over this? Whatever I decide to do, it’s none of your business.”

  “Do you want to know why I was furious when you phoned me an hour ago?”

  “You told me why. It was because I made arrangements for us to purchase the journal in a dark, deserted park.”

  “That was just the icing on the cake,” he said through his teeth. “I was pissed long before you even picked up the phone.”

  She watched him with an unwavering gaze. “Why?”

  “Because. You. Never. Called.”

  She stared at him. “But I did call.”

  “Only because Polly asked you to get in touch with me.”

  “Let me get this straight. You expected me to call earlier? Before I heard from Polly?”

  “We were going to talk about searching for the journal and the killer together, remember?”

  “Like heck we were,” she shot back. “You were just trying to manipulate me with all that gooey blather about joining forces. You wanted whatever information I might have had concerning the whereabouts of the journal but you had no real intention of helping me find Morris’s killer.”

  “That’s not true. Talk about suspicious paranoia. You’re giving a pretty good demonstration of it right now.” He was going to lose her. He had nothing he could use to hold on to her now. Desperation tore through him.

  “Damn it, Chastain, if you wanted to talk to me, why didn’t you pick up the phone?”

  “I’d already done that.” He felt his jaw clench. “It was your turn.”

  Zinnia threw up her hands. “I can’t believe we’re arguing like this. We sound like a couple quarreling after a bad date.”

  “I’d glad you finally noticed.” He reached for her. “That’s exactly what this feels like. A bad date.”

  “Hold it right there.” She braced both hands against his shoulders. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m going to kiss you.”

  “Why?”

  “Damned if I know.”

  “Good.” She glowered ferociously. “I like you much better when you don’t pretend to have all the answers.”

  “Believe me, if I had all the answers, I wouldn’t be sitting here arguing with you like this. I’d be back in my office doing something more constructive.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as making money.” He hauled her halfway across the console and into his arms.

  Chapter 10

  The storm of passion stunned her. The deluge came thundering out of nowhere, sweeping her up in a magnificent wave. She found herself whirling down into the depths of an uncharted sea.

  Zinnia could almost feel the energy crackling in the front seat of the Synchron. She wondered vaguely why there were no actual sparks.

  Nick’s mouth was infinitely compelling, infinitely demanding, infinitely satisfying. She tasted his need, savored his hunger, gloried in his desire for her. He even smelled good, she decided. Enticingly masculine. She could tell that he used soap but did not bother with cologne. She liked that. She liked that very much. She had never been a fan of perfumed men.

  “Oh, my God.” She gave a small, choked cry of excitement and wrapped her arms very tightly around his neck. “I didn’t realize ... I didn’t know—”

  “Maybe you didn’t.” Nick shifted, pressing her back against the seat. “But I’ve been wanting to do this since the minute you walked into my office.”

  “Must have been the red dress.”

  “I’ve always liked red.” His eyes gleamed in the shadows as he bent his head to kiss her throat.

  She felt a sultry heat pool in her lower body. Her fingers sank deep into his shoulders. The feel of sleek muscle and bone beneath his shirt sent another shimmer of anticipation through her.

  She had always known deep inside that something had been lacking in the handful of previous relationships she had experienced. But she had never been able to identify the elusive, missing element. Tonight, she decided in a rush of exultant satisfaction, she was finally getting a real clue.

>   Flickers of awareness coursed along her nerve endings. That had never happened before during a kiss. It took her a few seconds to realize that the heat of Nick’s body had set fire to all of her senses, even those that functioned on the metaphysical plane.

  Obviously, the paranormal side of her nature was as shaken and unsettled by the embrace as the physical side.

  Nick crushed her up against the seat back, using his weight to hold her there. A strange, wholly inexplicable desire to create a prism unfurled within her. Startled, she resisted the psychic probing.

  She was almost certain that Nick was a talent. At such close quarters, he might pick up her energy waves. It would be embarrassing. Sex, after all, was supposed to be confined to the physical plane. She had never heard of it affecting the psychic senses.

  This was not normal. Definitely not normal.

  But, then, she had been told by experts that her type of psychic energy was not entirely normal.

  Nick moved his mouth to hers. She felt the edge of his teeth and immediately decided that an analysis of events on the metaphysical plane would have to wait. There was no time to contemplate the peculiar sensations that rippled through her. She was too thrilled, too curious, too dazzled to ponder such esoteric considerations.

  “This is going to be good.” Nick’s voice was hoarse. His hand drifted down to cover her breast. “Very good.”

  “Nick.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Zinnia noticed that steam was condensing on the inside of the Synchron’s windows. A part of her brain was still thinking clearly enough to be amazed by her own reaction to the explosion of sexual tension. She was chagrined to realize that she hadn’t even recognized the volatile nature of the atmosphere that had been swirling in the front seat of the car until Nick reached for her.

  Apparently he had figured it out right away.

  But she had an excellent excuse for her delay in grasping the reality of the situation, she told herself. She had never experienced anything like it before in her life.

  She nestled deeper into Nick’s embrace, intensely aware of the hard, unyielding shape of his erection against her leg.

  He was big. Very big. Maybe abnormally so. But certainly interesting.

  Gingerly, she put her hand on his thigh, learning the broad outline of him through the taut fabric of his black trousers. His answering groan was encouraging.

  She threaded the fingers of her other hand through the hair that covered the nape of his neck. She could have sworn that his groan became a low growl.

  He slid one hand down her spine and curved his fingers around her hip. Another shiver that was both physical and metaphysical shot through her. This was not supposed to happen.

  “Impossible,” she muttered against his throat.

  “No,” Nick said. “Highly improbable, but not impossible. I haven’t done this in the front seat of a car since I was eighteen, but I think I can remember how.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” She flinched as another burst of psychic awareness echoed the tug of physical desire. “There’s something strange going on here.”

  “It’s just the console. Let’s move to the back. It will be more comfortable there.”

  He was talking about sex, she thought. Here she was, wondering if the psychic side of her nature had gone on the fritz and had begun producing metaphysical sexual hallucinations while Nick was calmly suggesting they get more comfortable.

  A disorienting panic flared deep within her. It was strong enough to dampen a large measure of her earlier enthusiasm.

  She opened her eyes and planted her hands against his strong chest.

  “Wait.” She was breathless. “That’s enough. We’ve got to stop. Right now.”

  Nick stilled. Slowly he raised his head to look down at her. “Why?”

  The appalling simplicity of the question left her speechless for a few seconds. She had no idea of how to explain the peculiar sensations she had been experiencing. “Uh, well—”

  “You’ve had your antipregnancy vaccination like everyone else, I assume?”

  “Yes,” she sputtered, suddenly embarrassed by the pragmatic question. “Yes, of course.”

  His mouth curved slightly. “So have I. We’re perfectly safe.” He started to lower his head.

  “That’s not the point,” she managed. “I’m trying to tell you that this has gone far enough. I said you could kiss me. That’s all. For heaven’s sake, we barely know each other. And one-night stands are not my style.”

  He raised his head and studied her for a long moment. There was a shattering intensity in his gaze that stopped the breath in her lungs. Zinnia could have sworn that a new kind of energy now hummed in the close confines of the car. This was not the sparkling, exciting zing of sexual attraction, physical or metaphysical. It was something much more dangerous.

  “What, exactly,” Nick said with great precision, “is your style?”

  It occurred to Zinnia that she was in a somewhat precarious position. She was alone in an isolated park with one of the most notorious men in the city. Aunt Willy’s words came back to her. The man is little more than a gangster.

  “Don’t you dare try to intimidate me, Nick Chastain. I came out here tonight to help you get that damned journal. I did you a very big favor. I suspect it annoys you to be in someone’s debt, but that’s the way things are. You owe me. I’m calling in the marker.”

  He stilled. The familiar enigmatic mask slipped into place on his austere features. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to behave in a civilized manner.”

  The mask dissolved as quickly as it had formed. Amusement glittered in his eyes. “I love it when you talk dirty.”

  She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  His smile was barely discernible. “Never mind. You’re right, I do owe you. And I would like to repay the debt.”

  She eyed him warily. “How?”

  He curled his finger around one trailing tendril of her hair. “Would you have dinner with me?”

  “Dinner?” She could not seem to get her thoughts into logical order. “When?”

  “Tomorrow night?” He glanced at his watch. “Make that tonight.”

  “I have a focus assignment tonight.”

  “The following night?”

  “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”

  His gaze did not waver. “Very.”

  “But you don’t need my assistance now. You’ve got the journal.”

  “Forget the journal. Will you have dinner with me?”

  “You don’t need to repay me. I take back what I said about your being in my debt.”

  “Fine. I don’t owe you. I still want to have dinner with you.”

  She hesitated. “I’m not sure if it would be a good idea. The tabloids seem to have lost interest in us. If we’re seen together again in public it might start a new wave of speculation.”

  “I don’t give a damn about the tabloids or the gossip columns.” He brushed his thumb across her lower lip.

  She was horrified to realize that his touch made her lower lip tremble ever so slightly. She swallowed and took a deep breath.

  “Excuse me, but I was under the impression that you were very concerned about your privacy,” she said.

  “You mean you heard that I’m reclusive? Secretive?”

  “Among other things. Are you telling me that’s not the truth?”

  “I’m telling you that I want to have dinner with you. I’ll put up with the gossip and the speculation in order to do so. All I want from you is an answer. Yes, or no?”

  It was not the most gallant or gracious invitation she’d ever had, but at least he was not trying to manipulate her this time, she thought. He was simply asking her out on a date. Sort of.

  Having to make a request, knowing he had no way to enforce the answer he wanted, was no doubt a completely foreign experience for Nick Chastain. She almost felt sorry for him.

  Almost.

  A dinner d
ate with him would not be wise, she told herself. It would alarm her family, worry her friends at Psynergy, Inc., and quite possibly draw unwanted attention from the tabloids.

  But a few sparks of the invisible, beguiling energy that had sizzled between them a moment ago still snapped in the air around her. She had waited all of her adult life to feel that delicious kind of energy, she thought.

  And Nick had asked, not threatened or manipulated.

  “Yes,” she said. “I would like to have dinner with you.”

  “I called it the Lost Expedition.” Newton DeForest cradled the trailing end of a green vine in one heavily gloved hand and clipped it with a pair of gardening shears. “Bartholomew Chastain had made two earlier expeditions to map the islands of the Western Seas. Both had been extremely successful. The teams found deposits of previously unknown ores and minerals. They brought back specimens of a vast array of new plant and animal life. But Chastain’s last expedition simply vanished in the jungles of some uncharted island.”

  “But why aren’t there any official records of the expedition?” Zinnia watched uneasily as crimson liquid seeped from the cut vine. The severed plant looked as if it were bleeding.

  Leo’s information had been correct in one respect, she thought. Newton DeForest was definitely strange. He had invited her into his garden while they talked and she had readily agreed. She loved plants and longed for the day when she could afford to buy a house with space for a garden.

  But nothing in DeForest’s garden looked quite right to her. There was a grotesque quality to the foliage. Leaves appeared oddly shaped. The colors of the occasional blooms did not look wholesome. Vines were twisted in an unnatural fashion.

  The extensively planted grounds of the DeForest estate existed in a perpetual gloom created by a thick canopy of broad leaves and gnarled vines. Once Zinnia got past the trellised gate, she found herself enveloped in an artificial twilight.

  Within a few steps she realized that she was disoriented. That bothered her more than the wrongness of the shapes and colors of the foliage. Her sense of direction was usually fairly reliable. She knew that she was not far from the main house but she could no longer see the aging, tumbledown stone structure. She was not certain how to get back to it. She had already lost sight of the trellised garden gate.