by Anna Durand
But she wasn't just anyone. She never had been. When he called her strong, he meant more than her psychic abilities. She could handle almost anything the world threw at her.
He still worried. She'd been through too much already.
Every time she treated him like a stranger, he wanted to smash the nearest breakable object. Anger had never been an issue for him before. Although he had his moments, like anyone else, in general he maintained his calm no matter the situation. When Tesler shot him up with a homemade drug cocktail, or when the guards manhandled him like a sack of grain, he kept his cool. Each time he visited Grace and butted up against the wall of her mistrust, he lost his temper. He hated it.
She trusted him, whether she realized it or not. Deep down in the place where her memories were sequestered, she knew the reasons why she trusted him. If only those memories would break free, everything would be fine.
Probably.
It would be fine. He had to believe that her memory would return and things would go back to normal, because he couldn't accept the alternative. That she might never remember. That she might push him away — physically, psychically, emotionally — for good this time.
The thought made his gut twist and his jaw clench.
He refused to accept the possibility. Whether she embraced him or tossed him out the door, she needed to reclaim her memories. Amnesia seemed to have stripped her of the power she innately possessed, or at least it had suppressed that power. Without it, she was far too vulnerable. And the next time she got herself into trouble, he couldn't guarantee he'd be around to protect her.
Not that he'd excelled at protecting her so far, as she'd helpfully pointed out to him a few minutes ago.
He would do better. He must.
Grace drummed her fingers on her knees. "You're lying. My parents would not hold people hostage in the desert."
"I know that. The darker side of the project emerged only after Christine and Mark died. That's when someone else took over the project."
"Who?"
"I don't know. He never shows himself because he prefers to control things through his minions."
"Like Xavier Waldron."
He shrugged. "I don't know all of them."
Grace stared at him for a moment. Her cheeks were faintly pink, her eyes a little red. Half-moon shadows darkened the skin under her eyes. Her lips looked a touch pale too. She was exhausted, physically and mentally. If she didn't get some rest —
Here came the hard part. Somehow he must convince her to believe the one thing she seemed utterly incapable of accepting right now.
"No," she said, as if she'd heard his thoughts. Then she shook her head so emphatically that her hair flopped around her face. "It makes no sense. Why would my parents study psychic stuff?"
"Because," he said, "they wanted to help you understand your powers."
"That's ridiculous. I never had any power until — "
Her expression went blank. Her mouth fell open as her eyes widened.
Ah-hah. The triumph flooding through him must've shown on his face, because she clamped her mouth shut. Her expression tightened into a scowl.
"You've used your powers," he said. "Recently."
She held still and silent. Her scowl melted into a look of distress, as if she'd just committed a terrible crime by accident. The triumphant feeling flooded out of him as quickly as it had arrived.
He laid his hand over hers. "What happened?"
She bit her lip, bowing her head.
He squeezed her hand. "You used your powers, didn't you?"
"Yes," she whispered. "I tricked a nice old man into selling me his car for twenty bucks." The words now tumbled out in a rush. "I needed a car but I couldn't risk using my credit card to rent one and I didn't have enough money to buy one so I practically stole one instead. From an old man."
"Maybe he was happy to sell his car to a beautiful woman for twenty dollars."
She shook her head and sniffled. "I made him believe it was five thousand dollars."
A drop of water fell onto his hand. No, it was a tear.
He hooked his finger under her chin and lifted her head until their eyes met. She averted her gaze.
"It's okay," he said, rubbing his thumb across her chin. "You had no choice."
"You're wrong," she said. "It's not okay. I used a psychic power — thought projection, I guess — to manipulate an innocent person. I'm evil."
He almost laughed, though he felt nothing close to mirth. Evil was the last word he would ever use to describe her.
"Look at me," he said.
She didn't.
He tapped his thumb on her chin. "Please."
Slowly, she turned her eyes to look at him. Tears overflowed her now-bloodshot eyes.
Releasing her chin, he wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumb. No more spilled from her eyes, but she still looked stricken. It made his heart ache.
"If you were evil," he told her in a soft voice, "then you wouldn't have any qualms about bending others to your will. I'm sure when this is all over, you'll find a way to make it up to the old man."
She sniffled. "I thought I'd return the car, secretly, with a wad of cash in the glove compartment."
He snatched a tissue from the box on the bedside table and handed it to her. "That proves it. You are not evil."
She took the tissue, blew her nose, and tossed the wadded-up tissue into the nearby trash can. Leaning closer, he kissed her forehead.
"Are you sure about that?" she asked.
"Positive." He kissed the tip of her nose. "You're not evil."
Her cheeks were distinctly pink now. Her eyes were dry, though red.
She gave him a slight smile. "Neither are you. Evil, I mean."
The flush of triumph cascaded through him again, stronger this time, infused with a nearly overwhelming desire to pull her into his arms and never let go. Unlike the first time, the triumphant feeling stemmed not from smug satisfaction that he'd been right, but rather from an ecstatic relief that she had just told him, in her own way, that she trusted him.
Maybe she hadn't declared her undying devotion to him, but it was a start. More than that, though, it was …
Hope.
She gazed into his blue eyes, feeling a bit mesmerized. They didn't glow, as they often did when he first came to her. She wanted to ask him about the fiery-eyes thing, but her voice refused to work. Her body felt paralyzed and tense, though in a strangely pleasant way, infused with a tingling anticipation.
David flipped the atlas shut. He picked it up and tossed it onto the bedside table.
His gaze never wavered from hers.
She felt a tightening deep inside her, a yearning for something so close yet out of reach — until this moment. Right now, what she wanted sat inches away from her. From the first time she saw him, she had wanted to trust him, to take comfort from him, to touch him.
He stretched out a hand, laying his palm on her cheek. Still, she couldn't move. He slid his hand into her hair, around the back of her head, and drew her closer as he leaned forward. His lips met hers, softly at first, then harder.
Fire swept through her body. Her eyes closed.
He deepened the kiss, sliding his hand down her neck. His other arm wrapped around her, pulling her against him. She slipped her arms around his neck and abandoned herself to the kiss.
Time seemed to stop. She heard nothing except the thundering of her own pulse.
His lips pulled away from hers. His embrace loosened just a little.
She felt a little woozy, but somehow she managed to open her eyes.
He watched her, his brow slightly furrowed.
"What's wrong?" she asked. Her voice came out as a throaty whisper, but at least it worked this time.
"Doesn't it bother you," he said, "that I'm
not actually here?"
Maybe it should have. It didn't, which probably should've bothered her even more. Right now, she felt nothing except warmth, anticipation, and total security.
Reaching down, she picked up the hem of his T-shirt and raised it to expose his abdomen. Muscular, just as she'd imagined, though not in a freaky bodybuilder way. As she lifted the shirt higher, she laid one hand on his chest. Then she met his gaze and said, "Feels to me like you're here."
He exhaled an uneven sigh.
She laid both hands on his chest, tracing circles with her palms
The worry vacated his face in an instant, replaced by a sensual smile. He stripped off his shirt and pulled her tight against him. Her shirt went next, fluttering to the floor. The remainder of their clothing followed suit quickly. They kissed again, and again, as their hands explored each other. The kisses grew more passionate, the touching more intimate, until their bodies melded. Pleasure swirled through her, intensifying with each passing moment, until it sent her soaring out of herself, into a vast field of stars. The sensation of flying pushed her over the edge, and she felt him go with her.
By the time she drifted back into herself, a barrier had broken inside her mind. Memories flooded through her on the final crest of pleasure.
She remembered him.
Her body felt languid, relaxed. Her mind sank into a light slumber.
The jostling of the bed roused her. She parted her eyelids just enough to see David sitting near the foot of the bed, already half clothed. He was pulling on his T-shirt. The lamplight dimmed as it neared the foot of the bed, leaving swathes of shadow where David sat.
The bedside clock told her she'd slept for about ten minutes. Her mind felt fuzzy, her mouth cottony. Yet her body still felt deliciously languid.
Sitting up, she drew the sheet up to cover her chest.
David, now fully clothed, turned to look at her. He smiled almost shyly.
For a moment, she'd remembered him — not in the sense of recalling how they'd met or when he'd proposed to her, but in the sense of knowing him on a visceral level. Everything he'd told her about their relationship was true. The luxury of doubt had evaporated along with, apparently, her self-control. A blush fired up in her cheeks. What they'd just done …
She pushed the memory aside and said, "Why bother getting dressed? I mean, can't you just will your clothes to be on you again?"
"It doesn't work that way. Manifested or not, it's still clothing." He tugged the hem of his shirt. "You have to handle it like real clothes."
"Damn. It would've been so convenient to able to create my own clothes like — " She swept her hand up through the air, ending the gesture with a flourish. " — like whoosh."
His smile broadened. He chuckled softly. "Sorry to disappoint you."
Oh no, she was not disappointed. Not in any way.
He slid across the bed toward her. The lamplight spilled across his features.
Her chest tightened. Dark circles under his eyes. A pallor beneath his skin.
Dropping the sheet, she grasped his face in both hands. "Are you all right?"
He shrugged. "Running out of energy, that's all."
She studied his eyes, which looked dull and tired.
"I'll be fine," he said, taking her hands in his. "But I have to go. I'm sorry."
She wanted him to stay. Forever. "I understand."
He kissed her right hand, then her left. "I love you."
Her entire body stiffened. "What?"
Her voice came out sounding hard. For a second, she thought it wasn't her voice at all. But it was. She tried to summon an emotion, any emotion. Nothing came to her. She felt cold and empty, like the void of space.
Soaring into a void. Stars all around.
I love you.
She yanked her hands free. "Don't say that."
He said nothing. His eyes had taken on a glassy quality. A single drop of sweat rolled down his temple.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled, his voice weak.
His body jerked.
"David?"she said.
He sat immobile, silent, deathly pale.
Oh God. He was dying.
A chill crashed over him, like a wave of arctic water. Everything he'd felt tonight — joy, passion, contentment, and finally regret — fizzled out in a heartbeat as soul-drenching weariness pervaded every molecule of his body.
No. Not yet.
The regret niggled at him, a remote and disconnected sensation. He didn't regret what had happened with Grace. He regretted blurting out the three words most likely to make her flee in the opposite direction as fast as she could. For a moment she'd trusted him. For a moment they'd connected. It had been perfect — until he screwed it all up by telling her the one truth she couldn't yet handle. What the devil had he been thinking?
Another chill inundated him. The call to return tugged at his essence. He could ignore it for a few minutes more, ten at most.
"I have to go," he said, unable to keep the weariness from infiltrating his voice.
She nodded, her expression unreadable. "You should go then."
He didn't want to go, but his wishes could not overcome a lack of energy. When he fell back into his body, the real one, he'd sleep whether he wanted to or not.
"Where will you go?" he asked.
She looked at the window, seemingly focused on the folds in the drapes.
A deep sense of foreboding crept into him. It cinched tight around his heart.
He couldn't say why, but he glanced at the bedside table. The road atlas lay there, its cover shut. She'd been studying the map when he first arrived. He picked up the atlas, dropped it onto the bed between them, and flipped it open to the page marked by a disposable pen.
Grace let out a soft grunt of surprise.
Gazing down at the atlas page, David felt the ominous sensation grow stronger. It was a map of California. A circle of black ink marked a spot in the desert. Reston, the text said.
Something deep inside him twisted into big, hard knots that burned him like fire.
"Where are you going?" he demanded.
She looked confused for a second, but then she said, "California."
The need to leave tugged harder. He fought the pull.
"Are you insane?" he said. "That's the last place on earth you should go. Get as far away from California as you can. Go to South America, I don't care, just stay away from Reston."
She got that look on her face, the one he knew meant she would do the exact opposite of whatever he told her to do.
The tug strengthened. Soon, he wouldn't be able to ignore it anymore. Christ, he couldn't leave yet. He must convince her, and make certain she would stay the hell away from the facility.
Grace slapped a hand down on the map. "I will do whatever I please, without or without your permission."
"Please listen — "
"Go to hell."
He had just enough power left to do one thing, though given his swiftly depleting energy level, he couldn't be certain how long the effect would last. No other options were viable. He must try this, and pray that desperation imbued the effect with more punch.
"I thought you were leaving," Grace said. "Or do I have to push you out again?"
"No," he assured her. If she did that again, it just might kill him, but he'd keep that information to himself. "I'll go."
He grasped her shoulders and bent close to whisper in her ear. "I'm sorry for this, but it's all I can do."
Before she could respond, he did it. The last bit of energy pulsed out of him into her. She gasped. Her stunned expression lasted only a second, and then she passed out.
He caught her as she slumped backward and settled her limp body onto the mattress, placing her head on the pillow. Rising from the bed, he pulled the sheets up to cover her. Stray hairs ha
d fallen across her face. He brushed them away. She looked peaceful, innocent, safe. Maybe the first two applied. The last one, however, was nothing but an illusion. When she woke up, she'd be angry with him. She might never speak to him again. If his actions kept her alive, he would gladly accept the blame.
The energy was gone. He felt himself melting as the molecules that gave him form lost their cohesion, scattering into the air.
No choice now. He must go.
His vision went black. The tether pulled him backward, through a field of star-like lights, down a tunnel of blackness, and back into his body.
In the instant before he plummeted into sleep, he had time for a single thought.
She's going to die.
Chapter Nineteen
The interstate stretched out ahead of her through miles of desolation. Tumbleweeds danced across the road like ghosts of the towns and people who'd once populated the countryside during the frontier days. Few humans lived out here these days. Aside from a coyote that dashed across the road in front of her, she saw no signs of life.
Grace had woken up in the motel room, alone and wearing nothing but a sheet. Six hours had elapsed while she slumbered in a state of rest she felt certain David had forced on her. How, she didn't have a clue. Why, she could guess. To keep her away from the facility.
As if she had a choice anymore. She must go there.
He'd made her so angry, ordering her to run off to South America or wherever. Running would do her no good anyway, since her invisible stalker could apparently find her anywhere. Why wasn't the creep here now to torment her when she was at her weakest?
David had run out of energy. It forced him to stop using his psychic abilities, at least temporarily. He mentioned that the things he did required an enormous amount of energy. After she projected her thoughts into the mind of Leroy Bevins, she'd experienced a crash too. Maybe her stalker dealt with the same downside. If so, their common weakness might give her an opening.
She needed every advantage available to her, especially after she'd lost six hours on a forced nap. Whatever David had done to her, it knocked her out good. When she first woke up, she was so angry with him she wanted to manifest right next to his hospital bed just so she could slug him. After a couple hours on the road, though, she'd lost the anger. Fear crept back in, inspiring morbid thoughts about what David's captors might be doing to him. If they found out his IV was disconnected, if they knew he'd visited her, they might get very, very upset.