Rebecca York (12 page)

"This is beautiful," she murmured, bending down to pluck a sprig of lavender, releasing the fragrant perfume into the air. "I've walked past the cathedral, but I didn't know about this garden. How did you find it?"

He slipped his hands into the pockets of his gray slacks. "I used to do some freelance work for Washingtonian Magazine. And I made it a point to write about interesting spots in the city."

"So you went from gardens to character assassination," she observed dryly.

He swung toward her. "Are you trying to start a fight?"

"Maybe."

He wanted to wedge his hands on his hips. Instead he kept them relaxed as he said, "That's the second crack you've made about my work. Maybe you'd better explain it."

She hesitated a beat before saying. "Okay. In that series you did on the Supreme Court, you were unfair to a woman named Paula Grayson."

He felt his eyes narrow, but he spoke slowly and evenly. "Paula Grayson, the woman who was sleeping with one of Judge Wilson's law clerks?"

"I don't believe that!" she protested.

"She was using him to get ahead. I could have gone into a lot more detail, but I chose to focus on other aspects of how the justices reach decisions."

"I heard your article cost her her job," Lindsay shot back.

"Maybe it did. But I was only reporting the facts I'd dug up. I'm not in the business of character assassination. I don't put anything questionable into a book or an article unless I've checked it through more than one source."

"But you took the word of the law clerk!"

With someone else he might have shrugged and walked away. But this was Lindsay. So he said, "I checked his story with the staff at the hotel where they'd met. He ordered champagne sent up to their room. She was in bed, the covers pulled just high enough on her breasts to hide her nipples. He was wearing one of those white robes hotels have for guests."

He was gratified to see the red stain spread across her cheeks. "Oh."

"And she was the one who paid for the room, in case you're interested in that bit of information."

Lindsay swallowed. "I'm sorry I attacked you."

"You're nervous. So am I." He laughed. "One reason I brought you here was so I'd keep my hands off you. It wouldn't be very decorous to kiss you in a church garden."

"Are you always decorous?"

"I respect holy ground."

She snorted.

Instead of reaching for her, he reached for a nearby plant and broke off a sprig, crushing it between his fingers.

"That's thyme," she said. "My mom has an herb garden at home."

"Yeah. But we didn't come here to talk about horticulture. Stop stalling. Why did you call me?"

"I picked up something else from your mind."

His whole body went rigid. "What? My mind's like a TV screen to you?"

"No. But after I got home, I realized I'd gotten something important last night. A name. Todd Hamilton.

It was his pathology report that you showed me—right?"

"Christ!"

"Sorry," she muttered. But now that she'd started talking, she plowed ahead. "When I remembered the name, I was pretty sure I'd seen it in another context. So I looked it up in the office correspondence files."

After glancing around to make sure that they were alone, she reached into her purse and pulled out the photocopies, being careful not to touch him as she handed it over.

He read it and whistled through his teeth. "So he had important information a few months ago. Only he didn't know how to tell Bridgewater about it without sounding like he had a screw loose. What did the senator do with this letter?"

"He never saw it. An intern answered it. But I went over the intern's work before the letter and the answer went into the 'nutcase files.'"

"Well, don't blame yourself for dismissing him. It sounds like it came from someone who was mentally unbalanced."

She nodded fractionally.

"I mean it."

"Okay." She cleared her throat. "I looked for further correspondence. And I presume that there was no additional communication, since if Hamilton had written to the senator again, he would have gotten his own file folder."

He gave her an appreciative look. "Good detective work."

"Thanks."

His mood sobered instantly. "And you haven't told anyone about this?"

"No. In light of your three-death theory."

"It's not a theory! And you don't think so, either."

"I guess that's right." She moved her shoulder. "I looked up Todd Hamilton on the Web and came across some articles. There was a picture of his father. I believe you were thinking about him last night, too."

He swore again.

"You met with him."

"Yeah."

A smile flickered over her lips. "Score one for me. That was a bluff. I didn't know for certain until you told me."

"Maybe you should get a job as an investigative reporter."

"I like the job I have."

"You like Bridgewater."

"I like and respect him. He has tremendous power, and he doesn't throw it around for effect."

"But you were worried about him. I know you don't want to talk about it. But you were thinking he was acting ... strange," he said, going back to his observation of the day before.

"Stop pumping me for information."

"You started it. I mean by digging the Todd Hamilton connection out of my brain."

She gave him a look that was only partly apology.

Somehow, that look made the pressure building inside him too much to bear. He couldn't stand the feeling of separation. Of misunderstanding—when all he had to do to bridge the gap was reach for her.

He stretched out his hand. To his relief, she came willingly into his arms. Her small sob told him she was as needy as he.

He drew her into a small courtyard with high stone walls. Not that the place was really private. But at the moment he didn't care about anything or anyone else besides the woman whose body had molded to his.

Jordan. Don't. Not here.

You don't want me?

He felt her breath catch, heard the echo of his own thoughts in his mind. This is insanity.

Or salvation.

He lowered his mouth to hers, the hot, greedy kiss fueling a wave of sexual power. And thoughts. And emotions.

His and hers. Just like every other time he had touched her, the intimacy was overwhelming. Disturbing.

Shocking.

We can go to your apartment.

No, she protested.

We both want.. .

We hardly know each other.

You 're lying. You know me better than anyone else you ever met.

He drew her lower lip into his mouth, sucking, nibbling. He knew what she was thinking. That this garden protected her. He couldn't do anything more here. He shouldn't even be kissing her in such a place.

When he sent her an image of the two of them naked, holding each other, rocking together on the grass, she cried out.

He drank in the sound as he raised his hand and covered her breast, frustrated by the fabric between his skin and hers.

She moaned into his mouth, moaned again when he cupped her bottom and lifted her up, pulling her middle against his erection.

They both gasped at the contact, and he knew they really might end up on the grass. The drive for fulfillment fogged his mind, blotted out rational thought. Unable to stop himself, he began unbuttoning her blouse so he could thrust his hand inside and pull down one of the cups of her bra. The thought of his fingers stroking across her nipple rang a sob from her lips. He tugged her skirt up. At that moment a sharp female voice cut through the sexual fog.

"'Have you no sense of propriety? Find somewhere else for your shameful consorting."

The intrusion on their privacy was so disorienting that it took several heartbeats for him to realize that someone was speaking to them.

Raising his head, he saw a middle-aged woman looking at them with outrage.

Oh, Lord.

His gaze went from the woman to Lindsay, whose face flamed as she tried to redo the buttons of her blouse. When she pulled away from him, he felt like a piece of his soul had been torn away. Or was it a piece of his sanity? He wasn't sure. He only knew that he must have her back in his arms. Now. And damn everything else.

She took a step back, then another.

Wait! We still have to ... talk. I have to ask you . . .

The plea echoed inside his own head. And he knew she had heard him because of the way her shoulders stiffened. But she didn't stop running, and she didn't look back.

"MAYBE WE CAN work up a mind-reading act."

Willow Trinity's low, throaty laugh echoed through the private room at the back of their white marble temple.

Sax cradled her in his arms as they pooled their energy, revving up for the meeting with their most faithful followers.

"I think we already have, my dear," he murmured.

"Or mind-controlling. That's better, isn't it?"

"Oh, yeah."

She let her head fall to his shoulder, enjoying the intimate contact, enjoying the warmth and closeness, the comforting knowledge that the two of them had faced the worst together—and come out stronger for their suffering.

As Sax stroked her hair, a scene from the bad old days drifted through her mind. From one of the foster care homes where there wasn't enough of anything—food, clothing, or love.

They had been living with a couple named Henry and Eve Duckman, who had fooled the welfare system into trusting them with the lives of little children.

Back then, the twins had been Patty and Billy Anderson. Willow liked their new names much better.

Willow Trinity went along with making herself over—into a person of power, not a victim.

Patty and Billy Anderson had been at the mercy of D.C. Social Services, a dysfunctional agency with too many needy kids and too few employees.

Which was why their caseworker didn't know that when Mr. Duckman went on one of his frequent business trips, the little woman hung out with her boyfriend, a lowlife computer salesman named Karl Hilton, who liked to booze with her on the sofa, then fuck her.

Only one day, right before he was about to unzip his pants, he looked up and saw eleven-year-old Patty, standing in the doorway, her eyes wide as she watched the show.

The beer-sodden jerk leaped off the couch, charged across the room, and started slapping her on the face for being a Peeping Tanya. She screamed, and her brother Billy came running.

By then Mrs. Duckman was railing at Karl, telling him to let the little girl go. But he was too far gone to pay attention. And when Billy pounded on his back, he turned and swatted the boy across the room.

Billy came back. Only this time he didn't go after Karl. He reached for Patty, grabbing her arm and closing the secret connection they'd discovered, then nurtured, when they'd huddled in bed together at night, touching and cuddling and giving eacji other comfort any way they could.

She felt a surge of power leap between herself and her brother. And along with it came a strange mental clarity. Nobody had to tell her what to do next. It just happened.

They sent an arrow of pain shooting from their minds into Karl Hilton's body.

He made a low, frightened sound and staggered back, clutching his chest. And Patty and Billy dashed from the room and out to the old toolshed in the backyard, where they'd made themselves a secret hideout.

They heard a siren wailing in the distance, then peeked out to see an ambulance pulling up in front of the house.

Hilton recovered from his heart attack. But Mrs. Duckman had some explaining to do to her husband.

And Patty and Billy Anderson were sent to another foster home. One of the twelve they'd survived before they'd run away at the age of sixteen. They'd lived on the streets for a few days, protecting each other from the lowlifes who preyed on children.

But their talent had quickly gotten them into comfortable surroundings. They'd figured out a get-solvent-quick scheme. In the morning they'd hold hands as they stood shoulder to shoulder with passengers on a crowded rush hour bus or subway train—reading minds and finding out where cash was stashed in people's houses. Then, while the marks were at work, they'd break in and scoop up the dough. It had been like stealing cream from a kitten.

After that, they'd invaded the mind of the Reverend Horace Redman and persuaded him to make them part of his revival tent show—where they quickly became the stars of the act.

They'd gotten backers to finance a show of their own, accepting bigger and bigger contributions. They still traveled around the country—in grand style, now, their religious performances like a secret club available only to the fortunate few.

Last year they'd built their own temple here in Orlando. And now they were reaching for the stars.

A knock at the door made Willow look up.

'They're waiting for you," Michael called through the door.

"We'll be right there," Sax answered.

Then he lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers. Some people would have called the contact wrong. But Sax's strength had kept her afloat when life would have sucked her under.

She opened for him, welcoming the rush of heat, of thoughts and emotions. And when the kiss broke, she squared her shoulders.

"Okay?" he asked.

"No. But I'll fake it."

He squeezed her hand. Together they walked down the short hallway and into the small chapel that they used when they weren't having a fully public service.

About a hundred worshipers were sitting in the rectangular room where Ionic columns soared to a high ceiling.

The chapel was reminiscent of the sanctuary in the Mount Vernon Place United Methodist Church, a famous house of worship in Washington, D.C., where one of their foster families had taken them.

The marble columns set off polished wood pews with red velvet seat cushions, built far enough apart so that there was easy access to every row. The huge stained glass windows at Mount Vernon Place had depicted scenes from the life of Christ. In the Trinity version, they were more like the landscapes of Louis Comfort Tiffany. At the front were the decorative pipes of a large organ.