Trace's Psychic

by Jory Strong

  The blood pounded in Trace’s head and cock. Her response was an aphrodisiac. “Don’t come on my leg, baby,” he whispered, daring himself to give in to some of his darker fantasies. “I’ll punish you if you do.”

  Aislinn stilled for a heartbeat. The desire to dominate radiated from Trace and was answered from deep within her by the need to submit. It was the same beguilement she’d felt when she first met him, the desire that made her want to be completely mastered by her mate.

  She rubbed the warmed crystal of her earring over his lips, enticing him. When he stroked his tongue along the skin just below the delicate butterfly she jerked against him, pressing and rubbing her clit against his thigh in time to the wet lashes of his tongue.

  A thrill shot through Trace at her reaction to his words. His cock throbbed. His balls were tight and heavy in anticipation.

  She was close to coming. Trace freed one of his hands from Aislinn’s hips and lifted it to her other ear, teasing the ultra-sensitive tip with his fingers.

  The dual-attack on her erogenous zone was more than Aislinn could stand. Unable to stop the frantic pumping of her body, she whimpered with each strike of her clit against his thigh, until finally she sobbed in release.

  Trace lifted her higher against his body, fighting the urge to plunge into her when she wrapped her legs around him and pressed her hot little body fully against his. She was still shivering from orgasm as he pushed the shower door open, intent on getting her to the bedroom.

  His mind raced with what he wanted to do to her, how he’d carry out his threat of punishment. But as soon as he stepped out of the bathroom he was assailed by the sound of ringing. Like a bad two-part melody, the telephone in his bedroom jarred against the chime of his cell.

  Shit. It had to be urgent.

  Chapter Six

  “Why me?” Conner muttered as he dropped the receiver back into its cradle and stared morosely at the notes—or lack thereof—that he’d taken while talking to the reporter.

  Miguel looked up from his desk. “Dead end? “

  “Probably. She’s willing to meet me—off the record.”

  Miguel snorted. “Serves you right for being the Captain’s pet on this one. You didn’t see him asking me to the press conference.”

  Conner ripped the top piece of paper off his notepad, crushed it into a ball, and tossed it at his partner. Miguel dodged it and Conner said, “If you’re feeling left out, you can come with me and talk to the reporter.”

  Miguel laughed. “No can do. I’ve got an appointment with a psychic.”

  “What!”

  Miguel shrugged. “It’s not like we have any other hot leads right now. Might as well talk to some other psychics. Get their take on Dean. Right now we only have Aislinn’s and the Morrisons’. They’re all too close to the case. Maybe professional jealousy led to Dean’s murder. Won’t know until we ask around.”

  There was a long moment of silence. “Shit. Tell me you’re not starting to buy into this stuff,” Conner finally said.

  “You’ve met Aislinn. You want to explain what happened up in interrogation with the glove?”

  Conner shook his head. “Shit. If she’s a con, she’s a smooth one, and Trace is in trouble. Hell, we’re all in trouble.”

  Miguel rose from his chair. “Yeah, the sooner we can get this case put away, the better.”

  * * * * *

  By the time Conner got to the park, he felt edgy and pissed. This was a fucking waste of time.

  He could already recite how this conversation with Khemirra Reis was going to go down.

  Why’d you suggest that the Morrisons contact Patrick Dean?

  I’m sorry, the First Amendment covers that information.

  Yeah, I understand that. But maybe you know something that could help us solve the Dean murder. Since you sent the Morrisons that way and Dean ended up dead as a result, maybe you can overlook citing the First Amendment in the interest of some justice for the psychic.

  I’m not responsible for Patrick Dean’s death. I’m sorry he was murdered, but I can’t share information with you.

  Then she’d go on about reporters’ integrity while Conner did a slow boil and only barely managed to keep from finding a reason to cuff her and take her downtown so she could hang out in a jail cell full of lowlifes. Maybe that would give her a change of attitude about bad guys and why she should protect them.

  Conner rubbed his neck and tried to let some of the tension go as he wandered through the park entrance. There were a handful of women watching as small children tossed pieces of bread to a loud collection of ducks and geese. Other than that, the place was quiet, and despite his mood, Conner couldn’t completely fight off the tranquil nature of the park.

  Damn, he needed to get to the mountain cabin his folks had and just hang out for a while. No phones. No noise except for what belonged in the woods. It’d been too long. When this case was over he was going to take some time off, even if he had to go without female companionship. He’d never taken a woman to the cabin. The place was his private retreat, his den, unless other members of his family were crashing there, then it was just a hell of a good time.

  Conner’s mind skittered to Aislinn. Too bad Trace had already staked a claim on her. There was something about Aislinn that fired off some pretty vivid domination fantasies. He shook his head. Who was he kidding? He liked a little more fire, a little more fight, in his women. Trace had always gone for that, too, though he wasn’t averse to fucking long-legged, big-boobed bimbos, either. Until now.

  Conner grinned. From the looks of it Trace was walking around with an almost constant hard-on. Who’d have guessed that Trace would fall so hard for someone as soft and in need of protection as Aislinn? Christ, and she came with all that psychic bullshit, too. He shook his head.

  It didn’t matter how good a fuck the woman was, how hard she made his dick or how much he enjoyed her company, he was not getting involved with anyone who had anything to do with supernatural shit. No way.

  The path opened up and Conner spotted the reporter he’d been ordered by the Captain to interview. He was several steps away when she rose from the bench and sent his blood roaring south.

  Midnight hair surrounded a face that was both feminine and strong. Dark jeans and a dark top molded like a second skin to a body that was lithe and sleekly muscled. But it was the eyes that drew Conner’s attention. Brown so light that they were almost amber. Wolf eyes, like he’d seen once when he was a day’s hike away from the cabin.

  His immediate instinct was to push her to her knees and mount her.

  The amber eyes widened slightly, as did her nostrils, giving Conner the impression that she was scenting him. He moved in, too close to be polite, but he couldn’t help himself. She moved back in a familiar dance that had nothing to do with personal space and everything to do with the press and retreat that came before mating.

  “You must be Conner,” she said in a voice that was slightly husky, a voice that ran the length of Conner’s spine and curled around to cup his balls.

  “And you’re Khemirra.”

  She nodded and retreated further, to the other side of the bench. Conner wanted to follow, to stalk her around the park if he needed to—and not just to get the information he came for.

  He indicated the bench. “You want to sit and talk or do this standing?”

  A pink tongue darted along the seam of her lips, drawing Conner’s attention to them. This time it was his nostrils that flared, him that wanted to scent her, to taste her. “I’d rather walk if that’s okay with you,” she said.

  “Sure, fine.”

  She looked over her shoulder and Conner got the impression that she was watching for someone and it didn’t have anything to do with him. He tested the waters. “Afraid of being seen talking to a cop?”

  Khemirra’s eyes jerked back to Conner, but she relaxed. The shift in stance seemed natural enough to him, but he couldn’t be sure that it wasn’t forced. “You wanted to tal
k about the Morrison kidnapping and the Dean murder,” she said.

  “Yeah, the Morrisons were good enough to come to the police department. They said you were the one who suggested they give Dean a call. Why was that?”

  She pulled away, put several more inches between them and Conner found that he didn’t like that. He grabbed her arm and pulled her close. Their bodies brushed against each other and her amber eyes widened, then narrowed. “It was just a suggestion. They were desperate and I wanted to help.”

  “Why Dean?” Conner growled. “There are plenty of other psychics you could have suggested.”

  She surprised Conner by furrowing her brow as though she was considering his question and thinking about answering it. He loosened his grip but didn’t take his fingers from her arm.

  Fuck, he could feel the heat radiating off her. His cock tightened at the image of sweat-slick bodies sliding against each other.

  Conner grinned. Her cunt would probably burn him alive.

  As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, Khemirra eased away again, this time stopping and turning slightly so that they could look at each other. Conner forced his mind back to the reason he was here. Yeah. He wanted to get this case put to bed. Then he wanted to bed this reporter.

  Khemirra’s brows were still furrowed as she said, “I ran into a couple of reporters at Starbucks. They were swapping stories about other kidnappings and how they’d ended. Everyone was worried about finding the child in time. Somehow the conversation rolled around to psychics, I think the reporter from Channel 6 said that his mother was a big believer in psychics and maybe the Morrisons should see one. Another reporter chimed in and said he’d been on the crime beat when the cops had hauled in a couple of psychics for fraud. Someone else, I think it was the reporter from the Times, said he’d done a piece on a man named Patrick Dean who actually seemed to have some things going for him. Dean’s was the only name that came up, I guess that’s why I mentioned it to the Morrisons.”

  “Do you remember which Times reporter mentioned Dean?”

  Khemirra shook her head. “I don’t remember his name. He was older. Gray hair and bushy eyebrows. He wore glasses. Wire-rimmed, I think.”

  A picture flashed into Conner’s mind. It had to be the same guy. He’d been front and center at the police department press conference.

  Khemirra’s nostrils flared slightly and she cast a quick glance toward the wooded area to their left. “That’s all I can tell you,” she said, this time pulling away and breaking the hold that Conner had on her arm. “I’ve got to run. I hope you find Patrick’s killer.” She backed several steps then turned and broke into a smooth, unhurried lope.

  Instinct demanded that Conner chase after her. But reason urged him to hold off. His first duty was to the case.

  Still, he watched her until she disappeared. He stayed long enough to ensure that no threat exited the woods and followed her.

  Yeah. He’d help put this case to bed, after that he’d find out what had her looking over her shoulder. Then he’d pull her underneath him and feel her hot skin against his as he pounded in and out of her.

  * * * * *

  “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Professor Lisalli,” Storm said, barely able to take her eyes off the set of gorgeous male buns that preceded her into a tight, cluttered office. The fact that several coeds waiting in chairs at the doorway also turned infatuated stares at Lisalli didn’t escape Storm’s notice. Damn! Maybe if there’d been professors like this when she was thinking about careers… Wow. The only thing better than the view from behind was the view from the front.

  A throat being cleared forced Storm’s eyes away from the bulge in the professor’s jeans. “Call me Tristan,” he said, eyes gleaming with something that might have been interest…or more likely, amusement at having caught her in the act of ogling him.

  Shit. Storm felt the blood rush to her face. A couple of days hanging out with the Macho Squad and her hormones were going crazy.

  She busied herself by opening the file folder containing Aislinn’s designs and removing a paper that she’d created by photocopying and cutting so that it contained only script. Offering the page to Tristan, she said, “As I mentioned over the phone, this isn’t part of an official police investigation. In the course of doing some background work, I came across this script and was hoping you’d be able to identify its origin.”

  Tristan took the paper from her and because she was focused so intently on his face—still having trouble believing that someone this gorgeous was a professor of ancient history, culture, and language—Storm saw the slight widening of his eyes before his gaze shifted away from Aislinn’s script and back to her. “By background work, do you mean on a person of interest to the department?” he asked.

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  His mouth quirked upward in a smile that had Storm’s heart racing. Damn, he was sexy. Unfortunately, he knew it.

  “I’ll need to study this script a bit before I can comment on its origins,” Tristan said. “I trust you have the originals elsewhere and this is my copy to keep.”

  Irritation rushed through Storm. He knew something but he wasn’t telling. “Anything you can give me now would be appreciated, even if it’s just a broad guess,” she pushed.

  Tristan smiled slightly. “I’m sure I’d be preaching to the choir if I told you that the more information that’s available for solving a mystery, the faster the mystery gets solved. Right now I have only a page full of text that was probably cut and pasted from its original source by the look of it, but nothing else to go on.”

  Storm wanted to scream. She could spend weeks trying to hunt down someone else who might or might not be able to help her. Her gut told her that she didn’t have weeks.

  She studied the professor for a long moment before allowing her eyes to wander around his office while she tried to figure out what she could tell him. She was in uniform, which was in her favor. Detectives always wore street clothes, so there was no reason for him to connect her with the murder investigation.

  Her eyes settled on his bookcase. Despite the general clutter in his office, his books seemed to be grouped by category. Greek and Roman Mythology. Inca and Aztec gods and religious ceremonies. Other cultures, some of which Storm recognized, most she didn’t. They held zero interest for her. Vampires. Werewolves. Fairies. Elves.

  Her heartbeat quickened and a smile threatened. Maybe she should sign up for one of his classes. She collected old books on fairies. She’d been known to spend a month’s paycheck on an old, hand-illustrated children’s book featuring the fey creatures.

  Her love of that particular fantasy entity was the one secret she kept from everyone but Sophie. Not that she believed that fairies existed, but she wanted to, which was something Sophie understood, since she believed in all her crystals.

  Sighing Storm turned back to Tristan. She’d never be able to pull off a complete lie, so she tried to stay close enough to the truth. She schooled her features into a dead serious cop look.

  “I’m investigating a potential con artist. The text was found in this person’s possession. Right now I’m trying to determine if this person is running a con, or whether they actually believe in—” her gaze flickered over to the professor’s collection of books, “—in certain psychic phenomena.”

  Tristan’s chuckle brought her attention back to his face. It wasn’t the reaction she’d expected.

  “Very politically correct of you,” he said before his smile slipped away. “I take it that you’re skeptical?”

  Storm shrugged away her desire to explore the conversation further with him. Focus. She needed to focus on why she was here. “What can you tell me about the script?”

  “It’s Celtic in origin, ancient. I’ve seen something like it before. Offhand I’d say it’s authentic. But I’d need to study it further in order to verify that and interpret what it says.” He smiled slightly. “As you no doubt noticed, the script is elaborate and
difficult. Though I’m no expert on the criminal mind, I’d think that most con artists wouldn’t need to master something so complex in order to defraud their victims.”

  Some of the tension eased out of Storm’s body. The scene at the station, with her telling the macho men that Aislinn was for real, had played itself over and over in her mind as she’d driven here. She’d dreaded having to go back to them and admit that she’d been taken in by a con.

  “Thank you for your assistance, Professor.”

  “Tristan.”

  She smiled at his correction. “Tristan.”

  “I’d like to meet the author of this script,” he said.

  A momentary wave of panic washed over Storm. She temporized. “Maybe at some point in the future.”

  “Of course. The less attention that’s drawn to this psychic, the better—at least until the Dean murderer has been caught.”

  Storm stiffened at his words and saw a flash of triumph in Tristan’s eyes. Damn! How had he guessed?

  As if he’d read her mind, he said, “I caught the news this morning. You photograph well.” When she frowned, he added, “You were in an unmarked police car arriving at Dean’s house. It was just a quick shot, but I’ve got a photographic memory.”

  “This has nothing to do with the Dean case,” Storm lied.

  Once again Tristan gave a small half-smile. “Of course.” Then his expression grew serious. “As I said, the less attention drawn to the author of your script, the better, especially if the killer is serious about eliminating true talent.”

  A knock sounded, followed immediately by a coed opening the office door and peeking in. “Oh, sorry, I thought maybe you’d forgotten our appointment.” Her flushed face was a dead giveaway that she had a crush on her professor.

  Storm raised her eyebrows and said, “Thanks for your help. Again. I’ll let you get back to your…academic duties.”

  With a wry expression Tristan said in a low murmur, “Leave the door open on your way out.”