Mystical Love (70 page)

Now what?
her inner voice asked. We shift our thoughts to physical activity and
hope to God we don't get hit with any more surprises today.
Amen,
her ego replied. Agreeing, Sonny popped one last, stray cheese ball into her mouth and munched on it with relish. Leaning over, she began collecting the paper plates into a pile and scooping them into the garbage.

• • •

The dining hall was filled, but Ned found the trio he was looking for right away. He zigzagged his way between tables, and, reaching the group, he plopped down in an empty chair.

“You need to talk to Sonny,” he told the mustached figure on his right.

“Why? What has she done now?” David Blake asked, glancing at Ned over the rim of his coffee cup.

“She's brought Meta Corps down on us.”

Charlotte Fletcher stopped smearing jam on her toast. “Meta Corps is here?”

The lanky figure to her right dropped the piece of toast he was buttering. “Bloody hell! That's all we need. A government agent poking into our business.” Brad Fletcher glared at Ned. “You're sure your info is right? You've seen the man? Talked to him?”

Ned shook his head. “I heard him checking in, but before I could touch base with him, Jessie sent him up to the mesa to meet with Sonny.”

“It's that damn case she's looking into,” Charlotte exclaimed, shivering. “Touching the evidence of a serial killer is just plain crazy. You know how sensitive she is to negative vibes. She could have a meltdown or something.” She glanced at her brother. “You need to talk to her, David. Convince her to send this agent packing.”

David frowned, setting his cup down. “You know I never poke my nose into Sonny's business. She's a grown woman with a mind, and a schedule, of her own.”

“She's a bitch, you mean,” Ned said heatedly.

Brad stirred. “That's my niece you're talking about, Ned. She's no bitch; she's just remarkably smart when it comes to reading people—and their vices.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Ned asked.

“It means, like the rest of us, she's noticed how much time you're spending in late night sessions with the same female clients,” David cut in. He poured himself another cup of coffee. “We cater to all of our guests here, not just a select few. It sends the wrong message to our guests when the appointment ledgers are filled with the same client names all the time.”

Ned's stomach curdled at the criticism. He obviously had been too overt in his session scheduling. He'd have to back off some.

“I wasn't aware I was hogging the limelight,” he finally chided. “From here on out, I'll turn down some clients. Shall I send them your way, Brad?”

Brad shoved his plate away. “Don't be an ass. Just put a little more variety in your scheduling from now on.”

Suppressing the urge to throttle the man beside him, Ned rose instead. It was time to beat a hasty retreat up to the mesa. He needed to put a little scare into Sonny and her companion. He shoved his chair back.

“I need to see you privately,” David said, seeing him prepare to leave. “Company business. When can we meet?”

“In a couple of hours. I'm having brunch with a friend today.”

A snicker echoed from Brad.

“How old is she? Sixteen? Seventeen?”

“Fuck you, Brad!” Ned whirled from the table and struck out for the entrance. Fucking prick! He'd see to it that Brad paid for that cutting remark. But first, he had to learn how safe his secret was from Sonny and her companion.

• • •

Coming out of the chapel, Logan heard a husky laugh and halted. What the hell? He stopped on the bottom step, studying the figure beneath the canopy. Thin, but not too thin. Nice legs. Nice ass. His gaze swept higher. Full, rounded breasts, tiny waist. He felt a nudge in his groin and winced.

Store those insane
desires to touch and feel, Reed
, his inner voice warned.
Desires like that
landed you in a hospital bed last time
.

Yeah, but a well-stacked mouse had an amazing beauty. He left the steps and started across the stone pavers. As he strode, his thoughts turned to his ongoing bad luck with women.
Fool me once, shame
on you; fool me twice, shame on me.
He let his gaze rest on the figure again. Damn, but she had a gorgeous body, even from the back. Would the face match the figure?

Whoa, forget that kind of question
, his inner voice urged.
It doesn't matter how
gorgeous the mouse is.
We're here to solve a case, nothing more.
Besides, we've given up trifling with mice
.
They're trouble, with a capital T. And the one thing we don't need at the moment is more trouble in our life.

Right
, he agreed.
Just keep on walking.

Sonny popped the last chocolate pastry into her mouth and chewed on it thoughtfully. If she didn't figure out what was causing her overwhelming shutdown soon, plus her sudden uncontrollable urge to eat everything in sight, she'd end up eating herself to death. This chocolate pastry was heavenly.

Thirsty, Sonny turned to the standing coffee urn, bent on taking a shot of caffeine; however, her hand paused over an empty cup when she spied a white envelope propped in the center of the mugs. She scooped up the note, spotting her name on the front.
A secret admirer?
her inner voice asked. She ripped open the flap. Probably a thank you note from a guest.

Feel the texture of the envelope with your fingers,
her inner voice prodded.
It's probably the owner of that distant, sexy voice wanting to make mad, passionate love to us.

Shut up
, she told the nagging voice.

She peered inside the envelope, spotting a splay of colors. Her heart tripped suddenly. A Tarot card?

Curiouser and curiouser, Miss Alice in Wonderland
, her inner voice mocked her.

Sonny peeped about her.

No White Rabbit today, Miss Empath; we are alone
.

She pulled the Tarot card from the envelope, studying the image depicted. The Lovers. Naked bodies entwined in a highly erotic pose. She shivered at the thought. Just whose naked bodies did the card represent? She examined the card more closely. It was from the Morgan Greer deck, and that, in itself, was odd. She had stopped using that deck for readings a long time ago, and her spirit guides knew it. So, who had left the mysterious card for her?

She turned the card over and saw a typed note Scotch-taped to the center. She read the words.

The cryptic words made Sonny's mouth turn dry as dust. Trust no one. Not even her aunt? Her gaze strayed to the bottom of the hill. Meet him in the bungalow.
Done
, she decided. She slid the Tarot card in her dress pocket and whirled around. She hit a rock-solid wall of chest. Long arms came up and around her, encircling her like strands of a spider web. Stunned, she glanced up and then inhaled sharply. God, what a magnificently sculpted face! Her thoughts soured immediately.
Trust no one.
Not even a gorgeous face with electric blue eyes and a disarming lopsided grin.

Trust no one, Sonny
, her inner voice stressed.
Don't even think about how well your curves mold against the contours of his lean
body. Forget the divine, masculine smell of his aftershave. Get
out of his arms!
Sonny lifted her hands and pushed at the chest. To her surprise, the man didn't budge. The word “nice” echoed in the air, and she wondered what was “nice.” The sky? The trees? Her breasts tucked tightly against his warm chest?

Embarrassed by such a starkly erotic thought in the face of such uncertainty, Sonny squirmed. The movement caused her breasts to sway across his chest, and a rush of pink stained her cheeks. They were welded so close that she couldn't tell which of their heartbeats was racing faster—his or hers. Should she scream for help?

Yeah,
her inner voice chided.
Scream for help.
See who comes.

Sonny bit her lip at the
rebuke.
Right, we're alone, in the arms of a man who smells divine and whose embrace feels safe
.

Get a life, Sonny
, her inner voice scoffed.
And get out of his arms.

Luckily, she didn't have to push him again. The arms holding her released her from his embrace. She retreated a step, unnerved by his piercing stare.

“May I see what you've just tucked in your pocket, Miss Blake?” The voice was deep and pleasant, and sounded familiar. Sonny felt her heartbeat quicken but ignored it. She was acting like a star-struck tween focused on Justin Bieber when she should've been telling the stranger to go to hell. Trust no one, her father had warned.

Before she could utter the word “no,” the stranger's hand slipped inside her dress pocket and foraged for the card. Outraged, she slapped at the fingers.

“What the hell do you think you're doing? How dare you? Give that back to me!”

She attempted to snatch the card back but found her gloved fingers slapped. Fast, she concluded—he had soft, gentle, and fast hands. She watched as he scanned the card leisurely.

“I suppose you know what the picture on this card represents?”

The question hung in the air, and her response was filled with dripping sarcasm. “Of course.”

“I thought as much.” Looking her over, he handed the card back. “I don't suppose you'd care to translate it for me?”

“I think it's pretty self-explanatory,” she retorted. Who the hell was this man? And why was he quizzing her on the Tarot card?

“Somehow, I
knew
you'd be a stubborn wench.” Reaching into his left shirt pocket, he hauled out a cigarette and lighter, and Sonny saw him grimace as the cigarette flared, leaving smoke trails skimming his nose. His bold stare continued, and this time, she tried to ignore it by stuffing the card back into her dress pocket.

An uncomfortable silence descended between them, and Sonny cleared her throat. What was the man thinking about so intently? His keen, thoughtful gaze was lingering on her shape, his interest curious and obvious, but his mind elsewhere. Clearing her throat again, Sonny centered her thoughts on the stranger's identity.

“What can I do for you, Mr. ... ?”

“Reed. Logan Reed. And to answer your next question, no, I'm not a guest.”

Smoke coiled, hiding his expression, and Sonny frowned. Why was he here then? And blast it, why did she have to be more interested in learning what his taste in women was, rather than finding out what he wanted from her? And he did want something from her. She could sense it.

“Surely you must want something from me,” Sonny stated. “You tracked me all the way up here.”

Crusty laughter startled her. “Hopefully you've already done what I need, and I can get the hell out of here.”

Sonny's brow furrowed. “You seem familiar. Did I do an aura reading for you recently?”

“Not bloody likely. I don't do spiritual shit.”

“What do you do then?” Sonny asked, surprised by how offended she was by his “spiritual shit” insult.

His hand reached into his back pocket, and she saw his amused grin emerge again. “I'm from Meta Corps. You're expecting me.” He flashed his ID badge in front of her face and she scanned the name quickly. Logan Reed, out of New York City. The wallet snapped shut and was pocketed again.

Caught off guard by his sudden arrival, Sonny bristled. “How could I be expecting you, when Meta Corps refused to tell me when you were coming?”

“Surprise has its advantages, Miss Blake.” His wry grin came again. “Surely, with your amazing talent, you knew I was on the way.”

Sonny frowned. He was disparaging her talent again. What an odious toad he was turning out to be. It was time to put him in his place.

“I did have a vision of an agent coming; however, his demeanor was extremely kind and pleasant. It appears Meta Corps changed agents at the last minute and sent an arrogant toad instead.”

“It's more likely you misinterpreted the vision.”

At his jibe, Sonny felt her blood begin to boil. This meeting was so over. With a flounce of her skirt, she whirled about. She was whipped back around before she could even take a step. Blue eyes pinned her face.

“Simmer down. I meant no insult.”

Sonny's anger evaporated instantly, but her curiosity didn't. “Pardon me for asking, but if you don't do ‘spiritual shit,' why did Meta Corps assign you this case?”

“Because I'm the best,” he replied. “And you always send the best to work with the best. And according to Meta Corps files, you're the best.”

Sonny's pulse lurched at the compliment, but she managed to keep her surprise from showing. “Do you know anything at all about what empaths do?” she asked.

“I'm not a newbie to empaths. I know what you do. You excel at psychic bullshit.”

Sonny was astonished by his words. The man obviously hated metaphysics in any form. “I see. You're a nonbeliever?”

“No, I'm a believer,” he corrected. “I just believe in tangible things you can see and touch.”

“So do I,” she mocked him. “But I also
‘see'
intangible things as well.”

“So your file says. It reeks of adoring fans.”

“Really? They don't find me too flashy?” Sonny asked sarcastically.

His expression pulled into a sour grin. “Now who's being unpleasant?”

“Touché.” She took a step. “Shall we go?”

Sonny took another step, only to find her wrist snatched roughly. His sudden grip dislodged the edge of her glove, and his warm fingers connected with the bottom of her palm. In seconds, her empathic skills set off, tossing the pair into a white, blinding light, where they skittered down a rabbit hole filled with jarring bumps and skids.