Now You See Her (19 page)

He propped his feet on the coffee table and turned to a news channel, but he already knew the Dow Jones, and Standard and Poor's averages. He knew the latest price of gold; he knew what the Asian markets were doing, what the money markets were doing, what the Chicago futures were doing, and he didn't give a shit. Work would wait. He had more important things on his mind.

Sweeney's claim to see ghosts and affect electronics didn't bother him. He didn't necessarily believe it, but it didn't bother him. She was patently sane, so at worst her convictions were eccentric. The electronics effect was easily explained; some people couldn't wear battery-operated watches because their personal energy field made the watches go haywire. If she really did affect traffic signals, that was fine with him.

Several things did bother him, though. Those severe chills she was having, whether caused by shock or something else, were serious enough to incapacitate her. He didn't know if she was in any true physical danger, but judging from what he had seen that morning, he thought it was more than a little possible. Whether triggered by her imagination or some physical condition, the events were real.

He wanted to believe there was some underlying physical cause, something easily adjusted with medication. That would be the simplest, most logical cause and solution.

Unfortunately, there was that painting of Elijah Stokes. He couldn't find any possible explanation for its existence.

As soon as he had seen the painting, he had known it depicted a violent death. Sweeney didn't seem to realize quite what she had painted, but then she hadn't seen a lot of death and violence. He had. In the army, he had been trained to be efficiently violent, to perform his mission and avoid capture, and to kill. He had been good at it, and not just in exercises. The rangers, like all other special-forces groups, were often sent on clandestine missions that were never reported in the news. He knew what death looked like, what blunt-force trauma looked like, so he had been expecting David Stokes to say his father had been murdered.

Sweeney didn't live in Elijah Stokes's neighborhood; she hadn't even known his name until she learned the names of his sons. Nor could she have found out about his death afterward and done the
painting, because the paint had been completely dry today While Sweeney's back was turned, he had touched the paint, especially the thick red of the blood, and it hadn't been sticky. No, she didn't know Elijah Stokes had been murdered, and he didn't intend to tell her. She was already upset about the painting, and he didn't want to do anything that might trigger another episode of hypothermia or shock.

If anyone had told him a month ago, even a week ago, that he would be entertaining the notion such psychic phenomena could be real, he'd have laughed in his face; that was tabloid fodder. But this was Sweeney; she wasn't a good liar, wasn't good at any sort of deception. Watching her reaction to the McMillans had made him want to laugh out loud, because her growing repulsion and desperation to get out of there had been plain on her face. When she didn't want to tell him something, she didn't pretend not to know the answers he wanted; she just got a mutinous, stubborn expression. She didn't play games, didn't know how.

After Candra's deceptiveness, after the social snobbery he had observed for ten years, some of which he had endured, Sweeney was like a drink of fresh water. She was direct and honest, so even if he didn't believe some of the things she had told him, he had to believe that she did. And he had to believe she had painted Elijah Stokes's death scene without having seen it, without having known the old man was dead.

So, with the evidence at hand, he had to discard
logic and take a leap of faith. She wasn't crazy and she wasn't deceptive. He had to believe she'd had at least one true psychic experience.

If he loved her, he had to believe her.

Son of a
bitch.
Shocked by the thought, Richard surged to his feet and restlessly paced the room. Wanting her was one thing, a healthy sexual reaction to a desirable woman. He liked her. When he first asked her out, only a few days before, he had known he would like to have a steady, exclusive, and very sexual relationship with her. He hadn't thought about love. He was just getting out of a bad marriage, though the divorce was only the legal epitaph on the tombstone of something that had been dead a long time. Loving Sweeney wasn't convenient. The timing was bad, and he suspected she could be a real pain in the ass. She was difficult and prickly, and probably didn't compromise worth a damn.

But she was honorable, and this morning when she woke in his arms, the smile she had given him had been as sweet as an angel's. His heart had literally skipped a beat. He had known then he was in real trouble. A man would do a lot for a woman who smiled at him that way, all warm and drowsy and satisfied. He would move mountains for the privilege of making love to her, of watching her face while he brought her to orgasm. Having had a taste of Sweeney's passion, he knew he wouldn't be able to hold out much longer. One way or the other, Candra would sign those papers, and he would call in every favor owed to him to get a hearing before a judge as soon as possible. Sooner. Within a week.

Money could work miracles, and he had a lot of money. He couldn't think of a better way to spend it. It was time he did something satisfying with his money, and he couldn't think of anything more satisfying than getting Sweeney in his hands, in his bed, in his life.

He was going to make some drastic changes in his life, and he was going to make them soon. Sweeney was the most drastic change, but the others weren't minor. He was tired of playing the market, tired of the life he led here. It had never been what he wanted on a permanent basis, just the means to an end. He didn't like what he was seeing in the market, and it was time to get out. He thought he'd have at least a year, but liquidating his assets would take time, and he didn't intend to wait until the last minute to do it.

The computer problem looming at the end of 1999 looked like a bitch. From the information that passed through his hands, he knew a lot of companies weren't going to have their computer programs fixed by that time. What that would do to the market was anyone's guess, but if enough companies shut down, the market would crash. If he had been satisfied with what he was doing, with his life here, he might have tried to ride it out. Under the circumstances, though, it was time to get out.

He didn't want to try to predict what would happen, or shift his investments to companies with computer systems that were millennium compliant. He had never intended to spend his whole life playing the market and amassing wealth, anyway. All
along he'd had other plans, and now it was time to put them into action.

Sweeney complicated matters, and not just because the timing was inconvenient. He didn't want a long-distance romance. He wanted her with him, and he had no idea how she felt about relocating.

Big plans, he thought in self-mockery. He tilted back his head and killed the rest of the beer. He was planning her future without even asking if she wanted to spend it with him. Hell, why not? She had disrupted his life, so turnabout was fair play. He thought he had a good chance of success, considering what she had given away that morning with her comment about being terrified something had happened to him. He grinned to himself. He wasn't above taking ruthless advantage of her feelings for him; hell, he needed any advantage he could get.

*   *   *

It was almost two A.M. when Sweeney stirred slightly in her sleep, a frown puckering her brow. A barely audible whimper sounded in her throat, a quiet protest from her subconscious. A few moments later she slipped out of bed, her movements so calm the covers were scarcely disturbed; one second she had been lying beneath them, the next she wasn't. She stood beside the bed for some time, her head cocked as if she were listening to something. Then she sighed, and walked silently through the dark apartment to her studio.

She had stood the canvas with two shoes painted on it against the right wall, where it was out of the
way but she could still look at it. The shoes had puzzled her. Why had she painted shoes? After her initial relief that she hadn't done another portrait of death, she had gotten more uneasy as the day had gone on. The shoes weren't finished; they needed more work. Knowing that had made her dread the night, for the first time in her life.

Now she went straight to the shoe canvas and placed it on an easel. Her expression was smooth and blank as she selected her tubes of paint and began to work. Her brushstrokes were fast and precise, the narrow, tapered bristles adding detail.

She didn't work for long, no more than an hour. Suddenly she shuddered, her entire body drooping as if overwhelmed with fatigue. She capped the tubes of paint and dropped the brush in a jar of turpentine, and silently returned to bed.

*   *   *

She slept late again, until almost eight, but knew as soon as she woke that she had done it again. She was cold, the heat from the electric blanket somehow not transferring to her flesh, even though she knew it should. When she had gone to bed the night before, the bed had been toasty warm, such a delicious sensation she had almost purred as she crawled between the sheets. It would still be toasty warm, she knew, to anyone else, but she couldn't feel it.

Not being an idiot who couldn't face reality, she hurriedly dressed and went into the living room, where she had left the pad with Richard's number on it. As she picked up the cordless phone and
punched numbers, she noticed that her hands were colorless except for her fingernails, which had an interesting bluish tint to them.

Richard answered the phone himself, and something tense inside her relaxed a little at the sound of that deep, calm voice. “This is Sweeney,” she said, trying to sound cheerful, but at that moment a violent shiver seized her and her voice shook. “It happened again.”

“I'll be right there.”

Just like that, she marveled as he hung up. No questions, no “I'm tied up right now, but I'll be there as soon as I can.” She needed him, and he was dropping everything else to be there with her. The sheer wonder of it made her chest feel tight, as if she were catching a cold. Tears stung her eyes and she blinked them back, determined not to be such a sissy again.

She went into the kitchen. The coffee was made and already cold. She poured a cup and put it in the microwave to heat, waiting impatiently for the ding. Chills raced down her spine, roughened her skin. She felt her muscles tensing with another shudder.

She gulped down the first cup of coffee and heated another one. She had to hold it with both hands to keep the coffee from sloshing out, but still she was shaking so hard she risked scalding herself.

The attacks were getting worse, she realized; she was getting colder, faster. Maybe she should move the coffeemaker into the bedroom, put it right there on the nightstand so she wouldn't even have to get
out of bed. Not that the coffee seemed to be helping much; nothing helped, except for Richard.

Just the thought of him caused a small spurt of warmth deep inside. That's the ticket, she thought. Just think of Richard. She had thought about him incessantly the day before, constantly replaying those remarkably carnal moments in his arms. The fact that they hadn't had sex was a tribute to his self-control, not hers, and she was still astounded at herself, astounded at the heat that had poured through her, the blind physical drive for fulfillment. She had never experienced that before, and now that she had, she was no longer so certain of her ability to keep their relationship platonic.

She snorted into the cup of coffee. Who was she kidding? They hadn't consummated their relationship, but it was far from platonic. All these years she had felt so smug about her imperviousness to sexual temptation, but with one look Richard could get inside her defenses and have her insides jumping around. Face it, she thought. With Richard, she was a pushover.

Shivering, she looked at the clock. How much longer would he be? He should be here any time.

Her shoulders were hunched against the cold, but abruptly she straightened, her eyes going wide. She shot out of the kitchen chair and raced for the bathroom. Hastily she rinsed her mouth with mouth-wash, then grabbed a comb and attacked her hair, which stood out from her head like a bush. Her efforts only made it wilder. She threw down the comb, squirted a dab of something that was supposed
to control the frizzies into her hand, and rubbed it over the worst spots. Makeup? Should she put on lipstick? She stared at herself in the mirror, wondering what shade looked best on blue lips. Perfume, maybe. Damn it, she didn't have any.

“Oh, I've got it bad,” she whispered. Here she stood, shivering so hard she was beginning to hurt, worrying about makeup and perfume. In horror, she realized she was
prettying up.

The doorbell rang. Hurriedly she wiped her hands and ran to the door. Her teeth were chattering as she jerked it open. “I've lost my mind,” she told him grimly, walking into his arms. “I'm freezing to death, and I was worrying about lipstick. Then I opened the door without checking first. This is all your fault.”

“I know,” he murmured, lifting her off her feet and stepping inside. He hugged her tight, helping her brace against the shudders that wracked her. She buried her face against his neck, seeking to breathe in his warmth, and her nose was so cold he jumped. An exuberant curl tickled his lips as he turned and locked the door.

“It isn't as bad today. I c-c-called you as soon as I got up.” Since she'd lost control of her teeth in the middle of the sentence and they'd done their castanet imitation again, her statement wasn't as believable as it could have been.

“Good.” He carried her to the couch. “Where's the blanket?”

“On the ch-chair in my bedroom.”

He set her down. “I'll get it.”