Mind Reader (15 page)

She still felt guilty, he realized. Which was why she con
tinued to send her mother half her salary.

“It wasn’t your fault, Caron. You didn’t take your father away from your mother.”

She cocked a brow at him. “Are you a shrink? You sound just like Dr. Zilinger.”

Picturing the tiny Austrian doctor, who had repeatedly refused to answer his questions about Caron, Parker de
nied it. “No, just an observer of human nature.” He plucked a loose thread from the bedspread. “But that doesn’t change the facts. It wasn’t your fault.”

“So I’m told. But my mother would disagree.” She
tugged the crumpled covers up over her knees, making a
tent. “Back then, the images would come so fast I couldn’t
decipher them. My mother played ostrich—”

“Ostrich?”

“Buried her head in the sand. She nearly buried my san
ity with her.” Caron squeezed a pillow to her chest. “Do
you know how active a child’s mind is? What it’s like to see
flashes of horrible things that make no sense to you?”

“No, I don’t.” He leaned forward, bracing his elbow on
his knee, his chin on his hand. The lady was a class act. The message on her door had rattled her to the core, yet she held
it together and trudged along, keeping up her performance. It was damn convincing, too. Or it would have
been, had he not known better. “But I would think it would
be confusing.”

“It was.”

“So you went to Dr. Zilinger.” The air conditioner
kicked on, blowing a steady stream of cold air that ruffled the lacy curtains at the window and the tendrils of hair
drying into soft curls and framing Caron’s face. His in-sides warmed. Beautiful.

“Aunt Grace took me. Catch the overhead light, will
you?” She reached over and switched on the bedside lamp,
filling the room with a warm pink glow. “She told my mother we were going to the movies, of course. But I’d talked to her, and Aunt Grace knew that without help to
make sense of all I was seeing I was headed for major trou
ble.”

So Grace
hadn’t
connected Caron and Sanders for the
money. Back to square one. Frowning, Parker flipped off the light. “Everyone should have an aunt Grace.”

“Mmm, yes. She makes awful tea, though. It’s so weak
you can read a newspaper through it.”

The frown faded, and he looked back at her. “That’s pretty weak.”

“Well, almost that weak.”

The smile in Caron’s voice skimmed warmth over him. She drank again from the glass; he swallowed with her.

“So tell me about you.” She finger-combed her hair back
from her face. “Did you have an aunt Grace?”

The lamplight turned her hair gold. “No, I had a mother
like her, though. She’s as feisty now as she was when I was growing up. ‘Never accept anything at face value.’ That was
her prescription for a happy life.’’

Parker walked to the window and looked out. A light wind feathered through the trees. Moonlight pooled on the
manicured lawn. To get trust, you have to give it. He
wanted—no, needed—her trust. “Mom had a bucketful of
washboard philosophy. So did Charley.”

“Why do you call him by name?”

Parker shrugged. “We were buddies more than father and son.” He scratched his temple and smiled. “Charley was a strange kind of guy. He loved his family—don’t get
me wrong. But it was like...I don’t know, like he didn’t want us to love him back too much.”

“Maybe he was afraid he’d have to leave you, and he
didn’t want you hurt.”

“Maybe,” Parker said, gaining insight. Maybe that
was
why Charley had given to a certain point, then pulled back
emotionally. Parker smiled at Caron. “Are you a shrink?”

“No.” She slid him an enchanting grin. “Aunt Grace
relies heavily on washboard philosophy, too.”

“You’re fond of her.”

“Sure. She’s a terrific lady. A bit eccentric, by most people’s standards. But she’s always been there for me.”

And no one else had. What had it been like growing up
with a mother who resented you, and no father?

Parker fingered the wingtip of a fragile glass dove sitting on a chest of drawers. Damn lonely. And, for a kid,
frightening.

“Did your mom bake cookies?” Parker asked.

“Are you kidding? My mother thought the kitchen was just a room you walked through to get out to the garage to the car. Aunt Grace did, though. Double chocolate chip
with fudge icing.”

He pulled a face. “Chocolate.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “Yep.”

He sat on the foot of the bed. “In grade school, when I came home, Mom was there with cookies and milk.”

“Every day?”

“Yeah.” He hadn’t thought about that before. She’d
given him and Megan time she might have wanted for her
self.

“Tell me more.”

He saw the hunger in Caron’s eyes. Her childhood had
been very different. Maybe sharing his with her would keep
her mind off what had happened. “I’m too tired.”

She patted the bed beside her. “Rest here.”

There was nothing sexual in the invitation, but still he
hesitated.

“What? Afraid you can’t control yourself?”

There was a warm, teasing light in her eyes that he hadn’t
seen before. “I was worried about your control.”

“Don’t.”

He slid down onto the bed and stuffed a pillow against the headboard, then leaned back. He could smell her per
fume, the scent lingering on her skin.

“Did you and your mother talk about what went on at school?” She scooted closer, until she was looking right
into his eyes.

He swallowed a boulder that had somehow lodged in his
throat. “Yeah, we did.” From her smile, he thought that
made her happy.

“What did you talk about?” Her voice dropped a notch.
A very sexy notch.

“I talked about Johnny Seaberry stealing Lisa Sanger. She was the first woman to break my heart.”

Caron laughed softly. “How old were you?”

“Six.” He grunted and scooted down on the bed. “I
thought I’d never love again. But Mom assured me that I’d
be heartbroken at least a dozen times.”

“Have you?” Caron snuggled against his side.

“At least a dozen.”

“Me, too.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh.” Caron tentatively touched his chest with just
a fingertip.

He ground his teeth to keep from reaching out. It would
be so easy just to lift his hand and wrap his arm around her.

“When I was little, my dad talked about the old days.”
She yawned and pressed her cheek against his chest, rub
bing his hair with her skin. “His father immigrated from
Sweden.”

The friction aroused him. He looked down and saw that his nipple had peaked. “Urn, we’re all-American mutts.”

“All-American mutts.” She stroked his chest. “I like
that.”

What the hell. Parker gave in to the urge and circled her
shoulder. She purred like a satisfied cat. He gave her a smile
she couldn’t see. “Are you still scared?”

“Yes, but it’s better.” She gave his ribs a little squeeze. “Tell me more about when you were a boy, Parker.”

With her being so close, he thought it’d be a major miracle if he managed to string together a coherent sentence.
But she’d stopped shaking, and if hearing his voice would
help her through the night, then he’d give it his best shot.

He started talking about his high school days, when
Charley was still alive. She seemed to need to hear about his
father. He told her about growing up in New Orleans and playing football. And about Peggy Shores, the foxiest cheerleader at St. Nicholas, breaking his foolish heart be
cause he’d failed to score the winning homecoming touch
down. He continued on, revealing the intimate details of his
life, his college years at Loyola, and his stint in the Gulf—
something he’d never spoken of to anyone.

There was only one facet of his life he avoided: his rela
tionship with Harlan, and the resulting investigation of
Caron upon Harlan’s death.

By the time he finished, her lids were droopy. “When you
want to be,” she said, a scant breath away from sleep,
“you’re a very nice man.”

Shadows danced across her face. Beautiful. How nice
would she think he was if she knew he was deceiving her?
He rubbed tiny circles on her shoulder, feeling guilty as hell.

“Parker?”

Drowsy, he closed his eyes. “Mmm?”

“Tomorrow we need to check out that phone number I found at
Decker’s. It’s important, after all.”

An uneasy feeling crept through his chest. He had to force his fingers not to go hard against her tender skin.
“How do you know?”

She looked at him through sleepy eyes. Her skin was smudged by dark circles. “It’s the reason the man wants to
kill me.”

Parker’s heart skipped, then thudded. “Decker?”

She hesitated. “No.”

“Who, then?”

“I’m not sure.”

She knew. Feeling oddly betrayed that she wouldn’t tell
him after the intimacies he’d shared with her, Parker narrowed his eyes and pushed. “But you know he’s a man.”

“Yes.” She licked her lips and burrowed deeper into
Parker’s chest. “I smell him.”

“What?” He sat up slightly.

She frowned, shoved him down onto the pillow and
tugged the covers back up over her shoulder and his chest.
“Men smell...different.”

He couldn’t disagree. She smelled...fresh and warm. A heady mixture of soap and—passion? He sniffed her sub
tle scent again to be sure. Yes, Passion. Her choice of perfume surprised him. Hardly the pick for a prim and proper
schoolteacher. His voice grew husky. “Give me the num
ber.”

She told it to him from memory. Parker stretched over
and grabbed the phone. His jeans pinched at the waist, and he wished that, if they couldn’t be skin to skin, then at least
something softer than denim could be between them.

He could strip down, he supposed. But he’d probably be
given his marching orders immediately. Hauling himself off
to his room would be the wisest move he could make.
Sharing a bed with Caron Chalmers—even if that was all they shared—had to be the dumbest thing he could ever do
in his life.

He looked at her sleep-soft face and surrendered. Well, at least it wouldn’t be the first dumb thing he’d ever done.

Accepting that he’d made his decision, he dialed the
phone and connected with an answering machine. When it
had played out and beeped, he dropped the receiver back
into the cradle and looked at Caron. “B. J. Hunt’s.”

She nodded, bumping her chin against his chest. “I’ll tell Sandy in the morning and see what he knows about him.”
With a little yawn, she closed her eyes.

“There’s no need.” Parker brushed back a strand of hair
that was clinging to her cheek. Why did she feel so soft? So
warm? So smooth and creamy? “B. J. Hunt’s is an investment firm, Caron. They handle only six-figure accounts.”

Her eyes snapped open. “What would Decker be doing
with their number?”

“I don’t know.” Parker guided her head back to his
chest. “And we won’t find out tonight. Rest now, hmm?”

“Will you stay with me...just till I fall asleep?”

He felt as if he were being forced to choose. Loyalty to
Harlan, or to Caron. But Caron didn’t know about Har
lan, and she wasn’t really asking for loyalty. She was asking for the warmth of another human being to get her through a rough night after a rougher day. “I’ll be here,”
he finally said.

Parker clicked off the lamp, curled Caron’s soft body
into his arms and stared blindly into the darkness. He didn’t like this B. J. Hunt development at all. And he liked even less that his worry for Caron’s safety was growing by leaps
and bounds. He didn’t know why Decker had Hunt’s
number. But he intended to find out.