a Touch of Ice

by L. j. Charles

  He wrapped his hands around his coffee cup, then pinned me with a look. “I cover a lot of different assignments in my work, some gruesome, but finding him like that—not good. When you suddenly appeared in the middle of that wave, it caught my attention. Gave my head a break from the memories.”

  I reached for his hand, stopped just short of touching him. He didn’t know about my fingertips, and that made my touch a huge trespass into his life. Yeah, I’d done it earlier. But this was different. It had become personal.

  He slid his empty cup across the table from hand to hand. “I haven’t been home yet. Spent the night at the police station, accounting for my time and activities—”

  I reached for his hand again, paused. What right did I have to intrude on his privacy? A civic duty to find out if he was a killer? To find out if my storyboard collage had something to do with his friend’s death? Yep, that made it okay. That and the rare surge of lust that turned my body into a helpless quiver. I shut down the lust, stopped thinking, and let my fingertips come to rest against the back of his hand. A hand that had touched the dead body, and that still held the imprint of the crime scene.

  It was nothing at all like touching his wrist. New images flashed across the surface of my mind.

  The body had a name. Tony. And Mitch didn’t kill him.

  Not a murderer.

  Against all common sense, I let my hand stay where it was. To offer comfort maybe? “It’ll help to talk about it, Mitch, especially to Violet. She’s the best PI in the business and can probably help you find the killer. You do plan on investigating, right?”

  It was a guess on my part, but I was spot on. Could see it in Mitch’s eyes. Yeah, this was a shameless ploy on my part to gather more information. But it would help him to talk about it. And if by some miracle the info would stop my nightmares, well, all the better. His hand was warm against my palm and the heat rushed all the way to my toes. They trembled.

  An inarticulate sound escaped his lips. “Obviously it’s on my mind, since I’m telling near strangers about the worst friggin’ night I can remember.”

  I gave his hand a gentle squeeze and kept my mouth shut.

  He jerked away from my touch and forked both hands through his hair, leaving it in raggedy spikes. “The cops said he killed himself, an overdose of some sort. Speculation on their part, since the tox screen hasn’t come through yet.”

  I caught my lip between my teeth. Best not to interrupt.

  He balanced on the back legs of his chair again and his fingers gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white. Suddenly he let go and slapped his hands over mine, pressing them firmly against the table. The chair landed flat with a sharp crack. “The thing is, I know it was murder.”

  Heat poured into my abdomen when his hands covered mine. From his touch? Or was it his intense need to be believed about the reference to murder?

  The man had good hands. Strong. Warm. Smooth, mixed with rough. I flexed my toes to keep them from curling. Who knew skin could be so fascinating?

  He broke contact.

  Lonely. Damn. I never feel lonely.

  And that’s when the vision hit me for the second time.

  “Is she…”

  “Everly?”

  “Maybe food…”

  Fragments of their conversation buzzed in my head, but I couldn’t focus. Couldn’t respond. I forced my eyes open only to be blinded by a flash of sunlight pouring through the half-open slats of the blinds. I slapped my hands over my face, and, oh, no. Did that groan come from me? There was movement next me. Violet closing the blinds. And then I inhaled the warm scent of cinnamon and slowly uncovered my eyes. They were both staring at me, concern etched on their faces.

  “Sorry.” I cleared the wobble from my throat. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I’m fine. It was a déjà vu moment. Took me by surprise.”

  Mitch raised an eyebrow. “Not buying it.”

  “It was another vision, wasn’t it?” Violet, completely ignoring my need for privacy about the weirdness going on in my life. Which was really strange because Violet never slipped up like that. Could keep a confidence better than anyone I’d ever met. Except this time. Must be she was more worried than she’d let on.

  “Same one.” No point trying to pretend now that she’d blabbed my darkest secret. “Me dying in my rocking chair, caught somewhere between current time and old age. And…the dead guy.”

  “You’re psychic? That’s what’s going on here? I know you’re not nuts. Too much intelligence behind the eyes for you to be mentally off.” Mitch pushed the muffin closer to me. “Eat. I hear visions are physically draining. Did a story on psychics in college.”

  Bloody hell, he believed in psychics. Maybe. Just because he knew stuff didn’t mean he believed. I sagged against the back of the chair, trying to get a read on his feelings. Not that I was clairvoyant or anything. More like kinesthetically odd, but maybe he’d accept—well, at least understand—my touch phenomenon. Even my parents never got it. Violet accepted it, trusted me, and I knew she’d back me up. But her work demanded a paper trail, one that could be followed in court, and my ESP fingers didn’t transfer well to legal documentation. “I’m not psychic. Not in the way most people think of it.”

  One heavy, brown eyebrow lifted in a perfect arch.

  “Really. I’m not. This vision thing happened for the first time yesterday in the middle of a client session, and I have no idea—”

  “You know exactly why, Everly Gray.” Violet nudged my foot under the table, a get-with-the-program warning. “You’ve explained it to me several times already this morning. It’s time for you to get out of the house and actually live your life.”

  Laughter twinkled behind Mitch’s eyes. “Don’t get out much, huh? Maybe I can help with that.”

  Embarrassment heated my chest, warmed my ears. Damn.

  “Couldn’t help but overhear your discussion with Violet about a potential apple pie. So happens it’s my favorite, too.” He tapped my coffee mug with his index finger. “And cinnamon. Another of your favorite things?”

  “Most definitely.” I lifted my shoulders in what I hoped was an aloof, sophisticated shrug. No point in denying my love for cinnamon since he watched me sprinkle it over the whipped cream topping my latte.

  “I have a source for homemade cinnamon ice cream. Bet it would go well with fresh apple pie.”

  Violet buried her grin with a sip of coffee, and gave my foot another nudge. Clearly I was supposed to invite him over for apple pie. Right. A first. My mouth, already primed with excitement at the idea of homemade cinnamon ice cream, spilled out a bunch of words. “Maybe we should get together and—”

  “Sounds like a plan. You work on Sunday?”

  “Sometimes. Not tomorrow.” Was that me? Agreeing to a date?

  “I’ll give you a call to set up a time.” He waited expectantly, fingers hovering over the keys. Violet rattled off my phone number before I could catch my breath. Smooth, Everly. Way to impress a guy with your tongue-tied sophistication.

  I had a date. With a man who knew about psychics. And dead bodies.

  Four

  Violet was perched on one of my high kitchen chairs, sunlight bouncing off the white walls and dancing on her blonde curls. Her fingers were busy drawing squigglies in the condensation on her glass of sweet tea. “Are you having another vision, or is that blank look because you’re lusting after Mitch’s body?”

  “Neither, actually.” I took a long swallow of my Diet Coke, stalling because there was an element of truth in the lust part of her question. I shook it off. “I agree with Mitch that Tony was murdered, and I want to help you find the killer.”

  Violet was going through one of those phases where she was determined to become southern in spite of her west-coast roots, so I wasn’t sure if her face was all wrinkled up because of the sweet tea, or if it had to do with our discussion. “Your participation is not an option.”

  She caught my glare. “It’s one of your f
ew attempts at socialization since you got out of college, and you can’t be delving into a murder. Sorry. Not gonna happen.”

  “I’m social. I talk with my clients every day, and it’s not like this is my first date.” There was a touch of lost to my voice. It sounded…wounded. Not good.

  “No, but I recall a conversation where you shuddered over the description of your high-school-slash-college memories. ‘Course you didn’t go into the particulars—but that guy last year. I remember you chasing him out of your house and down the street. Not what I would call successful socialization skills.”

  Regret and a hollow ache slammed into my chest. “Perverted fantasies. He could have made a fortune directing porn movies. After him, I figured it wouldn’t ever be possible for me to have a—quote—normal relationship. I touch a guy and get zapped with stuff he’s done. Know that he only wants to hang with me for short-term sex.

  Mitch is different, but not. I mean, he thinks about sex, but there’s respect there, too. And how many people meet over a dead body? Isn’t it usually a water cooler or copier? Or worse, a martini bar. And they dance around each other, exploring behavior patterns, interest levels. All that before they even do lunch. Mitch and I were drop-kicked into intense emotion as soon as I touched him.”

  “I get that, El. It was, what, a week before you told me about your gift? I don’t remember, but it rocked my world. If I hadn’t done the background check—”

  “We wouldn’t be friends. I know, and I’m grateful for your, let’s call it, attention to detail. You probably would have moved away if you didn’t know how innocent I look on paper.”

  “Would have considered it, but it’s tough to reject someone who proves her gift by saving a life.” After six years, her voice still held a grateful tone.

  “I didn’t. The universe did. You know how I feel about there being no coincidences.” I couldn’t stop a grin. “What was it you said after I told you he had a gun? Something about turning pale?”

  “That zombie gray wasn’t your color, I think. Can’t remember. The important part was that I reacted in time to flatten the abusive bastard and relieve him of his weapon.”

  I shuddered, the memory still neon vivid. “He planned to kill her, Violet. That little bit of a thing who only wanted you to get her to a safe house.”

  “Yeah. Missed that one. But I see what you mean by no coincidences. She grabbed his jacket by mistake, you fingered the rip in the leather…but back to topic, ESP fingers or not, you aren’t going to chase after a killer.”

  Best to sidetrack her with an agreeable comment. “Right. I think Mitch is different from the average guy. Probably all Pollyanna of me, but he knows about psychics, which I’m not, exactly. But still, he’ll understand why I can’t touch him.”

  “No man, ever, is going to go along with that plan, El. You know better.”

  “Yeah, well. It has to be that way. At least until I know he cares about my brain as much as he cares about his penis.”

  Sweet tea sputtered from Violet’s lips. “Seriously? The best you can hope for with that comparison is a toss up. Unless, ohmygod. You’re already half in love with him.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I try and love everyone. We’re all part of the same energy, connected, but then when I touch people it blows my good intentions into the deepest part of hell. Hey, isn’t there a song that goes like that: just one touch…” I sang as I sliced the Granny Smiths into a pie shell.

  “I see where that can be a problem.” Violet shrugged away the silence. “I gave up on loving people a long time ago. Comes with being a PI and always bumping into the worst traits of humanity. But it’s so good when I can fix things and make life better for people. Same reason you don’t give up on coaching.”

  “True.” I couldn’t stop my grin. “And in just a few hours, I’ll be feeding Mitchell Hunt, photographer, a superb apple pie and plying him with questions.”

  “Nope. Bad plan. As far as questions go, I’m the one he hired and PI trumps date. Besides, I still haven’t forgiven you for not immediately telling me about the image of the DB you picked up when you touched Mitch.”

  The kitchen was filled with the scent of hot oven and fresh-cut apples. I popped a bite in my mouth, savoring the tart flavor. “How could I? He was standing right there. So, moot point, and I want to focus on the date thing. Remember, you’re talking to a woman in the prime of her sexuality, who’s been without any possibility of a relationship for forever. I’m way out of practice, make that, I’ve had little to no practice whatsoever, so questioning him will be my lifeline. If I’m thinking about murder, it’s unlikely I’ll hop into bed with him before I realize what’s happened.”

  “Go for the man-woman thing. The murder is—”

  “I know. I know. But somebody has to find the killer, and unless I want to end up in that rocking—”

  “We’re all going to end up in a rocking chair, or…well, whatever. That somebody definitely isn’t you.”

  “Wrong. That somebody is me since my curiosity seems to have volunteered for the job, and I’m the one with ESP fingers. Wanna help me catch a killer?”

  “No I do not want to help you catch a killer. I work alone. You may not have noticed, but people who catch killers are trained in all kinds of stuff, and they don’t spend most of their lives hiding out at home. I have some experience with the criminal element, and I know, for a fact, you have to go out in the world on a fairly regular basis to be a successful killer catcher.”

  I took the glass of sweet tea out of her hand and replaced it with a can of soda. Dumped the tea down the drain and went back to slicing apples. “I agree. Trouble is, the universe has a totally different plan. Besides you didn’t see the body or feel Mitch’s pain. And you haven’t—”

  “I’m trained. And I’m good at my work, El.” She tipped the soda can in my direction. “To reiterate. You’re not.”

  I stabbed the tip of the knife into an apple, dragged it toward me. I couldn’t argue with that, but how much, exactly, should I share with her?

  “Hey, you in there?” Violet took the apple out of my hand and started slicing.

  “Yeah. I’m here.”

  “Well, your face is doing that blue-white thing again. What’s going on?”

  “I have to do this.” I looked at Violet. Her forehead was creased and a ghost of apprehension clouded her eyes. Okay. Deep breath, Everly. “I need you to understand. When I touched Mitch, when I saw Tony’s body, something snapped in me.”

  “Snapped?” The furrows in Violet’s brow deepened. “Everly Gray, what the hell’s the matter with you?”

  I shook my head, impatient. “Not bad snapped. Good snapped, I think. If fear can be called good. I mean, seriously, there was a warning, a threat in that vision. A reason why old-woman me was filled with regret. She didn’t speak for the dead body, didn’t do anything to find his killer. I am so not going to be her.”

  “Little scary, El. Maybe a vacation would help, a few days on a tropical island with sun, surf, and umbrella cocktails. What do you think?”

  I scraped my chair back and stood. “Vacation later. Killer now. I better get this mess cleaned up so I have time for a shower before Mitch gets here.”

  “Have you considered that chasing down this murderer will give you more nightmares, not make them go away? I get that Mitchell Hunt has potential. Heck, I about drooled when I saw him. But honestly, El, you don’t have to catch his friend’s killer to have a relationship with him.”

  “I know. I think this is something I have to do no matter what happens with Mitch. It’s one of those prickly neck things.”

  “No. This is not a prickly neck thing. A prickly neck thing would be telling you to stay the hell away from dead bodies.”

  I shrugged it off. “Probably you’re right. Shoo.” I waved my hands toward the door. “I need time to prepare for my date.”

  The deep, sexy rumble assaulted my ears and shattered the peace of the quiet cul-de-sac I call home. Bar
efoot, mind focused on domesticity and the apple pie, I had no room in my world for the harsh reality of a…motorcycle? I jogged to the window and peeked around the blinds. The bike, all sleek and powerful, pulled into my driveway, the roar switching to abrupt silence as Mitch cut the engine.

  He eased from the seat, his movements smooth, filled with the strength and grace of an athlete. Damn it. I wasn’t prepared for this. The world famous photographer, who could probably afford some kind of overkill Mercedes, had arrived at my house on a motorcycle. He took off his helmet, and ran his fingers through those sun-kissed curls as he jogged up my front steps.

  I bounced downstairs, my breath coming in short pants, more like a puppy than an adult woman. First date nerves. No time to think about it. I swung the door open, gave him a, “Hi,” and a grin, and then headed for the bike. “I’m stunned. This is really something, and wow—”

  “You’re saying you like my bike?”

  I turned, bumped into his chest. Heat flooded my cheeks as his arms wrapped around me, steadying me. Trapped between a man and his bike. Hot flash. “Yeah, I do. It’s…unexpected.”

  He took his sweet time before stepping back and giving me enough space to catch my breath. “I’ll take you for a ride, but we need to get the ice cream in your freezer first.”

  “Ice cream?”

  “I promised cinnamon ice cream to go with the apple pie.” Could his grin get any more mischievous? He reached around me and removed a small cooler from the pack on the back of the bike.

  We brushed shoulders a couple times on the way inside. Playful. Friendly. I kept my fingers to myself and focused on the ice cream as I led the way upstairs to my living space. The scent of fresh-baked apple pie filled the air, and Mitch’s stomach grumbled. “Smells great, El. You have a scoop for the ice cream?”

  I pointed to a drawer while I sliced generous wedges of pie. “In there. Flat, silver, like in a Cold Stone Creamery.”

  He located the scoop and watched me, still, silent, his eyes holding mine in a gentle hug that somehow spoke an entire conversation. A tacit decision not to talk about Tony or the murder. This time was for us. Separate from the chaos surrounding us.