A Gift of Thought

by Sarah Wynde

  And then they were her memories, skipping ahead, North Carolina, the car where her mother had sent them to talk away from her toddler siblings and his teenage brother, the feel of the seat leather against her back, Lucas’s mouth stroking down her body. And then his memories, definitely his, of that one stolen weekend leave, and then Milan, and every memory raised the temperature in the room by another two degrees until Sylvie’s cheeks felt hot and flushed and the rest of her was burning and melting.

  “Lucas,” she murmured his name, licking her lips.

  “Sylvie,” he whispered hers, his voice husky.

  And then he shook his head. “I’ve got to go. Andy’s waiting down at the end of the hall.”

  “Okay.” She swallowed. She stepped aside to let him move past her toward the door. He was careful not to brush against her, but she could feel the same ache of unfulfilled desire within him that she felt herself even without his touch.

  She was trying not to think, not to put words to her emotions, not to let a thought form that she might regret.

  “We still on for Friday?” he asked, as he opened the door.

  “Sure,” she answered, grateful to turn her attention to something other than the energy still flowing between them. AlecCorp’s holiday party was being held in its corporate office building, which ought to be as secure as any military base. Certainly no news media would be able to get inside. And by Friday, she ought to be able to get in and out of her apartment building without running a gauntlet of TV crews and reporters. If not, James or Ty would bring her appropriate clothes. “You’re wasting your time, though. Chesney’s not a drug dealer, just an ass.”

  ‘And a rotten father.’ The thought inadvertently formed. Poor Rachel. Sylvie hadn’t been able to do anything to help her but as soon as she got back to work she was going to figure out something.

  Lucas glanced at her. She could feel his curiosity but she shook her head. Maybe she’d ask him later about helping her find out more about Chesney’s past, but now wasn’t the time.

  “Okay.” He nodded and slipped out the door.

  She let him go.

  She let the door close behind him and with enormous self-restraint didn’t kick it. She could feel him moving away down the hallway.

  Damn it. Lucas just . . . he just did it for her. They hadn’t even touched, apart from her brief tug on his wrist, but she was as hot and yearning as if they’d been kissing for hours.

  What had he said before, about wanting the chance to learn who she was? Maybe that was what they needed. Maybe if she spent time with him—real time, not stolen moments—these feelings would burn themselves out. She’d look at him and think . . . her thoughts stopped there.

  Ha. Sure, maybe she’d get so used to his presence that she’d stop looking at him, really looking, the way people did with the familiar. Maybe she’d start to take him for granted. But she was never going to look at him and not wish that his hands were on her.

  She closed her eyes.

  She didn’t mean to concentrate her sixth sense, but she couldn’t help herself. The guy in the room next door was gone, but as she reached out she brushed up against other minds, trying to catch a last touch of Lucas.

  And then her lips started to tilt upward. She rested her hand on the doorknob, but waited until she heard the first knock before pulling it open.

  Lucas’s hand was still upraised, ready to fall again. He looked at her and she could see the question.

  She stepped back, into the room, gesturing him inside and then closed the door behind him. She leaned against it. “This is a terrible idea.”

  He’d already turned. “I thought you were dead.”

  She licked her lips, her hands already undoing her top button.

  And then the second.

  And the third.

  And then he was reaching for her, pulling her to him, his hands on her hips, lifting her into him, and she went gladly, joyfully, feeling the passion spiraling between them as his mouth captured hers.

  They made their way to the bed, stumbling, tugging at the clothes that were in the way, Lucas never letting go of her, until they were falling onto the softness.

  “Sylvie, Sylvie,” he murmured, lips moving across her skin. “I hated calling you Beth, you were never a Beth.”

  “What?” She arched under him, feeling his taut muscles and the warmth of his skin and wanting him closer, closer, always closer.

  “Milan. You were so angry.”

  She didn’t want to talk about Milan, she didn’t want to think about Milan, she wanted his head—and all the rest of him—right here, right now.

  She bit him. Hard. Not a gentle loving nip, but a clench of her teeth on his shoulder.

  “Ouch!” He protested. “Shit, that hurt, Sylvie.”

  “Quit talking,” she ordered him. She raked her nails down his back. “I can do worse than that.”

  He half-laughed at her, eyes hot. “Biting. Like kissing, only there’s a winner.”

  She froze, eyes widening. “You just quoted Doctor Who.”

  He raised his eyebrows, lips curving. “Well, Neil Gaiman, anyway. Have we found something we have in common?”

  She laughed and pulled him down toward her, feeling giddy. A British sci-fi TV show might not be much to base a relationship on, but it was a place to start.

  Chapter Ten

  Worrying about Rachel was becoming Dillon’s favorite hobby. Or if not his favorite, at least what he spent most of his time doing.

  Rachel had been dismayed by what she found out about Tassamara. “It’s the middle of nowhere,” she protested. “You want me to go there?” It had taken Dillon hours to convince her, hours made longer by his need to gather energy between texts.

  And then she’d wanted to know all about him and about being a ghost and all about Sylvie. Between interruptions for sleep and meals and school and homework—which, much to Dillon’s frustration, Rachel still insisted on completing—making a plan to get to Tassamara felt as if it was taking forever.

  Rachel ruled out the simple approach. She’d scoffed at Dillon’s suggestion that she sneak out of school and hop on the nearest bus. “My father is rich and famous,” she told him, not sounding happy about it. “If they think I’ve run away, every police officer in five states will be looking for me. My picture will be everywhere. I bet I wouldn’t make it ten miles. No, if I’m going to get all the way to Florida, we’ve got to distract them. They have to think I’ve been kidnapped.”

  Dillon had reluctantly agreed. He didn’t like it, but to get Rachel away from here, they were going to have to trick a whole bunch of people, starting with her security guards.

  At least his mom wouldn’t be one of them. He’d been freaked out when she hadn’t shown up for work on Monday, but some easy eavesdropping on the other bodyguards revealed why she was missing. It was perfect, really. He’d get Rachel to Florida, then text Sylvie and tell her he could help find Rachel if she’d come to Tassamara. She wouldn’t want to tell anyone that she was getting messages from a ghost, so she’d have to fly down there and talk to him.

  Perfect.

  If only the rest of it went smoothly.

  Escaping from the house was out. Apart from the security system, there were too many people and too many cameras. Escaping from the school was just as bad. Strangers weren’t allowed on the grounds and students weren’t allowed off them. Plus, more cameras. No way could Rachel convincingly pretend to be kidnapped from the school.

  A field trip would have been a good opportunity, but it was early December. Rachel didn’t know when the next school trip would be, but she was sure it wouldn’t be until after Christmas and they both agreed that was too long to wait.

  That left her after-school activities. They’d been using Google Maps to trace out the distance between each of Rachel’s activities and the bus station. When Rachel paused, Dillon peered over her shoulder to see what she was looking at. “I know that address,” she’d said, pointing at a location two
blocks away from the train station.

  Train? he texted. No train tracks passed through Tassamara, only a bus line. If she took a train, she’d have to stop somewhere along the way and switch to a bus.

  She didn’t answer him, just quickly switched websites and started searching the Amtrak schedules. “Look at that,” she said. She leaned back in her chair.

  Dillon looked, but he didn’t know what she wanted him to notice, so he turned to see her face instead. She looked pale and pinched, almost scared.

  Bad? he texted. She didn’t look at his message right away, still staring at the computer screen, but then she visibly shook off her reverie and picked up the phone.

  “No, no.” She shook her head. “It’s just—it’s real.” The volume of her voice dropped until she was almost whispering. “I can do this.” Her eyes grew bright with excitement. “I can do this,” she repeated.

  “Tell me,” Dillon demanded. He started texting but before he’d even gotten the first few letters out, Rachel started talking.

  “That address is where AlecCorp has its offices,” she told him. “I’ve been there before. I didn’t pay much attention, but it’s right near the train station. And look, a train leaves for Florida at 9:40 on Friday night.”

  “So?” Dillon asked when Rachel paused.

  “Somehow I have to get him to let me go to the party.” Rachel pushed back her chair. Standing, she began pacing around her room, head down, staring at the floor. She was still talking, but the words were mumbled and Dillon could only understand a word here and there.

  “If I—no, that won’t work. Maybe I—no. But if he thinks . . .”

  Dillon wanted to yell in exasperation. Instead, he flopped onto Rachel’s bed and waited. Being a ghost had taught him far too many lessons in patience.

  Finally, Rachel stopped moving and looked up. “AlecCorp is having their holiday party on Friday. If I can get to the party, I can catch a train to Florida. Look.” She crossed back to the computer and pointed at the screen. “I could get one of these little rooms. I wouldn’t have to worry about people seeing me. If we timed it right, I could be on the train before anyone even knew I was gone. I’d take the train to this place, Palatka, and get there before lunchtime. And then find a bus.”

  She sat down again and her fingers flew over the keyboard as she pulled up bus schedules. “Look,” she said with delight. “The bus station is right at the Amtrak station. I wouldn’t even have to look for it; it’s right there.”

  She turned around again and looked at the empty room. “What do you think?” she asked, sounding tentative, and reached to pick up her phone. She stared at its blank screen and waited.

  It’s perfect, Dillon texted her. A party was even better than an after-school activity—noise, confusion, crowds, maybe even dim lighting if they were lucky. He’d cause a distraction and Rachel would sneak away. The only problem would be her bodyguard.

  Well, probably not her only problem. Maybe just the biggest.

  Rachel smiled.

  “We can do this,” she said. “I can get you home.” Her voice held a mix of determination and excitement as she turned back to her computer.

  “And I can get you away from here,” he told her. He didn’t know how he’d help her once they got to Florida, but he’d find a way.

  *****

  By Friday afternoon, almost all their problems had been solved, but Dillon couldn’t help worrying.

  U sr? he texted her, as he watched her trying to carefully grind a pill into dust. She glanced at her phone when it buzzed, then frowned and tilted it up.

  “Sr?” she said aloud. “Serious?”

  Dillon rolled his eyes. He was trying to be careful how he used his energy. Sure, he sent, feeling impatient.

  “Oh!” She frowned. “Yes, of course. I’m serious, too, though. Lydia always carries around her own drink, this weird red tea from Africa. She keeps it in the refrigerator in the staff kitchen, the big one downstairs. I can sneak in there and put this in the tea right before we leave for the party.”

  Dillon hated this part of the plan.

  “Or almost right before we leave,” Rachel said. She paused in her grinding. “If I put it in too soon, she might start feeling funny before we get to the party. But if I leave it too long, she might have already refilled her bottle.” She stuck her pinky in her mouth and started chewing on the fingernail.

  Dillon would have loved to point out the other risks. What if Rachel misjudged the amount and gave her bodyguard only enough to make her sick? If Lydia called someone for help, Rachel could wind up with an alert and now paranoid guard watching her. Or what if Rachel put too much in? What if she didn’t just knock Lydia out, but killed her?

  “No, this idea is still the best.” Rachel pulled her finger out of her mouth and returned to work. “It’ll be okay.”

  Dillon thought she was reassuring herself as much as him. Gloomily, he wondered whether he’d have to keep her company if she wound up in jail after this.

  She’d already stolen money and a credit card from her father. She’d bought a plane ticket online with the credit card. It would serve as a distraction, she told Dillon. They’d realize she’d run away eventually, maybe within a couple of hours depending on how long it took them to trace her GPS tracker. With any luck, the plane ticket would send them to the airport first. The extra time that would give her might be enough to get her to Florida. With her own savings and the cash she’d stolen, she’d have enough money to buy the train ticket without leaving a paper trail.

  But first they had to get out of AlecCorp. She’d managed to convince Chesney to let her accompany him to the party. He’d been doubtful, but she’d told him she wanted the opportunity to make him proud, to erase the shame of throwing up at the last party. Dillon had been awed and a little worried at what a good liar she was.

  She wasn’t going to be able to bring much with her. They’d tried to figure out how she could sneak her backpack into the car, but even if she could manage that, how would she get it into the party? Instead, she was wearing a shirt and rolled-up leggings under her long-sleeved dress. Fortunately, she was so skinny that the extra layer wasn’t too noticeable.

  “All right,” she finally said, looking down at the powder she’d made. Carefully, she scraped it into a plastic bag. Looking up, she said, “You’ll stay with me the whole time, right?”

  She was going to have to leave her phone behind. If she didn’t, the GPS in the phone would give her away as soon as someone called the phone company. That meant no way to communicate with her.

  The whole time, he promised her, texting the words as he said them. But what good would he be? If she got into trouble, how could he help her?

  She nodded. “Here we go then.”

  Dillon grimaced. Here they went. And if this went badly, it would be all his fault.

  *****

  Sylvie swiveled. Layers of black chiffon floated slightly up, then slowly settled down.

  She spun. The dress spun, too.

  “You look amazing.”

  Sylvie stopped spinning so quickly she almost tripped. Smoothing the layers of skirt, she turned toward Lucas. He was leaning against the wall, dressed in formal evening attire, his hair still wet from his shower.

  “That was fast,” she said, feeling a slight burn of embarrassment climbing to her cheeks at having been caught playing like a little girl.

  “No, don’t,” he said, straightening and taking a step closer.

  ‘Don’t?’

  “I like seeing you happy,” he answered her thought.

  The color rose higher. They’d spent the past two days in her hotel room, eating room service meals, occasionally watching the latest movies on television, leaving only for brief interludes in the exercise room, and he’d definitely seen her happy. Very happy.

  He grinned. “Not what I meant, but that’s nice too.” He reached for her and she came willingly, flowing into his arms as if she was meant to be there. She lifted her
face for his kiss, but before his lips touched hers, a thought slipped free.

  ‘How much longer?’

  He paused, arms tight against her. ‘Ever the optimist.’

  “I’m sorry,” she said, pulling back. “That wasn’t meant for you to hear.” She tried to smile at him.

  “Most things people think aren’t,” he answered, a twist to his mouth. “Why are you afraid, Syl?”

  “I’m not afraid,” she answered, heat in her voice, reacting before thinking. And then she paused, looked away and up, looked back, sighed. “Okay. It’s just . . . we’re bound to fight eventually, Lucas. We always do.”

  Taking her hand, he tugged her to the side of the bed and sat next to her. He laced their fingers together, looking down at their hands. She could feel his caution, and she clenched her fingers around his. “There’s no point in trying to be careful with me, Lucas. I’ll know what you’re thinking.”

  He looked up at her, his blue eyes bright. “All right, then, I won’t be careful. We only ever fight about whether we should be together, Sylvie. That’s the only important fight we’ve ever had. If you’d give us a chance this time, we might not argue at all.”

  Sylvie’s mouth opened but no words came out. Finally, she snapped, “Me? Me give us a chance? I wasn’t the one not giving us a chance in Milan.” She pulled her hand free from his and stood, turning her back to him, walking the four steps away to the desk by the window, feeling her anger rising while the black chiffon layers floated with every quick movement.

  “What are you talking about?” he asked, sounding authentically confused.

  “Milan? When you didn’t want things to change and I did?” She could hear the bitterness in her own voice and she tried to hold it back, to not let it spill out into her words.