Harlequin Romantic Suspense March 2016 Box Set

by Carla Cassidy

  Lissa leaned down to take a close look at the computer monitor, a hand unconsciously on his shoulder to steady herself. Against his wishes, his pulse spiked as she glanced sidelong at him and murmured, “That’s the guy.”

  Maybe that hand on his shoulder hadn’t been so unconscious after all. A tiny flicker of hope illuminated the darkness in his soul.

  Max clicked through screenshots from the video of the man in question until he found a reasonably clear picture of the target coming out of the shop. He copied and pasted it into an email and fired it off to Jennie Finch to see if she could work her computer magic and get him an ID. It was the sort of challenge Jennie would enjoy.

  While he worked, Lissa moved away, exploring the corners of the barren apartment. It was two rooms, a living room/kitchen and a bedroom with a tiny, disgusting bathroom. No closets. No furniture except for a clean mattress he’d brought in and put new bedsheets on. There was nothing to relieve the stained walls and even more stained brown carpet that had once been shag and was now just a sad matted mess. It wouldn’t occupy her for long.

  He worked quickly, rolling back the footage of the most recent incursion into her property. He watched the men burst into the shop. The two with the bags opened the duffels immediately and commenced moving around the ground floor. If he didn’t know better, he’d say they were installing surveillance cameras. But they took no time doing wiring... Did they have the wireless, self-contained models that had hit the market recently? Those were not cheap gadgets.

  While the guys with the guns stayed downstairs, clearly standing guard, the other two raced upstairs and moved around Lissa’s apartment, more obviously planting a half-dozen cameras up there.

  He leaned back hard in his chair, staring at the monitors. They were installing photo surveillance equipment! What the hell? Why would anyone want to watch Lissa Clearmont like that? Granted, he was sitting in front of a camera bank, but he wasn’t watching her. He wasn’t watching her like some creeper-stalker type; he was watching her shop.

  But those guys had placed something like a dozen cameras all over her home and place of work. Lissa was definitely the target of the operation, not her store. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have bothered with all those cameras upstairs.

  He looked at her. At the moment, she had her palm pressed to the filthy wall of his living room and seemed to be listening to the damned thing speak to her. She glanced up, caught him studying her and jerked her hand away from the wall guiltily.

  “You’re disturbed by something,” she announced.

  “Did you read my mind to figure that out?”

  “No. I looked at your face. You’re scowling like someone stole your favorite toy. And your shoulders are hunched up around your ears.”

  “We need to talk, Lissa.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Oh, no. He was going to demand to know exactly what was going on with her mental powers. If only she hadn’t gotten that urgent warning to get out of her home...

  On second thought, she couldn’t be sorry for having gotten a message that could very well have saved their lives.

  Thing was, she’d never been able to do anything even remotely like that before. Her powers had never included awareness of current events unfolding around her, and, furthermore, her powers had never extended to her own safety.

  Dammit, her powers were supposed to be going away, not multiplying exponentially. But ever since Max had come into her life, the cursed things had been growing like crazy. She just had to persist. If she ignored her powers for long enough, they would fade. They had to.

  She glanced up, alarmed to see Max studying her in that intent way he did that peeled back every layer of deception and laid her soul bare. She asked cautiously, “What do you want to talk about?”

  “This whole psychic thing. Is it really a thing?”

  Although this was a conversation she was intimately familiar with, having had it a hundred times, never had so much ridden on her handling it correctly. She shrugged with feigned unconcern. “Depends on who you ask. Most of my family would tell you it’s all crap. But you just got a fairly forceful demonstration of it when I got that warning to run.”

  “And you had no idea whatsoever that those guys were coming for you and your place?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Nobody at the party last night said anything to you to indicate that your place might get rolled today?”

  “At the party?” she exclaimed. “Do you think someone from there sent those men?”

  “It’s possible. But we can talk about that later. I want to stay focused on this psychic stuff for the moment.”

  Rats. Not going to be diverted, was he?

  He spoke slowly. “Hypothetically, let’s say I have an open mind. Convince me what I just saw is real.”

  She pulled over the only other folding chair at the table and sat down across from him. She looked him dead in the eye and said, “Here’s the thing. It’s not my job to convince you one way or the other whether or not my talents are real or fake. You’ll see what you see, and you’ll come up with whatever explanation makes sense to you. Some people think they see miracles from God. Others see angels. Others see pure coincidence.”

  “And you? What do you see?”

  She winced. In spite of her angry decision earlier to bag the whole normal thing, she hadn’t really meant it. She’d just been mad at Max for lying to her. At the end of the day, she really wanted to find a way to have a normal life. Which left her trying to tiptoe between the land mines the man across the table was throwing at her feet. The hot man she’d had amazing sex with last night and whom she’d dearly love to not only bed again but build a real relationship with.

  “Okay,” she said cautiously. “Let’s say that psychic powers do exist. Hypothetically, of course.”

  “Of course,” he agreed quickly. A little too quickly. Or maybe she was just being oversensitive to criticism from him.

  “It would follow, then, that these powers could manifest in any number of ways. A person might be able to see past events they were not present to witness at the time.”

  “Would this power extend to speaking with dead people?”

  “Possibly,” she answered carefully. She really didn’t need him making fun of her. For some reason, she actually gave a darn what he thought of her. Or maybe the reason wasn’t that obscure. Making love with him had been as close to life changing as anything she’d ever experienced in her life. Which was saying something, given the course of her life to date.

  “How else might these powers manifest...hypothetically?” he asked.

  “Well, a person might be able to see the future, as well. And they might be able to pick up thoughts other people are having.”

  “What else?” he asked. His voice was starting to take on a tone of resignation.

  She took a deep breath and went for it. “They might be able to speak with ghosts. Or find lost things. You know, the usual.”

  “The usual,” he repeated slowly. “And you’re telling me you can do all these things?”

  “I’m telling you that I’m doing my level best to live a normal life in spite of the possible existence of all these things,” she replied with more desperation than she cared to hear in her voice.

  “Are your hypothetical talents in the field of things psychic well known?” he asked cautiously.

  “I was hoping that no one in this part of the country would have heard anything to that effect.” God, it was weird talking in circles with him like this. “And, yes, to anticipate your next question entirely without using any hypothetical powers, it was the reason I moved all the way down here from Vermont to make a new start. To escape certain...rumors...about me.”

  “Like a witch hunt?”

  “Nothing that dramatic. Just sidelong looks from stranger
s and neighbors who avoided me. Enough to make it difficult to meet any guys who weren’t already nervous about me. I’m weird enough without the people I date having to worry that at any second my head will start spinning around while I vomit green pea soup.”

  “What’s the craziest thing you’ve...been rumored to do?”

  She had to think about that one. “I suppose it would be finding dead bodies for the FBI. That seems to creep people out pretty badly. Talking to ghosts seems to mess people up, too. I find that most people have skeletons in their closets they’d like to keep hidden.”

  He nodded, but the man looked a little shell-shocked. “So what are the, um, ghosts, telling you about everything that has been happening to you for the past few days?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  He stared at her. “I thought you just told me you could speak with ghosts.”

  “I told you it might be hypothetically possible and that there were rumors to that effect. Besides, just because a person might be able to hear them doesn’t mean the ghosts would choose to say anything.”

  “Why not?”

  Dammit, did he have to keep asking such ridiculously perceptive questions? She exhaled hard. “Sometimes an individual’s abilities are tied to a specific trigger. For example, children and things pertaining to children might be all a psychic can hear. Or a psychic might only be able to speak to dead spirits. Or only to see the future.”

  “If you—hypothetically—had these sorts of powers, how do you think yours would be triggered?”

  She took a deep breath and admitted the thing to him that she rarely even admitted to herself. The thing that had ultimately made her run away from her abilities and come to New Orleans to hide. “By violence.”

  Max stared at her for a long time in silence. Finally, he said slowly, “Well, that would suck. Particularly if you found yourself in the company of someone surrounded by frequent violence.”

  “It would, wouldn’t it?”

  She couldn’t take much more of this conversation. It was time to change the subject. “So, Max. Is that really your first name? What should I call you?”

  “Maximillian is my real name. I’ve always gone by Max, though. If you want to irritate the hell out of me, you can use the Russian nickname for Maximillian and call me Masha.”

  That made her grin for a moment. He was so totally not a Masha. “And your last name?”

  He just shook his head, a stubborn set to his jaw. Kuznetsov was the name she’d seen on that letter. Of course, it could just as easily be a fake name, too.

  “Can you at least tell me why you’re using an alias?”

  “To protect my life and those of the people I love.”

  “From whom?”

  “Nope.”

  She tried another tack. “Tell me about the people you love.” It was a direct request to let her in, past his undercover persona and into his real identity.

  Silence stretched out between them as he considered her request. Obviously he hadn’t missed the implications of what she’d asked. At long last, he spoke slowly. “My parents are both dead. I have a sister, though. She’s younger than me, and a pain in the ass when she gets stubborn. Reminds me a little of you.”

  Lissa pursed her lips. She could live with being called stubborn. When Max didn’t continue, she prompted, “Do you have friends?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Are you from New Orleans originally?”

  He hesitated, but then answered, “I am.”

  “Your accent isn’t very thick.”

  “My family wasn’t from here. No Southern drawl in the home meant I didn’t pick up as thick an accent as most natives.”

  “Where was your family from originally?”

  “Europe.”

  That wasn’t very descriptive. With Masha as a nickname, she would guess his people hailed from Eastern Europe or Russia.

  “Brothers?”

  “Just the one sister.”

  “I could see you being a good big brother.”

  He merely shrugged, clearly unhappy with this discussion about his origins. Now why was that? She tilted her head and studied him intently. “Where did you learn how to do...this?” She gestured at the surveillance equipment on the table between them.

  “Anyone willing to do a little research and spend some bucks on gear can do this.”

  “That’s actually kind of scary to hear you say.”

  He made a commiserating face. “Most people are blissfully ignorant of the possibilities for invasion of privacy.”

  She knew quite a bit about regular people being blissfully ignorant of the energies and events swirling around them, invisible and unseen.

  Max asked, “So, at the party last night when you were doing all those tarot card readings, was there any...additional element...to the readings beyond you telling people what was on the cards?”

  “You mean did I use any psychic skills to enhance the readings?”

  “Well, yes.”

  She shrugged. “Not intentionally.”

  “Did you happen to see anything beyond the cards?” he asked carefully.

  “That’s an interesting question in light of my mentioning that my hypothetical skills would be tied to violence.”

  “And yet, entirely fitting for that bunch,” he grumbled under his breath.

  In a flash of candidness, she commented, “I saw plenty. Interesting crowd. They had some unusual stuff in both their pasts and futures.”

  “Like what?”

  “Beyond the usual divorces, money problems and family hassles, I saw criminal activity. Violence. Legal troubles. Death.”

  “Death?” he exclaimed. “Who?”

  “Sorry. Client confidentiality. I don’t see and tell.”

  “You didn’t tell whoever it was that they’re going to die, did you?”

  “If you’ll recall, you told me to be cautious. I took you at your word. Not to mention that the guests themselves exuded deep reluctance to have me reveal their secrets. Forecasting death and violence didn’t seem to be exactly the stuff of light party entertainment. I omitted most of the dark stuff I saw from what I told them. I kept what I said light. Superficial. I forecasted a few weddings and babies. That sort of stuff.”

  “Thank God,” he breathed.

  “Why did you take me to that party if you think so badly of the attendees?” she asked, curious.

  “I was ordered to.”

  That sent her eyebrows up. “By whom?”

  “My boss.”

  “That Peter guy who got drunk and started having such violent thoughts?”

  Max lurched. “What kind of violent thoughts?”

  She shrugged. “He was contemplating killing somebody. Maybe whomever you two left the room to talk about. Or maybe whoever he’s so afraid of.”

  Max’s jaw went hard at that comment. He was silent for a time and then said tightly, “As you may have noticed, the people at that party—my current business associates—are not exactly on the up-and-up with the law.”

  “I gathered that. I did look into plenty of their heads, remember?”

  “About that. Did you happen to catch an image of a man from any of them?”

  “What kind of image?”

  “I wish I knew. My boss, Peter Menchekov, knows what a particular man farther up the food chain of his business looks like. I’m trying to find out the identity of that man.”

  Pieces of the puzzle were starting to fall into place for her too quickly for comfort. Many of the people at that party had Russian names and Russian accents. Some sort of Russian organization steeped in violence, and for which Max worked under an assumed name.

  “Are you sure you’re not an FBI agent?” she asked sharply.


  “I swear I don’t work for the FBI,” he answered emphatically. She watched carefully for tells of lying, but Max seemed to be telling the truth, and her sixth sense for lies didn’t send up any alarms.

  “Who do you actually work for, then?”

  “I’m self-employed in my real life.”

  He was being deceptive with that statement. But before she could call him on it, he continued. “This investigation is off the books. I have a personal interest in finding the man whom I seek within this organization.”

  “What kind of interest?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  She stared at him, and he stared back stubbornly. The man did not have any intention of sharing his secrets with her. Little did he know that nobody could keep secrets around her for long. Her eyes narrowed. Perhaps a small demonstration of that fact was in order.

  She opened her mind, and the images she’d been seeing for the past week flooded in. Those painful scenes had come from Max’s life? Her heart physically hurt in her chest at the realization.

  She spoke gently. “How about I take a guess? A car crash on a dark road. Two women hurt, one terribly. Hours before help came. Maybe one of them your mother? A little boy in terrible pain. Alone in a swamp. Beaten to prove how much pain he could stand. A cruel father. Blond and handsome, but cold.”

  “Stop.”

  She winced at the grief and denial in his voice. Note to self: Max’s childhood is strictly off-limits for the moment.

  He took a deep breath. Exhaled very slowly. He stared at her for a long time, a stew of disbelief, horror and curiosity swirling in his eyes. She swore under her breath, shoving back from the table and surging to her feet.

  What the hell was she doing? She knew better than to show off like that. The last thing she wanted to do was scare off Max for good. Yes, he’d lied about his name. And, yes, he had secrets about his life and his work. But if she believed the evidence of her own eyes, he was at heart a decent and honorable guy trying to do the right thing. He’d saved her from Julio G. at personal risk to his own life. He’d come when Julio’s thugs had busted up her store and she’d cried out for help. And he kissed like a god.