Night Moves: Dream Man/After the Night (60 page)

It made him all the more determined that
he
would change that situation.

Objectively he could be a little amused at the range of conflicts that were clouding his mind and tangling his guts. He’d always been able to hold himself a little apart, unaffected by most of the worries that gnawed at other cops. Subjectively he wasn’t enjoying it worth a damn. He didn’t believe in paranormal stuff, had always laughed at those who did. Now he found himself not only halfway believing, but trying to figure out how he could use Marlie to find Mrs. Vinick’s murderer.

That last thought tied another knot in his intestines. He wanted to protect her; he didn’t want her involved with another murderer in any capacity. But he was a cop, and his job was to use whatever source he could to solve a crime, especially one as brutal as this. The bastard didn’t need to be walking around, loose among the unsuspecting public. And despite the primal male instinct that told him to keep Marlie away from it, he knew that, if possible, he would use her. He would do everything he could to keep her safe, but the greatest need was to find this guy and put him away. Unless he was a certified wacko, the savagery of the murder was such that he was almost certain to be given the death penalty . . . but first he had to be caught.

Another conflict was with his own male wariness. No man he knew gladly embraced the turmoil and restrictions of an emotional relationship with a woman, and he was no exception. He liked his life; he liked not being tied down to any one woman. He didn’t want to have to account for his time to anyone, didn’t want to have to consider someone else when making plans for what he wanted to do. But now there was Marlie, and damn it if he didn’t feel as if he’d been
cornered. He’d been attracted to a lot of women before, but not like this. This was a fever, a gnawing need that never left him. It had been only four days since he’d walked into Bonness’s office and seen her for the first time, and she hadn’t been out of his mind since. The more he learned about her, the more involved he became. The hell of it was,
she
certainly wasn’t doing anything to get him involved; he was doing it all on his own, and having to fight her every inch of the way.

She had totally avoided men, romantically and sexually speaking, since Gleen had almost destroyed her. Dane tried to tell himself to back off, to give her both time and space in order to come to trust him, but he knew it wasn’t going to happen. He’d never been the type to sit and wait. He was going to make her his, and pretty damn soon, too. She would understandably be afraid of sex. He, and no one else, was going to teach her that it could be pleasurable, too. He’d never been jealous before in his life, but now he felt almost violent with it. Not jealous of Gleen, God knows, but of every other man out there who would take one look and get lost in Marlie’s bottomless blue eyes. He wanted the right to pull her possessively against his side and glare a warning at any bastard who dared look too long at her.

Trammell would gloat at the irony of it. Dane had never had any trouble separating his love life from his work, because his work had always taken precedence. Now here he was, obsessed with a woman who was his best link with a killer.

It was nine-thirty when his plane landed. He was tired, having been up since before dawn, not to mention having flown most of the way across the country and back. He checked in with Trammell from a pay phone in the airport, told him he’d see him in the morning and tell him everything then.

After hanging up, he stood there for a minute, thinking. He was tired, his clothes were tired, he was grumpy. He should go home and get some sleep, think things over. He
knew what he should do, but damn if he’d do it. He wanted to see Marlie. He might not like the complications, but he couldn’t wait to get entangled with them, like a moth rushing giddily toward a flame.

•  •  •

Marlie jerked the door open on his fifth knock. She stood squarely in the doorway, her posture plainly denying him admittance. “It’s ten-thirty, Detective,” she said coldly. “Unless you have that warrant, get off of my porch.”

“Sure,” Dane replied easily, and stepped forward. She wasn’t prepared for the maneuver, automatically moving back to give him room before she caught herself. She tried to recover, grabbing for the door, but it was too late; he was already over the threshold.

He didn’t take his eyes off her as he shut the door behind him. She was wearing a pair of cutoffs, droopy socks, and a flimsy old T-shirt that draped over her braless breasts as faithfully as her own skin. Very pretty breasts, he noticed, making no effort to hide the direction of his gaze. High and pointed, with small dark nipples peaking the fabric. His mouth went dry and his loins tightened, the same reaction he had every time he was in her company. He was beginning to expect it, anticipate it, enjoy it.

The casualness of her clothing jolted him, making him acutely aware of the prim facade she normally projected. Behind that facade was a woman whose natural sensuality took his breath, and made him realize how successfully she had managed to hide it. He wanted to shake his head at the waste and at the same time thank God that, evidently, no other man had seen through her defenses.

She had more layers than an onion, and she was determined to keep them hidden beneath that prickly shield she had developed. The blistering glare she was giving him should have shriveled his skin. Instinctively he knew that her hostility was because of her vulnerability; she was naturally angry at his previous suspiciousness and less than
gentle questioning, but most of her dismay was caused by the fact that he was seeing her like this, without the armor of her bland disguise.

Patience wouldn’t work with her. She was too used to hiding, to protecting herself. He was going to have to break down her defenses, force her to let him get close to her. His blood surged hotly as he decided how to do it.

Deliberately he let his gaze roam over her. Her glossy dark hair was hanging loose on her shoulders. He liked that. Her bare legs . . . He felt another jolt of lust. Damn, her legs were great. And her breasts were so tempting that his mouth began to water, until he was all but drooling. He wasn’t going to try to hide his attraction another minute; it was time to start getting her accustomed to it.

Marlie flushed angrily as he continued to stare at her breasts. She crossed her arms over them in a half-belligerent, half-defensive gesture. “If you don’t have a good reason for this, I’m going to file a complaint about you,” she warned.

His gaze flicked upward. “I’ve been to Boulder,” he said abruptly. “I just got back an hour ago.” He paused, watching for any flicker of expression. She didn’t give much away, but he was learning to read her eyes. She hadn’t quite learned how to shield the expression in them. “I talked with Dr. Ewell.”

Her pupils dilated wildly, and there was no disguising her dismay. She stood stiffly, glaring at him. “So?”

He moved closer to her, so close that he knew she could feel his heat, close enough to intimidate her with his size. It was a deliberate tactic, one he had used before in interrogation, but there was a big difference this time in his own attitude. Talking to her was still important, but underlying it was the powerful sexual need to make her aware of him as a male. The closeness of his body shocked her; he saw her waver, saw the sudden color in her cheeks, saw the alarmed flicker of her eyes. She didn’t allow herself to retreat, but she
went very still, her nostrils flaring delicately as the hot scent of his skin reached her.

Her own feminine scent wrapped subtly about him, drawing him even closer. It was a clean, soapy odor that told him she wasn’t long from her bath, mingled with the warm sweetness of woman. He wanted to lean down and nuzzle her neck, to follow that faint scent to its source, investigate all the intriguing places where it might linger.

Later. It was too soon for that.

“So the good doctor had a lot of interesting things to say,” he murmured. He began to slowly circle her, letting his body brush hers, the light touches tingling through his nerves like electricity. Stallion circling mare, getting her accustomed to his touch, his smell. Gentling her. “It seems you’re some kind of miracle of ESP, if you believe in that kind of stuff.”

Her lips tightened. She had herself under control again, not even glancing at him as he continued to circle her, ignoring the fleeting contact of his arm, or his chest, the graze of his thigh. “You don’t, of course.”

“Nope,” he said blithely. It wasn’t a complete lie, but he wasn’t about to tell her he was at least halfway convinced. He’d get a lot more reaction out of her if she was angry, and reaction was exactly what he wanted. “Unless you can prove it to me. Why don’t you give it a try? Come on, Marlie, read my mind or something.” Slowly, slowly, around and around. Never letting her completely escape his touch, his heat.

“I can’t. There has to be something
in
your mind.”

“Nice shot, but it doesn’t prove anything.” He kept his voice low, almost crooning. “Make me believe it.”

“I don’t do parlor tricks,” she snapped, goaded. She was drawing more and more taut, the force of his nearness wearing on her nerves.

“Not even to prove yourself innocent of murder?” He pushed her even further. “This isn’t a party, babe, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Her head whipped around, dark hair flying, and she gave him the full force of her glare, blue eyes narrowing like a cat’s. “I suppose I
could
change you into a toad,” she said speculatively, then shrugged. “But someone has already beaten me to it.”

He gave a bark of laughter, startling her. “You’ve seen too many of the old ‘Bewitched’ shows; that’s witchcraft, not ESP.”

The slow circling finally got to her. Abruptly she bolted, toward the kitchen. He let her go, following closely behind her. “Coffee,” he said blandly. “Good idea.”

She hadn’t planned on making coffee, of course. She had simply been fleeing. But she seized gratefully on something to do, as he had known she would. She was rattled, and fighting it every inch of the way. He was beginning to realize how important control was to her. Too bad he couldn’t let her keep it.

She opened a cabinet door and took down a canister of coffee. Her hands were visibly shaking. Then she halted, her back to him as she carefully set the canister down on the countertop. “I don’t read minds,” she blurted. “I’m not telepathic.”

“Aren’t you?” That wasn’t what Dr. Ewell had said, exactly. He felt a tinge of triumph. Finally she was starting to talk to him, rather than resisting him. He wanted to put his arms around her and hold her close, shelter her from the trauma of her own memories, but it was too soon. She was physically aware of him now, but she was still frightened, still hostile.

“Not—not a classic telepath.” She looked down at the coffee. He could see that her hands were still shaking.

“So what are you?”

•  •  •

So what are you?
Marlie heard the question echo in her mind.
Freak
, some people might say.
Charlatan
was the word others would use. Detective Hollister hadn’t been that
polite. He’d called her a fake, and possibly an accomplice to murder. It was ridiculous, of course. Even he would have had to give up on that idea by now, faced with a complete lack of evidence, opportunity, and motive. But he’d checked her out, he’d actually gone to Boulder and talked to Dr. Ewell. He knew about her now. He might not believe, but at least now he was asking instead of simply accusing. But how much did he know? Dr. Ewell could teach discretion to a diplomat, when he so chose; how much would he have told a stranger, even if that stranger was a cop? Marlie hoped desperately that he didn’t know it all, because then he would ask her about it, and she didn’t think she could bear to bring it all up now. She felt oddly vulnerable and exposed, her nerve endings raw.
He
had done that to her, forcing his big body so close to her that his heat had seared her skin, deliberately brushing against her, blatantly staring at her breasts.

She didn’t want to be even more aware of him than she had already been. She was safe in her solitude.

“What are you?” he repeated calmly.

She turned to face him, her movements slow and deliberate. She squared her shoulders as if bracing herself for an ordeal. “I’m a clairvoyant empath. Or I was.” Suddenly confused, she rubbed her forehead. “I suppose I still am.”

“But you have read minds before.”

“Maybe. Not exactly.” It was difficult to describe being so linked with someone that you could interpret his thoughts through his emotions. Sometimes the link was so strong that it happened.

Choosing his words carefully, he said, “According to Dr. Ewell, you were the most sensitive receptor he’s ever known.”

She gave him a harassed look. “Receptor’s as good a word as any. I pick up—I
used
to pick up things. Emotions, energy from actions. Thoughts, too, sometimes, but usually it was emotion rather than actual thoughts. The static was unbelievable.”

“That’s why you joined Dr. Ewell’s study, for the peace of controlled surroundings.”

She bit her lip. “Yes. I couldn’t drive down a street, shop in a mall, go to a movie. It was like a thousand voices screaming at me at once. Most people don’t make any effort to shield themselves, they just blast everything out like a shotgun, spewing their emotions in all directions.”

“You didn’t live at the Institute, though.”

“No, I had a little place outside of Boulder. It was peaceful.”

“I know about what happened six years ago.”

The brusque statement was like being hit between the eyes. She reeled from the force of the blow, staggering back against the cabinet. He moved, coming toward her with that lethal, catlike grace so unusual in such a big man. Dazed, appalled, she held out a hand to ward him off. With ludicrous ease he brushed it aside and instead pulled her into his arms.

The shock of his hard body against hers was stunning. He was incredibly hot, burning her even through their layers of clothing. His muscled arms were as unyielding as steel bands; they forced her closer, until her thighs were against his, until her breasts were flattened against the hard ridges of his stomach muscles. She felt weak, disoriented, and automatically clutched his biceps in an effort to steady herself.