Lucidity (7 page)

And he’d wasted their precious time together stupidly brooding about the way she teased him? He’d cut off his right arm at this moment just to see her smile. “You’re only human, Carly. All of you. You’ve gotta keep that in mind.”

“The asteroid is nearly three miles wide.” There was an unspoken plea in her eye, a quaver in her voice. “It could mean an impact of unimaginable proportions, a nuclear winter that would rival the Ice Age. Or enough earthquakes and tidal waves to wipe out a large percentage of the human race. In terms you might better appreciate, it would hit with the energy of a three-million-megaton bomb. Don’t you think it’s worth the effort to
try
, whether you believe in what we do or not?”

Chapter Six

Fuck it. Parker didn’t care if Carlotta Phelps thought she was Tinkerbell. She believed in helping people. She practiced magic and lived on hope. And as long as she looked at him with that expression of absolute trust, he’d defend her to his dying day.

He eased his chair forward again and leaned across the table, careful not to touch her. She was actually shivering, seemed so fragile at this point. He was deathly afraid he’d take her in his arms and not want to let go. “I’m not saying I’m buying the New Age hooey. But the info about the asteroid must be top secret stuff, I’m sure. Why are you telling me, Carly?”

She reached out for him instead.

Her hand moved to slide along the stubble of his cheek with the gentlest touch he’d ever known. “You never asked, never seemed to care. But you had a right to know what you were fighting for and against. And I wasn’t sure whether you had someone… I mean, a family or a special person in your life you might want to be with if…well, if things didn’t work out.”

The whole setup would be laughable if it wasn’t so sad. If not for this whole apocalyptic scenario, he would never have met her.

And in his current role, he couldn’t tell her that he was staring at the only person he’d want to be with right now.

“Can’t say there’s really anybody significant in my life. Got a brother in a similar line of business. Travis. Tough guy. I don’t worry about him. He can look after himself. My father and wife number four, a fine woman, live in a retirement home in Florida.” He thought of Benjamin Munroe, the tall ex-soldier who’d seemed like a god when Parker was a child. Until the past two years or so, when human frailty began nibbling away at his nobility. “His dementia is in its early stages. He spends his good days fishing and the bad nights reliving old firefights. I’d rather not hit him with this kind of reality.

“And there’s my ex-wife, who wanted a nine-to-five husband—which she now has. I think it’s made her happy. I’ll let her think so for as long as she can.”

It was, perhaps, the first time he’d been able to speak of his marriage without some small trace of bitterness. He wondered if his present company had something to do with that. “Oddly enough, your bizarre circumstances suited me perfectly. Restless nature. My mother, God rest her soul, claimed my father had gypsy blood. She always said I was just like him. Never could sit still for very long. But enough of all that.” He’d never been comfortable talking about himself. “I assume you have family?”

“My mom never married. She was killed in a car accident four years ago. Otherwise, there was just the ex-fiancé who thought meeting him at the door with beer and whipped cream should be more important than my silly attempts to save the world. Go figure.” This time she smiled, that wide, sexy smile that sent his resolve winging south. “So, here we are, with all the gossip and no one to tell. Quite a pair, aren’t we?”

“Not yet.”

The words simply slipped out. He hadn’t meant to say them and was stunned to realize he absolutely meant them.

In their short time together, he’d actually grown accustomed to waking up when she did, to seeing her safely to bed at night, even watching over her as she slept. She was everything bright and beautiful, and without the slightest effort inspired the most painful boners he’d ever experienced. That made it as legit as any other relationship he’d ever had.

Now, if only they had enough time to work on it.

“We’ll be fine. Just fine. You do your witchcraft thing, and I’ll keep the angry villagers at bay.” He grasped her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

He’d been right. Touching her was a mistake.

How could she play the vamp one minute and manage such a charmingly old-fashioned blush the next? All signs of sadness were gone now as her eyes stared into his with absolute confidence.

He couldn’t seem to catch his breath. He knew she never wore perfume. It wasn’t a good idea to carry it in luggage that was packed quickly and handled roughly. But the scented lotion she favored was subtle and distinctive, like the lilacs that had colored his mom’s garden in spring, and nearly enough to intoxicate him.

Such soft skin. How would it taste? He absently twined his fingers between hers, marveling at how small her hand seemed in his, wondering what it would be like to have her body beneath him, to bury his hard, swollen need inside her welcoming warmth.

Parker was neither monk nor martyr. He was no Shep, but he enjoyed having women, however briefly. He’d occupied himself with quite a few just before he took on this case, knowing his opportunities might be limited for a while. There was no excuse for suddenly feeling like a starving man.

He gingerly shifted in the seat, in desperate need of his usual crotch adjustment but reluctant to spoil the moment. All else seemed hushed in the world. Beyond the hum of the kitchen’s electric clock, the simmering of steam heat waiting to serve, and the quiet kiss of snow upon the frosted glass door, there was silence. There was only the two of them. “Carly. I’m sorry.”

“What in the world for?”

For complaining about the nightgowns when he’d rather she’d worn nothing at all. For not seizing every opportunity he’d had for three months to touch and taste every inch of her. For not automatically killing every rat bastard who even
thought
of doing her harm.

“I’m willing to go for the big-bang story. Every conspiracy theory has a germ of truth. But I’m sorry, I can’t believe in this—this dream fantasy your people have concocted. It’s all very nice and inspiring I’m sure. But frankly, folks with unrealistic expectations stumbling around with their heads in the clouds aren’t really helping those who live in the trenches.

“However, I am sorry you’ve had to go through all of this alone. I’m a bullheaded idiot. Not knowing the truth made things easier for me. With no preconceived notions about who your enemies were, I could be on guard against
everybody
. I didn’t think how it might affect you. Keeping a little distance between us was the only way I could…”

He hesitated and swallowed hard, struggling to maintain his composure. She was right. He wasn’t very good at this talking thing. “I mean, I needed something to—”

The insidious theme song of
Close Encounters
abruptly waltzed through the air, and Carly jerked away from him, pressing the blue button that had changed to radical red on the phone. “Dammit,” she muttered. “Knew that would happen as soon as we started having an honest conversation. Just
knew
it.”

He shrugged, noting the disappointment in her dark eyes. Actually, she was wrong. The summons had probably been a godsend. He was on the verge of making a fool of himself. “Duty will call. No problem. We’ll do it again in another three months or so.”

That prompted another smile. The lie was worth it. “I—I hoped you’d believe me. About everything. But I didn’t really expect it. Thanks for listening, big guy—and at least not laughing in my face.”

Parker ran a frustrated hand over his hair, feeling guilty as hell and fighting the urge to pull her back to him. She rose, heaving a relieved sigh, and casually climbed out of her jeans before him, having surrendered that modesty to necessity long ago.

He watched her retire to the bedroom, wearing the hell out of the little ice-blue gown, his shaft growing harder with every gut-clenching swing of her hips.

For some time, long after the creaking of the mattress and rustling of sheets had ceased, he remained seated and still. Christ. He was an ass. As if news of a possible apocalypse wasn’t enough, he’d nearly forgotten who he was, almost dumped his feelings—needs—on the shoulders of a woman already carrying the weight of the world.

With nothing more constructive to do, and a shitload of sexual frustration, it occurred to him he might consider praying. For the Earth, the future, and for this woman who’d become his whole world in these last frantic, full-of-life days.

Prayer? Nah. Who was he kidding? He couldn’t even remember how.

He’d never been a man to ask for help. He refused to believe there was
anything
he couldn’t handle. It was probably the reason he was still alive after all the covert missions and violence that had colored his recent years. Time and again, he’d managed to get over with barely a scratch. Maybe the pearl-handled pistol was a lucky charm after all.

But there’d be no dodging this particular bullet. And if this was really the end of time, he’d have a lot of explaining to do to his maker.

Carly, however, deserved better. She was a true believer in people and the power of miracles. And yes, a hot babe to boot. Whether her talent was some kind of delusion or not, he intended to make sure she was safe, that nobody ever laid a hand on her.

Nobody, of course, except him. And the sooner the better.

Chapter Seven

Parker Munroe had few vices. He enjoyed fishing occasionally, mostly for the sport of it. More often than not, he threw his catches back and wished them a long life. He smoked, but only when it suited him. A good bottle of wine after a fine meal made him happy with the world.

But watching Carlotta Phelps scant minutes after she emerged from her shower was definitely his greatest weakness.

Of course, he’d enjoy seeing her
in
the shower even more. But the thought of that didn’t make him happy. It made him horny as hell, made him want to storm into the bathroom and take her every way he could imagine, until that weakness was well-satisfied.

Seeing her like this would have to do. And watching her now, as she drifted wraithlike through the suite, was almost enough to make him wonder if there was a God.

Her face was luminous, her cheeks scrubbed clean and flushed. She wore one of the generic, frayed terrycloth robes Vic provided in each bathroom, which could only mean she was temporarily chilled. She’d switch into one of those groin-tightening gowns as soon as she warmed up, which would go a long way toward warming
him
up.

It was probably the hair that did it for him. She usually wore it in a ponytail, or loose and swinging. It was simpler for her, knowing she might not have time to fuss with it.

But post-shower, it was pinned up into a loose topknot, displaying the high cheekbones and slender neck to advantage. Casual strands of cinnamon swirls cascaded from the bun, framing her face in a soft, surreal manner, like some Victorian maiden, and made him want to crush her to his heart, to hold her there and keep her safe.

There was just something about a gentle woman that brought out the best in a man. Even in the harsh light of the breakfast bar, she might have inspired a painting. A demure damsel. Fragile and feminine, everything soft and delicate that he could imagine in a lady, and—

“What the hell are you staring at, Munroe?” Carly paused to glower at him. “Damn. Do I look that awful?”

“Huh?”

She grumbled incoherently as she tried to ease past him to the coffeemaker. There simply wasn’t enough space to maneuver in the kitchenette. Abandoning the effort, she deliberately bumped him with her hip to make him move. “I know I’m a fright in the morning, but you should be used to it by now.”

He angled skillfully out of her way, retreating to the safety of the sofa with his mug. That mood of hers was enough to snuff out the stars in his eyes. His gentle woman was
not
a morning person. “I wasn’t staring. Well, not the way you think. I just—”

“Do you like me, Munroe?”

He eyed her suspiciously. “Why do you ask?”

“I mean, don’t you think I’m a nice, deserving sort of girl?”

Yup. She was angling for something. “Define ‘deserving’.”

She smiled. A little too brightly. “I need to go to a store today, big guy. Is there a small town, medieval village or incestuous family compound hereabouts?”

“No. To all of the above. No.”

Carly poured coffee, then moaned in ecstasy as it worked its way down her throat. “God, I needed this.” She fixed him with a merciless stare. “Did you notice that I didn’t say I
wanted
to go to a store? I said I
needed
to go.”

Ah. One of
those
days. The image of the demure little maiden was fading fast. “Did you notice that I said
no?”

“I need to see people, Munroe.”

“You already played the ‘I never ask for anything’ card, Carly. No.”

She leaned over the counter, her voice pleading. “Look. It’s almost sunny outside. Human beings require an occasional dose of the shiny stuff for their health, y’know.”

“Yes. I know. No.”

“Oh, c’mon. Women need certain necessities that men don’t. Like a flaming red bottle of nail polish with built-in microhardening shimmer.”