A Gift of Thought (17 page)

She touched the top of her laptop, closed where it rested on the desk next to the window, thinking about who she could ask for help while firmly pushing thoughts of Lucas out of her mind, even as a traitorous whisper in the back of her head pointed out that he must have thoroughly researched Chesney already. And then she paused.

She’d been aware of the man in the room next to hers all morning long. His anxiety level was so high that she couldn’t not know of his presence, any more than she’d be able to ignore him if he were playing a violin or burning incense. But she almost thought she’d caught a wisp of thought there.

She stepped away from the window, closer to the wall between their rooms. No, nothing.

And then, suddenly, his voice was in her head talking about earned income ratios and value added. He was preparing a presentation, she realized, but she was hearing his thoughts, not spoken words.

Hurrying to the door of her room, she pulled it open and stepped out. She recognized Lucas’s back, the dark hair curling at the nape of his neck, even before she felt the sense of him that was indefinably Lucas and no one else. He was halfway down the long hallway, turned away from her, talking to someone she couldn’t see.

“Lucas,” she called his name without thought. She didn’t know why he was here, but she couldn’t help but feel glad to see him. And then he whirled around and she felt the full brunt of his emotions as he saw her.

Fear.

Relief.

Fury.

Lucas’s emotions washed over Sylvie as he strode down the hallway toward her, his long legs eating up the distance between them, and she felt herself responding automatically, her anger rising to meet his own. Her chin went up, her back straightened, and she braced herself, feeling hot words simmering on her tongue.

He reached her, eyes searching her face, then grabbed her shoulders, fingers tight, pressing into her muscles. “Damn you.” He wanted to shake her, she could tell. He was angry. Deeply, seriously angry. And under it, hurt? But violence was close to the surface.

‘
Ten, nine, eight, seven . . .’
She took a deep breath and started silently counting backwards. She could feel the intensity of his emotions as if he were shouting. Ten years ago, she would have shouted back first, thought later. But not now, not this time. She didn’t know why he was so angry but she didn’t have to let him get to her.

“Are you all right?” His words were almost mild, the question a surprise, but his thoughts tumbled over one another in a chaotic babble.

Unanswered phone calls. Unreturned messages. Dillon. Chesney. Drug dealers. Danger.

“Of course,” she answered automatically, trying to make sense of what he was thinking.

“Counting?” he asked, voice light but with an edge to it that almost matched his emotions.

She didn’t answer. Anyone else would have believed him calm, but she knew better. And putting the pieces together, she finally understood.

She’d disappeared.

He hadn’t known why.

“I’m sorry,” she said, breathing the words out. Her own anger, usually quick to rise but slow to fade, was gone as she realized what she’d done to him and what his past few days had been like. While she’d been sitting in a hotel room, bored and aimless, he’d been desperately searching the city for her. Or for evidence that Chesney had killed her or had her killed.

For a second, his fingers gripped a little harder, and then he released her, stepping back. “Not a problem.” To someone without her senses, he would have sounded nonchalant, as if the matter were trivial.

‘
Liar,’
she thought at him. The retort was instinct, but it was a little like waving a red flag at a bull. Behind him, a door opened.

“I thought I’d gotten you killed. I thought you’d looked for evidence and gotten caught. Your boss works for the Mexican—” he started, snapping out the words, no longer trying to disguise his fury. Her eyes widened fractionally and she shook her head at him, raising a hand to shush him, as the man who’d been working on a presentation stepped out of his room and glanced in their direction.

Lucas fell silent, but his thoughts continued.
‘—the Mexican drug cartels and you just disappear? What was I supposed to think, Sylvie? No word from you, no word from Dillon—’

Sylvie forced a smile at the stranger, who’d paused, looking uncertain. Grabbing Lucas by the wrist, she tugged him into her room and closed the door behind him.

“I’m sorry,” she said, interrupting his mental diatribe as she turned back to face him.

“I—what?” He blinked at her, and then shook his head as if he hadn’t heard what she’d just said.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated herself, feeling impatient. “You’re right. I should have called you. It was stupid and inconsiderate of me not to.”

He blinked at her again. And then a third time. And then, blue eyes narrowing, said slowly, “What have you done with the real Sylvie Blair?”

She scowled at him, folding her arms across her chest.

“No, no, don’t get mad.” He put a hand up in protest and a quick grin flashed across his face before he sobered. “Do you understand—”

“Yes,” she interrupted him again. “I got all of that. But my boss is not a criminal and I am perfectly safe, just hiding out from crazy television news people.”

“So I see.” He sighed, and ran his hands through his hair, looking tired. “And Dillon?”

She shook her head. “No word. Or text. Whatever.”

He nodded. His mouth twisted. “Well.” He fell silent, but his thoughts continued, flavored with sorrow,
‘Maybe you were right then and that was all he needed.’

She didn’t say anything, but she felt her heart beating a little faster than usual. She’d never felt Lucas sad before. Not like this. She wanted to comfort him.

The twist of his mouth turned into a wry smile. “I don’t need your sympathy, Syl. I lost him a long time ago. Knowing that he was okay was an incredible gift. And if he’s moved on now, that’s okay, too. I’ll see him again.” The words were even but his eyes were bright.

Sylvie pressed her lips together, but the thought slipped out again.
‘Still lying.’
He was a good actor, but she could see the truth. She might have thought Dillon should move on, but Lucas was not so sure.

Lucas let a reluctant chuckle escape, looking away. He took four or five steps into the room and sat down on the edge of the bed, facing the wall. He shook his head then dropped it into his hands, letting his palms press against his cheekbones. “It’s been a long few days,” he said, voice muffled. “You did a good job of hiding.”

“Found me anyway,” Sylvie answered, trying to keep her voice light, as she followed him into the room. “Zane?”

“Ha.” Lucas sounded disgruntled, raising his face out of his hands. “He couldn’t tell me a damn thing. Without Dillon, I had nothing of yours to give him as a focus.”

Sylvie frowned. “Why not use a photograph?” She was no expert on Zane’s skill, but she remembered some from when they’d found her the first time. Zane had still been young enough to be bubbling over with enthusiasm for his newfound ability and she’d had to admit, it was a nifty talent. She would have happily traded her own gift for it.

“I don’t have one that’s current. Zane needs images that are recent,” he answered, standing again.

She looked at him, wondering whether she should tell him, but the thought escaped before she could stop it. ‘
Every subscriber to the
Washington Post
has a recent picture of me.’

“Oh, hell.” Gently, he banged his head against the post of the four-poster bed, once, twice, three times. “Of course they do. Of course I do. Damn me.”

“Stop it,” she ordered him when it looked as if he would hit himself harder and harder.

He looked over at her, standing a few feet away from him. “You make me stupid, Syl.”

She tried not to smile, but couldn’t help herself. ‘
The feeling’s mutual.’

Uh-oh. She hadn’t meant it teasingly, but she could see the spark she’d lit flicker in Lucas’s eyes, the blue darkening with desire as thoughts of the past crowded into both of their minds. The sensations were so tangled up that she couldn’t be sure whose memories were whose. Humid Florida air, a barely cool evening breeze, the buzz of the mosquitoes, the sandy grit of the ground, skin against sweaty skin, the feel of him pushing inside her or was she enveloping him? Their first time. Stupid, so stupid. And yet irresistible.

And then they were her memories, skipping ahead, North Carolina, the car where her mother had sent them to talk away from her toddler siblings and his teenage brother, the feel of the seat leather against her back, Lucas’s mouth stroking down her body. And then his memories, definitely his, of that one stolen weekend leave, and then Milan, and every memory raised the temperature in the room by another two degrees until Sylvie’s cheeks felt hot and flushed and the rest of her was burning and melting.

“Lucas,” she murmured his name, licking her lips.

“Sylvie,” he whispered hers, his voice husky.

And then he shook his head. “I’ve got to go. Andy’s waiting down at the end of the hall.”

“Okay.” She swallowed. She stepped aside to let him move past her toward the door. He was careful not to brush against her, but she could feel the same ache of unfulfilled desire within him that she felt herself even without his touch.

She was trying not to think, not to put words to her emotions, not to let a thought form that she might regret.

“We still on for Friday?” he asked, as he opened the door.

“Sure,” she answered, grateful to turn her attention to something other than the energy still flowing between them. AlecCorp’s holiday party was being held in its corporate office building, which ought to be as secure as any military base. Certainly no news media would be able to get inside. And by Friday, she ought to be able to get in and out of her apartment building without running a gauntlet of TV crews and reporters. If not, James or Ty would bring her appropriate clothes. “You’re wasting your time, though. Chesney’s not a drug dealer, just an ass.”

‘
And a rotten father.’
The thought inadvertently formed. Poor Rachel. Sylvie hadn’t been able to do anything to help her but as soon as she got back to work she was going to figure out something.

Lucas glanced at her. She could feel his curiosity but she shook her head. Maybe she’d ask him later about helping her find out more about Chesney’s past, but now wasn’t the time.

“Okay.” He nodded and slipped out the door.

She let him go.

She let the door close behind him and with enormous self-restraint didn’t kick it. She could feel him moving away down the hallway.

Damn it. Lucas just . . . he just did it for her. They hadn’t even touched, apart from her brief tug on his wrist, but she was as hot and yearning as if they’d been kissing for hours.

What had he said before, about wanting the chance to learn who she was? Maybe that was what they needed. Maybe if she spent time with him—real time, not stolen moments—these feelings would burn themselves out. She’d look at him and think . . . her thoughts stopped there.

Ha. Sure, maybe she’d get so used to his presence that she’d stop looking at him, really looking, the way people did with the familiar. Maybe she’d start to take him for granted. But she was never going to look at him and not wish that his hands were on her.

She closed her eyes.

She didn’t mean to concentrate her sixth sense, but she couldn’t help herself. The guy in the room next door was gone, but as she reached out she brushed up against other minds, trying to catch a last touch of Lucas.

And then her lips started to tilt upward. She rested her hand on the doorknob, but waited until she heard the first knock before pulling it open.

Lucas’s hand was still upraised, ready to fall again. He looked at her and she could see the question.

She stepped back, into the room, gesturing him inside and then closed the door behind him. She leaned against it. “This is a terrible idea.”

He’d already turned. “I thought you were dead.”

She licked her lips, her hands already undoing her top button.

And then the second.

And the third.

And then he was reaching for her, pulling her to him, his hands on her hips, lifting her into him, and she went gladly, joyfully, feeling the passion spiraling between them as his mouth captured hers.

They made their way to the bed, stumbling, tugging at the clothes that were in the way, Lucas never letting go of her, until they were falling onto the softness.

“Sylvie, Sylvie,” he murmured, lips moving across her skin. “I hated calling you Beth, you were never a Beth.”

“What?” She arched under him, feeling his taut muscles and the warmth of his skin and wanting him closer, closer, always closer.

“Milan. You were so angry.”

She didn’t want to talk about Milan, she didn’t want to think about Milan, she wanted his head—and all the rest of him—right here, right now.

She bit him. Hard. Not a gentle loving nip, but a clench of her teeth on his shoulder.

“Ouch!” He protested. “Shit, that hurt, Sylvie.”

“Quit talking,” she ordered him. She raked her nails down his back. “I can do worse than that.”

He half-laughed at her, eyes hot. “Biting. Like kissing, only there’s a winner.”

She froze, eyes widening. “You just quoted
Doctor Who
.”

He raised his eyebrows, lips curving. “Well, Neil Gaiman, anyway. Have we found something we have in common?”

She laughed and pulled him down toward her, feeling giddy. A British sci-fi TV show might not be much to base a relationship on, but it was a place to start.

Chapter Ten

Worrying about Rachel was becoming Dillon’s favorite hobby. Or if not his favorite, at least what he spent most of his time doing.

Rachel had been dismayed by what she found out about Tassamara. “It’s the middle of nowhere,” she protested. “You want me to go there?” It had taken Dillon hours to convince her, hours made longer by his need to gather energy between texts.