Mystical Love
Authors: Rachel James
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Rachel James
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
Copyright © 2012 by Rachel Schneider
ISBN 10: 1-4405-5574-5
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5574-9
eISBN 10: 1-4405-5575-3
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5575-6
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123rf.com
This book is dedicated to Sheila, Fran, Ellie, Lois and M.J. Our friendships have stood the test of time. Romance, adventure, successes and setbacks. We've shared it all and we're still here. And best of all, our story's not over yet. There are still many more pages to turn.
Acknowledgments
My heartfelt thanks go to Jennifer Lawler, Imprint Manager, Crimson Press. Her unwavering dedication to publishing the best of the best when it comes to love and romance is awe-inspiring; and thanks for all the kind words you sent my way during the course of getting this book published.
My undying gratitude goes to Julie Sturgeon for her keen editing eye and savvy insights. She has proved that when the time is right, kindred spirits always find and connect with each other. Thanks, Julie, this book is a thousand times better because of you!
Special thanks to the Tuesday Night Writing Workshop, especially Michael, Mary Kay, Sheila, Sherry and Bob. Your never-ending enthusiasm for this book (and my writing) has enriched my life in more ways that I can count.
A special shout-out goes to Dan and Carole Duckworth who made theater come alive in my heart six nights a week, plus two matinees on the weekends.
Lastly, to the detectives at the Jupiter Police Department (you know who you are), thank you for showing me for fifteen years that heroes and heroines
do
exist outside the printed page. Your commitment, integrity, and willingness to put your life on the line day in and day out for total strangers, is a shining example of what every hero should be.
THURSDAY â 10 AM â ASPEN, COLORADO
A shadow of alarm touched Janice Kelly's face, and she stepped back from the three-legged easel, tossing her paintbrush into a jar of cloudy water. The painting before her had changed background colors again. On its own. No, she brought herself up sharply. Paintings did not change colors by themselves. She had done it. She had changed the colors. She let her gaze travel across the now bright yellow background, struggling with the uncertainty it aroused. Had her divorce from Jimmy finally sent her mind over the edge? If so, this mind-fugue was dangerous. She might hurt someone. She might hurt Sarah. Horrified, she raised a hand to her temple. Damn! If she weren't careful, she'd work herself into a full-blown migraine.
Unaware of the streaks of brightly colored paint she was dabbing into her flaming red hair, she rubbed the sore spot vigorously. This was no regular headache she was battling. That's why the pills she'd taken this morning had done nothing to quiet it. No, she'd experienced this kind of pain before, and she knew what it meant. Now, more than ever, she could not put off her trip to Maine tomorrow. She had to go and not just for the debt she owed to her mentor.
Fingers trailing down her temples, she strode back to the easel and began to pack up her paints. She needed sleep desperately â the dead-to-the-world kind. She had been on a five-state gallery tour for months, skipping meals, signing autographs and hopping trains. And now, just when she got home, she was leaving again. No wonder her face had looked pale and pinched when she woke this morning. She was so tired her nerves throbbed. “Mama, what's a Si-Pip?”
Janice jumped at the sound of the high-pitched voice and quickly brought her gaze from the paints to the open doorway. Her eyes lit with pleasure as she spied her daughter, Sarah, bouncing from foot to foot in the middle of the alcove.
“Sarah, sweetie, I don't think I know that word. Where did you hear it?”
“From Aunt Bibi.” She bounded through the doorway and sailed onto a cushioned workbench beside Janice. Once there, she eyed the huge canvas. “Is that my Daddy, Mama?”
Janice grinned, amused.
“No, sweetie, I don't know who the man is.”
“Aunt Bibi told Uncle Roddy he's your dream lover.”
Janice's grin vanished, replaced by a quick frown.
“I've asked you not to spy on your aunt and uncle, Sarah, remember?”
“Uh-huh.” She tucked her feet beneath her rump and tipped her face to Janice. “Who is he, Mama?”
Her persistence brought Janice's focus back to the painting, and she let her gaze sweep the dove gray breeches and matching topcoat. An absolutely gorgeous rake. And her sister was right. She was becoming enamored with the handsome figure she had painted, seemed inexplicably drawn to him.
“Mama?”
“He's just a man I've been seeing in a dream, sweetie.”
“He's handsome.”
“Yes, he is. Devilishly handsome.”
“Is he as devilish as me?”
The question was cheeky, and Janice chuckled, tweaking one of Sarah's bright red curls. Sarah was an adorable poppet, no doubt about it. She took a moment to study the snow-blasted cheeks as Sarah began to riffle through her paints.
“Aunt Bibi says you're a Si-Pip, Mama.”
Janice lightly smacked the prying fingers and gave a sarcastic laugh.
“Little pitchers have big ears.”
“What's that mean, Mama?”
“Nothing, sweetie. C'mere.”
Dropping to the workbench, Janice opened her arms and wiggled her fingers. She must divert Sarah's attention from the tubes of paint. Sarah toppled forward and sprawled across her legs eagerly. One hand flew beneath her cheek to wait patiently for an answer to her earlier question. But which question? Janice wondered. A contented sigh singed her ears, and Janice gave another bright laugh, tickling the round belly peeping between the folds of the yellow flannel jogging suit. Sarah squirmed and giggled, their hands entwining.
“Stop, Mama ⦠you know that tickles.”
“But you have such a yummy laugh, I can't help myself.” Janice cooed. She slid her fingers along Sarah's tummy again, eliciting more spontaneous giggles.
“Stop ⦠Mama ⦠please!”
Hearing a serious hiccup, Janice stilled her fingers and, with a swift tug, righted Sarah to a sitting position in her lap. She dropped a quick kiss on her warm cheek and gave her a light bear-hug. Sarah's face sobered, and Janice knew her attention was back again on getting answers to her questions.
“What
is
a Si-Pip?”
“Psychic. The word is psychic. I'm a psychic.”
She saw the flash of alertness in the eyes studying her face.
“What's a Si-Kick?”
“It's a person who can see things before they happen, see things that are way off in the future.”
“Like the gip ⦠gip-sies who look into the ball?”
Janice craned her head thoughtfully.
“Umm ⦠more like a television set. I see pictures in my head, sweetie, kinda like our television set downstairs. The pictures can be funny, sad, scary ⦠”
“Mon-sters?”
Janice smiled, once again brushing back a stray curl along Sarah's temple.
“No, no monsters. At least not the kind you mean.”
“Does the television set hurt your head?”
“Why no, sweetie, what makes you think it does?”
“Aunt Bibi's gettin' you some ass ⦠ass-prin from the drawer. She says your head aches.”
Janice rolled her eyes.
“Bless your Aunt Bibi.”
She gave Sarah's cheek another brief kiss then slid her back onto the padded bench. Rising, Janice returned to the portrait and picked up her paintbrush. Why did she feel compelled to embellish on the yellow hue when the painting was already quite perfect? She didn't know, but found herself less than a minute later ignoring the mocking voice inside and dressing up the background with a few flourishes of her brush. Beside her, she heard a light humming and joined in. It was marvelous the way she could tune into Sarah's boundless energy. Recharge from it. Without warning, the sound of spit bubbles began to mingle with their humming.