MIND READER

by Hinze, Vicki

  The pain had lessened, but he was still calling himself forty kinds of fool for not taking her. What he wanted was to make love with her; lust burned strong in him. That truth had her face hot and her body fluid. It had her mind drifting, entertaining fantasies again. But lust was all she sensed, so she was glad they hadn’t made love. Lust wasn’t enough.

  Making love with Parker Simms. Now that was the stuff of a woman’s dreams. She set the chicken down and sipped from her mug. It wouldn’t happen, of course. The very idea of them making love was absurd. They were both against it. He didn’t even like their kisses. Depressing, that, but true. At least, she inwardly sighed, she confused him as much as he confused her. There was a certain comfort in that. Still, she couldn’t help wishing that just once a man could want more than her body or her gift, that he could want her.

  Parker slapped at the faucet, cutting off the water. As abruptly as the flow stopped, he knew what he had to do. His body was geared for a primal mating with Caron, and it refused to be ignored. He’d fought the feelings, and failed. So he’d do what he’d always done. Face the inevitable head-on, and suffer the consequences later.

  He turned away from the sink. Her legs folded under her bottom, Caron was nibbling at a chicken leg. He wished it were his skin. His body sprang to life, every nerve ending raised to full alert. Without a word, he grasped her hand and lifted her to her feet.

  She dropped the chicken onto her plate and looked up at him, dazed. He gripped her shoulders and primed his mouth to warn her, but the words wouldn’t come. All he could think about was how it would feel to sink himself into her and to forget the reasons he should hate himself for wanting her.

  He kissed her hard and fast, deep, then deeper. She gravitated to him, her soft breasts flattening against his chest. Leaning back against the table, he spread his legs and tugged her between them, nestling her body to his. She fit perfectly, and she kissed him back with a hunger that drove desire through his core. Lust, he told himself, immensely relieved. It was lust.

  She broke their kiss and nuzzled his chest. “You’ve changed your mind. You do want me.”

  He slid his hands over the swell of her buttocks, pulled her closer, and rocked his hips, letting her feel his heat. With a little gasp, she looked up at him.

  His body went rigid, statue-still, and his heart hung suspended in his chest. He saw too much. Oh, God, too much. For the first time ever, there was no distrust in her eyes.

  Caron pulled away, sat down at the table and picked up her chicken leg. Without a word—and as though nothing had happened between them—she began nibbling again.

  Parker turned his back. What had he done to her? To him? He’d crossed the line, broken down the barrier between them. He had to tell her about Harlan, about the investigation. The time had come for a fresh start.

  Caron’s stomach was quivering. It was happening again. The sensation of being on the brink started deep in the pit of her stomach and rippled outward. Not now, she begged. Please, not now. Parker wants me now!

  It wouldn’t go away; it grew stronger. She cast Parker’s back a resigned look, wanting to call out, but knowing he could do nothing to stop the image from coming.

  Setting her cup down firmly, she stared into its depths. The swirling brown liquid coiled around and around, forming a vortex and winding deeper and deeper into itself. And then, in it, she imaged a park. Misty swinging. The homely man in his expensive clothes, pushing her.

  A woman was there, too. Caron couldn’t see her face. It was as if she were inside the woman, seeing the scene through her eyes. Caron’s heart began to hammer, her breathing grew shallow, rapid, and the strongest sense of hatred she ever had felt permeated every cell in her body. Evil. Dark. Ugly. But was it focused on Misty? Or on the man pushing her swing?

  “Caron,” Parker said. “I think we should talk. There are things I should tell you. Things that need saying. Caron? Caron? Caron, what’s wrong with you?”

  She ignored Parker, willed him away until his voice faded, then focused harder on the image. She couldn’t tell who the woman hated. But the hatred was real. And so strong.

  “I’ve got to get back to work now.” The man in the image stopped the swing, walked with Misty to a long black car, and lifted the lavender bike into the trunk.

  Misty nuzzled him. “I love you, Daddy,” she said, then went to the woman and took her hand. Caron felt the warmth of Misty’s fingers, the vibration as she waved goodbye.

  Her father waved back, and smiled. His smile, so tender and loving, had warmed Caron’s heart earlier, but now, when she saw it through the woman’s eyes, it enraged her. The woman’s hatred was for Misty’s father.

  Caron’s hands began to quiver, then to shake. Through the woman’s eyes, Caron looked down...and saw a greasy rope in her hands.

  “What are you going to do with that?” Misty looked up, her head cocked, her trusting eyes curious, her golden-brown hair blowing in the gentle wind.

  Checking and not seeing the man, the woman grabbed Misty’s arm and yanked, then began wrapping the rope around Misty’s wrists, cinching it tighter and tighter.

  Caron fought the feelings. It was as if she were winding the rope. And yet she knew this had already happened, that nothing she did now could change anything.

  “What are you doing?” Misty began screaming, crying, trying to twist free. “What are you doing to me?”

  And then Caron was Misty. The ropes were binding her wrists. Caron jumped out of the chair, screaming.

  Elbow-deep in soapy water at the sink, Parker swung around. She ran into his arms, buried her face at his chest. “It’s a woman. A woman!”

  “Shh, calm down.” He stroked her head, her shoulders. His hands were wet and dripping soapy water. “I can’t understand you.”

  “I thought Decker took her from the shopping center. He did take her from the shopping center.” Caron licked her lips. Her heart was nearly pounding through her chest. “But a woman tied Misty up, Parker. A woman tied Misty up and brought her to Decker at the shopping center. The woman caused all of this. She intentionally had Misty abducted. And she’s someone Misty and Misty’s father know!”

  A deep frown creasing his face, Parker searched Caron’s eyes intently. Her arms were propped at his waist, but her hands hung limp, palms up and away from his body. “Caron, what’s wrong with your hands?”

  She looked at him, despair flooding her eyes, fear rattling her voice. “The ropes are too tight.”

  * * *

  Parker sat quietly beside Caron in the Chevy near Decker’s. Caron had insisted that they use her car, that it would be less conspicuous. Parker supposed she was right; no one had given them a second glance all afternoon. Decker was still inside. Probably laid back in his recliner, his feet hiked up, a can of beer balanced on his belly, with the TV tuned to the Saints game.

  Caron was still dozing, her hands resting limp in her lap—right where they’d been since this morning.

  He grimaced. Several times during the day he’d tried to trip her up, but she hadn’t fallen. The look in her eyes when she’d told him about the ropes should have convinced him she was telling the truth. He’d never seen such gut-wrenching fear in a woman. It had nearly ripped his heart right out of his chest. And it did again, every time he recalled it.

  That should have convinced him, but it hadn’t. Harlan had been so damn sure she was a fake. He’d sworn that if Sanders hadn’t been following Caron’s phony psychic…

  Ah, what good could come from rehashing it again? Parker scratched at the steering wheel with his thumbnail. The bitter taste in his mouth seeped down and lay like a rock in his stomach.

  In the twelve years they’d been partners, Harlan had never once pegged a person wrong. If he said they were guilty, they were guilty. If he said they weren’t, they weren’t. His hunches always panned out. Hadn’t he collared the thug who’d killed Charley? Hadn’t he saved Parker’s neck on the Grimes divorce case? Grimes had wanted back some incrim
inating photos that his wife had hired Parker to take—wanted them badly enough to kill for them. Hadn’t Harlan taken a bullet in the arm meant for Parker’s heart?

  The list went on and on, all the way back to John Thayer’s party, back in college. Harlan had jerked Parker out of Harry Sampson’s car that night. Parker had been madder than hell, and he’d fought Harlan, but back then Harlan had been stronger. If the incident had happened a few years later, after Parker had beefed up his muscles and learned to fight, he would have won the fight with Harlan—and he would have died. Harlan had said Harry Sampson was too drunk to drive; he’d been right.

  The day Charley died, Harlan had become Parker’s rock, the glue that held him together. Though only older by six years, Harlan had been more of a father to Parker than Charley had ever been. Harlan had held nothing back. He’d stood unobtrusively on the sidelines, letting Parker feel his way. But when he was needed or called upon, Harlan had never hesitated to step forward.

  Swamped by a bitter sense of loss, Parker glanced into the rearview mirror, then back out into the night. Why did everything have to be so foggy? Wasn’t anything black-and-white anymore? Harlan had had sharp instincts about people. Unfailing instincts. And he’d pegged Caron as a fraud.

  The trouble was that Parker had instincts, too. And he wasn’t so sure about her anymore.

  Caron whimpered in her sleep. Unable to stop himself, he reached out and gently stroked her neck. Harlan never before had pegged as a con artist a woman who looked like an angel.

  Parker let his thumb wander to the soft spot behind her ear. He was a man with a problem, he admitted. A serious one. He should hate her. By all that was right and decent in a man, the very sight of her should make him sick—for Harlan. It was wrong, indecent, disloyal, not to hate her. And Parker had tried—God knows, he’d tried—but he just couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t hate this woman.

  He didn’t love her; he could never love her with lies and half-truths and Harlan between them. So what did he feel? No attraction had ever wound him up inside like this.

  Maybe it was lust, and it just felt different because he was emotionally involved in this case. On the surface, that seemed logical. He looked over at her. She was a beautiful woman. Long, lean legs, nice curves, a pretty face. He’d always had a thing for leggy blondes. Especially intelligent leggy blondes who couldn’t even pretend to be airheads. The thought took root. Yeah, he assured himself. It had to be lust. Different, more emotional because of Harlan, but definitely nothing more than lust.

  The car was moving. Caron forced her eyes open. Her hands throbbed and hung limp at the ends of her arms. She groaned and used her elbows to sit up straight on the seat.

  “Hi.” Parker tapped the turn signal.

  It was dark. The lights from the dash cast an eerie green light on his face, and still he looked handsome. It wasn’t fair. The steady click of the blinker pounded inside her head. “Where are we?”

  “On the way back to my place.”

  He hit a pothole. Her stomach lurched, then rolled. She broke out in a cold sweat. “Stop the car.”

  “I can’t. We’re on the bridge.”

  “Stop the car. Please!” She leaned against the window. Clammy. Dizzy. Queasy.

  He swerved into the emergency lane and braked to a stop. “What’s wrong?”

  “Sick.” She gasped. “Open the door.”

  Parker reached over her, snapped the handle and shoved. The metal hinge made a grinding sound, and the door pivoted open. Cool air blew across her face. “Oh, God. Oh, God.”

  She gagged, her muscles spasming, then locking. Her head swam, she swayed against the open door and heaved onto the street, heaved until she just couldn’t heave anymore.

  Parker kneaded her muscles, massaging tiny circles on her back. “Done now?”

  She still hadn’t caught her breath, and her head wasn’t clear. “I think so.”

  “Here, rinse then swallow.” He pressed a thermos cup to her lips. Her nose protested before the cool liquid touched her lips. Herbal tea. Afraid she’d vomit again, she tried to turn her head.

  Parker held it firm. “It’ll help. Come on, sweetheart, just a little.”

  Sweetheart. Such tenderness in his voice, such concern. To hear that again, she’d walk through hot coals barefoot. She opened her mouth and felt the cool tea slide into her mouth. She swished it around, spit it out, then took more. It soothed, gliding over her tongue and back toward her throat. She had to force herself to swallow.

  “Good girl,” Parker praised her, stroking her hair.

  Something red flashed behind them, reflected in the rearview mirror. She couldn’t look back, but she didn’t have to; a police officer was walking up to Parker’s window.

  “Car trouble?”

  “No,” Parker told the officer. “My wife is ill.”

  “She’s not having a baby?”

  Her eyes were closed, but his tone told Caron that if she was having a baby, she’d likely have to pick the officer up off the street.

  “No,” Parker said. “Just a stomach virus. Caron, are you okay to go on now?”

  Just the thought of moving had her queasy again. “Yes.”

  “Good,” the officer said, sounding relieved. “Good.”

  Parker reached over her and shut the door. She brushed his shoulder with her forearm and cranked open her eyes. It took a monumental effort. “You’re a very nice man, Parker.”

  Something dark flickered in his eyes. He looked away, slapped the shift into drive and merged back into traffic.

  Had that look really been guilt? No, she must have misread it. What did Parker have to feel guilty about? Oh, he’d lied to her about his reasons for getting involved; his reasons went deeper than just wanting to help Misty. Caron had told him she sensed that someone he loved had been abducted. He hadn’t admitted it, but he hadn’t denied it outright, either. That look couldn’t have been guilt. Yet she had seen something there, and now he seemed about as warm as an icy arctic blast.

  “Any idea what made you sick?”

  His voice sounded strange. She didn’t want to answer, but considering he’d helped her—again—she should trust him enough to tell him the truth. “I’m not sick.”

  “You can’t use your hands, and you just heaved all over the bridge, but you’re not—” He propped his elbow on the armrest and rubbed his temple. “The girl, right?”

  “Right.” Caron snuggled down and closed her eyes. Maybe, if she just didn’t think about riding, if she practiced the exercises Dr. Z. had taught her, her stomach would stop rolling and pitching like a ship in a storm.

  Parker chanced a covert look at Caron. Her arms lay folded over her stomach. Even when she’d been heaving out of the car door, she hadn’t used her hands.

  He frowned and sped up to get through a caution light. If these empathy pains of hers were faked, she was carrying them a bit far. He’d seen the sweat sheening her skin, seen her ribs heave, her muscles contort. She hadn’t been faking it.

  The candy bars. That was the only explanation. Her physical symptoms were real. That didn’t mean she was psychic, but her pains were real. Yeah, too much candy. Of course.

  “You said we were going home.”

  He glanced over. “We are.”

  “I need to go to the apartment, Parker. To my home.”

  “But you’re sick.”

  “I need to, Parker.” She rubbed his thigh with her forearm. “Aren’t you the man who said I had to face this?”

  “That was before you threw up all over the street.”

  “My apartment, Parker,” she insisted, closing her eyes and mumbling something about smooth roads. “I’m through running.”

  Parker clenched his jaw, whipped the car around and drove to her apartment. The slot next to his Porsche was empty. He pulled in and turned off the ignition. Caron was sleeping, half on his shoulder, half against the seat. He hated admitting how good she felt beside him. And how guilty he felt because she fel
t good beside him.

  He looked down at her, at the fringe of lashes dusting her cheeks. Half the health problem could be the candy bars; she hadn’t eaten right all day. But he had the feeling she didn’t eat right many days. That could explain her illness in part. But not completely. And it couldn’t explain his concern.

  He got out of the car and walked around to her side. Yeah, that was probably all there was to it. If he’d stuffed three candy bars into his stomach in one day, he’d be sick, too. He opened the door, wishing he believed it.

  “Caron.” He touched her shoulder. “You’re home.”

  She grunted but didn’t awaken fully. Parker reached in and scooped her into his arms, then carried her into the building. He gave the steps a wary look. Before, he’d been so frantic to get upstairs to her that he hadn’t noticed the condition of her building. Looking at it now, he had half a mind to buy the blasted thing just to get it up to code and make it safe. But, just as quickly, he decided against it. Caron would resent his interference.

  He looked down at her face. She was exhausted. That, too, could be making her ill. What had been faint smudges under her eyes this morning were dark circles now. She’d slept some last night—he’d watched her—but she hadn’t rested. She’d tossed and turned, fitful. Whether it was real or imagined, this abduction business with Misty was eating at Caron.

  He dug through her purse for the keys, then opened the door. An amateur could pick the new lock with a toothpick; the dead bolt barely penetrated the wood. Yet anyone who really wanted in would just cut a hole in the wall. Locks kept honest folks honest. Criminals were more persistent.

  Irked, Parker kicked the door closed, then immediately flinched. But Caron didn’t seem to hear it slam. She was still sleeping, her hair hanging over his arm like a golden waterfall. Very pretty. Very touchable. Why couldn’t he get a firm grip on his feelings for her and keep them tamped?

  He walked straight through to her room. Standing beside her bed, he considered undressing her. But his body’s reaction to just the thought of that had him shoving back the flowered coverlet and putting her down on the bed.