Chosen (Second Sight)

by Hunter, Hazel

  CONTENTS

  Title

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Note from the Author

  Copyright

  CHOSEN

  A SECOND SIGHT NOVELLA

  Book 4

  By Hazel Hunter

  CHAPTER ONE

  Isabelle hadn’t spoken to Yolanda in months and yet it always seemed like just yesterday when she called. They joked about their ‘psychic’ bond.

  “Yolanda!” Isabelle said, answering the phone. “It’s so good to hear from you.”

  A lot had happened in the last few months. Isabelle couldn’t wait to tell her about Mac.

  “We’ll see how good it is,” said the older woman, though Isabelle imagined her smiling. “I have a reading for you.”

  Isabelle had been putting dishes away and stopped.

  “A client?” she asked. They had been few and far between, especially since being on TV. “You have a client for me?”

  “Listen up,” Yolanda said, over-pronouncing. “Reading. Not client. Reading.”

  Isabelle set down the dish rag on the edge of the sink.

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “A reading?”

  “What are you doing right now?” Yolanda asked.

  “I’m standing here in the kitchen–”

  “Good,” Yolanda said. “I’m rescuing you. Come on down.”

  • • • • •

  The United terminal at LAX was crowded.

  Then again, Mac thought, I’ve probably only seen it flying red-eyes. He followed the signs to baggage claim, a place he had yet to visit. In the past, he’d always used carry-on luggage–the rush to the crime scene more important than packing extra suits.

  Though he was in a hurry today, it was the good kind.

  He was on his way to see Isabelle.

  He picked up the pace and smiled to himself.

  It was a good thing she didn’t read the future. It was enough of a challenge being with someone who could see the past. Today’s visit was going to be a surprise, in more ways than one. When they’d said goodbye on the phone last night, he’d almost told her but he didn’t want to get her hopes up.

  Hell, I don’t want to get mine up.

  With a quick sidestep and tug of his carry-on, he dodged a running toddler.

  It’d been a month since they’d seen each other but it’d felt like a year, an empty and frustrating one. He’d managed to extend his last visit two extra weeks. It hadn’t proved too hard since both he and Isabelle had given statements in the arrest of serial killer Prentiss Coulter and been part of evidence collection for the Grand Jury hearing. Though Mac had found and rescued Isabelle before Prentiss could perform his ritualistic kill, he’d tortured her. Isabelle’s nightmares had only just started to fade when he’d had to return to Quantico.

  Mac picked up the carry-on and took the stairs instead of the crowded escalator. A suitcase, a shuttle ride to the rental cars, and a trafficky drive downtown and Mac would be with her.

  He took the steps two at a time.

  • • • • •

  Isabelle took the short glass of dark, mint tea that Yolanda held out to her.

  “It’s a double,” Yolanda said, winking. “So go slow.”

  Isabelle smiled and held the little glass with both gloved hands so it didn’t slip. Yolanda gracefully sat down opposite her, the crystal ball on the table between them.

  Just days after Isabelle had arrived in the neighborhood, Yolanda had paid her a visit. The ‘psychic welcome wagon,’ she’d called herself and she’d made Isabelle smile from that moment on. Yolanda Qasim was probably in her mid-sixties but belly dancing kept her tall and lanky form very fit. No longer the beauty she must have been in her youth, Yolanda still moved with grace.

  “Business that bad, huh?” Yolanda said, picking up her own glass.

  “It’s never been worse,” Isabelle said, gazing into the crystal ball.

  The small front office of Yolanda’s home looked exactly like a psychic’s office ought to look. Rich, embroidered tablecloths done in purples and deep reds covered the small, round tables. The wicker chairs held sequined, black, velvet cushions. Ornately beaded shades covered the lamps in the back corners of the room and, with the blinds drawn down on the two front windows, the light from them was subdued and gentle.

  “I’m not surprised,” Yolanda said. “After what you did on TV.”

  Isabelle could only nod.

  She’d known it would kill her business but there hadn’t been any choice. After the kidnapper had asked to speak with Isabelle and they’d found out that his victim was alive, Mac had devised a plan to shake the man up. It had involved making him think he was in charge, that he was winning his war against the evil that Isabelle represented, and hopefully buying Esme a little more time. It had amounted to Isabelle saying publicly that she was a fake. Only a few clients had stuck with her.

  “You know,” Yolanda said. “Crystal gazing isn’t really your thing. You’d be better off touching it.”

  Isabelle had to smirk and looked up from the clear ball.

  “Do you think I’d find clients with it?” she asked.

  “Only mine,” Yolanda said. “They can’t seem to keep their dirty hands off it.”

  Isabelle had to laugh a little. The last thing she was going to do was take off her glove and touch anything that had been so close to the public. Her ability to read the past of objects and people with just the touch of her fingers wasn’t something she could control.

  “What’s different about you?” Yolanda asked, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs.

  “Oh,” Isabelle said. “You mean aside from having psychic ability and wearing gloves all the time…”

  “No,” Yolanda said slyly, scrutinizing her. “No, there’s something positively… You’ve met someone.” Yolanda patted the little table between them. “I’d bet my last dollar.”

  Isabelle smiled down into her tea and felt her face flush hot.

  “Well?” Yolanda prompted. “Spill it.”

  She took a long sip of her tea and settled back.

  “There isn’t a lot to tell,” Isabelle said, excited despite herself. “But we met through a client.”

  Isabelle told Yolanda all about Gavin “Mac” MacMillan: devastatingly handsome, athletic, with the most gorgeous blue-green eyes she’d ever seen. He was a profiler with the FBI, wasn’t bothered by her gift, and made a mean plate of scrambled eggs.

  “But?” Yolanda said as Isabelle finished gushing.

  “He lives in Quantico,” Isabelle said. “Virginia.”

  “Yes. I know where Quantico is.” There was silence for a few moments and Yolanda sat back. “You’ve already fallen for him,” Yolanda said. “Haven’t you?” Isabelle didn’t answer. She’d been careful not to say how she felt because she already knew what Yolanda thought of relationships between psychics and non-psychics. Maybe that’s why she’s alone, Isabelle thought. She stared into her tea. “So,” Yolanda continued. “Just a few days here and there. East coast, west coast.” She shrugged. “Not exactly a real relationship.” Not exactly a relationship? Isabelle gripped the glass tighter. Yolanda didn’
t know the first thing about Mac or what they’d been through. They were a couple, no matter the living arrangements. “End it,” Yolanda said.

  Isabelle scowled at her.

  “What?”

  “It’ll only bring you grief,” Yolanda said with a sigh. “End it before it’s too late.”

  Isabelle took a deep breath. This was ground they’d already been over and one of the reasons she didn’t see Yolanda often. According to her, the only person who could understand a psychic was another psychic.

  “Mac is different,” Isabelle said.

  For a moment, Yolanda looked as though she were going to say something but she paused, glancing sideways.

  “I could do a reading for you,” she announced. She set the tea down and reached for her polishing cloth. “Give the future a little gander,” she said, rubbing the fuzzy, grey fabric over the crystal ball between them. “On the house.”

  “No,” Isabelle said, setting her tea down so quickly she splashed some on her glove.

  Yolanda stopped.

  “Are you sure?” she asked, hand resting on the clear and shining orb. “It might set your mind at ease.”

  “My mind is at ease.”

  Slowly, Yolanda folded the polishing cloth and set it back into place.

  “I just don’t want to see you get hurt again,” she said. Then she shrugged and sat back. “But the choice is yours.”

  “Is this the reading you had for me?” Isabelle asked.

  “Now, now,” Yolanda said. “No need to get mad.” Isabelle had been about to retort but Yolanda held up a hand. “And no, that’s not the reading I have for you.” Yolanda nodded at the crystal ball. “I’ve seen you in one of my client’s futures.” Isabelle widened her eyes, staring. “Susan Massen,” Yolanda said. “She says she knows you.”

  Isabelle’s surprise turned to puzzlement. That sounded so familiar.

  “Where do I know that name?” Isabelle murmured, staring at the floor. “Susan Massen,” she whispered. Finally, it clicked. “Not Susan but Kayla,” Isabelle said, looking up. “Her daughter. I knew Kayla in college.”

  The memories flooded back–not all of them good. They hadn’t parted on the best of terms.

  “Well Susan was here for a reading this morning,” Yolanda said. “She was trying to get information about Kayla. The last time she saw her was several months ago, when she left to join some eco-commune in Topanga Canyon. Now, she can’t get her daughter on the phone and she’s worried. But when I did a reading, it wasn’t her daughter I saw in her future, it was you.”

  “Me?” Isabelle said. “I can’t think why.”

  Yolanda smirked at her and picked up her tea.

  “Because you’re going to help her,” Yolanda said, as though it were obvious. “I’ve given her your number.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  For a few minutes Mac had thought about calling Isabelle. It seemed that all the hurry had been for nothing as he sat waiting on the third-floor landing outside her door. But as he loosened his tie and looked down on the neighborhood, his profiler’s brain took over.

  It was a mostly Hispanic area. Many of the storefronts were completely in Spanish. Isabelle’s building had six units, two each on three levels. Four of the mailboxes had Hispanic last names taped to them. The one with the title “Mgr.” next to it was Russian and then there was “de Grey.”

  On the sidewalk below, a young man with a limp was pushing a fruit cart whose glass display was full of triangular sections of pineapple on wood skewers. Up at the corner, a pregnant woman with her toddler had just crossed the street and was entering a “carnecería,” shopping for meat.

  L.A. was a long way from Quantico.

  A red Tercel, an ancient model but in good shape, slowly rounded the corner. Though he’d only caught a glimpse of the passenger seat, his heart thumped.

  It’s Isabelle.

  But for one, crazy moment, Mac wanted to know who was driving. Just who, exactly, was giving her a ride home. But as it pulled into the short driveway in front of the garages, he could see it was a woman.

  He relaxed a little but caught himself.

  What if it’d been a man? What would you have done then–question her? He’d never thought of himself as the jealous type.

  Am I?

  For the moment, though, the question would go unanswered because Isabelle got out of the car. He watched her move, easily swinging her legs out. She wore a white, sleeveless top with dark buttons that ran up the front. Her loose skirt was black, a close fit but not tight, the hem falling just below the knees. And that was a shame, Mac thought, smiling. Because Isabelle’s legs were gorgeous–like the rest of her.

  As she held the door open and leaned down to say something to the driver, he watched the lithe movement, the graceful bend of her. He stood and backed up the last couple of steps to stand on the landing. Isabelle closed the car door, gave the woman behind the wheel a little wave, and began the long climb up the steps. It wasn’t until she’d climbed two full stories that she finally looked up.

  “Mac?” she said, a hand flying to her chest. “Mac!” she yelled. She ran up the steps, her high heels clattering, her face like a beacon. “Mac!”

  She threw herself into his arms, breathless, and her keys hit the floor. Her arms looped around his neck and he wrapped his around her waist. With her momentum, he swung her in a little circle and set her down in front of the door. He nuzzled into the long, dark hair at her neck and inhaled the faint scent of jasmine.

  “What are you doing here?” she gasped, leaning back enough to see his face.

  Golden flecks danced in her amber eyes, reflecting the bright light of the mid-afternoon. As often as he’d tried to visualize them or stared at his cellphone pictures, nothing did them justice. He was a moment looking into them until his gaze drifted down to her lips, curved into the most beautiful smile, but still full and glistening.

  “I would have thought,” he said, leaning down to her, “that was obvious.”

  • • • • •

  Isabelle felt the muscles in Mac’s shoulders bunch up under her arms. She curved into him, her body fitting into its familiar spot against his powerful torso. His deeply blue-green eyes smiled down at her, watched her face, and then stared at her lips. As though he willed her with his gaze, she found herself closing the distance between them.

  Mac’s lips were always a surprise to her. Unlike the hard slabs of muscle pressing into her chest, his mouth was warm and incredibly soft. It moved with a subtle rhythm, stroking hers, urging hers to respond, though that was the last thing she needed. If she didn’t dream of Mac at night, she fantasized about him during the day.

  His lips slid sensually along hers and she immediately moved with them. Her lips pressed harder into his, and she felt his mouth throbbing, pulsing with blood, warm with life.

  His tongue tested her and, as her lips immediately parted, he sucked her lower lip into his mouth and she ran her tongue across his upper lip. The stubble of his chin raked over her skin. The musky smell of him filled her nose. He captured her upper lip and her body immediately pressed forward.

  Without warning, Mac drew back.

  Her eyes fluttered open to see him stooping down low in front of her.

  “What…?” she breathed.

  He stood and dangled her keys in front of her.

  “Maybe we should go inside.”

  • • • • •

  Mac unlocked the door and pushed it open. He grabbed his suitcases and set them just inside the door as Isabelle followed him in. Even as he closed the door, Isabelle’s arms slipped around his waist from behind. Her hands moved up his chest, grazed tantalizingly against his nipples, and then held him tight.

  “How long will you be here?” she said into his back.

  He glanced at the overstuffed suitcase, which she apparently hadn’t noticed. He turned to her, revolving in her grasp as he raised his arm to clear the top of her head. But when he saw her face, his chest tighte
ned. The unmistakable look of pure delight as she’d come up the stairs had vanished. Her forehead was furrowed and her lips pressed into a tight line.

  “Isabelle,” he said, taking her face between his hands. “What is it?”

  She seemed as though she had to force a smile.

  “It’s just that you’ve barely arrived,” she said, “and I’m already dreading when you leave.”

  He took her in his arms.

  “I know exactly what you mean,” he said quietly. “A few days. I’ll be here at least a few days.”

  Hopefully, that was a lie.

  But if she were to read him, he wanted his own thoughts vague: he was here to talk to Ben about a job–just like usual. He gazed down into her delicate face, still troubled.

  Maybe I should tell her.

  “It’s silly to dwell on it,” she said.

  Stick to the plan, Mac, and for god’s sake stop thinking about it.

  “You’re here now,” she said. “That’s all–”

  He tugged her forward and captured her lips–tender, warm and achingly vulnerable. He would kiss away her sadness.

  Her mouth opened to him–an undeniable invitation–and he kissed her deeply. With a bittersweet fervor, his mouth engulfed hers and he crushed her petite body to him. Isabelle clutched his neck and pressed herself hard against him. She lifted herself to her tip toes, her mouth searching, her head tilting one way and then the other, as her tongue wrestled with his. Her breasts pressed into his chest and the small of her back curved beneath his hand.

  From the moment he’d stepped onto the plane, he’d anticipated this moment, able to think of nothing else, as he fought to keep his arousal in check. But now, as Isabelle’s flat abdomen pressed along him, his aching shaft throbbed so hard he thought it might burst. His tongue swept into her mouth. Her hips pivoted against him, rubbing and stroking, stoking his need higher with a need of her own.