Page 49 of It takes a Psychic

“Relax, I know where you’re coming from.”

“What makes you so sure of that?”

She swirled the whiskey in her glass. “If you must know, I managed to scare the crap out of my most recent ex.”

“Sounds interesting. With your talent?”

“Yep.”

“Do I get details?” he asked, his eyes heating.

“It was a lab accident.”

“Accidents happen.”

She brightened. “They do, don’t they? Can I have some more whiskey?”

Chapter Twenty-One

The storm blew itself outshortly after ten o’clock. Oliver was still lounging in the chair but now his heels were stacked on the windowsill. Roxy had been perched on the sill, seemingly entranced by the storm and the night. She abruptly chortled.

He looked up from the Vortex file he had been studying. The rain had stopped. Energy-infused fog glowed on the other side of the window.

“Looks like the worst is over,” he said. “It wasn’t that bad. I doubt the bridge washed out. The gang back at the diner will be disappointed.”

“I’m sure that was a threat meant to intimidate us into leaving,” Leona said.

“I got the same impression.”

He looked at her, aware of the quiet pleasure of her company. She was sitting on the bed, propped up against a stack of pillows, fully dressed except for her shoes. The files he had given her to read were stacked on the quilt beside her. Several tendrils of her hair had come free and therewas a sexy, rumpled look about her that rezzed a pleasant fantasy. The vision involved him getting out of the chair, moving to the bed, and pulling her into his arms.

Roxy chortled again and tapped the glass with one of her paws.

“I think she wants out,” Leona said.

Oliver swung his legs off the sill and got to his feet. “I’ll open the window for her.”

“No, wait. We’re on the second floor. I’ll take her downstairs.”

“I don’t think you need to worry. Those six paws probably make her a very good climber.”

“Yes, she is, actually. You’re right.”

He opened the window. Damp, psi-heavy air flowed into the room. Roxy chortled farewell and dashed out onto the ledge. The ribbons of the fascinator fluttered behind her. She shimmied down a drainpipe and vanished into the radiant mist.

Leona got up and walked to the window. He looked at her, conscious of the deep sense of recognition that whispered through him.I’ve been waiting for you all of my life, Leona Griffin.

“There’s certainly a lot of energy in these mountains,” Leona observed.

So much for the crystalline moment of romantic intimacy. She was thinking about the local atmosphere, not him.

Suppressing a groan, he closed the window. “Yes, there is. I’d better get back to my room. It’s late and we’ve got that appointment with Thacker in the morning. Breakfast at seven.”

“I remember.”

He did not want to leave. It had been very comfortable sitting here with Leona, going over paperwork, discussing the history of Vortex, the Bluestone Project, and the legends that swirled around Vincent Lee Vance. Maybe too comfortable. He could get used to not having to rez the low-level vibe he habitually generated when he was with people he didnot know well—the vibe that made them see what they expected to see: a dull, harmless academic who belonged in a museum.

The effort would have been wasted on Leona. She saw through the camouflage and she was unfazed by what she saw. That raised a question that he knew was going to haunt him. What, exactly, did she see when she looked at him? Did she see the man who wanted to climb into bed with her?

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