Startled, she looked up. Hunter had sneaked into the room without her hearing him. Right behind her, he appeared to be reading the story over her shoulder. He stood so close he could have ripped the papers from her hands. So close that, if she rose, she could easily throw herself into his arms….
He was the one who would need comforting, not her. She wasn’t to get emotionally involved.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “Here it is.” She turned enough in her seat to hand him the papers. “It’ll be more comfortable in the kitchen. The only seat in here is my desk chair. You can use it if you’d like but—”
He muttered something that she took as refusal to move. His straight black brows were furrowed in concentration as he read the story.
She studied him as he studied the words on the page. She could tell what part he was reading by the alternating anger and scorn and concern in his expression. Not that those changes were obvious. When she’d known him before, when he’d been a cop, he’d prided himself on his ability to keep his face blank, unreadable. And it had been, to everyone but her.
But she knew the scornful twitch at the edge of his lips—lips she had once licked and tasted and kissed so often that she’d known their texture better than her own. The almost imperceptible hardening of his cool stare that signified fury.
Concern hadn’t always been readable on his face, but was there in the briefest of caresses from those strong hands, the way he held her in his arms.
And now, she recognized pain in the way he closed green eyes that didn’t flash but flickered and died, then opened again to read more. If only she could hold him, could comfort him…
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yeah.” He barely responded. “Sure.” And then he looked at her, his scowl fierce.
Once, her heart would have shriveled beneath that scowl. Today, despite her efforts to the contrary, it still hurt.
“I don’t believe things will happen this way,” he spit. “They can’t.” The last two words were lower, evincing grief.
Stay detached. Yet Shauna wondered if there was a way she could physically restrain herself from trying to ease his pain. The way she wished someone had helped her…
And then Hunter demanded, “I want you to get on your computer and write a different ending. Maybe that’ll convince you what you wrote is nonsense. It can’t possibly come true. Then I’ve got to get the hell out of here, to go look for her.”
“All right,” she said calmly. “I’ll write a different ending.” But it won’t be me who’ll be convinced.
She turned on her computer, a laptop she left set up on her desk connected to a printer, then waited while it booted up and Hunter paced impatiently. In a minute, she got into the file where the story had been saved.
“Look over my shoulder as I do this.” She scrolled till she came to a part near the end that was a turning point, where Andee had nearly been found. She deleted everything after that and quickly wrote a new, happy ending. What would Grandma O’Leary say about it if Shauna could talk to her? Nothing good, she was sure. “Okay with that?” she asked Hunter.
“Good enough.” Hunter’s voice sounded grudging. “Go ahead and save it.”
Her brief laugh was ironic as she tried to do just that. She closed the file, then opened it again, going right to the page where she’d made her changes.
The old ending was still there.
“This isn’t something new, Hunter. The computer—any computer I use—won’t save a different ending. Or any other changes, for that matter.”
“Let me try.”
“Sure.”
She had barely gotten out of her seat before Hunter slid into it. It was too tall for him, but he didn’t take time to adjust it. He looked like an adorable giant, his legs cramped beneath the desk. His fingers flew over the keyboard. She knew he was skilled in the use of computers—as well as in the use of things less cerebral. Like firearms and other weapons. She’d seen him in training when he’d been a cop. And his hands on her body…his skill in that had driven her mindless so often, so passionately, with wanting him.
How could she let herself think of that now?
“There.” He sounded satisfied. Her thoughts back under control, she read over his shoulder. Though his new ending was different from hers, a lot shorter, it was similar, and of course Andee was fine at the conclusion. The biggest change was that he had added some directions for finding Big T—information that would let Hunter track him down when it was all over. “Do you have a floppy disk or CD that we can save onto?” She silently removed a floppy from a file cabinet drawer. Hunter both saved his story on the hard drive and used the “save as” command to copy the revised story onto the disk.
And when he checked both the hard drive and the floppy, the old version of the story was there.
“Damn. This can’t be.”
Shauna watched as he tried again. And then tried something else.
To no avail, of course. She knew better.
“What have you done to your damned computer?” He rose and towered over her threateningly. The slight scent emanating from him wasn’t simply the aroma she recognized, of man and soap and Hunter. It was sharper, more bitter—like feral fear.
She’d never been afraid of Hunter, not even at his angriest. Even now, she did not believe he would hurt her…physically.
But he shouldn’t have the power to wound her emotionally, either. Not today. He doesn’t, she told herself.
Yet that didn’t stop pain worse than if he’d actually assaulted her.
“I’m sorry, Hunter.” She reached out and gently touched his arm. It was hard, tensed by his anger. And warm.
She remembered when he had held her in his arms tenderly. When tenderness had turned to lust. Don’t go there, she reminded herself again.
“I know you don’t want to believe it,” she continued. “Neither do I. But I’ve lived with this a very long time. These stories can’t be changed. In fact, my Grandma O’Leary warned me, when she was alive, that I shouldn’t even try.” Of course Shauna had tried anyway, especially with her father. “It could be too dangerous.”
“For you? Well, what about the victims of your stories?”
She couldn’t stand much more of this. She knew he was lashing out because of his own misery. You’re a therapist. Counsel him. Better yet, counsel yourself.
Her mind fished frantically for the right words. Don’t take it personally came to mind.
As if she could help it. But she managed to move her hand from his arm and take a step back.
“Tell you what,” she said a lot more calmly than she felt. “Leave now. Take the story, if you think there are clues in it or that it’ll help you some other way. Keep in touch, and if anything different happens from what’s written, let me know. I’ll enter it, then let you know if it saves on the computer and changes the ending. Okay?”
A phone rang. Hunter’s cell, which he yanked from the back pocket of his khaki trousers. “Yeah?” Shauna couldn’t hear what was being said, but Hunter’s expression turned tormented before going blank again. “Yeah. I’m on my way.” He flipped the phone closed. “That was my assistant Simon. My ex-wife, Margo, is in hysterics about Andee. She’s upset that Simon’s brought in the cops, even someone we know and trust. The kidnapper told her not to, like that kind always does, so she’s distraught. Simon thinks I’d better get there fast to see if I can calm her down.” He snorted. “Fat chance.”
“But you have to try, of course. I’ll be thinking about you, wishing you—and Andee—well.”
“You’ll be thinking about me, all right. You’re coming along.”
She stared. “Why would I do that?”
“Because of your story. You say you can’t change it. Fine. I know you believe that. I don’t have time to argue.” His laugh was bitter. “I don’t want to believe any of it. But I can’t take chances.”
Shauna closed her eyes. “I can’t help you, Hunter.” But she knew she was l
ying. She had become a licensed therapist for just this kind of situation.
She knew how to help people in crisis situations.
Especially those whose crises were the subjects of her stories.
But most were strangers. Hunter wasn’t, despite the years they hadn’t seen each other. She would be too emotionally involved.
Going with him would be a mistake.
“Come with me, Shauna. You’ll tell me everything possible about your damned stories. And you’ll work with me to make sure this one doesn’t come true. Got it?”
“Hunter, I can’t.” She regretted bringing him to her house.
If they were anywhere else, she’d have fled.
For that wasn’t the end of it. If he’d continued to demand, or even threatened, she’d have stood her ground.
But he closed the space between them, reached out and took her hands in his much larger ones, gripping them tightly. She remembered when he’d held her hands before…lovingly.
His voice, too, sounded full of emotion as he said, “Please, Shauna. Please help me. For Andee’s sake. I’ll beg if I have to, but—”
She couldn’t stand that. She looked up into his sorrowful green eyes and said something she regretted even as she spoke it. “All right, damn it, Hunter. I’ll come.”
Chapter 3
Shauna stared resignedly into the passenger’s side-view mirror. The familiar small-town streets of Oasis receded behind them and, with their disappearance, all sense of serenity and comfort receded from her mind.
But this wasn’t about her.
She turned to watch the man sitting beside her. It was about him. His posture was stiff and taut, as if he maintained such discipline over himself that moving a muscle except to steer the car would snap him like a rubber band stretched to the breaking point.
His expression was as bleak as the rolling desert vista that abutted the highway, and he kept his eyes straight ahead, not even glancing toward her.
She struggled to think of something to say that would not sound too much like psychobabble, yet be of some help to this man who had once meant so much to her.
But what was there to say? His daughter had been kidnapped. A five-year-old child. And whether or not Hunter believed her, she had already told him there could be no happy ending.
And despite his earlier apology, she knew he somehow blamed her for this, as he once had blamed her for another situation she had written about that had gotten so terribly out of control.
She had packed and changed clothes quickly before leaving home. Now she wore a pink buttoned shirt tucked into navy slacks, a matching navy vest and sandals. L.A. wouldn’t be as warm as Arizona, so she’d stuffed a sweater into a small suitcase with a couple of changes of clothes and her night paraphernalia.
She considered turning on the radio, for the only sounds were the growl of the engine and the unending road noise of tires humming on pavement.
First, though, she needed to make a call. She pulled her cell phone from the bottom of the burlap tote bag that doubled as her purse and pressed buttons until the number she called most frequently showed on the display screen.
It was answered on the second ring. “Fantasy Fare. Hi, Shauna. Are you okay? Where are you going?”
“Hello to you, too, Kaitlin.”
Shauna smiled to herself in bittersweet irony. Kaitlin Verona, a lithe and exuberant dynamo, was her closest friend, and the manager she’d blessedly hired to assist her with running Fantasy Fare.
Kaitlin had dropped in one day when a child had fallen at the restaurant and his father was threatening a lawsuit. Not only that, but food deliveries were late. In short, when things had been particularly hellish.
Kaitlin had simply taken over, made both the kid and his parents laugh, and used her sense of humor to persuade the superintendent of the food warehouse where Shauna bought supplies to send her order after hours.
Later she had told Shauna she’d heard her cries for help and responded. Of course, Shauna’s pleas had been strictly internal.
As they’d gotten to know each other better, Shauna understood that they had something in common: they shared abilities that most people would believe bizarre and unreal, though each one’s manifestation was unique.
They both perceived when someone else’s emotions roiled.
Shauna’s abilities translated to her fingertips, from which her stories spilled onto computer keyboards.
Kaitlin simply knew and reacted. Like now.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” Kaitlin demanded over the phone. “That guy from your past, Hunter.”
This was one time Shauna wished Kaitlin didn’t have her uncanny perception. “Yes,” she said briefly.
“You wrote a story about him and now you’re back together.”
“Not exactly. Look, I need for you to—”
“Manage Fantasy Fare on my own for a while. Yes, I’ve got that. But tell me what’s going on.”
“Some other time.”
“You’re with him.”
“Yes,” Shauna acknowledged.
“And it’s not because you want to be. Oh, heck, it’s really bad, isn’t it? I’m so sorry, Shauna. Can I help?”
“Just take care of things for me. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Okay?”
“Sure. You take good care of yourself, you hear? Don’t take any unnecessary risks. And call me when you can talk.”
As Kaitlin hung up, a shower of shimmering rainbows suddenly appeared in Shauna’s mind, gently tumbling toward the ground. As they fell, they turned upside down till they formed a myriad of colorful, happy smiles.
Despite herself, Shauna laughed aloud. That was one ability she didn’t share with her friend. Kaitlin had the power to implant images into the minds of those whose emotions she sensed, the better to soothe them. Shauna had frequently enlisted Kaitlin’s help in the therapy sessions she held to assist those whose stories she had written.
But where had that warning come from? It wasn’t characteristic of what Kaitlin usually did. Did she see something that Shauna—
“What was that all about?” came a chilly masculine voice from beside her.
Shauna glanced toward Hunter. He still sat stiffly as he watched the road, gripping the steering wheel, as if by manipulating it he could reverse the diabolical incident that had suddenly taken control of his life.
“I had to tell my manager at the restaurant that I was going away for a while and that she’d need to take care of things.”
He finally darted a look at her, his green eyes quizzical but not as icy as before. “It didn’t sound like you did much talking, let alone giving directions.”
Shauna replayed her end of the conversation in her mind. He was right. But knowing Hunter’s antipathy toward anything that smacked of extraordinary abilities, she said simply, “I’m sorry you haven’t met Kaitlin. She’s been my manager for a couple of years, and we’re good friends. To other people it might sound like we talk in code, but we’re close enough that we understand each other.”
“Yeah.” He didn’t sound convinced, but Shauna doubted he’d push this issue further. She had known Hunter to be intelligent and intuitive in the past. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have made such a good cop. He had also been stubborn, refusing to acknowledge what he chose not to accept or understand. Right now, she suspected he’d gotten the gist of what she wasn’t saying.
But at least he was talking to her again.
“We’re not far from the airport now,” she said, eager for some conversation—any conversation—to avoid their former uncomfortable silence.
He nodded. “I haven’t been away long enough to forget my way around.”
Just long enough to forget her, Shauna thought. Or so he must have wished.
If only their reunion could have been under other circumstances. But there would have been no reunion between them if she hadn’t written that horrifying story.
And now they could only both wish they had never seen each other again.
The plane was finally in the air. The trip to Los Angeles International Airport, abbreviated LAX by most Angelenos, would take about an hour.
An hour too long.
Ignoring the aircraft’s typical loud engine noise, Hunter forced himself to lean back in his narrow seat that, despite the height of its backrest, was too short to cradle his head comfortably. He had to concentrate on something other than his edginess. He had become an adopted Angeleno, like so many other immigrants to the sprawling urban complex. Yet, despite his reason for being there, he’d felt a sense of nostalgia visiting Oasis and his mother. And—though he despised himself for admitting it—seeing Shauna again.
L.A. was home now. His business was there.
His daughter was there…
His restlessness was a demon sitting on his shoulder and taunting him to stare at the still-lit seat-belt sign. He looked at Shauna, who occupied the window seat. He had the aisle, and they were fortunate, in their row of three, that the middle seat was vacant. Shauna had obviously decided to take advantage. She’d pulled her carry-on bag from beneath the seat in front of her and rested it between them. She wrested her laptop from it, opened her tray table and placed the computer on it.
After she turned it on, a look of concentration etched a small furrow between the soft arches of her brows. They were darker than the deepest blond shade of her long hair, which was still highlighted in soft streaks by the Arizona sun. Her unique hair color was something he had found extraordinarily appealing about her long ago. One of many things.
If there hadn’t been a vacant seat, Hunter wondered if he’d have offered to trade with the person unlucky enough to have been assigned the uncomfortable middle. Would he have wanted to spend this hour separated from Shauna that way?
Not that he had any desire to be close to her…although desire was a poor choice of words. Hell, yes, he still desired her. But long ago he’d made self-control an unbreakable habit. It was the only way his P.I. business could survive.
The only way he could survive.
Without so much as a glance toward him, Shauna began to type. Was she writing another of her damned stories that she would use to drive some other poor jerk mad by claiming it would come true?
Not a Moment Too Soon Page 3