a Touch of Ice

by L. j. Charles

  “He is not perdition.” Violet’s sigh held a hint of curled-toes lust. “He is one fine specimen. Wish I were the one with the camera because that body should be recorded for all eternity.”

  I’m not into the cover model look, but since this guy tripped my heebie radar, I catalogued the obvious and had to agree with Violet’s shallow assessment that we were witnessing a bit of male perfection. Tallish at around six feet, sandy brown hair curling around his neck, and with enough dark and broody in his aura to add some mystery.

  She grabbed my arm. “Hold on. The camera is pointed at you. You know him?”

  I met his gaze and broke into an instant replay of my nightmare symptoms. Fear clawed at my spine and my vision went hazy, like I was looking through the old woman’s eyes. What the hell? I’d never reacted like that to anyone, not even when I inadvertently touched a stranger, and I definitely wouldn’t have forgotten this guy. Not good. Wrong in oh so many ways.

  Violet headed in his direction, determination in every step. I hung back, struggled to root my feet in the sand, but couldn’t. My legs moved of their own accord, hustling to catch up with her. It was one of those moments when I would gladly have traded my ESP fingers and the unfortunate dip in the ocean for a snappy outfit, some make-up, and a hairbrush. Armor against the heebies? Or was it something about him?

  My attention wandered back to the shaggy curls skimming his neck, and my heart went into a slow meltdown. NO. No, no, no. This is not okay, Everly. You cannot have the hots for some guy who triggers your nightmare response. You can’t have the hots for anyone. Period. I had learned about brief romantic interludes the hard way. My hinky fingers interfered with any chance of a “normal” date and totally wiped out anything fling related. But this guy…

  I shut off my hormone-induced thoughts with a virtual head-desk thud. Not more than five minutes ago I’d christened my new beginning and had the salt film on my skin to prove it. This was the perfect opportunity to step forward, to find out if he held the answer to the badass fear disturbing my nights.

  I caught the back of Violet’s sweat-damp t-shirt and tugged. “Hold it. There’s something going on with him.”

  She didn’t take her eyes away from camera guy. “Yeah. I see that. He’s taking pictures of you without permission, and he looks—”

  “No. Not that. He’s connected to my universe problem. I’m sure of it. And if touching him will give me a full night’s sleep, then it’s worth trespassing in his life, don’t you think?”

  “You’re going to touch him?” Violet’s normally dulcet tones held a touch of shock.

  I didn’t bother to answer her, just plastered a determined grin on my face and marched up to sculpted cheekbone guy, my right hand outstretched in greeting. “Everly Gray. Looked like your camera was aimed in my…”

  Our skin touched and the image ricocheted through my head. I snatched my hand from his grasp and double-timed a few backward steps. I’d barely touched him. The image floated in front of my eyes with sickening persistence, slammed my heart rate into berserk, and I couldn’t grab a breath.

  A dead body. The dead body. From my vision. Sprawled on an ugly brown sofa. Male. Arms and legs akimbo. Blank eyes staring into nothingness. A beer bottle tumbled at his feet.

  Definitely. Dead.

  I clamped my hand over my mouth, biting into the soft skin of my palm. The heavy taste of the sea brought reality into focus, and I swallowed a scream. Better to have it tear at my throat than let it escape, since a sprinkling of beachcombers were in the near distance. None of whom could see the body.

  As impossible and improbable as it seemed, I couldn’t deny what my touch told me. I gave him a surreptitious once-over, searching for a convenient fantasy to maintain my sanity. Maybe he could be a private investigator like Violet. They take pictures and come across the occasional dead body. It sort of made sense.

  My head spun, but I retained enough common sense to know my actions were noticeably odd, and that Violet had stepped up to introduce herself and cover my aberrant behavior.

  “Why didn’t I keep my fingers to myself?” I must have muttered out loud, because potentially murderous, possibly PI, photographer guy shot me a leery-eyed frown.

  Violet rested her hand on his arm, distracting him. “Aren’t you Mitchell Hunt? And didn’t I see your work in the latest issue of Global Survival?”

  What was she doing, touching him? The man was associated with dead bodies and she was chatting him up like an old friend about…what? Damn it all, did she say something about survival? I’d totally spaced out on the fantasy of him being a PI with potential killer instincts and missed their conversation. Two slow breaths later the potent mix of surf, creosote, and…oh hell, was that his clean, first-snowfall scent clearing the dead body image from my head? Focus, El. Now would be a good time to focus.

  “Yeah, I did the photo essay on Afghanistan.” He took a step back, then did a vague nod in Violet’s direction. “Nice meeting you.”

  The timbre of his voice tripped down my spine, leaving tingly goose bumps behind. It should have had me snatching Violet away from him and dragging her to the car. But no, it kicked my curiosity into overdrive. Not that I’m attracted to dead bodies. Not my thing at all.

  Until the vision and the collage. Until now.

  Words weren’t forming in my mind quickly enough to keep him from leaving, so I did the only thing possible—gave my best impression of a dead faint. Poor choice of words, but hey, they fit. I flopped, banged into his denim-clad legs just as he bent to jump out of the way, tripped him, and landed in the sand next to his flailing body with enough force to knock the air out of my lungs. Not exactly what I’d planned. But I couldn’t allow him to get away until I worked my hands out of the sand so my fingertips could do their thing. This time, I’d hold on to him long enough to get the full story on the dead body.

  Violet nudged me with her toe. I opened my eyes to find her baby greens shooting sparks as she offered me a hand up and whispered in my ear, “We will talk about this later.” I hate being caught out when I’ve done something totally crazy. Still, it worked. Mitchell Hunt untangled himself, stood, and caught me beneath the arms, then lifted me to my feet. I managed to suck in a lungful of air. And choke.

  He gave me a quick pat on the back. “Looks like you’ll be okay. Just a hard landing.”

  And then he smiled. Deep enough to chase the murkiness from his eyes, turn them to autumn brown, and bring out the hint of a dimple in his right cheek.

  Maybe I’d been premature with the murderer assessment.

  I pulled out my modern woman attitude and turned my smile up a notch. “Sorry about knocking you down. Guess I’m lightheaded from lack of sleep, or maybe from missing breakfast.”

  My peripheral vision caught Violet’s expression as her mouth dropped open. I stepped in front of her so Mitchell wouldn’t notice, then pointed toward his camera. “Want to share those pictures with me? Seeing as how they’re of me?” I needed him to hand me the camera so I could cup his hand in mine and bring my fingertips in contact with something connected to him, skin, clothes, whatever.

  “Thank heaven for digital cameras and instant gratification.” Perky. I sounded overly perky. Barely recognized myself, and it’s no wonder he backed away before I could make contact.

  He busied himself brushing the sand from his jeans. “I’m okay, and yes, you can see the pictures.” Was that a sheepish grin making his lips quiver? “Thing is, I’m not here to do a piece on water nymphs. You just…”

  Guilt. His voice positively reeked of guilt. My breath caught somewhere behind my heart. Could he be interested in me? No, not possible. Probably it was my lack of foresight in forgoing the bra this morning. My wet t-shirt was on the clingy side and probably triggered a dose of testosterone. The picture taking had to be a guy thing. A reflex. Or something. I slowly released a breath...Dead body, El. Remember the collage and the image of the dead guy. Those are the only reasons you need to touch Mitchell
Hunt.

  The scent of freshly brewed coffee wafted toward us from the Starbucks on the boardwalk. I took a deep breath, savored the fragrance, and plunged ahead. “How about I treat for coffees and you can show us the pictures?” A series of shivers rippled through my muscles and my jaw clenched with the chill. Or was it fear that he’d turn down my invitation?

  Violet sidled around me, grabbed my hand. “Good idea. Why don’t we grab the blanket from my trunk and join you in a minute, Mitch.”

  Mitchell’s eyebrows headed north, and for an instant I was positive he’d brush us off. I shook free of Violet’s death grip. We couldn’t leave him alone. He might escape. “Probably better if I head for Starbucks with Mitch, take it slow. Give myself a chance to recuperate from the tumble.”

  She glared at me. There was no doubt I’d hear about it later, but she dutifully headed for the car to retrieve the blanket. Violet had a streak of insatiable curiosity, and she had to know I’d seen something when I touched Mitch. Still, this was so not the time for an explanation.

  Ever so slowly, Mitchell’s shoulders sagged and his eyes turned hazy. Looked like sadness, or grief maybe. Because he was a killer? Murderer’s remorse? I shivered again. What was I thinking to hang out with him? Alone? And inviting him to coffee? I’m always rational, middle-of-the-road stable, boringly sane. Except for the touch thing. Violet got it right in her earlier assessment—something had obviously fried my brain.

  “Coffee’d be fine.” Mitch seemed to be watching the series of odd expressions that had to be evident on my face.

  Panic carved its way between my shoulder blades. I didn’t move, my breathing shallow, my body numb. What had I done?

  Three

  The silence went on for, oh, several centuries at least.

  Mitchell Hunt’s lips moved in a funny little quirk before he found some control. “I’m going for coffee and Violet seems to be waiting for us. You coming?”

  I whirled toward Starbucks. Violet stood to the left of the front door, foot tapping, blanket draped over one shoulder.

  “Coming.” I nudged past him and stomped my way to the coffee shop, only to have my attitude interrupted by a woman setting up a display of bright, shiny Granny Smith’s in front of the general store. I have a weakness for apple pie, heavy on the cinnamon, and the display stopped my pursuit of justice in mid-stride.

  Violet tossed the blanket over my shoulders and shoved me into Starbucks. “Coffee first, pie later.” We’d shared enough apple pies that she knew exactly what was going through my head.

  The three of us settled around a table toward the back, steaming mugs in front of us. I secured the blanket around my body, tucked the ends under my thighs and faced Mitchell Hunt, potential murderer—the first guy who had truly made my toes wiggle, and might, in some totally unexplainable way, be responsible for the dark circles under my eyes.

  I blew on my coffee, stalling for time. How do you ask someone if they moonlight as an assassin?

  “So, Mitchell, surely you weren’t taking pictures of Everly for your work?” Violet swirled an almond biscotti in her hazelnut latte, tapped it on the edge of her cup, then eyed Mitchell as she bit down. Hard.

  “Mitch,” he clarified as he picked up his mug. “And no, I don’t, wasn’t…okay. Truth is I had a bad night and when she—” he twitched in my direction— “sprang from the waves like some sea goddess…it was sweet light. I couldn’t help myself.”

  My fingers inched toward the camera. “Could I see?”

  He took a swallow of his French roast and fiddled with some buttons on the camera. “Sure, but first how about I go order you a muffin? You didn’t get anything to eat and we can’t have you dropping at my feet again. Gotta confess, not the usual effect I have on women.”

  Violet stifled a snort.

  “Thanks, but I’ll get one on the way out. My latte is heavy on the milk, so should fix me right up.” I breathed in the fragrance of cinnamon from my steaming mug and prayed for divine inspiration. How do you casually bring up a dead body when you aren’t supposed to know it exists? “I haven’t had much sleep the past few…” Not good enough. I cleared my throat and started again. “Mostly it’s been an ordinary Saturday. Nothing exciting like a murder—”

  Mitch stopped fiddling with the camera, narrowed his eyes and looked right through me. Didn’t say a word.

  I’d really done it. Mouth malfunction in the extreme. Damn. So much for divine inspiration. I had to get out more. Talk to people instead of clients. Totally different thing, being social.

  Violet’s mouth had dropped open. Again. She was rarely at a loss for words, but it didn’t look like I’d be getting any help from that direction for a while.

  I filtered some words though my censoring system—even though it was obviously on the fritz—and hurried to fill the deafening silence. “My life is pretty quiet most of the time.” There, I did it. Ordinary, non-threatening words that could be found in any casual conversation. I sipped my latte, chancing a quick look at Mitch over the edge of the cup.

  “Quiet, huh? What kind of work do you do? Besides auditioning for bit parts as a sea nymph?”

  “I‘m a personal coach and I specialize in helping people solve problems and find balance as they flow, or not, with their life issues.” Excellent. Normal people chat about work all the time. Maybe there was hope for me yet.

  “Uh-huh.” He angled his mug toward Violet. “And you?”

  “I do private inquiry work.”

  Mitch’s mug landed on the table with a thud. “A PI? You’re a private investigator?”

  Her lips quirked into an almost smile. “Yes.”

  Mitch shifted in his chair, took a swallow of coffee, and ran his hand along the back of his neck.

  “The pictures?” Violet nodded toward the camera. “I’d like to see them, too.”

  He handed her the camera. She cupped his hand. Could this get any more twisted?

  “Me too.” Enough with the pretending. I leaned toward Violet and grabbed his wrist, my fingers getting lost in the soft silkiness of his black cashmere sweater.

  The same image filtered through my mind. Nothing more. Not a single smidgeon of additional information. I reluctantly let go of him and focused on the pictures. It took a minute to realize they were actually me, and words caught in my throat, garbled. I chugged a swallow of coffee. “Wow. I don’t look like that. I’m not all…glowy.”

  Not that it was painful to look at me, or anything. My five foot, six inch body stays trim unless I go on a chocolate binge, easily fixed if I squeeze in extra time on the treadmill. I was blessed with midnight blue eyes (a gift from my mother), and a mop of dark red hair (definitely from my father). No glow had ever surrounded me at any time. I was sure of it.

  Mitch tipped his head to the side, studied me. “Like I said, sweet light. That’s why I had to take the photos. Look, my mind…I wasn’t thinking, didn’t mean to impose on your privacy. How about I send you copies?”

  “How about you sign a contract not to publish them?” Violet was exercising her right to sound like an attorney. Could be she’d noticed how the wet t-shirt outlined my breasts and was thinking ahead to a possible internet exposé.

  Mitch’s eyes got all wrinkled and squinty. “Yeah, sure. They were for me anyway. Just for me.”

  A knot grew in my belly. Fear? Of a potential relationship, or of dead bodies? Could be either. My feet wanted to run, far and fast, but my head really, really wanted to know about the dead body and how this whole thing could possibly be messing with my life. I took a sip of coffee, steadied my thoughts. “That’s a little freaky since you’ve never seen me before today. Ah, oh damn. You haven’t seen me before today, have you?”

  He sighed, tapped his long, squared fingers against the table. “No. I’m not a stalker. Look, I…”

  Violet was too quiet and I could feel her tension bouncing against me from across the table. This wasn’t getting me any closer to finding out about the body. Maybe a new top
ic. “So, tell me about your last photography assignment. Where did you go? What did you photograph?”

  He leaned back in his chair, balanced on the rear legs, and looked at me with no recognition. Suddenly he shrugged, dropped the chair back down, and focused on Violet, stress radiating from every muscle in his body.

  I had a brief moment of jealousy. Violet is gorgeous, and usually has a trail of men requesting her phone number. Was Mitch? Were they? Oh, bloody hell they’d be perfect together. Probably. Maybe. I covered my jealousy with a quick gulp of coffee. Whatever was going on between them shouldn’t be interrupted.

  “Somehow my photographs contributed to a friend’s death.” The words spilled out of Mitch, jagged, harsh. “It doesn’t make sense. Keeps nagging at me. There has to be a connection. Don’t know how, but there’s no other explanation.”

  A friend’s death? His photographs? It gave me a whole new take on murder weapons.

  He dropped his head in his hands and was silent for so long my right eye started to twitch. I jabbed a finger against the lid and willed it to stop. Nothing is more annoying than a twitchy eye. Especially when you’re trying to be cool.

  He took a sip of coffee and shifted his focus back and forth between me and Violet. “I found a body yesterday. A childhood friend. Sorry, that was abrupt and I’m being rude.” He pushed his chair back.

  Violet shot me a so-that’s-what’s-going-on-with-you look, then focused on Mitch. “Sounds like I might be able to help.” She pulled a card out of her pocket and handed it to him. “Think about it. Call me.”

  I made a silent agreement with the universe to give up chocolate for a week if he stayed. And phoned me instead of Violet. Not that I had a clue about PI work, but I wanted…

  “What the hell. Maybe you can.” He held his thoughts close for a minute, and then words tumbled from his mouth. “Tony and I hung out some. Grew up in the same neighborhood. I was dropping off some photos he’d commissioned and—” Mitch pressed the heels of his hands hard against his eyes “—I found him lying there. Body jammed between the sofa and the coffee table.”