Running Hot (7 page)

Her hair was cut at a dramatic angle that started high at the nape of her neck and ended in two sweeping wings just below her cheek-bones. She had him riveted now but damned if he could figure out why. She was attractive in some indefinable, out-of-the-ordinary way but she was no glossy cover model; far from it. There was something proud and determined about the strong lines of her nose and jaw; a cool, touch-me-not attitude that radiated sexual challenge, at least to him. Dark glasses veiled her eyes. That was hardly unusual in Hawaii where everyone wore shades, but for some reason the glasses seemed to add to the air of exotic, sensual mystery that stirred the atmosphere around her.

She must have just arrived from the mainland, he concluded; someplace where it had been raining probably because she wore a lightweight trench coat. Was he an ace detective or what? The coat was unbuttoned over a pair of dark pants and a classically cut shirt in a deep coppery color. The collar of the shirt was pulled up high and flared out a little, framing her throat and somehow subtly protecting it. A black leather handbag trimmed with bronze buckles was hooked over one straight shoulder. The hand that wasn’t wrapped around the handle of the suitcase was tucked into the pocket of the trench.

He could not take his eyes off her. Maybe it was just him. No one else seemed to be paying any attention to the woman. This was a fine time for his long-dormant sexual appetite to wake up and go on the prowl. Life had been so peaceful since he’d sunk into his own private well of gloom. Maybe Wayne and Petra and Milly were right. Maybe he had been flirting with depression. But at least life had been calm.

It had also been damned uninteresting.

She was close enough now. He jacked up his senses. Light and dark inverted. Most of the people in the crowded concourse were instantly transformed into human glowworms, their auras flaring and pulsing in the usual hues and patterns that he had learned to associate with those who did not possess strong psychic talents.

Power flared around the dark-haired woman, however. She stood out in the crowd like some incandescent butterfly surrounded by a swarm of pale, nondescript moths.

She was a strong talent of some kind. That was probably what his senses were responding to. Even on the normal plane he had picked up the exciting strength of her psychic energy. Here in the paranormal realm, it was just as compelling. He wanted to get closer, a lot closer.

He tightened his hand on the handle of the cane and straightened away from the wall. He had a few more minutes until the elderly genealogist arrived.

He took one step forward and halted abruptly. What was he thinking? He was here to do a job.
Let her go, you idiot.
Just two psychics passing in the night. It happens.

Yes, but it had never happened like this, not to him. He’d met other strong sensitives before, lots of them. Two months ago one had tried to kill him. He’d never responded to any of them with this kind of gut-deep awareness.

She was less than six feet away now. Before he could move to intercept her, she halted directly in front of him, dazzling him with a fire that threatened to ignite his senses. He knew in that moment that she had made him as another sensitive, just as he had recognized her.

Damn. What were the odds?

“Mr. Malone?” she said quietly.

He snapped back into normal focus. The iridescent fire around the woman disappeared but his hungry fascination did not. The memory of Fallon Jones laughing on the other end of the phone flashed through him.
An elderly, gray-haired librarian, my sweet ass.

“I’m Malone,” he said. “Grace Renquist?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what do you know. Fallon Jones has a sense of humor, after all.”

She smiled slightly. “Badly warped, I’m afraid.”

“Only to be expected. He’s still Fallon Jones.” He held out his hand. “A pleasure, Miss Renquist. Uh, it is Miss, isn’t it? Or did I get that wrong, too?”

“It’s Miss.” She inclined her head politely. “Who or what were you expecting?”

He glanced down and saw that she was still gripping the suitcase handle with one gloved hand. Her other hand was firmly planted out of sight in the pocket of the trench coat. He lowered his own hand.

“Let’s just say I had the impression you would look a lot more mature,” he said.

She removed the dark glasses. Dry amusement gleamed in a pair of smoky, sage-green eyes.

“Gray-haired, perhaps?” she said. “Maybe equipped with a hearing aid?”

“Fallon encouraged me to leap to a few conclusions.”

“If you think I’m something of a surprise, wait until you see your new ID packet.”

She took her hand out of her pocket for the first time, revealing another thin, expensive-looking leather driving glove.

“Little warm for a coat and gloves,” he said neutrally.

She ignored the comment just as she had his attempt to shake hands earlier. Instead, she took the leather bag off her shoulder, opened it and reached inside for an envelope. When she handed it to him she was careful not to let her gloved fingers brush against his bare skin.

Just his luck. The most exciting woman ever to walk into his life had some kind of serious phobia about touching other people.
Well, hey, it’s not like I’m real normal, either.

He opened the envelope and removed a driver’s license, a couple of credit cards and the folded hotel registration. A quick glance at the license and the plastic told him that his new name was Andrew Carstairs and that he lived in L.A. The registration informed him that he was married. He looked up.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Carstairs,” he said, refolding the form.

To his surprise, she blushed and quickly shoved her gloved hands back into the pockets of her coat. “Mr. Jones didn’t tell me about our cover until it was too late for me to back out of the assignment.”

“Jones has a way of getting what he wants from his agents.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ve got some time before we leave for Maui. Want something to eat?”

“I’m not hungry but I could use a cup of coffee.”

“Sounds good.”

They walked a short distance to a coffee bar. Grace ordered her coffee black, he noticed. It was how he drank his.
Hey, something in common. Focus on the positive.

They sat together at one of the tiny tables.

He studied Grace’s hand, which was currently wrapped around her cup.

“You’re going to have to lose the gloves before we get on the plane to Maui,” he said quietly.

She paused, the cup halfway to her mouth. “Why?”

“Because if you insist on wearing them, you’re going to stand out like, well, like a sore thumb.”

She winced and looked at her gloved fingers. “I was afraid you would say that.”

“How big a problem is it?” he asked.

“I have some issues,” she said coolly.

He angled his chin toward the cane hooked over the edge of the table. “So do I. Mine are physical. Yours?”

“Psychical. But the problem is linked to my sense of touch, which makes things complicated at times.”

“Seen one of the Society’s shrinks?”

Her eyes narrowed. He could practically feel her withdrawing from him.

“No,” she said coolly.

“Look, I realize that under normal circumstances this wouldn’t be any of my business, but given that we’ve got a job to do on Maui, I need to know what I’m getting into here.”

She went very still. “There’s no cause for concern. I assure you that my phobia doesn’t interfere with my aura-reading talent.”

“Fine. You’re still going to have to lose the gloves. Can you deal with that?”

For a few seconds he thought she was going to tell him to go to hell. Then, very deliberately, she stripped off first one glove and then the other. She stuffed the pair into her handbag and picked up her coffee.

“Satisfied?” she asked.

Her hands were surprisingly delicate-looking, the nails neatly tapered and unpolished. There was no ring.

“Yes,” he said. He let out some air. “Sorry about that.”

“Uh-huh.” She did not look impressed with the apology.

“Are you going to be okay?” he asked quietly.

“Don’t worry about me,” she said coldly. “I can take care of myself.”

“Been doing that awhile, have you?”

“Yes,” she said. “I have.”

SIX

The rental car that had been booked for Andrew Carstairs was waiting at the end of the short flight to Maui. J&J was nothing if not efficient, Grace thought.

“Want the AC on?” Luther asked, getting in behind the wheel.

“No thanks. I don’t like air-conditioning unless it’s absolutely necessary. I’d rather roll down the windows.”

“Same here.” He put the car in gear and drove out of the parking lot.

She contemplated her initial impressions of Luther Malone. They could be summed up in three potent words:
Powerful, controlled, fascinating.
Okay, there was a fourth word that came to mind:
exciting.
There was something indefinably electric in the atmosphere, at least on her side of the car. At various times in her life she had found other men attractive but she had never experienced anything quite like this fluttery little rush of sensual anticipation. It stirred all her senses in unusual and interesting ways.

Power was always interesting; power that was ruled by the kind of exquisite control that Luther wielded was especially intriguing, at least to her. One glance at his aura had told her that he was no level eight— more like a level ten or higher. Obviously he’d managed to keep that little fact out of the files. She couldn’t hold it against him. She’d faked her own ranking, too. Powerful talents were slapped with the label “exotic” within the Society. The term did not convey admiration or respect. At best, other sensitives tended to view strong sensitives of any kind with a degree of caution. At worst, they avoided them. Power might be interesting but it could also be dangerous.

The photo on Luther’s new driver’s license had not lied. He was as hard-looking in person as he was in the picture. His eyes were brown, too, as advertised. But it was an almost feral shade of amber. It made her think of dark jungles and forbidden passions. Not that she’d had much experience with either.

“I love the air here,” she announced, inhaling deeply. “It’s intoxicating. Makes me want to put my head out the window like a dog.”

“Hawaii has that effect on a lot of people.” He glanced at her, his eyes unreadable behind his dark glasses. “How are you doing without the gloves?”

The question annoyed her. She looked briefly at her hands, neatly folded in her lap, and then raised her chin.

“I told you, I can deal with it.”

“You’re sure? I noticed that you kept your hands under your raincoat on your lap for most of the flight.”

“I would not have taken this assignment if I thought I couldn’t handle it.”

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.” She wrinkled her nose. “You’re fretting. I’m making you nervous.”

“Maybe I’m just curious?”

“You’re fretting,” she repeated evenly. “I suppose I can’t blame you for your lack of confidence but try looking at this situation from my perspective.”

“Which is?”

She raised her brows. “I’ve got a bodyguard who isn’t comfortable carrying a gun and needs a cane to get around.”

“Fallon told you about the gun thing?”

“Yes.”

He meditated on that for a long moment and then nodded once. “You know, you’re right. From your perspective, those facts would not at first glance appear to be reassuring.”

“Luckily for me,” she said coolly, “I took a second glance.”

“At my aura,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“I’m an aura talent. That’s what I do.”

To her surprise, he smiled faintly. “What did you see that was reassuring?”

She sat back in the seat and concentrated on savoring the wonderful air.

“I saw a lot of sheer bullheaded determination,” she said.

“Bullheaded determination is a good quality?”

“It means you’ll do whatever you need to do to complete this mission. What’s more, you know your own power and how to control it. You feel confident about your talent so I do, too.”

She saw a lot more than that but she was not prepared to go into details. Some things you just did not talk about on a first date. The thought made her smile.

Luther was silent for a moment, processing what she had said. Then his hands tightened on the steering wheel. “You can see things like determination in an aura?” he asked, half curious, half disbelieving.

She turned her head to look at him. “Didn’t Mr. Jones tell you about the little twist in my talent?”

“He said you could read a person’s psychic profile. Guess I didn’t understand exactly what that meant. I’m surprised they haven’t got you working as a parapsychologist.”

“I don’t have the academic background to work as a counselor.”

“How did you end up in Genealogy?”

“I applied for a position in the Bureau. I like psychic genealogy. It suits my talents. How did you end up as a bartender in Waikiki?”

“It suits my talents.”

She knew a conversational dead end when she ran into one.

“Right. Speaking of your talents, what’s the plan for finding our bad guy?” she asked. “Do I just stroll around the resort like a drug-sniffing dog looking at auras?”

His mouth twitched a little. “We’ll try to be a little more cool than that.”

“Even if we’re very cool, it probably won’t take long to spot Eubanks. Powerful talents of any kind are rare. What are the odds that there will be more than one level-nine strat staying at the resort?”

“That’s what Fallon Jones said.”

“If anyone knows probabilities, it’s Mr. Jones.”

“I’ll tell you a little secret about Fallon Jones,” Luther said.

“What’s that?”

“Most of the time he’s right but occasionally he screws up and when he does, it’s never in a small way.”

She thought about that. “Maybe that’s because he’s so sure of himself and his talent that he doesn’t always allow for other possibilities. Or maybe because he’s overworked. I have the impression that he’s under a tremendous amount of pressure these days.”