a Touch of Ice (4 page)

One heavy, brown eyebrow lifted in a perfect arch.

“Really. I’m not. This vision thing happened for the first time yesterday in the middle of a client session, and I have no idea—”

“You know exactly why, Everly Gray.” Violet nudged my foot under the table, a get-with-the-program warning. “You’ve explained it to me several times already this morning. It’s time for you to get out of the house and actually live your life.”

Laughter twinkled behind Mitch’s eyes. “Don’t get out much, huh? Maybe I can help with that.”

Embarrassment heated my chest, warmed my ears. Damn.

“Couldn’t help but overhear your discussion with Violet about a potential apple pie. So happens it’s my favorite, too.” He tapped my coffee mug with his index finger. “And cinnamon. Another of your favorite things?”

“Most definitely.” I lifted my shoulders in what I hoped was an aloof, sophisticated shrug. No point in denying my love for cinnamon since he watched me sprinkle it over the whipped cream topping my latte.

“I have a source for homemade cinnamon ice cream. Bet it would go well with fresh apple pie.”

Violet buried her grin with a sip of coffee, and gave my foot another nudge. Clearly I was supposed to invite him over for apple pie. Right. A first. My mouth, already primed with excitement at the idea of homemade cinnamon ice cream, spilled out a bunch of words. “Maybe we should get together and—”

“Sounds like a plan. You work on Sunday?”

“Sometimes. Not tomorrow.” Was that me? Agreeing to a date?

“I’ll give you a call to set up a time.” He waited expectantly, fingers hovering over the keys. Violet rattled off my phone number before I could catch my breath.
Smooth, Everly. Way to impress a guy with your tongue-tied sophistication.

I had a date. With a man who knew about psychics. And dead bodies.

Four

Violet was perched on one of my high kitchen chairs, sunlight bouncing off the white walls and dancing on her blonde curls. Her fingers were busy drawing squigglies in the condensation on her glass of sweet tea. “Are you having another vision, or is that blank look because you’re lusting after Mitch’s body?”

“Neither, actually.” I took a long swallow of my Diet Coke, stalling because there was an element of truth in the lust part of her question. I shook it off. “I agree with Mitch that Tony was murdered, and I want to help you find the killer.”

Violet was going through one of those phases where she was determined to become southern in spite of her west-coast roots, so I wasn’t sure if her face was all wrinkled up because of the sweet tea, or if it had to do with our discussion. “Your participation is not an option.”

She caught my glare. “It’s one of your few attempts at socialization since you got out of college, and you can’t be delving into a murder. Sorry. Not gonna happen.”

“I’m social. I talk with my clients every day, and it’s not like this is my first date.” There was a touch of lost to my voice. It sounded…wounded. Not good.

“No, but I recall a conversation where you shuddered over the description of your high-school-slash-college memories. ‘Course you didn’t go into the particulars—but that guy last year. I remember you chasing him out of your house and down the street. Not what I would call successful socialization skills.”

Regret and a hollow ache slammed into my chest. “Perverted fantasies. He could have made a fortune directing porn movies. After him, I figured it wouldn’t ever be possible for me to have a—quote—normal relationship. I touch a guy and get zapped with stuff he’s done. Know that he only wants to hang with me for short-term sex.

Mitch is different, but not. I mean, he thinks about sex, but there’s respect there, too. And how many people meet over a dead body? Isn’t it usually a water cooler or copier? Or worse, a martini bar. And they dance around each other, exploring behavior patterns, interest levels. All that before they even do lunch. Mitch and I were drop-kicked into intense emotion as soon as I touched him.”

“I get that, El. It was, what, a week before you told me about your gift? I don’t remember, but it rocked my world. If I hadn’t done the background check—”

“We wouldn’t be friends. I know, and I’m grateful for your, let’s call it, attention to detail. You probably would have moved away if you didn’t know how innocent I look on paper.”

“Would have considered it, but it’s tough to reject someone who proves her gift by saving a life.” After six years, her voice still held a grateful tone.

“I didn’t. The universe did. You know how I feel about there being no coincidences.” I couldn’t stop a grin. “What was it you said after I told you he had a gun? Something about turning pale?”

“That zombie gray wasn’t your color, I think. Can’t remember. The important part was that I reacted in time to flatten the abusive bastard and relieve him of his weapon.”

I shuddered, the memory still neon vivid. “He planned to kill her, Violet. That little bit of a thing who only wanted you to get her to a safe house.”

“Yeah. Missed that one. But I see what you mean by no coincidences. She grabbed his jacket by mistake, you fingered the rip in the leather…but back to topic, ESP fingers or not, you aren’t going to chase after a killer.”

Best to sidetrack her with an agreeable comment. “Right. I think Mitch is different from the average guy. Probably all Pollyanna of me, but he knows about psychics, which I’m not, exactly. But still, he’ll understand why I can’t touch him.”

“No man, ever, is going to go along with that plan, El. You know better.”

“Yeah, well. It has to be that way. At least until I know he cares about my brain as much as he cares about his penis.”

Sweet tea sputtered from Violet’s lips. “Seriously? The best you can hope for with that comparison is a toss up. Unless, ohmygod. You’re already half in love with him.”

“That’s ridiculous. I try and love everyone. We’re all part of the same energy, connected, but then when I touch people it blows my good intentions into the deepest part of hell. Hey, isn’t there a song that goes like that: just one touch…” I sang as I sliced the Granny Smiths into a pie shell.

“I see where that can be a problem.” Violet shrugged away the silence. “I gave up on loving people a long time ago. Comes with being a PI and always bumping into the worst traits of humanity. But it’s so good when I can fix things and make life better for people. Same reason you don’t give up on coaching.”

“True.” I couldn’t stop my grin. “And in just a few hours, I’ll be feeding Mitchell Hunt, photographer, a superb apple pie and plying him with questions.”

“Nope. Bad plan. As far as questions go,
I’m
the one he hired and PI trumps date. Besides, I still haven’t forgiven you for not
immediately
telling me about the image of the DB you picked up when you touched Mitch.”

The kitchen was filled with the scent of hot oven and fresh-cut apples. I popped a bite in my mouth, savoring the tart flavor. “How could I? He was standing right there. So, moot point, and I want to focus on the date thing. Remember, you’re talking to a woman in the prime of her sexuality, who’s been without any possibility of a relationship for forever. I’m way out of practice, make that, I’ve had little to no practice whatsoever, so questioning him will be my lifeline. If I’m thinking about murder, it’s unlikely I’ll hop into bed with him before I realize what’s happened.”

“Go for the man-woman thing. The murder is—”

“I know. I know. But somebody has to find the killer, and unless I want to end up in that rocking—”

“We’re all going to end up in a rocking chair, or…well, whatever. That somebody definitely isn’t you.”

“Wrong. That somebody
is
me since my curiosity seems to have volunteered for the job, and I’m the one with ESP fingers. Wanna help me catch a killer?”

“No I do not want to help you catch a killer. I work alone. You may not have noticed, but people who catch killers are trained in all kinds of stuff, and they don’t spend most of their lives hiding out at home. I have some experience with the criminal element, and I know, for a fact, you have to go out in the world on a fairly regular basis to be a successful killer catcher.”

I took the glass of sweet tea out of her hand and replaced it with a can of soda. Dumped the tea down the drain and went back to slicing apples. “I agree. Trouble is, the universe has a totally different plan. Besides you didn’t see the body or feel Mitch’s pain. And you haven’t—”

“I’m trained. And I’m good at my work, El.” She tipped the soda can in my direction. “To reiterate. You’re not.”

I stabbed the tip of the knife into an apple, dragged it toward me. I couldn’t argue with that, but how much, exactly, should I share with her?

“Hey, you in there?” Violet took the apple out of my hand and started slicing.

“Yeah. I’m here.”

“Well, your face is doing that blue-white thing again. What’s going on?”

“I have to do this.” I looked at Violet. Her forehead was creased and a ghost of apprehension clouded her eyes.
Okay. Deep breath, Everly.
“I need you to understand. When I touched Mitch, when I saw Tony’s body, something snapped in me.”

“Snapped?” The furrows in Violet’s brow deepened. “Everly Gray, what the hell’s the matter with you?”

I shook my head, impatient. “Not bad snapped. Good snapped, I think. If fear can be called good. I mean, seriously, there was a warning, a threat in that vision. A reason why old-woman me was filled with regret.
She
didn’t speak for the dead body, didn’t do anything to find his killer. I am
so
not going to be her.”

“Little scary, El. Maybe a vacation would help, a few days on a tropical island with sun, surf, and umbrella cocktails. What do you think?”

I scraped my chair back and stood. “Vacation later. Killer now. I better get this mess cleaned up so I have time for a shower before Mitch gets here.”

“Have you considered that chasing down this murderer will give you more nightmares, not make them go away? I get that Mitchell Hunt has potential. Heck, I about drooled when I saw him. But honestly, El, you don’t have to catch his friend’s killer to have a relationship with him.”

“I know. I think this is something I have to do no matter what happens with Mitch. It’s one of those prickly neck things.”

“No. This is not a prickly neck thing. A prickly neck thing would be telling you to stay the hell away from dead bodies.”

I shrugged it off. “Probably you’re right. Shoo.” I waved my hands toward the door. “I need time to prepare for my date.”

The deep, sexy rumble assaulted my ears and shattered the peace of the quiet cul-de-sac I call home. Barefoot, mind focused on domesticity and the apple pie, I had no room in my world for the harsh reality of a…motorcycle? I jogged to the window and peeked around the blinds. The bike, all sleek and powerful, pulled into my driveway, the roar switching to abrupt silence as Mitch cut the engine.

He eased from the seat, his movements smooth, filled with the strength and grace of an athlete. Damn it. I wasn’t prepared for this. The world famous photographer, who could probably afford some kind of overkill Mercedes, had arrived at my house on a motorcycle. He took off his helmet, and ran his fingers through those sun-kissed curls as he jogged up my front steps.

I bounced downstairs, my breath coming in short pants, more like a puppy than an adult woman. First date nerves. No time to think about it. I swung the door open, gave him a, “Hi,” and a grin, and then headed for the bike. “I’m stunned. This is really something, and wow—”

“You’re saying you like my bike?”

I turned, bumped into his chest. Heat flooded my cheeks as his arms wrapped around me, steadying me. Trapped between a man and his bike. Hot flash. “Yeah, I do. It’s…unexpected.”

He took his sweet time before stepping back and giving me enough space to catch my breath. “I’ll take you for a ride, but we need to get the ice cream in your freezer first.”

“Ice cream?”

“I promised cinnamon ice cream to go with the apple pie.” Could his grin get any more mischievous? He reached around me and removed a small cooler from the pack on the back of the bike.

We brushed shoulders a couple times on the way inside. Playful. Friendly. I kept my fingers to myself and focused on the ice cream as I led the way upstairs to my living space. The scent of fresh-baked apple pie filled the air, and Mitch’s stomach grumbled. “Smells great, El. You have a scoop for the ice cream?”

I pointed to a drawer while I sliced generous wedges of pie. “In there. Flat, silver, like in a Cold Stone Creamery.”

He located the scoop and watched me, still, silent, his eyes holding mine in a gentle hug that somehow spoke an entire conversation. A tacit decision not to talk about Tony or the murder. This time was for us. Separate from the chaos surrounding us.

We’d settled on my back deck with dessert bowls balanced on our laps and mugs of coffee steaming on top of a wicker table. I’d just stuffed a bite of pie in my mouth when he hit me with the question. “You ever been on a bike?”

I swallowed. “Never even considered it. Seems…uncontrolled. And they’re so big. I, um, drive a VW Bug. Sort of opposite from a Harley.” I chased the pie down with a gulp of too-hot coffee. He looked like he was going to press the bike-ride thing, so I shoved in another bite of pie and ice cream and let the pungent cinnamon melt over my tongue. Cinnamon and Mitch. They had a lot in common.

“Not a Harley. It’s a BMW, good for on and off road. Work takes me to odd places and the bike is adaptable. Same reason my main ride is an F-one-fifty. Not glamorous, but hell on back roads.”

We ate and talked about family and shared work stories. Normal. Until he picked up our dishes and headed for the kitchen. “Ready for that ride?”

I glanced at my toes, the Keys to My Karma polish a bright red contrast to my honey colored skin. “Shoes. I need shoes.” And no, I wasn’t ready, but a bike was about as far as I could get from a rocking chair.

“And a jacket with long sleeves. It can get breezy.” Was that a wink? My stomach did a happy flip. Winks were good, right?

Mitch rinsed our dishes while I put on shoes, a jacket, and washed the sudden rush of have-you-lost-your-mind fear from my palms. Damn. A motorcycle.

He tucked my hair into a spare helmet, pulled my arms tightly around his waist, and gunned the engine. Trouble. I was in such trouble. Just let me say—a bike is a living entity. A thinking, breathing, powerful entity, capable of creating tiny internal earthquakes . Or was that the man I had my arms wrapped around? Hard to tell.

We pulled back into my driveway thirty life-altering minutes later. Mitch helped me from the bike, laughing as I tried to get my helmet off and my hair under control. He tried to help, wove his fingers through my unruly mop, untangling strands of hair from the fittings on the helmet. His breath caught, an audible hitch that sent heat rushing through my veins and into my cheeks. Could he tell my hormones had kicked into high gear?