Page 36 of The Bride Wore White

She snapped the book shut. The small action was sudden and fierce. “I’ll tell you why it’s a problem for me. Knowing that people like you think I’m a fraud is annoying, but it’s hardly the worst thing that can happen to people like me.”

He frowned. “What’s the worst thing?”

“Knowing that some people, including many members of the medical profession, believe that those who claim to have paranormal abilities belong in an asylum.”

He contemplated that briefly and shook his head. “People who hallucinate obviously need treatment. But psychics and fortune tellers never get locked up.”

Prudence gave him a triumphant smile. “Because people like you prefer to conclude that we’re frauds and con artists or entertainers—not real psychics. Why do you think the women in my family have always made our livings in the dream reading business? No one thinks it’s a crime. Or, at least, most people don’t think it’s a crime. We are among the lucky ones.”

“And the unlucky ones?”

“Those with other, more disturbing talents are often perceived as mentally unstable. And perhaps some are made unstable by their abilities because they don’t know how to control them. My friend Maggie Lodge spent a few months in a psychiatric hospital because her family was convinced her nerves were so fragile, she could not deal with normal life.”

He clenched his hand around the pen. “What happened to her?”

“She learned how to control her abilities.” Prudence paused and gave him another one of her very cool smiles. “She also learned how to conceal them from people who cannot accept her talent.”

He heard the distant chimes and knew he was getting very close to something important. He also sensed that what he was picking up was as important to her as it might be to him.

“What is your friend doing now?” he asked.

“She’s not in a hospital, if that’s what you’re wondering. She’s on her honeymoon.”

“Does her new husband know about her, ah,talent?”

“Yep.” Prudence gave him another meaningful look. “Unlike some people we could mention, he’s not worried about it.”

He felt himself redden. “Can you blame me for being curious about your claim to possess paranormal talents? By now most of California knows I’m playing host to a psychic who is supposedly giving me private, personalized readings.”

She put the book on a side table and walked across the room. When she reached his desk, she flattened her palms on the surface. The sunlight sparked briefly on the clear crystal pendant she wore around her throat.

“But you are not playing host, are you?” she said. “Luther Pell is paying you to investigate my case and protect me in the process. It would be more accurate to say you are working undercover.”

He decided not to tell her that the last time he had worked undercover, two people had nearly died and he had been cursed with nightmares and a mask of scars.

He looked away from the pendant and focused his attention on the copy of theBurning Cove Heraldon the desk. The photo on the front page had been taken from what had become his very bad side. He looked like he had been hit by a truck, but Prudence was glamorous and mysterious in black. He had glanced at the photo several times during the day because something about the way she grippedhis arm almost made it look as if they shared an intimate connection. Almost. Probably just his imagination.

She was not wearing dramatic black today. Instead, she was casually dressed in stylish hunter-green trousers and a tailored white blouse. Her near-black hair fell in waves to her shoulders, framing her fascinating eyes and strong features. She did not need a veiled hat to make her appear mysterious and rather dangerous.

Luther had called to say that the pictures had gone out over the wire and were in the San Francisco papers.

Prudence glanced at the stack of manuscript pages on his desk. “You are curious about my former profession because you’re trying to figure out what sort of criminal I am and where I belong in your book.”

“No. Damn it.”

Her eyes heated. “Hah. I don’t believe you. You are wondering how to fit me into your method for predicting criminal behavior. Admit it.”

“I told you, I’m just curious.”

She watched him for a long moment. “All right, here’s my answer. I don’t know if I’m a fraud when it comes to reading dreams.”

He stilled. “You don’tknowif you’re a fraud?”

“I know what I sense when I listen to someone describe their dreams,” she said. “I rely on my intuition for the analysis, but the truth is, I have no idea if I’m right or wrong. What’s more, I’d rather not know.”

“Huh.” He sat forward and selected a perfectly sharpened yellow number two pencil from the round container. He tapped the eraser end against the steel side of the sturdy Underwood typewriter. “Aren’t you curious to know if you have some genuine paranormal sensitivity?”

“Does it matter? I’m no longer in the psychic dream reader business.”

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