Wish on the Moon (30 page)

Plucking the leatherbound volumes from her
bookshelf one by one, she dusted them with a soft cloth. She always
cleaned and straightened her surroundings when her heart or mind
was in turmoil. With a quick glance at the phone on her end table,
she knew her mother wouldn't be calling on a Monday evening. Madge
Moore called her daughter from Deep River, Indiana every Sunday at
exactly seven p.m.

Gillian's phone rang a third time.

She swiped the cloth across the shelf, back
and forth. In the three months since she'd relocated to L.A., she
hadn't confided in anyone or encouraged close friendships. She
needed this respite. She needed to find out whether her "gift"
would continue to be the major force in her life or whether she had
a right to keep it in the background, maybe even completely under
wraps.

Her phone rang a fourth time.

It could only be
him
--the man who had
called the past two nights, the man with the compelling voice,
tinged with authority, commanding in its intensity as it directed
her to return his call. She didn't know what he wanted, but she
could guess. Heaven knew how he'd gotten her number because no one
in L.A. had it, not even the manager where she worked.

Her answering machine kicked on with her
brief direction for the caller to leave a message. Her usually
lilting tone was serious and cool. She ran her hand through her
long, light brown hair. Maybe she should get it cut short…make yet
another change in her life. She'd made so many in moving here--she
actually had time to herself...to be out in the sun, ride a bike,
take long walks. She'd found peace along with the bright California
sun and she wasn't ready to let go of either.

"Ms. Moore. This is Nathan Bradley. Again,"
he added in a deep, almost censuring baritone. "In case you haven't
received my earlier messages, I need to speak with you immediately
about a matter of great urgency." He paused. "Ms. Moore, I
must
speak with you. Please return my call." He gave his
number slowly, hesitated a moment, then clicked off.

Gillian stopped dusting. He hadn't said
"please" in his other messages. This time there was a quiet
desperation in his tone. She recognized the emotion because the
people she'd helped in the past had all been desperate. Nathan
Bradley didn't sound like a man who was accustomed to using the
word "please," and the huskiness edging the word made her feel
vulnerable and guilty, two of the burdens from which she'd tried to
escape.

Now this man had brought them to the surface
once more. She
wouldn't
return his call. She deserved
unpressured time to think about the direction of her life, to have
fun working at something she'd never imagined she'd enjoy. Nathan
Bradley could find someone else to solve his problem, someone else
with a "gift" that had begun to feel more like a curse.

Chapter One

Nathan didn't want to be caught dead, let
alone alive, inside a beauty salon. As he pulled open the glass
door and stepped inside, feminine chatter, strange smells, and the
glimpse of a woman with her hair rolled in blue and purple curlers
was enough to make him decide he'd rather face ten irate CEO's
whose firewalls had been breached in one day than to plow into this
women's domain. But he'd do anything to find his daughters.

Anything.

Nathan's determination had pulled him out of
the poverty of his childhood, earned him a scholarship to college,
and pushed him to start his own company specializing in computer
security after only a year with another firm. He'd wanted to be his
own boss, bill his own hours, set his own standards. His
determination couldn't save his marriage, but by God, it would lead
him to his daughters. After six months of dead ends, he'd decided
money and rational strategies weren't enough. That's why he was
here. That's why he had to speak to Gillian Moore.

At his private investigator's insistence,
Nathan had agreed to go this route--the only route left as far as
Nathan was concerned or he wouldn't pursue it. He wouldn't debate
about methods, not even weird ones at this point. He'd used every
skill he'd possessed to find his daughters. So had his P.I. Now he
had to put his logic and wariness aside if he hoped to find his
children before he lost more time with them.

The woman at the desk inside the door smiled
as her gaze traveled from his dark brown hair, down his charcoal
pinstripe suit and striped silk tie, to his black winged-tip shoes.
She tilted her head and her lips curved up a bit more. "Can I help
you?"

Suddenly Nathan felt as if he were the center
of attention. Two customers on chairs in the room beyond had craned
their necks to avidly assess him along with the receptionist. His
shirt collar felt tighter, and he resisted the urge to tug down his
tie. "I'm looking for Gillian Moore."

"You want a manicure?" the redheaded,
perfectly coiffed and made-up receptionist asked with a mischievous
smile.

"No. My name is Nathan Bradley. I need to
speak with her as soon as possible," he said in his best
authoritarian tone. "Is she here?"

"Hold on a sec," the redhead answered, her
smile flagging. Disappearing into the room beyond, she reappeared a
few moments later. "She's with a client. She says she'll talk to
you in five minutes."

Five minutes. What the heck was he supposed
to do for five minutes? He spied several magazines in a basket in
the corner beside two director's chairs. "Fine. I'll wait."

Waiting wasn't something Nathan did well. He
hadn't become a successful CEO with company locations across the
country by waiting. As he flipped one glossy page after the other,
he was vaguely aware this publication didn't advertise fast cars or
designer clothes. Tuning in to the sound of feminine voices in the
next room, he tried to pick out the one belonging to a woman who
had helped police departments solve missing person cases. As he had
many times in the past few days, he imagined what she might look
like. Probably fuzzy, wild hair with a red scarf tied around her
head.

He could feel the receptionist watching him
as she pretended to study the schedule book. Finally, a customer
with bright crimson nails emerged from the room beyond and gingerly
opened her purse at the desk.

"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."