Books by Maggie Shayne (209 page)

She shot him a look.
 
"Reading my mind again, right?"

He felt a bit guilty.
 
"I'm sorry.
 
I can't seem to help myself.
 
I'll stop if you tell me to."

She smiled at him.
 
God, she really was beautiful creature.
 
No bigger than a breeze, with those big jade-green eyes, and cheekbones sculpted by a god.
 
"You don't need to apologize, Michael.
 
I'm a total skeptic about this, in case you hadn't picked up on that already.
 
Despite the little demonstrations you've been tossing out."

"I know you don't believe me.
 
That's the first thing we need to get out of the way.
 
Come.
 
Sit"
 
He took her arm, led her into the living room and set her on the small, floral-patterned sofa.
 
"Now, tell me to do something, but don't say it aloud.
 
Just think it in your mind."

Her lips curved into a smile as the many voices of her own mind began to argue.

This could be fun.

Don't be an idiot.
 
Tell him to get me a glass of water.

No, tell him to kiss me.

Honestly it's not going to matter what I tell him.
 
I could tell him to carry me to the bed and undress me with his teeth, but he isn't going to hear any of it.

He held up a hand.
 
"That's enough."

"But I didn't—"

He met her eyes.
 
"Yeah, you did."
 
Then he went to the kitchen, got a glass from the cupboard, filled it with water from the bottle in the fridge.
 
He brought it to her but he didn't put it in her hand.
 
He set it down on the maple coffee table instead.
 
Putting his hands on her shoulders, he drew her to her feet, slid his arms around her waist and bent his head until his lips touched hers.

She shivered.
 
She was mortified, realizing he had heard every single thought, yet her entire body quivered in anticipation and need.
 
He kissed her mouth.
 
When she wished he would pull her closer, he did, and when she wished he would use his tongue, he did that, too.
 
She was sweet and shy, embarrassed and eager, nervous and frightened, but mostly she was hungry—for him.

He was beginning to think this little game had been a bad idea, because this had not been his intent.
 
He hadn't come here to make love to her but that was exactly what he was going to do.
 
And whether or not it was a good idea really didn't matter very much at this point.

He scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bedroom, still exploring her mouth with his.
 
Then he lowered her to the bed and bent over her, dragging his mouth away from hers, over her neck, to the top button of the jade colored silk blouse.
 
He kissed her flesh there, then freed the top button of her blouse with his teeth.
 
Kissed her again and undid another, then kissed her again there.

"No."
 
She put her hands firmly on his shoulders and gave him a push.

Michael froze, fought down his rising passion and slowly straightened away from her.
 
"It's what you wanted," he told her.

"It crossed my mind.
 
That's not the same thing."

He nodded, conceding the point.
 
"You're right.
 
A passing thought is not the same thing as real wanting.
 
But it felt like real wanting when you thought it."

She stared up at him.
 
She was still lying on the bed, was her blouse unbuttoned and her desire shining in her eyes.
 
"It was," she whispered.
 
"I'm trying to balance it with common sense.
 
This isn't me, Michael.
 
I don't act this way."

"I never ever once thought you did."

She nodded.
 
"It's too soon."

Leaning over her, he gently buttoned her lose gripped her shoulders and helped her sit up.

"For what it's worth, you've convinced me.
 
I believe you now.
 
And I'm going to take you up on that offer."

He lifted his brows.
 
'To undress you with my teeth?"
 
He knew that wasn't what she meant, but he couldn't resist.

"To stop eavesdropping on my every thought."

"I was afraid that was what you meant."
 
He sighed, showing his disappointment.
 
"Al right.
 
I knew better, I just—your thoughts were so flattering."

"It's not fair.
 
I can't read yours."

And it was a good thing, because a second ago he'd been thinking things that would either have driven her wild or scared the hell out of her.
 
And he didn't want to scare her.
 
"Trust me," he said.
 
"You'd find mine flattering, too."

She smoothed her hair and got to her feet.
 
"So are you ready to show me what's in the briefcase of yours?"

He nodded, took her hand, drew her back into the living room.
 
Even though leaving bedroom was the last thing he wanted to do.

Four missing-person reports—photocopies, taken from various police departments—lay across her breakfast bar.
 
There were names typed across the tops, and they all had three-by-five snapshots attached with paperclips:
 
Samantha Carlson, Vivian Marie Patinski, Kathy Somerfield, Cynthia Stone.

Mary looked at the typed pages and tried to ignore the pretty, smiling faces of the women, the life in their eye.
 
"New Jersey, Vermont, Massachusetts, Connecticut—they all vanished from different states"

"All in the northeast," he said.
 
"As in Maine."

"Okay.
 
So he's a traveling stalker/"

"Read the reports."

Swallowing heard, she tried to focus on the pages instead of on the intensity of Michael's gaze or the disturbing tingle generated by his nearness.
 
And then she didn’t have to, because he narrated for her, maybe too impatient to wait.

"All four of them reported anonymous phone calls and feelings of being watched for a week or two prior to their disappearances.
 
Each of them reported a break-in.
 
Each of them vanished during the full moon."

A little shiver raced up her spine.

"Did they find... any of them?"

He lowered his head.
 
"He dumps them in various places.
 
Samantha's body was found by some fishermen in Crosswicks Creek.
 
Vivian turned up in a city dump, underneath a mound of trash.
 
Kathy ad Cynthia are still missing."

She pressed her lips together and looked again at the photos.
 
Then she glanced at their birthdates.
 
"All under thirty."

"That's not all they have in common, Mary."

She closed her eyes, not sure she wanted to know this, but certain that she had to.

"They all share a very rare blood antigen, known as belladonna.
 
You have it too."

She looked up at him fast.
 
"How do you know that?"

He held her gaze.
 
"The same way I know so many things about you.
 
I feel you, Mary.
 
Sometimes it's like I'm inside you."

She closed her eyes, suppressing a shiver.
 
She had expected his so-called evidence would expose him as a fraud, or maybe a sincere but misguided do-gooder.
 
Instead, he was convincing her.
 
"How were they...?"

She didn't have to finish the question.
 
"It's not important how they died.
 
Only that they were killed in the same manner."

"The two that were found, at least."

"All four," he said.
 
"But there are only autopsy reports on the two that were found."

Her gaze shifted to the brown leather case, which lay on the counter, its flap open.
 
Then corner of a manila envelope was visible inside.
 
Then Michael took the case, on the pretense of returning the police reports to it.
 
He closed it and set it beside him.
 
He really didn't want her to know how the women had died which told her it must have been horrible.

"Did you try to warn them, too?" she asked.

He shook his head slowly.
 
"I didn't know about them until after they were killed.
 
And then not from a vision but from casual conversation among... some of my peers."

"Your psychic friends?"

"He tried to smile.
 
"Something like that.
 
I heard about these four women, murdered, all of them bearing the antigen.
 
I don't expect you to understand why, and I can't explain it to you, but among people like me, this was a topic that generated a lot of discussion and concern."

"People like you..."

"And then I saw you—in a dream.
 
I
felt
you.
 
And I knew you'd be next."

"How did you know where to find me?"

He looked at the floor, gave his head a shake.
 
"It's difficult to explain.
 
Besides, I'm afraid you already think I'm deluded."

"So you have nothing to loose."

He drew a breath.
 
"Once I had seen your face, sensed your aura, even though it was only in a dream, I was able to home in and track you down.'

"Kind of like a bloodhound on he gets the scent?"

"Something like that."

She licked her lips and wondered why she wasn't afraid of him.
 
He could be the killer, for all she knew.
 
But if he was, why was he trying to warn her?
 
And how had he managed the trick of calling her on the cell phone while sitting beside her in the car?

Tricky.
 
But not impossible.
 
There were deices, recorders, timers.
 
She'd seen her share of spy films.

And yet she wasn't afraid of him.
 
He was odd.
 
Different.
 
She'd never met a man like him.
 
But there was no sense of fear.
 
Which might be exactly what he wanted.
 
Want it or not, though, there was no way he could held responsible for the storm of desire raging inside her.
 
No way.
 
That was all her.
 
He couldn't have planned that.

He was watching her now, studying her face.
 
Then he nodded toward his coat, which hung on a rack just inside the apartment door.
 
"There's a gun in the left pocket of my trench coat.
 
Extra bullets in the right.
 
I brought them for you, to protect yourself."

She blinked.
 
"I don't... like guns."

"I don't, either, but we're talking about your life here.
 
Go on, take it.
 
And while you're there, search the other pockets.
 
Assure yourself that I'm not hiding any other weapons."

Pursing her lips, she slid off the stool and went to the coat, doing what he told her.
 
The gun was a small black revolver.
 
The bullets were in a red-and-white box.
 
The other pockets were empty.

When she turned, he was standing beside her, though she hadn't heard him cross the room.
 
He stood with arms out from his sides.
 
"Go on.
 
I want you to be sure of me."

Swallowing hard, she set the gun and bullets down and put her hand on either side of his left arm, drawing them along it slowly, all the way to his wrist.
 
She repeated the action on the other arm.
 
He turned so she could run her palms over his back and shoulders, and she wished to God the shirt wasn't in her way.
 
Then, as she prayed he hadn't heard that thought, he turned again.
 
She ran her palms across his chest and belly.

Her heart was pounding so hard she thought he had to hear it.
 
He was reacting, too; she knew he was.
 
His eyes had closed, and his jaw was clenched tight.
 
She moved her head to his sides, up and down them.
 
Then she bent her knees, hunkered lowered, to rub a path along his outer thighs, to his calves.
 
She felt him shiver when she worked her way back up the inside

Finally she straightened.
 
"No weapons.
 
The words came out hoarse; she had to clear her throat.

"No deadly ones, anyway."

She looked away quickly.
 
"What is this thing, Michael?
 
Why do I feel so...?"
 
She couldn't finish.
 
She just let the words trail off into silence.

"I don't know.
 
But it's... not just you."

She looked at him and saw it clearly in his eyes:
 
he wanted her.
 
As badly as she wanted him.
 
But he broke eye contact to pick up the gun and bullets from where she had placed them, then put them into her hands.
 
"Keep the gun with you," he said.
 
"And keep it loaded.
 
There's no safety to worry about, and it's fairly simple to operate."

She played with the catch on the side, because it was something to do to take her attention away from her body's demanding cries.
 
He wouldn't say no if she invited him to her bed.
 
She wouldn't even have to ask him.
 
She could just take his hand, lead him into the bedroom.
 
He would understand.

She made the gun's cylinder fall open, so she could see the holes where the bullets would go.
 
Then she clapped it closed again and thought about loading it where to keep it while she slept and whether or not she could shoot someone—thought about anything but having sex with Michael Gray.

"Between that and your stun gun, you should be able to defend yourself," he said.

She nodded

"I wouldn't supply you with a gun if I mean to hurt you, Mary."

"You think I don't know that at this point?"

He nodded, glancing at the clock.
 
"It'll be awn soon.
 
You should get some sleep."

He was right.
 
It had been about 3:00 a.m. by the tie she' left the bar.
 
"So should you."
 
Go on, say it.
 
Just invite him to stay!

"I will.
 
We have one more thing working in our favor, Mary.
 
He always strikes at night.
 
Always."

"So far, you mean."

He nodded.

"And how is that in our favor."

"I can protect you by night."

She frowned not sure what that could mean.
 
Then she felt a lightbulb go on.
 
"You have a day job."
 
Then she sighed.
 
"So you plan to work by day, then stay up all night watching my back?
 
That's crazy, Michael.
 
How long do you think you can keep up a schedule like that?"

"As long as I have to.
 
And it's not as crazy as you think it is."
 
Again he glanced at the clock.
 
"But time is awfully short.
 
I really do have to leave you now."

He got to his feet, went to the door.
 
An suddenly she felt panic nipping at her heart.
 
She ran to the door behind him.
 
"Michael—"

He stopped, turned and placed a gentle palm on her face.
 
"He's nowhere near here.
 
Not now.
 
I'd know if he was."

She closed her eyes.
 
"Besides," she said, "then moon's not full."

"Look the door behind me."

"I will.
 
But... when will you come back?"

"I'll be at the bar right after sundown.
 
You make sure you get there before dark.
 
That way you'll be safe.
 
And keep your weapons with you."

She nodded.
 
"All right."
 
Swallowing hard, she took his hand in both of hers.
 
"Thank you, Michael.
 
I have no idea why you're doing this.
 
Why you even care, but... thank you."

"I'm doing it," he told her, "because I can't
not
do it"

"I don't understand what that means."

He smiled gently.
 
"Let's just say you have some kind of power over me.
 
I don't think I could resist it even if I wanted to.
 
And to be honest, I don't want to."
 
He cupped her cheek with his palm and leaned down to brush his lips over hers.
 
"Get some rest, Mary."

She nodded, and he stepped out the door.
 
Mary closed it and turned the locks.
 
Then she moved to the window and pushed the curtain aside to watch him go... but he was already gone.

As if he'd simply... vanished.

*
   
*
   
*
   
*
   
*

Mary slept until the ringing of the doorbell woke her.
 
Her eyes didn't want to open, but the ringing was rapid and repetitive and stubborn as hell.
 
She didn't want to get up.
 
I didn't seem she was going to get a choice in the matter, though.

Rolling to one side, she pried her eyelids apart just enough to see the luminous red digits on her alarm clock—10:00 a.m.
 
She'd been asleep for about five and a half hours—Michael had pulled his disappearing act around four-thirty.
 
The doorbell was still firing away.

"I'm coming, already!"

She pushed back her cover and let gravity pull her legs until her feet hit the floor.
 
Feeling around while yawning, she found her slippers with her toes and burrowed her feet into them.
 
She stood up, finishing the yawn, and then she went stiff as the fog in her brain finally thinned enough to let her fear shine though.

What if it was the killer at her door right now?

But Michael had said he only struck at night.
 
And during the full moon.
 
It was broad daylight now.
 
Still...

She opened the drawer in the bedside stand and took out the revolver.
 
She'd loaded it and put it there before going to sleep last night.
 
Where the hell to carry it, though?
 
There was no pocket in her flannel pajamas.
 
Licking her lips, scanning the room, with the doorbell pinging the entire time, she spotted a bathrobe on the back of a chair and snatched it up.
 
As she pulled it on and dropped the gun into its deep terry pocket, the doorbell changed to rapid pounding, and a voice yelled, "Open up Ms. McLean.
 
It's the police."