Running Hot

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  “How big a problem is it?” he asked.

  “I have some issues,” she said coolly.

  He angled his chin toward the cane hooked over the edge of the table. “So do I. Mine are physical. Yours?”

  “Psychical. But the problem is linked to my sense of touch, which makes things complicated at times.”

  “Seen one of the Society’s shrinks?”

  Her eyes narrowed. He could practically feel her withdrawing from him.

  “No,” she said coolly.

  “Look, I realize that under normal circumstances this wouldn’t be any of my business, but given that we’ve got a job to do on Maui, I need to know what I’m getting into here.”

  She went very still. “There’s no cause for concern. I assure you that my phobia doesn’t interfere with my aura-reading talent.”

  “Fine. You’re still going to have to lose the gloves. Can you deal with that?”

  For a few seconds he thought she was going to tell him to go to hell. Then, very deliberately, she stripped off first one glove and then the other. She stuffed the pair into her handbag and picked up her coffee.

  “Satisfied?” she asked.

  Her hands were surprisingly delicate-looking, the nails neatly tapered and unpolished. There was no ring.

  “Yes,” he said. He let out some air. “Sorry about that.”

  “Uh-huh.” She did not look impressed with the apology.

  “Are you going to be okay?” he asked quietly.

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said coldly. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Been doing that awhile, have you?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I have.”

  SIX

  The rental car that had been booked for Andrew Carstairs was waiting at the end of the short flight to Maui. J&J was nothing if not efficient, Grace thought.

  “Want the AC on?” Luther asked, getting in behind the wheel.

  “No thanks. I don’t like air-conditioning unless it’s absolutely necessary. I’d rather roll down the windows.”

  “Same here.” He put the car in gear and drove out of the parking lot.

  She contemplated her initial impressions of Luther Malone. They could be summed up in three potent words: Powerful, controlled, fascinating. Okay, there was a fourth word that came to mind: exciting. There was something indefinably electric in the atmosphere, at least on her side of the car. At various times in her life she had found other men attractive but she had never experienced anything quite like this fluttery little rush of sensual anticipation. It stirred all her senses in unusual and interesting ways.

  Power was always interesting; power that was ruled by the kind of exquisite control that Luther wielded was especially intriguing, at least to her. One glance at his aura had told her that he was no level eight— more like a level ten or higher. Obviously he’d managed to keep that little fact out of the files. She couldn’t hold it against him. She’d faked her own ranking, too. Powerful talents were slapped with the label “exotic” within the Society. The term did not convey admiration or respect. At best, other sensitives tended to view strong sensitives of any kind with a degree of caution. At worst, they avoided them. Power might be interesting but it could also be dangerous.

  The photo on Luther’s new driver’s license had not lied. He was as hard-looking in person as he was in the picture. His eyes were brown, too, as advertised. But it was an almost feral shade of amber. It made her think of dark jungles and forbidden passions. Not that she’d had much experience with either.

  “I love the air here,” she announced, inhaling deeply. “It’s intoxicating. Makes me want to put my head out the window like a dog.”

  “Hawaii has that effect on a lot of people.” He glanced at her, his eyes unreadable behind his dark glasses. “How are you doing without the gloves?”

  The question annoyed her. She looked briefly at her hands, neatly folded in her lap, and then raised her chin.

  “I told you, I can deal with it.”

  “You’re sure? I noticed that you kept your hands under your raincoat on your lap for most of the flight.”

  “I would not have taken this assignment if I thought I couldn’t handle it.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No, you’re not.” She wrinkled her nose. “You’re fretting. I’m making you nervous.”

  “Maybe I’m just curious?”

  “You’re fretting,” she repeated evenly. “I suppose I can’t blame you for your lack of confidence but try looking at this situation from my perspective.”

  “Which is?”

  She raised her brows. “I’ve got a bodyguard who isn’t comfortable carrying a gun and needs a cane to get around.”

  “Fallon told you about the gun thing?”

  “Yes.”

  He meditated on that for a long moment and then nodded once. “You know, you’re right. From your perspective, those facts would not at first glance appear to be reassuring.”

  “Luckily for me,” she said coolly, “I took a second glance.”

  “At my aura,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

  “I’m an aura talent. That’s what I do.”

  To her surprise, he smiled faintly. “What did you see that was reassuring?”

  She sat back in the seat and concentrated on savoring the wonderful air.

  “I saw a lot of sheer bullheaded determination,” she said.

  “Bullheaded determination is a good quality?”

  “It means you’ll do whatever you need to do to complete this mission. What’s more, you know your own power and how to control it. You feel confident about your talent so I do, too.”

  She saw a lot more than that but she was not prepared to go into details. Some things you just did not talk about on a first date. The thought made her smile.

  Luther was silent for a moment, processing what she had said. Then his hands tightened on the steering wheel. “You can see things like determination in an aura?” he asked, half curious, half disbelieving.

  She turned her head to look at him. “Didn’t Mr. Jones tell you about the little twist in my talent?”

  “He said you could read a person’s psychic profile. Guess I didn’t understand exactly what that meant. I’m surprised they haven’t got you working as a parapsychologist.”

  “I don’t have the academic background to work as a counselor.”

  “How did you end up in Genealogy?”

  “I applied for a position in the Bureau. I like psychic genealogy. It suits my talents. How did you end up as a bartender in Waikiki?”

  “It suits my talents.”

  She knew a conversational dead end when she ran into one.

  “Right. Speaking of your talents, what’s the plan for finding our bad guy?” she asked. “Do I just stroll around the resort like a drug-sniffing dog looking at auras?”

  His mouth twitched a little. “We’ll try to be a little more cool than that.”

  “Even if we’re very cool, it probably won’t take long to spot Eubanks. Powerful talents of any kind are rare. What are the odds that there will be more than one level-nine strat staying at the resort?”

  “That’s what Fallon Jones said.”

  “If anyone knows probabilities, it’s Mr. Jones.”

  “I’ll tell you a little secret about Fallon Jones,” Luther said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Most of the time he’s right but occasionally he screws up and when he does, it’s never in a small way.”

  She thought about that. “Maybe that’s because he’s so sure of himself and his talent that he doesn’t always allow for other possibilities. Or maybe because he’s overworked. I have the impression that he’s under a tremendous amount of pressure these days.”

  “You do realize that he’s a first-class conspiracy theorist who just happens to have a good track record?”

  “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “But I admit that it is a bit unsettling to think of Mr. Jones in those te
rms.”

  “Pay is good, though,” Luther said.

  She smiled. “Yes, it is.”

  SEVEN

  It was after four o’clock by the time they checked into the beachfront hotel in the Wailea resort community. The suite was on the fourth floor with a view of the pool, the gardens and the ocean beyond. There were deeply shaded lanais off both the master bedroom and the living room. The perfect spot for a honeymoon, Luther thought, morosely. Not that he would know. He’d gone to Vegas for both of his.

  He carried his small leather travel kit into the second bath and set it on the counter next to the sink, aware of Grace unpacking in the master bedroom. For a moment he indulged in a pleasant little erotic fantasy, thinking that it would have been very nice to be the real Mr. Carstairs on a real honeymoon with his real wife.

  Don’t go there. She’s not your wife, she’s the partner you never wanted; one with zero field experience. That is not a good thing.

  She was also the only woman who had revved up his senses and made him seriously hard in months. No way that could be a bad thing. It was distracting, however. He was going to have to work in order to stay focused.

  His leg ached. The combination of the flight from Honolulu and the drive from the airport had taken its toll. Annoyed, he removed the bottle of anti-inflammatory tablets from his kit and shook out four. He managed to resist the almost overwhelming urge to hurl the bottle across the room. The damn leg was never going to be the same. Get over it.

  He dropped the bottle back into the kit, tightened his hand on the cane and made his way out of the bathroom. Grace was waiting for him. She had changed into a pair of lightweight trousers and another long-sleeved shirt. At least she wasn’t wearing the trench coat.

  It occurred to him that she did not seem overly impressed with the suite. He was. He’d spent time in the army, put in several years as a cop and now he was a bartender and part-time contractor with J&J. None of those career paths had paid the kind of money that allowed him to check into classy suites like this one. Grace, however, seemed unfazed by the luxury accommodations. Maybe he should consider a position in the Bureau of Genealogy.

  “Going somewhere?” he asked.

  “Thought I’d take a walk on the beach,” she said. “I’ve been in a plane or on the road for most of the day. I’d like to unwind before dinner.”

  It was time to explain the facts of life, he decided.

  “Got one rule on this job,” he said. “We’ll call it Rule Number One.”

  She raised her brows. “And that would be?”

  “I give the orders, and the first order is that you don’t leave this room alone. No wandering off on your own unless I give permission.”

  She inclined her head very politely. “I take it that means you’re coming down to the beach with me.”

  “What the hell. I need to get a feel for the terrain, anyway.” He opened the door for her. “But the order still stands. You don’t go out of here on your own. Got it?”

  She went past him, neatly avoiding any accidental contact. “Fallon Jones said that you were in charge on this mission.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  He followed her out into the hall and closed the door, waiting a beat until he heard it lock securely. Satisfied, he walked with Grace toward the elevator lobby, fighting the temptation to move into the invisible Don’t Touch Zone that enveloped her like another kind of aura. He noticed that her arms were folded beneath her breasts in a seemingly casual manner. If you looked closely, however, you could see that her fingers were tucked safely out of sight.

  He brooded on what might have happened to a woman to make her dread touching another human being. The realization that a little skin-to-skin contact with him might actually cause her psychic pain was troubling. It just didn’t seem right that she might not be able to abide his touch; not when he was so certain that touching her would bring him nothing but pleasure.

  “I’m starting to feel guilty about the glove thing,” he said.

  “As well you should.”

  “Damn it—”

  “Don’t worry, I understand,” she said. She smiled wryly. “Wearing them on this mission would not be at all professional.”

  He searched for another path through the Don’t Touch Zone.

  “How long have you been in Genealogy?” he asked.

  “A year.”

  “That’s all? Fallon implied that he considered you very valuable.”

  She glowed. “I’m delighted to hear that. Mr. Jones is not what you would call forthcoming with positive feedback.”

  “He’s never going to be up for Boss of the Year, that’s for sure. But take it from me, he wouldn’t have used your professional services more than once if he hadn’t been impressed.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  “What did you do before you went to work for the Society?”

  “Didn’t Mr. Jones tell you?” she asked.

  “Fallon can be vague about details that he doesn’t consider important.”

  “I used to work for a company called Crocker World.”

  He stopped in front of the elevators and pressed the call button. “Martin Crocker’s company?”

  “Yes.” She looked politely surprised. “You were aware of the company?”

  “Crocker’s death made headlines. It was also big news within the Society. He was a member. Funded a lot of research projects.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “What did you do at Crocker World?”

  “I was on the corporate research library staff. After Mr. Crocker died, it became obvious that the firm was in trouble. Everyone knew that the company would fall apart without him at the helm. I could see the writing on the wall, so I started job hunting immediately.”

  It was all said very smoothly, very casually, but there was something ever so slightly off. Luther jacked up his senses until he had a clear view of her aura. He might not be able to see details the way she apparently did, but he could make out certain strong emotions. There was tension in the energy field that blazed around her, the kind that, as a cop, he’d learned to associate with a well-crafted lie.

  “How long have you been a member of the Society?” he asked.

  “My mother registered me when I was born.” She paused a beat. “You?”

  “My folks were both members. They registered me at birth.”

  The elevator doors slid open, revealing a cab packed with people. He assessed the situation in a single glance. Joining the crowd would mean forcing Grace to run the risk of someone brushing against her. He could feel her sudden tension.

  Luther smiled benignly at the cluster of faces.

  “We’ll wait for the next one,” he said.

  The elevator doors closed.

  “Thank you,” Grace said quietly.

  “No problem,” he said. “I’d suggest we take the stairs but—” He broke off, giving the cane a disgusted look. He refused to tell her that his leg was acting up and that descending four flights of stairs would make things worse. “I can make it down but it’s not the most graceful sight in the world,” he said instead.

  “No problem,” Grace said gently. “It’s not as if we’re in a hurry.”

  They stood together in silence and watched the illuminated numerals over the three elevators. Grace’s expression was calm and composed. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking.

  Luther used the time to wonder why she had lied about the job at Crocker World.

  EIGHT

  They had a drink in the open-air bar and ate red snapper garnished with a light ginger and miso sauce in the restaurant. There were candles on the tables, moonlight on the sea and a slack-key guitar playing softly. If she closed her eyes and surrendered to the wonders of magical thinking, she could almost pretend she was on a real date, Grace thought. Of course, you had to overlook the fact that she did not dare to even hold her escort’s hand. Not that Luther had made any attempt to initiate such intimate
contact, she reminded herself. Just the opposite. He seemed to be going out of his way to keep plenty of distance between them, no doubt afraid that if he even brushed against her by accident, she’d freak and destroy their cover.

  She was more than a little surprised when he suggested a walk on the oceanfront path after dinner. Her first instinct was to refuse. She always felt more vulnerable after dark. The old fear that someone was creeping up on her was strongest at night, probably because that was when the Monster had visited her bedroom. But this evening she would not be facing the night alone. In spite of her own secrets, she felt curiously safe with Luther.

  He was careful to keep at least a foot away from her as they made their way along the dimly lit path that linked the beachfront hotels. His cane tapped softly on the pavement. She sensed his barely suppressed irritation.

  “Does your leg hurt?” she asked.

  “Just a little stiff,” he muttered.

  He was lying, she thought. But then, she had lied to him earlier when he tried to interrogate her. She knew that he had not been completely satisfied with her answers. The conversation in the hotel hallway after they had checked into their room had been the one that she worried about the most. She had gone over it again and again in her mind, however, and she knew she had aced it. Luther’s cop intuition might have been aroused, but if Fallon Jones hadn’t penetrated the veil of her carefully manufactured past, it was unlikely that Luther would discover the truth.

  “How long have you lived in Hawaii?” she asked, watching the moonlit surf crash on the rocks below the path.

  “Couple of years. Moved here after my second divorce. Quit my job with the department at the same time. Figured I needed a change of scene.”

  “Sorry about the divorce,” she said quietly.

  “Yeah, well, it wasn’t the biggest surprise in the world.”

  “Were you deeply in love?”

  “Whatever I felt for Tracey died the day I found her in bed with my partner.”

  “Funny how finding out that someone you trusted has betrayed you can kill a relationship.”

  “Been there?” he asked.