by Joyce Lamb
“It’s okay to let go,” he said. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Another ten minutes passed before he felt the moment she dropped out of consciousness into a deep sleep. The psychic did, too, because she rose, her hands clasped restlessly before her as she breathed an unsteady sigh. “Well, then, I think we’re going to be okay.”
Noah looked up at her and had to fight down the urge to bellow, or cry. Now that Charlie had stopped trembling, he had started. “What the hell was that?”
She gestured down the hall. “Let’s get our girl tucked into bed, and then we can talk.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Can I get you something to drink?” the psychic asked as she walked out onto the wraparound porch.
Noah glanced at her from where he’d collapsed onto a rocking chair facing an expanse of light sand that ended at the jagged line of dark water. “Scotch?”
She paused before him, looking him over, then extended her delicate, manicured hand. “AnnaCoreen Tesch.”
He clasped her hand, a bit unnerved by the shrewdness of her gaze. What was she seeing? “Noah Lassiter.”
“From Chicago,” she said.
He arched a brow, then realized that Charlie must have mentioned him to her. That made him stupidly happy for a moment.
AnnaCoreen’s lips curved. “I know accents. Sorry to disappoint you.”
He didn’t react, deciding he’d let her think his disappointment was because he’d thought she had psychically known where he was from.
Her smile grew before she turned to go. “I’ll be back shortly.”
He settled back in the rocking chair and stared out at the water illuminated by a full moon. Lights in the distance suggested a small cruise ship or other vessel slowly chugging across the horizon. A faint clang sounded in the distance every fifteen seconds or so, almost drowned out by the energy of the waves racing ashore then retreating.
He should have started to relax, but he couldn’t. He’d sat on the side of Charlie’s bed for a long time, watching her for signs of restlessness. When she didn’t move other than to breathe deeply, her lips slightly parted, he’d lightly kissed her then left, closing the door behind him.
AnnaCoreen returned with another tray, this one stocked with small plates, Italian bread, chunks of cheese, olives, sliced fruit and two glasses of amber liquid. She set the tray on a small table between his chair and another one and picked up one of the glasses.
“Thanks,” he said, accepting it. When he took a gulp, he tasted iced tea loaded with sugar.
AnnaCoreen settled onto the other chair and began to pile food on one of the plates. Apparently, she was hungry, he thought, just before she handed him the plate.
He dug in, suddenly starving. “So you said you’d explain,” he said around the bread and cheese in his mouth.
She sat back and began to gently rock. “I assume you already know that Charlie is empathic.”
“Yes, but I don’t know the details. I mean, I know . . . knew a woman who was empathic, but it was different.”
“Charlie’s gift is unfamiliar to me as well, and perhaps to most others. I’ve done some research, consulted some friends, and no one I’ve talked with has heard of this particular type of empathy. That doesn’t mean it’s never happened before, just that the people I’ve consulted have never heard of it, which makes it very unusual.”
“I think I need an overview,” he said. “I’m aware of her empathy, but . . . well, we haven’t discussed it.”
AnnaCoreen stopped rocking and studied him. “You’re new in her life.”
He couldn’t help the swell of defensiveness. “Is that a crime?”
“Of course not. You care deeply for her.”
He nodded, his heart rate kicking into a higher gear. “Deeply” might be an understatement considering how much he’d wanted to destroy something when she’d been in pain. “Yeah, I do.”
“It happened fast.”
He stopped himself from rolling his eyes at how each “question” was a statement. Maybe she was a damn psychic, but he was too tired and emotionally wrung out to play this game. “If you already know all this, why are you asking me?”
“Why does it frustrate you?”
“I’m not frustrated.”
“You are. And angry. Why?”
“What, are you a therapist on top of being psychic?”
“I care about her, too.”
She said it so simply that he almost didn’t catch the subtle change in her tone. Was she warning him? He felt the first clutch of fear that she really could see through him, straight to his soul. “I’m not going to hurt her.” He said it as much to assure her as himself. He wasn’t, damn it. He’d die first.
AnnaCoreen held his gaze for several beats, her expression unreadable. “There’s darkness inside you that concerns me, Noah Lassiter,” she said softly. And then she turned her face toward the water and began to rock again.
Realizing he was holding his breath, Noah drew in a long stream of air. She was messing with him. No way could she know anything about where he’d been or what he’d done. It just wasn’t possible. And, regardless, his prime concern right now was Charlie.
“So are you going to give me the lowdown on Charlie’s empathy so I’m prepared the next time she needs help or are you going to keep me in the dark?”
She glanced at him and smiled. He thought he saw a flicker of approval in her blue eyes, or maybe that was wishful thinking.
She rocked some more, as though thinking carefully before she started speaking. “Charlie described it as feeling as though she’s inside the other person’s head during a recent traumatic event. She feels what they felt, hears what they heard, sees what they saw.”
“Holy Christ,” he breathed, setting aside his plate of food.
“It’s triggered by contact,” she said. “A skin-to-skin transfer of energy that carries the other person’s memory.”
He thought of that frightening moment in his hotel room when he’d touched her, how afterward she’d looked up at him as though she’d understood everything about him. Later, she’d said his shooting “didn’t feel minor.” He’d assumed she’d somehow absorbed his experience, but it hadn’t occurred to him that she’d actually lived it. Fuck, he thought. Fuck.
“Yes, it’s a little much to take in,” AnnaCoreen murmured.
He glanced at her. Had he spoken aloud?
She said, “I saw coverage of this morning’s shooting on television. The last broadcast said Charlie’s sister was in stable condition.”
“Yes,” he said, struggling to stay focused. “The doctor thinks she’ll be fine.”
“That’s good news.” She paused. “Charlie was there when she was shot?”
Noah’s stomach turned. It so easily could have been Charlie. And then he remembered skidding to a stop in the doorway of her hotel room. She’d had her blood-covered hands on Alex’s chest. It struck him now how she had been able to describe the shooter. She’d seen the shooter from Alex’s point of view, had probably felt the bullet rip through her chest.
He sat forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and lowering his head. He felt sick, stunned. A grinding queasiness slithered through his stomach. Oh, God, Charlie.
AnnaCoreen cleared her throat. “Judging from the shape she was in when you arrived, I’m assuming she’d had repeated contact with multiple emotional people in the aftermath.”
“Yes. Her parents. Detective Logan. Some other guy named Mac.”
“I assume that Charlie was jolted by the shooting,” she said, “then everything she felt after that added up. As you might imagine, taking on other people’s pain and emotion, especially when it’s that intense, tends to wear a person out.”
He raised his head, glanced at her. She looked pale yet serene in the dim light. “Like her circuits became fried?”
She smiled slightly. “Yes. If she were a computer, we would describe it as a system crash. Sleep should repair the damage.�
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Noah’s heart leapt with alarm. “Damage?”
“I’m speaking metaphorically, of course. I assume what we’re dealing with is an extreme form of fatigue. Her system was unable to absorb any further shocks and began to recycle the ones it had already sustained in a sort of endless loop. Sedation stopped the loop, so she should wake up as good as new.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I can’t be. All we can do is wait and see.”
Noah eased into the dimly lit guest bedroom and shut the door as quietly as possible. In the bed, Charlie didn’t stir, but he could hear her breathing, even and deep, relaxed. Now if only he could relax, but he didn’t think he would until she opened her eyes and looked at him, spoke to him, smiled at him. Everything AnnaCoreen told him whipped around his head like a crisp sheet on a laundry line in high winds.
Worry for Charlie had clenched his stomach, and exhaustion burned his eyes. As a cop, he’d witnessed plenty of anguish in his career. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have to actually feel it as intensely as the person bearing it. How could Charlie possibly survive being forced to repeatedly relive other people’s pain? Was she strong enough? Was anyone strong enough?
Sitting on the side of the bed, he braced an arm on the other side of her hip. Her dark hair was spread over the pillow, a frame to her pale, peaceful face, a sharp contrast to the earlier strain and torment of repeated flashes.
His heart swelled as he gazed down at her. There was much he didn’t know about her ability, much about it that frightened him. How much did she see when she touched him? How much did she know about who he was, who he’d been?
He knew only one thing for certain: Fate had brought them together, and he wasn’t going to blow this shot at a second chance.
He paced the length of his work area, his shoes scraping against the gritty concrete, his heart thundering, his mouth dry with fear. It was all falling apart, and he couldn’t stop it. He’d failed. Again. Almost killed the wrong woman. Jesus fucking Christ, he was so screwed.
It was Charlie Trudeau’s fault. The woman had a fucking guardian angel looking out for her.
He curled his hands into fists, imagined them around her delicate throat, remembered what it had felt like the last time, the absolute, incredible sexual thrill.
He’d gotten so turned-on, so hot, because he’d been so close to finally getting it done, to saving everything for . . . her.
Except she wanted that other guy. What the hell? He’d done everything for her, been everything to her, let her do things to him, dominate him, manipulate him. He’d killed for her. And then he’d watched her turn around and give herself to that other guy.
Fuck.
He knew why, too. That other guy was smart. Educated. No dirt under his fingernails. A white-collar bastard with a white-collar paycheck. And that’s what she wanted. That’s what every woman wanted.
All she wanted from him was for him to do her dirty work. She didn’t want to get her hands bloody, so she’d screwed him senseless until he’d begged to do whatever she wanted, just as long as she kept touching him, sucking him.
God.
And now everything was fucked. He hadn’t been able to get it up since that moment he’d gotten hard while strangling Charlie Trudeau. That moment had startled him, frightened him. He didn’t like being that man, being that freak. Violence didn’t get him off, damn it. Violence had never gotten him off.
At least it hadn’t before.
Before she’d fucked with his head, turned him into a killer.
Goddamn her.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Charlie opened her eyes to the shimmery shadows of water-reflected sunlight on an unfamiliar ceiling. Soft, warm sheets and a white down comforter laced with the scent of fabric softener enveloped her. While she didn’t immediately know where she was, she felt snuggly and relaxed. There was nothing to fear here, and she let her thoughts unfurl lazily.
The last thing she remembered was Noah violently swearing at a red light. The flashes had veered out of control, had indeed become big-assed mind-fucks, paired with excruciating pain that had gripped her skull in razor-tipped talons. Thank God, the pain was gone. Now, her head felt balloon light, free of anxiety. She sighed softly, letting her eyes drift closed. She was so very tired.
Alex.
Charlie’s eyes popped open, and she sat up straight in the bed, fear jacking up her heart rate. Oh, God, Alex. Was she okay? How much time had passed?
Shoving aside the comforter and sheets, she got out of bed but paused beside it when she realized she wore nothing but the scrubs shirt and underwear.
The door opened behind her, and she turned to see Noah walk in. He was even less dressed than she was. He had a white towel slung around his waist and was rubbing another over his shaggy, wet hair. If she hadn’t been terrified about the condition of her sister, she might have taken a moment to appreciate the exquisite grace of his perfectly formed male torso with its sharply defined muscles and tantalizing ridges. Instead, she had only one concern at the moment.
“Alex?”
He lowered the towel and snapped his head up. He looked her up and down, his eyes searching. When he met her gaze, his shoulders relaxed, and he smiled. “She’s doing well. I talked to your dad before I hopped in the shower. She’s still in intensive care, but her doctors are pleased with her progress. She’s going to be fine.”
Charlie’s legs went wobbly, and she sank onto the edge of the bed, speechless with relief.
“How do you feel?” Noah asked as he approached the bed.
She noted that he’d shaved. She’d never seen his face without stubble, and took a long moment to appreciate the smooth, flawless skin of his angular jaw before dropping her gaze. He was naked under that towel, and her mouth watered with a hunger that surprised her with its intensity. What better way to celebrate that her sister was alive and well?
He lifted her chin with one finger, and she stiffened.
Terror infused every nerve as I stomped on the brake for another frustrating red light. This can’t be happening, don’t let it happen, don’t let it happen. I’ll be a better person. I’ll be whatever you want me to be. Just, please, please, don’t do this to her.
She came back to herself, shaken by the depth of his fear. He was a cop, no stranger to emergencies, yet—
“Charlie?” Noah was searching her eyes. “How do you feel?” he asked again.
She released a cleansing breath, letting go of his lingering despair, and smiled up at him. “Good. Rested.”
“And your head?”
“Like new.” She placed her palm against his abdomen, pleased by the way his muscles jumped and his breath sucked in. Her own breathing went shallow, her heart beginning to thud. “What about you?”
His eyes narrowed, darkened. A muscle flexed at his temple. “Relieved that you’re no longer catatonic.”
She slid her hand down, palm flat, to just under his navel. Soft hair so blond it was invisible against his skin tickled her palm, and she felt her inner muscles clutch with anticipation. “I feel good, Noah. Energized.” She smiled slowly, hooking her middle finger under the edge of the towel. “Is the door closed?”
He swallowed. “Yes, but I think we need to talk.”
“Let’s talk later.” She tugged, and the towel dropped from his hips. She gazed down at his semierect cock, watched in fascination as it thickened and lengthened, rising up before her eyes. Her breath caught at the beauty of it, and she slid her tongue over her bottom lip, holding back from diving in. Wow.
She was so enthralled that she didn’t realize Noah had moved until his hand slid into the hair against the side of her neck and he bent to catch her lips with his. She tilted her head back, welcoming his tongue, his taste. The flavor of mint toothpaste and the scent of Dial soap washed through her senses.
He moved to ease her back on the bed, but she stopped him with her hands on his hips and broke the seal of their lips. “Wait,
” she whispered. “Not yet.”
He groaned deep in his throat but backed off, his hair falling over his forehead in damp tendrils. She nudged him back another step and knelt before him, sliding her hands around to his firm butt, then down the sides of his thighs. She felt his legs quiver with anticipation and smiled up at him as she grasped his twitching cock and closed her mouth around him.
He dropped his chin to his chest, his fingers sinking into the tops of her shoulders. “Oh, Christ,” he breathed, his gaze steady on hers.
She skimmed her tongue over his silken head, felt the spasmodic reaction of his hard flesh and did it again and again until the salty taste of his arousal teased her tongue. When she delved her tongue firmly into the tender slit at the top, he bucked against her, driving himself against the back of her throat. She relaxed, took all of him, and sucked. He seemed to grow larger and hotter as she tightened her fingers around his hard length. She pumped her hand up and down, dragging her lips slowly over his shaft until the head popped out of her mouth, glistening, then taking him in all over again. She repeated the process with varying degrees of speed, fast and firm, then slow and teasing, her tongue exploring all his ridges and veins.
“Jesus, Charlie,” he groaned. “You have to stop. I’m not going to last.”
She didn’t want him to. She wanted to feel him explode in her mouth. She wanted to taste him, swallow him. He plunged his hands into her hair, tightened his grip on her head to try to halt her intensifying assault.
“Stop,” he said, his voice gruff, the subtle thrust of his hips belying the command. “I want to be inside you when I come.”
She grasped his wrist with one hand to still him, focused entirely on the part of him pulsing with heat and vitality between her lips. She hummed her satisfaction at how big and hard he was, her inner thighs dampening with anticipation for the moment when this part of him would be driving into her, taking her beyond the stars. She loved the way his body went rigid and swept her eyes open and up so she could watch him in the throes of his release. He threw his head back, the cords in his neck standing out in sharp relief, his pecs gleaming with a fine sheen of perspiration. He was a god towering above her, ripped and huge, so beautiful her insides clenched with an almost desperate want.