For Her Eyes Only

by Cait London

  Leona couldn’t move, her hands and ankles held tightly. She should have told her sisters to run and hide. She should have protected them. Last night, she’d dreamed the bad people were coming to take her and her sisters away. She hadn’t told anyone because she didn’t want to believe this horror actually existed….

  But it did. She fought the strap across her chest, bucking against its confinement. Her ten-year-old body was too weak against the bonds that held her. What was happening to her sisters? Where were they? Tempest would fight, but oh, Claire—sweet Claire, who felt too much, the emotions and physical pain of others…. If she were going through this, too, she’d be torn apart. Why? Why?

  The researchers’ questions traveled like a river through her senses, and her fear turned to anger and she yelled. It was a language she didn’t know, but it ripped from her like a burning curse, echoing around a room filled with machines, the needles on the gauges leaping wildly.

  Leona’s senses prickled, picking up bits of her sisters’ terror. Fearing for them, she struggled harder. “Where are my sisters?”

  “Triplets, born three minutes apart.” A face floated nearer and peered down at her. “Their extra senses are connected…”

  The steady hum of voices paused, and continued, “Tell me about your dreams. Are they only at night? During the day? Do events actually happen as you’ve seen them in your dreams? What are the details? Are the dreams in color, or not?”

  Leona struggled against her bonds. She had to get free to find Claire and Tempest. She’d seen everything in a dream: She’d seen the police and the white-coats coming. She should have told her sisters to hide.

  Where was their mother? Off helping the police find some boy? She should have been home—

  The voices continued to question her. “Do you feel what your sisters think? Is it exact words or images? Do you practice with your mother? Is she connected with witches?”

  She had always protected her younger sisters, and now she couldn’t. Where was their mother? Why wasn’t she here?

  Leona suddenly awoke to the echo of her own cry. “I’ll never forgive you for leaving us! I don’t want to be like you!”

  Caught on the edge between the nightmare and reality, she fought to climb out of the nightmare. Tearing the sheet wrapped around her body, she saw the man lying next to her.

  “That was some dream,” Owen said slowly.

  Her heart racing wildly, she stared at his hard features, that dark skin and light eyes in the shadows. She lay very still as his finger wiped away the tear sliding down her cheek. “Want to tell me about it?” he asked.

  She closed her eyes, and a remnant of the nightmare floated by, just a terrifying wisp of Greer Aisling descending upon the Blair Institute of Parapsychology and tearing her daughters away.

  Leona shivered slightly, because she’d never forget her mother’s fierce rage. Cold as a blade of ice and armed with legalities she would enforce, the world-famous psychic had collected her daughters. But Leona had never forgiven herself for what happened—or her mother.

  She turned to Owen, noting his gleaming broad shoulder, the strength in his arms, and moved closer to him. Against her bare breasts, his chest pulsed with life, his heat drawing her back into reality. Leona needed to lose herself in him, to keep away the nightmares and the dreams that came true more frequently now. She needed Owen to make her believe that she was just like any other woman.

  “We have other things to do besides talk, don’t we?” Leona asked as she moved over him to take what she wanted.

  I’ll never forgive you for leaving us. I don’t want to be like you…. Leona’s troubled words circled Owen as he sat up in bed. He studied the sleeping woman on the bed, her long, pale legs tangled in the sheets.

  By the moonlight outside, Owen gauged the time to be shortly after midnight. He rolled his shoulders, and noted the light sting of her scratches on his back. He rubbed the slightly tender place where she’d bitten his throat. But then, as she’d ridden him, Owen had done some nipping of his own. Leona tasted like honey and felt like fire….

  She was even more than he’d anticipated—sensual, hungry, almost primitive at the end, an equal partner who shed everything to meet him. Instinctively, Owen had known she came from warriors who took what they wanted, this, his warrior-woman, who preferred to ride rather than be dominated. The position didn’t matter; the woman did.

  He stroked that silky hair back from Leona’s cheek, still flushed from their second lovemaking. They’d come together on a primitive level Owen sensed only came once in a lifetime, a perfect mating.

  He couldn’t wait to see those eyes again—dark, mystical, loaded with secrets. Caressing her smooth thigh, he enjoyed the flowing beauty beneath his light touch. Then his fingers tightened possessively, as he’d remembered how her feminine muscles had held his body. The contrast of male and female, of dark skin lying on fair started his blood heating again.

  That wouldn’t do. He couldn’t ask that of her so soon after this lovemaking. At first, she had been too tight to accept him. But she didn’t wait, pushing him, her hunger fueling his.

  Owen sensed a very unique bond had formed between them. Maybe it was true then, what Janice had said, that he’d found a special woman. A spirit woman?

  He stood to pull on his jeans and noted the framed picture on the bedside table. Janice had said three spirit women. The three women in the photograph looked as if they were the same age, their features remarkably alike. The figurine in the living room also had three women…. Three spirit women.

  Leona had murmured restlessly in her sleep. Though Owen couldn’t pinpoint some of the words, he’d known they weren’t English. Who had left the sisters alone and unprotected? What had she dreamed? And who didn’t Leona want to be like? Who wouldn’t she forgive?

  “Spirit women” could be translated as anything, but Leona definitely wasn’t a ghost. Janice’s term meant something else, and Owen intended to find out what. His sister’s readings could be exact, but sometimes these were muddled.

  He showered quickly and smiled as he noted the feminine scents in the bathroom and the absence of a male presence. In the kitchen, he set the table, started the chicken on the cooktop’s grill, and went to awaken Leona. He couldn’t wait to see her open those dark green eyes, to see her recognize him as her lover. But there were deeper layers, too, a fascination Owen sensed was only beginning.

  When he reentered the bedroom her scent and that of their lovemaking almost set him off again. She’d ache tomorrow, wearing his mark, just as she’d marked him. Maybe Leona would dream a little of him, too. Owen smiled at that thought, mocking himself for the romantic whimsy. The Shaws were notorious for not revealing their emotions, but this woman made him feel different inside, like he was caught up in a storm that heated and devoured. He sucked in his breath as he looked down that long, pale body, tangled in sheets. “Dinner is ready. Wake up.”

  As she turned toward Owen, her hair seemed to glow around her pale face, dark red strands sliding on the white pillowcase. Clouded with sleep, Leona’s eyes were unfocused. In a heartbeat, her gaze sharpened. Owen waited for her reaction, this woman of mystery, Janice’s “spirit woman.”

  Leona quickly drew the sheet around her. She moved off the bed and into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

  He shrugged lightly, pushing back his impulse to follow her. Leona obviously needed privacy right now. But there would be other times when he would follow, and nothing would keep him away from her. Nothing could keep him from her, not anymore. The starkly primitive sense that Leona was now his startled Owen. He’d never felt like that before, as if a woman were his to possess and be possessed by.

  He wasn’t surprised when Leona came into the kitchen fully dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. The scent of her shower clung to her. She reminded Owen of a skittish, unridden mare as she sat, keeping her distance from him. Obviously uncomfortable and tense with this situation, she carefully avoided looking at him as she
picked at her food.

  He wondered how many people had seen the efficient businesswoman like this: uncertain, wary, and without her shields.

  Owen understood why she glanced warily at his bare chest, why her cheeks flushed. She was shy of him now, obviously aware that she’d given something precious to him.

  It was clear to him that Leona feared her emotions; she feared what Owen could mean to her. He also understood her very proper, “Thank you. The dinner was wonderful, but it’s very late. Don’t worry about the dishes. I’ll clean up.”

  He decided not to mention her nightmare; Leona was already uneasy. As he reached for her hand, its soft, fragile shape within his dark callused one reminded him how her hand had curled around him earlier…. He watched as his fingers intertwined with hers, a sensual blend of male and female. He knew he had to ask his next question, to see her reaction, despite the tension simmering between them. “I need to know what kind of women touched my sister’s bag.”

  “Why? What do you mean?” Her damp hair shimmered in the room’s dim light as she trembled, her eyes wide, those lips parted in surprise. With a hunter’s instincts, Owen knew he had hit a secret Leona hid well.

  “My sister is sensitive to certain unusual things. Janice says a ‘spirit woman’ held the bag. Actually she mentioned ‘three spirit women.’ I’d like to know exactly who held it.”

  Leona’s green eyes darkened as she withdrew her hand. But not before he sensed her fear. “It’s late, Owen.”

  “Are they your sisters? You have two right? I saw the picture. You all seem about the same age.”

  Leona stood suddenly and began clearing away the table. “I can’t stand to come home to dirty dishes after a long day at work. I’ll do these now.”

  Owen recognized the excuse for what it was—an attempt to stop his questions. He would ask again, but not now. “I’ll help.”

  “No need to. I’m sure you have an early morning, too.”

  Her crisp tone wasn’t exactly an invitation for a return to her bed. “Am I leaving?”

  “Yes. I would appreciate that very much.”

  Protective, defensive, wary, Leona turned to face him. Owen understood: He’d gotten too close to a secret Leona held dear. She’d had a definite reaction to Janice’s phrase, “spirit women.” Owen had to know more. And he would. Soon.

  After he dressed, a cool, composed Leona saw him to the door and shut it firmly in his face. Outside her home, with the moon high and full above him, Owen rubbed his chest where an ache had lodged to hold her, to be warmed by her fire.

  Once he was in his pickup, Owen scanned the cul-de-sac, quiet in the midnight hours. His body still restless, he felt like hunting. He had only a few hours while Janice slept, and Owen knew that he had to make use of his time.

  A half hour later, Owen sat at a table inside Perks, an Internet cafe, tapping on his laptop’s keys to research Leona Chablis.

  It wasn’t long before newspaper records revealed the death of her husband, Joel, five years ago. Joel Chablis had been a medical supply salesman attending a conference in Colorado when he’d been killed by a snow avalanche. A hunt through previous articles revealed their marriage announcement: one Joel Chablis married to a Leona Bartel, seven years ago. And a search on Bartel led to the world-famous psychic Greer Aisling, mother of “gifted triplets.”

  Owen held his breath as he read the newspaper account. Leona Bartel had two sisters. The triplets had been born three minutes apart. No wonder she’d answered the telephone before it had rung—a psychically linked triplet might sense the other’s call. Clearly Leona, born of a psychic mother, had an inherited gift. The person who called was Claire, as in Claire’s Bags. Janice had sensed that her bag from Leona’s store held a spirit woman’s touch.

  The connection was too strong. Owen sat back and stared at the screen. “Janice’s three spirit women. Not spirits, but flesh and blood—and connected by birth.”

  If Leona were strong enough, she might be able to do what he could not—untangle the grip someone had wrapped around his intuitive and vulnerable sister. Leona could be the answer for Janice when traditional means had failed….

  Owen’s senses prickled uneasily, and he glanced at the street outside Perks. The streetlights gleamed on the same late-model dark SUV that had circled the cafe twice before.

  He settled back to drink his glass of milk and waited for the return of the SUV. When it circled again, Owen knew someone else was hunting that night.

  “I’m very safe…he’s not getting me,” Leona had said. But she’d obviously been uneasy with the lie.

  Who hunted her? And who couldn’t she forgive?

  “She’s finally taken a lover, has she?”

  Rolf Erling’s powerful hands gripped the SUV’s steering wheel as he circled the block. Owen Shaw sat inside the Internet cafe, staring out into the night with a hunter’s watchful eyes.

  Rage boiled within Rolf. He should have had Leona first—not Owen Shaw.

  While in disguise, Rolf had entered Leona’s shop. That July day, he’d let her feel his extrasensory presence, that of a powerful psychic. He’d wanted her to feel him near, to unsettle her senses. Once unsettled, pushed and crowded, extrasensory perceptions tilted, sometimes out of control. It was always a matter of seduction to unravel another psychic, even one with limited reception, like Leona.

  Disguised as a blue-eyed, Nordic-looking blond, Rolf had enjoyed holding the purse Claire had created, setting up a psychic link with Leona. He’d played her well, letting her know his energy. On some level, she’d recognize him as another of the gifted.

  Rolf had known he’d have to have her body before killing her, or taking her mind. He toyed with the thought—Leona lying beneath him, obedient to his commands.

  She was the most like Greer Aisling, the woman who had publicly bested and shamed him in front of his peers ten years ago. However, he’d been able to block Greer’s attempt to discover his real identity as a descendant of Borg, the warrior-psychic who had challenged Thorgood for the Celtic seer, Aisling. Borg’s shame and anger had been so great, Rolf had taken another name, Erling.

  This time, Borg’s best and last descendant would have everything that Thorgood had taken, the ancient Celtic power tied to the wolf’s-head brooch.

  In Rolf’s dreams, he was Borg. He absorbed Borg’s jealous fury as Thorgood claimed that Celtic witch for his wife.

  “It’s time for my revenge and that of my family’s. I was just learning when I ‘played’ with Leona’s sisters, and I made mistakes. But I am going to make my ancestor’s curse come true.”

  As Rolf drove off into the night, he stared into his rearview mirror, into the mesmerizing eyes he’d inherited from his ancestor. He could steal anyone’s identity. He was the perfect predator.

  Moments later, he pulled into the driveway of a plantation-style home. His arrangements to assume Alex Cheslav’s identity, and then dispose of him, had been meticulous.

  Rolf’s inherited psychic ability, the years he’d spent honing it, and his years studying theater had given him much. Electronics, connections through computers and the information freely circulating the Internet gave him the rest. Identity theft and impersonation had become easy when added to his psychic powers. He had become very methodical, enough to patiently study and befriend a potential kill. Once he was satisfied that all the little identity gaps were closed, naturally the target would have to die. His slide into his prey’s identity was nearly always seamless.

  This new identity had been very easy to achieve. The prey, Alex Cheslav, had been emotionally vulnerable, a perfect target. Alex had been tall enough to match Rolf’s requirements, in case someone actually questioned his physical identity.

  Rolf liked to think of his victims as “prey.” This made the “game” so much more fun. Alex’s mind had been so easy to seduce and possess. This last identity’s mind had been perhaps easier than the others, the ones Rolf had sent after Claire and Tempest.

  Now the
real Alex was dead, enabling Rolf to assume his identity and his home. As Rolf descended into his special workshop, a basement room filled with audio and visual equipment, mirrors, and a worktable for his disguises, he thought of his deceased prey.

  Alex Cheslav had lived with his mother until she’d died, then the seventy-year-old man had seemed without an anchor. Retirement had further isolated him. Upon a chance meeting with Alex in Utah, Rolf had immediately sensed that vulnerability. After a few discussions with Alex about his antique collections, Rolf had become a “dear friend” and had easily convinced Alex to relocate to Lexington, a town filled with beautiful plantation-style homes and a ready antique market in the surrounding towns.

  After Alex had sold everything and made financial and living arrangements to settle into “Lex,” Rolf no longer needed Alex. Like the others, Alex was disposable. A cruel master, Rolf had decided to end Alex’s worthless life with his own hands.

  A little skillful padding, a few minor adjustments—like killing a man—and the new identity transfer was complete: Rolf Erling had simply become Alex Cheslav.

  Disguised as Alex, a lonely widower, Rolf had intimate access to Leona’s life. He’d studied her in person and with surveillance electronics. His years of shielding his gifts from other extrasensories, of blocking them from his energy, had paid off; Leona hadn’t recognized his real identity, even in close proximity. A lesser talent and one with the minor healing and nurturing urges of an empath, Leona saw what she wanted to see: a lonely widower, helpless in his new life, without a woman to care for him. If she had looked past what her emotions had told her, Leona might have seen the almost invisible clues to Rolf’s Alex-disguise. Just in case, he’d been very careful about keeping to the shadows when near her.

  Now Rolf understood Leona’s weaknesses as well as her habits. Disguised as a workman, he’d been in her home. But he wouldn’t make the mistake of moving on Leona too soon. Perhaps that was his mistake with her sisters. And now their protective husbands hovered too close.