by Anne Stuart
She was unprepared for the small, self-mocking grin that lit his dark face. “You think your visions can save people’s lives?”
She remembered Alan, the dark waters of the Potomac closing over his head, and she shuddered, pushing that haunting vision away. “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe one can save my life. And yours.”
“If it comes in time. Your visions tend to go along the lines of hindsight. A little advance warning might be nice. Maybe Phil wouldn’t be dead.”
The pain was so sharp, so devastating, that the breath left her body. There was no way she could fight it, no defense against such cruelty. “Damn you,” she muttered, turning away.
But even Sam Oliver had a conscience. When he pulled her into his arms this time he was gentle, and there was real regret in his voice when he spoke. “I’m sorry,” he murmured against her hair. “That was completely uncalled for. Sometimes I’m a rotten bastard.”
“Sometimes,” she said, resting against him, not fighting. “I wish I’d seen it in time. If only . . .”
“Hush,” he whispered. “It wasn’t your fault.” And she could feel the sound vibrate through his chest, rumbling in her ear. She closed her eyes, absorbing the feel of him, the warmth and scent and strength of him, knowing her danger, knowing and ignoring it. For so long she’d avoided human touch, but all her frail efforts at self-preservation seemed to have vanished the moment she’d gotten off the plane at Dulles Airport. Or maybe it was the moment she’d looked down at Phil’s body and turned to Sam for comfort.
If only her mind would stay blank. If only she could exist in a state of physical grace, the mental torments lost. If only . . .
It came slowly this time, sinuously, the vision that was almost more frightening than death and despair. For once she didn’t fight it, flowing with it, allowing it to happen. They were on a bed. The red dress was the only splash of color in the room, against their skin, against his hands. The low-cut bodice of the dress was pushed down, exposing her breasts, and her hair surrounded them in a veil of secrecy.
Sam’s arms tensed around her, and his hands held her. “What do you see?” he whispered, his voice low.
One last ounce of self-preservation caused her to pull away, but he was too strong. “Don’t fight it, Elizabeth,” he whispered. “Tell me. You’re not seeing death anymore, are you? You’re seeing life. You’re seeing me. And you. Together. Aren’t you?”
“No,” she said, lying.
“You want me,” he said. “You want me as much as I want you, and you’re afraid to face it. You can see it, and you run away from it. That’s it, isn’t it? You’re running from visions of life, not death.” One strong hand came under her chin, forcing her head up to meet his. “Are you afraid of me, Elizabeth? Afraid of my hands on your breasts? My mouth on yours? My hands running under that red dress and touching you?”
She pulled away this time, and he let her go. She was shaking all over, but this time she wasn’t racked with the desperate cold of her visions. She was hot. Hot all over, burning up inside. “You don’t know what I’m seeing,” she said. “You’re just guessing.”
“Am I right?”
“Go to bed, Sam,” she said numbly, turning away, turning toward the kitchen. “You need sleep. Maybe once you’re rested you’ll remember you despise me.”
“What about you? Will a good night’s sleep teach you not to lie to me?”
Suddenly she’d had enough. She was being pulled in a thousand directions, inside and out; one more tug and she’d break apart. “If you don’t go away and leave me alone,” she said fiercely, “I’ll leave. I’ll walk out that door and never come back, and to hell with you and your delusions.”
“Try it,” he offered, and she wasn’t fooled by his affable manner. She might get as far as unlocking one lock, if she was lucky. It wouldn’t do her any good to wait until he slept, either. He’d been asleep when she’d gone over to look through the blinds.
He must have seen her reaction. “You might as well face it, Elizabeth. You’re well and truly trapped. Here. With me. You may as well make the best of it.”
“And what is the best of it?”
He appeared to consider her question for a moment. “That’s for you to decide. You want to stay safe in your cocoon for a bit longer, and I suppose I’ll let you. Sooner or later you’ll have to come out, but I don’t want to be the person to drag you, kicking and screaming, into life.”
She looked around her, at the bare walls, the starkness of the place. “If this is your definition of life,” she said, “I’m better off where I am.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But maybe we have no choice in the matter. Whether we like it or not, we’re both going to change. Don’t answer the phone, don’t answer the door, don’t go near the window. Understood?”
“Where are you going?” She didn’t want him to leave her. “Back to bed. You’re welcome to join me.”
“Stop teasing me!”
“I mean it,” he said bleakly. “God help me.” Without another word he left her, leaving the bedroom door open behind him.
She stood in the hallway without moving, still flushed with that unaccustomed heat. And then she walked, slowly, thoughtfully, back to the living room, sinking down on the uncomfortable sofa. She sat there for a long time, keeping her mind blank as darkness closed down around her, and only the street noises outside the apartment reminded her that other people still existed in the world. And it wasn’t until she was ready to drift back into a troubled sleep, when the utilitarian digital clock read eleven forty-three, that the most obvious thing hit her, the one thing that had been nagging at her, teasing her, keeping her unbalanced and off center.
She got up and went over to the pile of shopping bags, flicking on the hall light as she went. It didn’t take her long to find it. Amidst the lacy underwear that was a size too small for her, the clothes that should have been worn by someone very different from Elizabeth Hardy, was the red dress.
She was still clutching it when she went into the bedroom. Sam was awake, lying across the bed, his head resting on his crossed arms. The pillows were beside him, waiting.
He was wearing jeans, and nothing else, but she knew that. She stood in the doorway, clutching the dress against her, and there was no way she could mitigate the accusation in her voice.
“How did you know the dress was red?”
Chapter 10
SAM MOVED, FLICKING on the bedside light. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. And she knew he was lying.
She walked into the room, to the side of the bed, and tossed the red dress down on him, so that it spilled across his nude, tanned torso with a splash of color that was somehow shocking. “You said I was seeing your hands on my red dress. I’ve never owned a red dress.”
“You do now. I must have been imagining you wearing it.”
“Don’t lie to me. This isn’t just a red dress that you bought on a whim!”
“Isn’t it? Why not?” His voice was soft, taunting. “Because I’ve seen it, and you know it. I’ve seen you and me, and that damn dress.”
“I thought you could see the future, swami,” he drawled. “Your hookie-pookie voices must have known I’d buy that dress.”
“No.”
“No?” he echoed. “What’s your theory, then?”
“That was more than just a good guess.” It took all her resolve, but she leaned over and placed her hands flat on his warm chest. The muscles tightened beneath her fingers; the tension began to flow. “I think you see things, too.”
He put his hands over hers, warming them, imprisoning them against him. There was no answering warmth in his voice, only a bleak kind of despair. For a moment he said nothing, looking up at her, and she waited for him to lie to her.
“Yes,” he said finally. “I do.”
“Damn you,” she said, ripping her hands away from him and stumbling backward. “You liar. You hypocritical, sneaking bastard. All this time, mocking me, treating me
like a cross between the village idiot and a criminal, all this time you’ve known exactly what I’ve been going through.”
“Not exactly.” He was unmoved by her anger. His long fingers touched the red dress, which still lay spilled out across his lap, and his voice was distracted. “I don’t have your gifts. Assuming, of course, that yours are really all you say they are. I just get little snatches of things. Glimpses, not clear views. Phil thought it was just a well-developed case of instincts, but it’s a little more than that. Unfortunately.”
“And you don’t like that,” she said. “You don’t appreciate your gift at all—you despise it.”
“Yes.”
“And you take out your frustration on me.”
“Yes,” he said again, his hands stroking the red dress. She stood still for a moment, knowing what was going to happen, knowing she’d have to make one last effort to escape. She could see no future for the two of them together. And she was afraid, mortally afraid.
She made it as far as the door. She’d forgotten he could move so fast. One moment he was lying stretched out on his huge bed, covered with the flowing red material, a few seconds later he’d caught her by the front door. Caught her with his large, strong hands, imprisoning her arms. Caught her with his big body, pressing her smaller, frailer one up against the heavy door. Caught her with his mouth on hers, hot and wet and demanding.
She held herself very still, feeling like a trapped butterfly. She didn’t want his kisses, didn’t want the implicit demand within them. A demand she knew she would answer in another minute. No one had ever kissed her like that. Alan’s kisses had been chaste and gentle and wooing. No one had ever taken her and forced a response from her.
She brought her hands up between them to push him away, but once again her fingers touched his bare skin, his smoothly muscled chest, and she was lost. She tipped her head to one side, to give him better access, and let him kiss her.
He lifted his head and stared down at her in the darkness of the hallway, his eyes glittering and strangely savage. “Kiss me back, damn it,” he said harshly, setting his mouth back on hers. And she did, opening her mouth to his, sliding her arms up and around his neck, pulling him down to her.
It shouldn’t feel this way, she told herself. A simple kiss shouldn’t make her feel lost and dizzy and floating. Except that Sam Oliver’s kiss was not simple at all; it was complex and hungry and overwhelming, and her shy, untutored attempts to respond only seemed to feed his hunger. And her own.
When he pulled away she was disoriented, dazed, aching. The visions she’d feared hadn’t even come close. She’d only had room for the sheer, visceral response of her body against his. And she wanted more. She reached for him, but he was already gone, and it took her a moment to realize that the phone was ringing.
He was standing by the phone in the living room, breathing deeply, as he barked into the receiver. “What is it?” Elizabeth stayed where she was, trying to call back some semblance of sanity, trying to regain her normal heartbeat, her normal breathing patterns. She was glad she wasn’t the person on the other end of the phone, on the receiving end of his abrupt fury. Except that if she were, she’d be out of reach, and he wouldn’t be able to touch her and make her brains melt.
“You’re kidding me!” Sam was saying, his voice only slightly mollified. “When did this happen? I see. What’s the official story?” He waited, listening, and his response was brief and colorful. “And they expect people to believe that? Okay, I know. Keep me posted. Yeah, I won’t yell at you.” His eyes met Elizabeth’s for a brief, pregnant moment. “No, I won’t be doing anything important.”
She felt the relief and disappointment flood through her. Her mouth still throbbed from the pressure of his; her body still shivered with an icy heat everywhere he’d touched her. But that was as far as it was going to go. She wondered why.
Maybe he’d taken pity on her. She doubted it. Sam Oliver didn’t have a merciful bone in his body. And he knew she wanted him just as much as he wanted her. The problem was, he knew what to do about it. And all she wanted to do was run and hide.
At least that wasn’t necessary. The moment had passed, and he had other things to do. She was safe from his desires. Her desires. For now.
He hung up the phone, reached over and turned on the light, flooding the stark room with brightness. “Have you eaten anything?”
She thought back to the macadamia nuts, the Chinese noodles, the Granny Smith apples. All her questions were answered. He hadn’t needed to rummage through her cupboards. He’d already rummaged through her mind. “No,” she said.
“I’ll make us something,” he said. “Or order in pizza. It’s going to be a long night.”
“Why? What happened?”
He stopped in front of her. “Guess.”
She shut her eyes, partially in irritation, partially because she didn’t want to look at him. To be tempted by him.
“I’m not playing any more parlor games with you, Sam,” she said. “I don’t know what happened.”
“They found Shari Derringer’s body.”
HE WAS STILL surprised that he’d told her the truth. Elizabeth was so caught up in guilt and misery and her own tormented dreams that she probably could have been fobbed off with some likely story. But he’d suddenly gotten sick of lying to her. Sick of lying to himself. He hadn’t told anyone about his dreams, his brief, uncomfortable glimpses of the future, in years. Not since Amy Lee, for all the good it had done her. He didn’t know why he’d chosen Elizabeth Hardy of all people to confide in. Maybe he felt he owed it to her.
“I don’t eat animal flesh,” she said with just a trace of haughtiness when he’d pulled the steak out of the refrigerator. He’d put on a shirt, not because the apartment was cool, but because she wouldn’t look at him without a shirt on, but he hadn’t bothered to button it up. He liked watching her eyes slither away from him, try to concentrate on someplace safe. She wouldn’t look him in the eyes; it gave too much away. She clearly didn’t want to look at his mouth, and he could understand why. He found her soft, pale mouth completely distracting himself. She didn’t want to look at his chest, and below the belt was out of the question. So her gaze tended to concentrate on his nose, or his left ear, or his bare feet.
Sooner or later he’d make her look at him. But for now he wasn’t going to push it. “You’ll eat red meat,” he said calmly, “and like it. You’re too skinny, and you’re going to need all the strength you can muster over the next few days.”
“I’ve been a vegetarian for the past two years,” she said, staring over his left shoulder.
“You’ve been a neurotic hermit for the past two years, too,” he said. “Life has changed, lady. Welcome to the real world. Rare or medium?”
“Neither.”
“I refuse to cook a steak well-done in my apartment,” he said, shoving it under the broiler.
“I’m not going to eat it. The Chinese noodles will do me just fine.”
“You’re probably the sort of person who has broccoli on her pizza,” he said in total disgust.
“It’s delicious.”
“That’s practically sacrilegious.”
“If you happen to worship pizza, maybe.”
He found himself grinning, and she began to smile back. As quickly as it had come the smile vanished, leaving her closed back in on herself. But it was a beginning. He had every intention of making her smile more. Maybe even making her laugh. And laughing with her.
She turned away from him, staring at the stainless-steel sink with great concentration. “Are you going to tell me more about your phone call?”
“Over dinner,” he said. “While you eat your steak.”
He thought he was going to have more of a battle. While he did the cooking she found a card table he never used and set it in the living room, and when he brought the steak in he saw that she’d put sharp knives at both places. He put her plate down, handed her a cold beer without asking and sat down o
pposite her.
She stared at the rare steak for a long moment, and he controlled his own hunger, waiting. “Do you have ethical problems with killing animals?” he asked.
“No. Animals kill each other for meat.”
“Do you hate the taste?”
She shook her head, still hesitating. “It smells delicious. I just haven’t been interested in food recently.”
“You haven’t been interested in life recently.” He cut a small piece and held it out to her, across the table. “Come on, Eve, take a bite. It’s about time to leave the Garden of Eden.”
Her eyes met his finally, and he almost wished they hadn’t. There was pain in their deep brown depths, sorrow and fear. Most terrifying of all, there was the faint stirring of hope. Then she leaned over and took the steak with her strong, white teeth.
He turned his attention to his own meal once she began to eat, tipping his bottle of Beck’s Dark down his throat. Maybe he was making a very dangerous mistake, dragging her back into the harsh, cruel world. That look in her eyes could very well turn into something even worse. It could turn into love, and then he’d be in a real mess. Despite what he’d told her, he didn’t believe in love, not anymore, and he didn’t want to. But he suspected that was exactly what Elizabeth Hardy needed. The belief in love, and happy endings. Just the sort of things he couldn’t give to her.
Who the hell did he think he was, interfering with her tight little cocoon? He’d never been a knight on a white charger, rushing in to rescue the sleeping beauty. He should let her doze on, her emotions in a coma, and let someone else wake her up.
Except that he couldn’t leave her alone. If he did, she’d be dead. So might he, for that matter. Anyone who could take out Phil Grayson, even ten years into his retirement, had to be a formidable opponent indeed.
So the two of them were bound together. And even if he knew he should back off, should keep his hands off her, he knew that within the next forty-eight hours he was going to make love to her. And heaven help them both.
She’d eaten nearly half her steak before she spoke. “Well?” she said. “Are you going to tell me?”