When Mom Meets Dad (20 page)

"Gillian can see you now," the desk-keeper informed him.

Gillian Moore's lack of response to his phone calls had irritated and frustrated Nathan.  He was accustomed to being in charge.  But his reason for being here brushed all that aside.

Striding into the busy room, he took it in with one glance--the chairs, mirrors, blow dryers, three hairdressers chatting to their customers.  But then his gaze fell on the small white wrought-iron desk in the far corner and the woman sitting behind it.  Her face turned away from him, she slid a pack of acrylic nails to the side of the glass top and straightened her manicure paraphernalia.  At his approach, her gaze met his, and he almost stopped short.

She didn't look like a psychic.

Her long, light brown hair was laced with sunny blond highlights.  A few tendrils wisped along her cheek. Her bangs wafted across her honey brows.  But it was her huge brown eyes that almost immobilized him.  They didn't appraise him physically…they looked into his soul.  He didn't like the invasion.

Gillian had wished her client a good day and unnecessarily  organized her work table, hoping Nathan Bradley had decided not to wait.  When she turned her head and saw a tall man with resolve shouting from his furrowed dark brows, the set of his mouth, and his slightly squared jaw, she realized it would take more than a few unanswered phone messages to deter this man.

Taking a slow breath and maintaining eye contact, she slid her hands into the pockets of her white apron.  Nathan Bradley wanted something from her, all right, and she couldn't give it.  Not right now.

"Ms. Moore."

It was more statement than question.  She nodded.

"Could we talk for a few minutes?"

She gestured to her desk.  "I'm working, Mr. Bradley.  I really don't have time--"

"You don't have a client at the moment," he countered, his blue eyes steady, his voice firm.

This man could be intimidating.  But she was used to dealing with hard-nosed cops, jaded private investigators, and a disbelieving public who wanted her help anyway.  "No, I don't.  But I am working.  Now, if you'd like a manicure..."  She almost had to smile at his expression of distaste, but then his next words made her heart beat faster.

"I want a few minutes with you.  You're the last option I have."

"For what?" she asked, though she sensed what he needed.

"My two daughters.  I need you to help me find them."

As she stood, Gillian glanced around the shop to make sure no one was listening.  "Where did you get my name?"

"Does it matter?"  As he asked, he slipped a photo from the inside pocket of his jacket.

His movement was quick, but Gillian caught a view of a narrow waist, slim hips, and a physique probably as taut as his demeanor and voice.  When he offered her the photograph, her attention returned to the situation at hand and she took a step back.

The two young girls in the snapshot had their father's blue eyes and brown hair.  She could tell that he loved them from the way the camera had caught Nathan Bradley' expression as he crouched down between them, one arm around each daughter.  The pain in his eyes now attested to the fact.

He tried to hand Gillian the photo, but she wouldn't take it.  She knew what might happen if she did.  She might see images and feel emotions she didn't want right now.  Folding her hands in front of her, she said, "I'm no longer doing that type of work."

But it was difficult for her to tear her gaze from the picture.  When she did, the sadness in Nathan Bradley's eyes was almost as difficult to ignore.

"Why?"

For some reason, she couldn't hedge or lie to this man.  Checking again to be sure no one eavesdropped, Gillian lowered  her voice anyway.  "Since I was sixteen, Mr. Bradley, my life hasn't been my own.  I came to L.A. to escape the type of work you want me to do and to make decisions about my future."  She stopped and tears pricked her eyes as she thought about the last few months before leaving Indiana.

Regaining her composure, she swallowed and went on, "For almost ten years, I've helped others when they've asked.  Now I need time and breathing room before I decide if and how I want to use my gift again."

As she spoke, she could tell he listened.  There was a spark of empathy in his eyes, but, of course, his need was more important.  "Take this one case," he insisted.  "I'll protect your privacy if that's what you're concerned about.  Your help doesn't have to be public knowledge.  I'm an internet security specialist.  I know what safeguards we can take.  No one else has to know you're here."

She steeled herself against the man's masculine appeal and turned away from the wonderful smiles of the children in the photo as well as the hurt still lingering in her heart.  That hurt sprang up every time she remembered Brian Reston and the search for his son, the months she'd dreamed about a future for the three of them.

Despite the time that had passed, despite the miles between L.A. and Deep River, Indiana, she knew she wasn't ready for Nathan Bradley and his search...for any of it.  The general public thought psychics could "know" anything they wanted, that they could answer any question, even their own personal ones.  That just wasn't true.  Gillian had realized early on that she couldn't use her "gift" for her own benefit or to predict events.  All she could do was tune into impressions and use them along with her intuition.  Words, pictures, and sounds sometimes popped into her head, but she never knew when that was going to happen.  It hadn't happened since she'd left Indiana.

With the need for self-preservation being her overriding concern, she said, "If you found me, others will be able to.  And I'm not only concerned about privacy.  You make my help seem simple, as if all I have to do is close my eyes and give you the answers you want.  The process is much more complicated than that.  Try a private investigator, Mr. Bradley.  It will be best for both of us."

"A private investigator gave me your name."

She sighed and shook her head.  "Then he can find someone else who does my kind of work."

"It's difficult to find a reputable psychic," Nathan almost growled as his frustration became evident.

Worry stabbed Gillian.  "Sh..."  All she needed was her co-workers knowing. 

Nathan lifted his hands in exasperation and in a loud whisper asked, "Why is it so all-fired important for no one to know what you do?"

Anger bubbled up inside her because this man knew nothing about the hundreds of letters she received each year, the sleepless nights, the burden of parents and brothers and sisters and children depending on her to find someone they loved, or someone who was missing.  What irritated her the most were those who wanted a plan for the future without formulating it themselves.  "If they knew what I was able to do, most women in this salon would want a reading.  They'd line up for hours waiting with bated breath for me to tell them their future.  And if I couldn't tell them anything, they'd say I'm a fraud.  My gift creates a three-ring circus, Mr. Bradley.  No, thank you."

Harriet came in from the front desk.  "A walk-in for nails is waiting, Gillian.  How's your schedule?"

Gillian accepted fate's offer of a neat, non-confrontational way to end this encounter.  "Tell her to come in.  I don't have another appointment until four.  If it's all right with you, I'll take my supper break at five."

"No problem."  Harriet's interest in Nathan was obvious as she gave him a wink and returned to the front room.

He faced Gillian.  "I'd like to continue our discussion."

"There's nothing more to say.  I have to get back to work and I'm sure you do, too.  Call your P.I.  He'll find someone else."

The look the man gave Gillian was not resigned.  If anything, it was more determined than ever.  But he didn't argue.  "I'll call my P.I.  But I'll be talking to you again.  Soon."

With a lift of his brow and a wave of his hand, he was gone.

Gillian first felt relief, then a strange sense of loss.  But she was used to feelings and images not clicking.  Eventually they became part of a bigger picture, and then she'd understand. But there was no bigger picture where Nathan Bradley was concerned.  There was no picture at all.

#

The instant Gillian stepped outside of the Hair Happening, she saw him.  He stood beside a gray Mercedes in the parking lot. She should have realized this man wouldn't give up so easily.  Ducking back into the salon was an option.  So was ignoring him as she walked to the enchilada and chili stand across the parking lot of the strip shopping center.  But she had the feeling when she returned, he'd still be waiting, and not quite so patiently.

A group of teenagers on roller-blades skated by, one of them holding a miniature schnauzer on a leash.  She smiled at the sight, something she'd probably never see in Deep River.  But her smile slipped as she spotted the handsome, very sexy man walking toward her, and an excited little shiver zipped up her spine.  At least six-two, lean and fit, with long legs that quickly covered the distance between them, he was the type of man who could attract a roomful of women without trying.  It wasn't only his looks but his confidence, his dominating male presence.

When he stood before her, he asked, "Can I buy you supper?"

"If I hadn't mentioned my break, you would have waited till I quit for the day.  Right?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Bradley..."

"Nathan.  You have to eat supper. I have to eat supper.  Is  there any reason we shouldn't talk while we do?"

"You have an ulterior motive.  This won't be much of a break for me."

"It's not an ulterior motive because you know what I want."

"Obviously, I need to watch what I say with you," she murmured.

The corners of his mouth twitched up.  "Is that a yes or no?"

"If I say no, you'll be back.  Let's get this over with."

The curve of his lips turned into a frown, indicating he was uncomfortable with her frankness.  Gillian's gaze wanted to linger on those lips.  They were full enough to be sensual, narrow enough to enhance the handsome aesthetics of his face.  She could imagine one of his kisses--dominating, forceful, passion-filled.

The image startled her.  She hadn't thought about kissing a man in over a year--since Brian had decided to reconcile with his ex-wife.  She'd not only lost Brian but his son, too.  At the time she'd thought her heart would break.  But she'd buried herself in her work until she'd realized she no longer had a life outside of her work.  Not eating, not sleeping, working twenty hours a day was a one-way road to disaster.  Thank goodness she'd recognized her destructive direction in time.

"I don't know what you have in mind," she said, "but the chili and enchiladas are good at that stand over there."

Nathan perused the truck/restaurant set-up near an island with palm trees and benches.  "I haven't had an enchilada in..."  He shrugged.  "Too long."

They walked side by side for a few moments, Nathan slowing his stride to Gillian's.  The breeze ruffled his hair, making him look less formal and imposing.  She thought he'd start making his case for her help, but he didn't.

His arm brushed hers, his suitcoat rough against her skin.  "Have you always done manicures for a living?"

She registered the texture of the material, the strength of his arm, and her heart jumped at the contact.  Managing a smile, she responded, "Would you believe I have a degree in business?"

"Neither seems appropriate for a psychic."

Her smile faded.  "And what does?  Theater arts?"

He stopped and faced her.  "Okay.  I stuck my foot in it.  I didn't mean to insult you.  But all this is strange to me.  I'm a logical man.  I make decisions and judgments from facts.  I've always thought psychics were frauds.  But my private investigator told me about crimes you've solved and people you've found.  Even if I don't believe in it or understand it, what you do works."

"I don't understand it, either," she said quietly.

Nathan had been fascinated by the woman since he'd set his eyes on her.  Looking at her now, her soft, long hair, those wonderful brown eyes, her slender curves wrapped in a pink cullotte dress with a white collar and lapels, his muscles tightened and he felt pangs of arousal.

Crazy.  That usually didn't happen simply from looking.

Her soft voice, her calm wonder, urged him to step closer, to find out more about her.  "Tell me about it.  Were you born with this ability?"

She shook her head and pointed to the supper truck.  They began walking again.  "I don't think I was born with it.  If I was, I didn't know it until I was ten.  I was sitting on a dock fishing and a storm came up.  The thunder and lightning hit fast.  The next thing I knew I was lying flat on the dock, the rain pouring down on me.  My head hurt and I was shaking all over.  Mom found me that way, took me home, and put me to bed.  We thought that was the end of it."

His P.I. had told Nathan that Gillian was from Indiana and had lived there all her life.  She traveled often but had never moved from the town where she'd grown up.  L.A. must be quite a change for her.  "When did you realize something was different?"

"A few days later.  Aunt Flora came to visit.  When she hugged me, I saw this picture of her sitting at her kitchen table crying.  I didn't understand it.  Later, I overheard my aunt and my mother talking.  My cousin had dropped out of high school and my aunt was terribly upset."

"And there was no way you could have known that."

"No."

"Did you tell your mom?"

"No. I was afraid of the pictures when they came and uncomfortable with the feelings.  I kept it a secret until I was sixteen."

They reached the vending stand.  Gillian ordered chili and cornbread while Nathan asked for an enchilada.  She opened her purse, but he closed his hand over hers.  Her skin was soft and warm and a jolt of desire more powerful than before stabbed him.  "I've got it," he said, unable to keep the husky rasp from his voice.

Her gaze met his.  The sparks of gold in the brown told him his touch affected her as much as hers affected him.  She pulled away, and he let go.

Gillian busied herself pulling napkins from the holder while Nathan paid for and carried their plates to a bench.  Picking up their sodas, she joined him.  She'd no sooner settled on the bench with her soda by her shoe and the cup of chili with a wedge of cornbread perched on the edge in her hand when the schnauzer she'd seen earlier ran over to her and jumped up and down, finally landing with her paws on Gillian's knees.