Psychic Storm: Ten Dangerously Sexy Tales of Psychic Witches, Vampires, Mediums, Empaths and Seers

by Deanna Chase

  “No, idiot, they were not yours.”

  Angie tried to get up and failed the first time. Holding onto the wall she made it on her third try, then faced her husband. “You know damn well those were my designs. You’ve seen them in my sketchbook!”

  “You stupid little girl. Any lawyer with half a brain is going to say you drew those on company time, therefore the company owns those designs. I told you I would take care of it, but like usual you didn’t listen. You went off half-cocked and did what you wanted anyway. Well, I’m done. I am so done with you, you spoiled little brat.” He threw the scissors down on the concrete floor and stomped toward the exit. “That’s what I get for marrying a child. Shite!”

  “Wait, Stephan, where are you going?” Angie called after him.

  “I’m going to see if my career is salvageable. After this I'll be lucky to do dog food ads.” The heavy door slammed behind him and Angie fell back to the floor in tears.

  Of course he was right. Luckily, she was only fired and the company didn’t file charges against her. When news got around of what she’d done, she couldn’t get a job in the fashion industry if her life depended on it. Stephan filed for divorce and she ran home to Isabelle Island, Washington with her tail between her legs. Washed up at twenty-three.

  For the next four years she lived in her mother’s home and worked in the family hardware store. She also drank, a lot. Then she met a woman who changed everything. Maddy Anderson became her new best friend. Maddy gave Angie the courage to try again, but this time in France.

  So Angie took out her savings and packed a bag. She was almost out of cash and her hopes completely dashed when finally she was hired for The House of Beauchamp. Madame believed in second chances and in Angie’s talent. In fact, after only a year, she had several of her own designs being featured in the new line for fall.

  Angie couldn’t help but think of that fateful night when everything had gone so terribly wrong now that she was working with the Queen B, Claira Raines. Oh how the mighty have fallen.

  The moment Claira was hired at House de Beauchamp, she walked through the front door and eyed Angela. Immediately she ran to Madame to rat her out. Of course, Madame knew all about Angie's past. In fact, she told Claira that if she wanted to work for her, she would not make trouble for anyone. She did not abide gossip. Angie overheard the exchange and inwardly smiled.

  Of course, it didn’t keep the model from being a major pain in the ass where Angie was concerned. But she had learned to let it roll off her back. She couldn’t help but remember what Stephan had said, it’s just the job. Now that she was older and wiser, she understood. She'd found a way to keep her temper at bay. When it counted. Well, most of the time.

  7

  When Claira finally returned from her break, she took her spot on the riser and Angie knelt before her, ready to resume pinning the hem of her dress. Angie jumped back up.

  “Claira, what have you done?” she yelled, then fisted her hands on her hips.

  “What?” The mock expression of innocence didn’t fool Angie.

  “You know damn well what I am talking about. You are not to smoke when wearing one of Madame’s designs.”

  “It’s not like I burned a hole in it. Besides, I needed a break. What am I supposed to do?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, go to the bathroom, put your feet up, maybe grab a water or some fruit.”

  “I do not eat,” she said defiantly.

  “Of course you don’t.”

  “Excuse me, I’m looking for—”

  At the sound of the man's voice Angie swung around. She couldn’t believe her eyes.

  “You!” he finished.

  It was him, Luc-to-his-friends. Mr. Man-in-black. Mr. I’m-too-sexy-for-my-pants. Flummoxed, Angie couldn’t speak. There he stood, a mere foot away. How did he find her? Why was he looking?

  When she found her voice, it didn’t hold the power she intended. “You were looking for me?”

  “No. Actually I was looking for. . .well maybe.”

  “Yes, no, maybe?” He seemed just as surprised to see her as she him, but how could that be? He’d sought her out.

  He cleared his throat. “Actually, we.” He motioned to the man behind him, who now stepped forward. The one Angie had just noticed.

  “We are looking for friends and known associates of Genevieve Lamont. Would you be one of those?” he said in a more professional manner.

  “I met her at a show last year, but I'm neither a friend nor an associate,” Angie said, perplexed.

  “Genevieve is a friend of mine.” Claira raised her head, lifted the hem of the gown and stepped off the riser. They all watched in silence. Angie had actually forgotten she was in the room.

  “Who wants to know?” Claira’s air of superiority was so thick one could cut it with a knife. Her beauty didn’t seem to affect the men, which surprised Angie. Most men became stuttering idiots in Claira’s presence.

  “Inspector Claude Rousseau.” He flashed a badge. “And this is my associate, Jon-Luc Boudreaux. We would like to ask you a few questions."

  The moment she was introduced to Jon-Luc, Claira’s hungry gaze slowly raked every inch of his body, then she wet her lips with her tongue as she closed the gap between them. Irritation flamed through Angie. Not that he was hers, or that she’d seen him first, even though she had. She didn't want him for herself, did she?

  It didn’t matter now. No red-blooded man with a pulse could resist Claira Raines, with her thick blonde wavy hair that reached all the way to her butt, those big hazel eyes, and that sexy accent. Angie didn’t stand a chance, even if she wanted one. Which she didn’t. It was just nice to have a man like that interested in her. Right, that was it.

  Claira took another step closer to Jon-Luc. Was she actually batting her lashes at him? Oh, please, just shoot me now.

  “Of course, I would be more than happy to answer any questions you may have.” Her voice had dropped an octave, her accent more pronounced. She looked like a praying mantis about to devour a lover.

  Jon-Luc turned toward the inspector. “Actually, Claude, why don’t you take mademoiselle . . .” He looked back at Claira who was standing impossibly close. Any closer and she’d be in his lap, that is if he were sitting, which he wasn’t. So he didn’t have a lap. For God’s sake, I’m losing my mind!

  “Raines, Claira Raines, perhaps you’ve heard of me?” A large toothy grin swallowed her face.

  You idiot, of course he hasn’t heard of you. A man like him didn’t follow the fashion world, did he? Maybe he dated models all the time. That would make sense, with his drop-dead gorgeous looks and the way he oozed sexuality. Oh, hell, why am I making myself crazy? Oh, my, God, he’s looking at me. Why is he even looking in my direction?

  “Huh? What?” Heat rose up Angie's neck and her face felt like it was about to burst into flames.

  “I was just telling Inspector Rousseau that I would be interviewing you, but I realize that I don’t know your name.”

  “Oh.” He’d rather speak with me? What’s wrong with this guy? There had to be a defect in him somewhere. “Angela, I mean Angie, uh, Henderson.”

  He smiled at her. Why was he smiling? Did she have something in her teeth? Angie swished her tongue around her mouth to make sure. He probably just felt sorry for her. After all, what kind of chucklehead didn’t know her own name?

  Jon-Luc made his way toward Angie, and put his hand against the small of her back as he led her toward the far side of the room. Angie glanced over her shoulder at Claira shooting daggers with her eyes. Angie was too shocked to shoot them back. She stumbled and he caught her before she went down. Maybe she should be watching where she was going.

  He grabbed a chair and positioned it across from another, then indicated with his hand that she should sit. Angie obliged, then realized her mouth was open and promptly shut it. That’s attractive.

  “So, you're a seamstress?” He took a pad and pen from his pocket.

  Angie jutte
d her jaw. “No. I am an assistant designer.” There he went, riling her up again.

  He scribbled something down on the paper. “I see.”

  “Do you? Or are you just humoring me?” What was it about this guy that pissed her off so?

  He glanced up and met her eyes. “Why would I not believe you? Do you have reason to lie?” There went those damn eyebrows again, reaching for the sky.

  “Of course I don’t lie. What the hell is this all about? Are you a cop?”

  He let his hands rest in his lap. “I am consulting on a case, unofficially.”

  “What case? What has Genevieve Lamont done?”

  His demeanor changed in the blink of an eye. The smile disappeared, his eyes more focused.

  “You don’t know?” He lowered his voice.

  A chill ran the length of her spine and she wrapped her arms around herself. “Know what?” But even as she said the words, she could tell it was bad, whatever it was.

  “She’s dead. Murdered.” Then his mouth clamped shut and he stared at her, said nothing more. Of course, what else was there to say?

  He waited for her to fill the void. “I, uh, no, I didn’t know. I’ve been too busy to watch the news and I don’t read the paper. We, uh. . .we have a big show next week and I’ve been working night and day.”

  Just then Angie heard a scream from the other side of the room. She jerked her head toward the sound and witnessed Claira burying her face in her hands; her shoulders jerked as she sobbed. Angie looked back at Luc's somber face.

  It took a moment before Angie could speak. “I don’t know how I can help. I didn’t actually know her, just of her. We run in the same circles, that’s all.”

  “I understand, but anything, no matter how small, might help. You may know something, may have heard something. I’m sure like all businesses there is gossip, rumors.”

  “Hell, yeah, rumors fly around in this industry faster than the needle on my sewing machine, but that’s usually what they are. Just rumors. I can’t say what’s true or not.”

  “Let me decide. What have you heard about Mademoiselle Lamont?”

  “You do realize you are asking me to speak ill of the dead. I don’t feel comfortable with that.”

  “Yes, I am. But we’re trying to find her murderer, and to do that we must know the victim inside and out.”

  Angie flinched. He’d just said victim and murderer in the same sentence. She couldn’t believe she was having this conversation. She closed her eyes; she couldn’t think straight under his intense scrutiny. Silence ensued between them, but she could hear Claira’s sobs across the room. She shut it out and concentrated on the show last year when she’d run into Genevieve, literally.

  “Well, it’s not like we were formally introduced or anything,” she said to further explain her position.

  “That’s okay, I’ll take impressions at this stage.”

  “Okay, it was last year and my first show with Madame.”

  “Madame?”

  “Madame Beauchamp. She is The House de Beauchamp.”

  Jon-Luc jotted that down, then looked back up for her to continue.

  “I was very stressed and nervous, of course. All the hot designers were there, as well as the top models. I felt like a fish out of water. I really needed to make a good impression, and I really needed this job. This chance. It had to work out.” Her words came out in a rush and she took a deep breath. She glanced down at her hands in her lap and noticed she was wringing them.

  All the emotions from that day came flooding back. She stared at him and became transfixed. She noticed a ring of brown around the irises of his gold eyes. He blinked and focused on her. She relaxed a bit. There was something in his demeanor that comforted her.

  “Go on.”

  There's that sexy voice again. “I’m sorry, but where are you from? I can’t quite place your accent.”

  He smiled. “NOLA.”

  She thought her eyebrows must have hit the ceiling. “Come again?”

  “New Orleans, Louisiana. I’m Cajun. A Swamp Rat.” Then he chuckled.

  “If you say so.” Even his laugh was sexy.

  Jeez, why can't I catch a break?

  “I know this isn’t easy, but we need to get back to your story.”

  “Right. Sorry.” Angie looked down at her lap again and tried to get back her train of thought. “I don’t know if you know it or not, but the atmosphere at these things is ridiculous. Everyone is running around, and there is always some sort of disaster coming up and this show was no different. Maybe worse because it was my first and I didn’t know what to expect.” She looked up at him and he nodded.

  “Okay, got it. Crazy.”

  “No, I really mean it. You have no idea. Women are running around in their undergarments, screaming for someone to help them dress. Things get ripped, ruined at the last second. You have to think fast. Every model thinks they are more important than everyone else. We’re talking giant egos here.”

  “You paint an vivid picture. I think I can imagine it now. Please go on.”

  He looked like he was suppressing a smile. Was he laughing at her? “Look, I’m serious as a heart attack. If you’re just humoring me, I have more important things to do than waste my time with you.” She jumped up and he grabbed her hand.

  “No, I’m not. Really. Please sit back down.”

  She tentatively sat, but was ready to bolt at the first provocation.

  “I’m sorry, truly I am.” He glanced down, then up. “It’s just, you’re so passionate. The way you tell a story, it’s crystal-clear. I’m used to interviewing people who speak. . .” He stroked his chin. “Plainly, I guess. ‘I went there, met so-and-so, and left.’ You know what I mean?”

  “I guess so,” she said slowly.

  “Bottom line is, I am very interested in what you have to say. So please continue.”

  His face suddenly became a mask. She could no longer read him. “All right. So, like I said, shit happens. We are a boutique fashion house, meaning we are small, still making a name for ourselves, and because of that we can’t be too choosy about the models willing to work with us. Therefore, more often than not, we get the green ones. Fresh from the farm. Just learning to spread their wings. They're all agog over being in Paris, meeting famous models, wanting to fit in, etcetera." Angie scooted back in her chair to get more comfortable.

  “This industry is very competitive. These women are all vying for the same jobs and the more established models can be cutthroat so they play tricks on these girls. Like culling the weak from the herd.” She stared at him to see if he was catching her drift, he nodded, so she continued.

  “One such girl was Melody. Gorgeous girl, but way too naïve to make it in such a nasty business. You either grow a thick skin, or go home. Anyway, the dress she was supposed to wear didn’t fit. I mean, she had it on the day before, but now I couldn’t get the damn thing zipped. Overnight she had gained weight-”

  “How is that even possible? I thought these girls didn’t eat. At least that’s what they look.”

  It was Angie’s turn to smile. “Right, that’s what I was thinking. But I didn’t have time to analyze it, so I cut the dress down the back, slipped it over her head, and started to stitch her into it. Then someone bumped me from behind, the needle went into Melody’s back and she screamed. I turned in time to see Genevieve standing behind me wearing a shit-eating grin. ‘Oh, excuse me, how clumsy of me,’ she said, then pretended to notice Melody for the first time.

  “'Gee, Melody, you look a bit bloated. Too many Mojitos last night?' Then she sauntered off. I was pissed. I spun Mel around and looked at her face, and sure enough, she looked guilty. I lost it right there. I yelled, how could you be so stupid to go out drinking the night before a show. You know damn well alcohol is forbidden.

  “Melody sputtered, Genevieve asked her. She couldn’t say no, she emphasized that the Genevieve Lamont wanted her to join the other models. Melody wouldn’t look me in the eye, just
stared at her feet while she talked. Exactly, I'd said. Then asked her why that didn’t seem even a little bit suspicious to her. At that Melody looked up and told me they were all drinking so she figured it was okay. I asked her if she'd smelled any of their glasses? Then Melody burst into tears and begged me not to tell Madame."

  "And did you?" Jon-Luc interrupted.

  “I didn’t need to. The news reached her by word of mouth. When I glanced around the room, I noticed all the models whispering and laughing with one another. It made me sick. Later I heard that Melody was being considered for a big perfume launch, Tres Unique.”

  “The one that went to Genevieve,” he said almost to himself. “So let me get this straight—you think this Melody killed Genevieve?”

  “Oh God, no! That would be impossible.”

  “You seem pretty sure of yourself.”

  “I am. She’s dead.”

  8

  “She’s what?” Jon-Luc leaned forward in his chair. These girls were dropping like flies. “How did she die?”

  “A few months later, she committed suicide.”

  “Suicide.” His hands dropped to his lap. “You’re certain?” He watched Angie's head bob up and down. He made a note to check on it himself. This girl could have been one of the killer’s first victims.

  “How did she kill herself?” He asked.

  “She slit her wrists in the bath.”

  “Just because some mean girls got her in trouble drinking?”

  “Oh, no, that was just the beginning. The girls didn’t give up that easily. There were many more pranks, cruel things they did to her. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure they didn’t think she would go so far as to kill herself. They were just trying to get her to quit.”

  “What kind of cruel things? What could possibly make someone feel so low they would end their life?”

  Angie looked down at her lap. Jon-Luc didn’t think she was going to continue. When her head came up, there was a tear in her eye.