Page 35 of The Bride Wore White

But she had enjoyed that dance tonight, and she was pretty sure he had not exactly hated it when she more or less coerced him into taking her into his arms.

And from now on, dancing and stolen kisses in the shadows were probably going to be as close as she would ever get to experiencing the sensual pleasures of sexual intimacy with a man. She had not entirely given up hope that one day she might meet a man who could deal with all of her, including her psychic side, but she had to be realistic. She might be alone for the rest of her life.

She got into her prim, calf-length white cotton nightgown and used the small steps to climb up into the imposing four-poster bed. Settling back against the pillows, she contemplated the red wallpaper and furnishings. She liked the color red, but a room full of it was a bit much. The suite resembled the Hollywood version of an expensive bordello. Not that she had ever seen a real bordello, but it wasn’t difficult to imagine what a movie set of one would look like.

She leaned over and turned off the lamp. For a time she listened to the strange stillness that was settling on House of Shadows. It was certainly an unfortunate name for a personal residence. Names were important. They had power.

It was not the silence that made her uneasy—it wasn’t really all that quiet, because the muffled rumble of the waves on the beach below the cliffs was an ever-present background noise. But the house somehowfeltsilent.

She was letting her imagination run wild. She was exhausted. It had been a very long day, and she had done little more than toss and turn the night before. Every time she had started to slide into sleep, she had snapped awake on the edge of panic. She probably wouldn’t sleep well tonight, either.

She wondered how soundly Jack would sleep. She did not need her talent to know that he suffered from more than just the occasional nightmare. What monster walked through his dreams? She had done a lot of readings over the course of her career as a psychic. If there was one thing she had learned, it was that the scariestmonsters were not the ones in the movies. The mummies and vampires created by Hollywood could not begin to compete with the real-life monsters—the monsters you knew.

She did not expect to sleep, so she was surprised when she awoke from a dream in which she was standing over the unconscious Tapson. His eyes were open but empty.

“You murdered me,” he said.

A small wave of panic washed over her. She managed to suppress it and push aside the covers. She sat up on the edge of the bed, her pulse still beating uncomfortably fast, and reminded herself to breathe.

After a moment, her nerves back under control, she used her toes to find the bed steps. She got to her feet and started toward the bathroom, intending to get a drink of water.

A floorboard creaked in the hall outside her room. She froze. Another creak. The stairs this time. After a moment she tiptoed to the door and listened. She could hear a faint clicking but she could not identify the sound.

Cautiously she opened the door. The clicking was sharper now, more distinct. She realized she was listening to the sound of typewriter keys. She stepped out onto the balcony and looked down.

The light was on in the library.

After a while she went back to bed. At some point the clicking ceased, but there was no more creaking on the stairs or in the hallway. She remembered the sofa in the library and knew that Jack was spending the night in the only room in which he felt comfortable.

Chapter 16

Jack looked up from the crime tree he had been working on all morning and watched Prudence pluck a volume off a shelf. She was standing in front of the bookcase that he reserved for works dealing with metaphysics and the paranormal. It was the smallest collection of research materials in his library, but ever since the Bonner case, it had become the section where he spent the most time.

She looked good here in his library, he thought. She had looked good at breakfast, too. He had awakened cramped and stiff from a night spent on the sofa and gone upstairs to shower, shave, and dress. Midway through the process it had dawned on him that he had never considered the problem of breakfast. He was not much of a cook, but any way he looked at the situation, he was responsible for feeding his houseguest.

When he had come back downstairs, he had been greeted with the fragrance of toast and freshly brewed coffee. Enthralled, he had followed the aromas into the kitchen and discovered Prudence, anapron around her waist, frying eggs.Yet another role,he thought—the Modern Housewife Enjoying the Convenience of the Modern Electric Stove.

He had been savoring the unfamiliar frisson of delight at the realization that he was going to share breakfast with another human being when he noticed the morning edition of theBurning Cove Heraldon the table. He and Prudence were on the front page. Reality had slammed back. The plan, such as it was, had been launched.

“The interesting thing about the dream reading business is that no one can prove the reader is a fraud,” he said. “When you think about it, one person’s interpretation is as good as another’s.”

Prudence opened the book and studied the first page. “Why are you so concerned with proving I’m a fraud? You’ve already made your decision.”

He could see the cover of the book she had selected.The Study of Dreamsby Rachel Jones. It had been published by a small press connected to a little-known and mysterious group named the Arcane Society. With the assistance of the head librarian at the Burning Cove Public Library, he had been searching for more publications from the press. Thus far they had not been able to come up with any. He reminded himself that for a few weeks Prudence had worked in the new paranormal research library at Adelina Beach College.

“Are you familiar with the publisher?” he asked.

“Hmm?” She flipped to the copyright page. “Oh, yes. The Arcane Society. It’s extremely difficult to find their publications. I’m impressed that you tracked downThe Study of Dreams.”

“I found it in an antiquarian bookshop.” He hesitated. “To be clear, I haven’t concluded you’re a fraud. It would be more accurate to say I’m curious.”

She gave him a suspiciously bright smile. “You want to prove I’m a fraud, but you can’t think of a scientific way to do that. Unfortunately, it looks like you’ve painted yourself into a corner.”

He decided to ignore that. “It’s a fundamental problem with the current state of research into the paranormal. Assuming that sort of energy exists, science lacks the technology needed to detect it. You can’t measure what you can’t detect.”

“It’s a problem, all right, for both of us.”

“I understand why it’s a problem for me, but why is it a problem for you?”

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