Chapter One
A hot extraction barely sped his pulse these days. Things were bad when it took a massive boom to get the heart pounding.
Hell, no. Dillon Gavin rejected the thought with a sharp mental toss of his head. That was just lack of sleep and back-to-back missions talking. A bit of R&R, some sexual comfort in the arms of an understanding woman, and he’d be fine.
True, he’d been skimming along for the past few years, ever since he’d lost his partner. But leave the shadowy black ops world and its attendant adrenaline rush? Not even for that last message from Lantis.
Ready to be an uncle? Better yet, how about a godfather?
Stopping to adjust his collar, Dillon studied his reflection in the black marble framing the entrance to Walsen Galleries. Tall, though not as tall as his former partner. A male in his prime. Hardly the image of a godfather—at least not in his estimation.
His lips quirked at the absurdity. It didn’t matter. Lantis and Kiera were both in excellent health. When Lantis got out of black ops, his best friend’s life expectancy had to have doubled, if not tripled.
Just because the missions weren’t as much fun without Lantis didn’t mean it was time for Dillon to turn in his papers. He’d adjust to the difference even if it killed him.
Brushing back the wavy lock drooping over his left eye, Dillon dismissed this morbid line of thought. Retire? And do what? Plant his ass somewhere and watch the grass grow? He snorted quietly. He wasn’t ready to hang up his spurs. Perhaps he never would be. Anyway, despite his imminent godfatherhood, there was no hurry.
He had a whole month to himself—thanks to the Old Man’s stiff-necked insistence—and a wallet flush from the efforts of his investment banker and the last few months of spartan life in the field. Might as well spend some of it on art.
Smiling in anticipation, he sauntered through the gallery’s tinted glass doors into the world of color and light.
When Kiera’s assistant had informed him that his childhood friend and her new husband planned to attend the opening of a Jordan Kane exhibit tonight, he’d been delighted. As a longtime fan of the psyprint artist, he’d enjoy sharing her work with the two most important people in his life.
There was a dreamlike quality to Jordan’s work, one that appealed to him at the deepest level, an optimism that refreshed his palate after all the horrors he’d seen in the field. It wasn’t that her artistic vision ignored the harsher realities—such deliberate blindness wouldn’t appeal to him—but there was an underlying message of hope: things would get better, good will prevail despite the odds, the light at the end of the tunnel might not be a deflagration spell lobbed by hostiles.
There had been times when that belief was all that had kept him going. After this last mission that had nearly gone to hell, he needed that reminder. He needed it desperately.
Neither Lantis nor Kiera was in sight when Dillon reached the wing housing the exhibit. It took only a single sweep of the first room to reach that conclusion. His best friend’s towering stature was distinctive, to say the least, and as a supposed civilian he had no reason to conceal his presence.
Dillon didn’t worry, confident that he’d catch up with the lovebirds at some point. He could use the time to get his head screwed back on right and tight.
He shook his head. Should’ve known this funk was coming—what with ops palling almost as soon as Lantis retired. It was nearly at the point where the adrenaline rush wasn’t worth the static from higher up. The Old Man had probably sensed it, thus his refusal to send Dillon out until after a month off.
Needing the distraction, Dillon turned to the nearest psyprint—a moody sunrise over an anonymous old town. The rooftops in the picture reminded him of Rotterdam, where Lantis and he had first pretended to be lovers to throw the arms dealer they’d been surveilling off his guard.
Dillon grinned. He could still see the patent disbelief on Lantis’ face that had met his suggestion, one of the handful of instances in their long partnership when Dillon had succeeded in shocking his friend. But Lantis hadn’t dismissed it out of hand. And the rest was history. They’d used the pretext successfully countless times since that sunny day in the Netherlands.
That’s what had been missing in the past few years: the sense of fun. Sure, black ops was serious business—but that didn’t mean you shouldn’t enjoy yourself. The other agents Dillon had worked with since Lantis’ retirement just couldn’t match his friend’s open-mindedness. Together, they’d been hell on wheels.
He sighed, for a moment wishing for a return of the good old days before giving himself a mental snap kick in the butt. That was the past and quite selfish, considering Lantis was supremely happy with present conditions—especially Kiera’s current condition. It was up to him to adjust, to find something else that brought the pleasure back to the job. Nevertheless, he took note of the price on the psyprint; it would make a nice addition to his Jordan Kane collection.
Almost every piece Dillon saw reminded him of his defunct partnership with Lantis. Good memories for the most part. But it probably wasn’t wise to see the lovebirds while he was in this mood. Lantis could read him as only a former partner could, and Kiera knew him like the sister he’d never had. He didn’t want them to pick up on his melancholy. For some reason, it felt like he was closing a chapter in his life and had to conduct a final retrospective before he could move forward.
Reluctantly amused by his whimsy, Dillon looked around for something to divert his thoughts. Some incidents were too gut-wrenching to relive. They hovered like specters in the back of his mind, just waiting for a lapse in his vigilance.
A bright pink shock of hair caught his eye, aided by a cheerful wave of a slender arm.
On a surge of relief, he threaded his way through the crowd, sidestepping a clump surrounding a well-known model, to reach Kiera’s friend. Tatianna Jones—Shanna to everyone who knew her—was a free spirit who ran the gallery with a sharp capitalist’s eye for what pricked the public’s interest and changed her hair color as frequently as her underwear or so it seemed. And she knew she had a guaranteed sale in his person.
“I didn’t know you were in town,” Shanna burbled happily as Dillon bent down several inches to brush a kiss of greeting on her cheek. “Anything grab you?” She raised pink brows a shade or two darker than her hair in teasing inquiry; below them her normally hazel eyes were a sparkling green.
Dillon laughed, forcing easy cheer into his voice as he struggled to bury the trenchant scenes of his lost partnership. “You know me too well. There are several, actually. But I haven’t decided which ones to buy yet.”
She dimpled a smile at him, the sharp glint of determination beneath her darkened lashes warning him of a coming sales pitch. “Maybe we can help you decide.” The doll-like gallery manager turned to a slender woman in a long-sleeved cream sweater dress that hugged understated but delightfully feminine curves.
He stared, his attention snared by the oldest magic in the world. Damn but she made his mouth dry. One would think he’d never seen a woman before. Jealous of the soft wool hiding her body from his gaze, he feasted his eyes on the svelte lines of her figure, regardless of propriety. What wouldn’t he give to explore that virginal territory with his own hands?
Dillon’s heart conjured rolling thunder as he studied her fine features. Here was someone who could distract him from his nostalgia and the darker memories lurking in the recesses of his brain. Over the roar in his ears, he heard Shanna’s high, clear voice as she addressed her companion in a bantering tone: “Jordan, this rogue is something of a fan of your work.”
Jordan Kane, the artist herself.
A few inches taller than Kiera’s diminutive friend, with short, shaggy, honey-brown hair feathering her pale cheeks, the other woman radiated a pool of exquisite calm, apparently oblivious to the excitement around her. Her even demeanor made him wonder what it would take to banish it. His imagination conjured all sorts of carnal incentives he might offer her for the privilege of finding out, the sensual images crowding out the ghosts of missions past clamoring for his attention.
He latched on to the diversion gratefully, having wanted to meet the creator of the evocative psyprints he’d bought. Now was an excellent time to make her acquaintance—and perhaps more? Given her composure, she didn’t seem the type to jump into bed on first acquaintance, but perhaps she could be persuaded?
“Dillon Gavin,” he introduced himself, taking her delicate hand between his much larger ones. He’d bet his cock would more than fill her hands. Heat flooded his veins as he savored the contact, using the silken sensation to force back the lingering specters that threatened to spoil his enjoyment. How would her hands feel gliding over his bare skin? “I’m honored to meet you.”
Her pale blue eyes seemed to look straight into him, a penetrating glance that saw things he kept hidden from the world. A flurry of emotions flashed across her face, then her eyes widened suddenly as she gasped, her hand jerking in his grasp.
* * *
Jordan had noted him long before their introduction. A muscular, black-haired man, he reminded her—oddly enough—of Timothy. She’d nearly giggled in amusement. Most people wouldn’t have considered the comparison a compliment, but it was. Silent, thoughtful, in perfect control of his well-proportioned body, and totally at ease with his surroundings—very much like Timothy. He wore his self-sufficiency like an invisible cloak that made people give way instinctively. A man among men.
Her arms prickled with sensual awareness at the thought.
He’d drawn her attention like a soft melody that teased her ears into listening, dominating her senses with his mere presence, so much so that the others in the room faded into faceless blurs—her clairvoyance responding to her interest. His deep-set black eyes had turned dreamy or glittered in slitted response to some thought as he stalked among her artwork. A strong chin, slashing brows, an aristocratic—almost Roman—nose, high cheekbones and well-formed lips her fingers itched to trace. The exceptional combination tempted her to bend her rule on portraits.
His light baritone caressed her ears, sent shivers tripping down her back, and made her core clench with a rare hunger. Her toes curled reflexively as he laughed in response to Shanna’s sally, something primitive inside her stirring at the sound of the low chuckles. Surely it was simply an automatic female response to the presence of an exceptional male?
Jordan sniffed delicately, hoping to find something to mitigate the unexpected attraction, and nearly frowned when she failed. Unlike many of the other men in the room, he didn’t soak himself in a dissonant clash of cologne and aftershave, content with citrusy soap and his own clean scent.
He probably smelled like that all over. Her nipples tingled in speculation, her breasts firming as she failed to rein in her suddenly lusty imagination. Would she find that intriguing scent all over him?
Her core clenched once more as desire pooled in her belly and a moist heat gathered lower. She bit her lip to suppress a groan at the unfamiliar sensation.
A most unusual man. He intrigued her enough that she was willing to brush her fingers over his own, to allow that rare physical contact, to risk the flood of visions that came with triggering her psychometry.
When his rough, warm hands enfolded hers, a dizzying kaleidoscope of images flashed before her mind’s eye, disorienting, even though she’d braced herself for it.
A stocky, brown-haired man pried open a wooden crate with quick efficiency. The top panel, covered with strange writing—all straight lines and circles—and unintelligible numbers, slid away. The top layer of contents was pulled aside to reveal boxes stamped with the universal symbol of hazardous materiae magicae.
Dillon Gavin leaned in, a string of silver medallions draped between his hands. The metal ovals glowed purple for a single heartbeat, then disappeared in the batting between the boxes. With a brief gesture at a tall man, he moved to another crate filled with mottled green cylinders.
From a black bag, he took out a gray block and started kneading it between his hands like so much putty. He formed the gray substance into a thread, hiding it around the cylinders.
Working smoothly, he and several other men opened and resealed rough crates, then exited the speeding railroad car, wind clawing at their bodies. They leaped off—into empty space.
From somewhere high, Dillon and his companions watched a locomotive trundling along a bridge spanning a deep ravine. Distance reduced the conveyance to the size of tiny ants. A haze of virulent yellow-green energy suddenly rose from the valley floor, engulfing the train. Purple light sparkled over a few cars, then the train vanished in a powerful blast that shattered the bridge and leveled the surrounding trees.
Before she could gasp, the setting changed.
Explosions ripped through the night, the darkness punctuated by short bursts of light. Men in black jittered in halos of blue power, fell limp and deathly still to the ground.
Scene after stark scene followed, some of such explicit violence her stomach lurched.
A gun swung into her face, its muzzle filling her vision just before it hit. Going to shoot her— No, it was going to shoot Dillon Gavin!
Dillon knelt beside a badly injured man as healers worked, a knife held at ready, his face a cold mask of determination.
Jordan flinched. He’s a killer! Something rose up inside her in denial, arguing for accuracy. He’s killed before but not out of malice or enjoyment. But still . . . the first man to pique her interest in ages and he was too dangerous to have in her bed. The realization was like ashes on her tongue.
A bearded man with an elaborate tattoo on his cheek sprang out from behind a tree. Dillon pushed someone down, then was thrown back as bullets slammed into his chest.
Jordan gasped, shock plunging her body in ice and leaching blood from her face. Her stomach dropped and lurched, her knees threatening to fold under her. Not just a dangerous man, but one with a dangerous job.
“Are you alright?”
Slamming her shields down on her vision, she withdrew into herself, desperately blocking all input to stop the invasion of Dillon’s waking memories. It left her isolated in the ever-present darkness, the blindness she’d learned to live with closing in on her. The ground swayed under her feet.
“Jordan?” Shanna asked from somewhere beside her, warmth close by Jordan’s shoulder suggesting a hand in midair, uncertain of its welcome.
“I-I’m sorry, I—” Jordan broke off, yanking her hand free. Welcome heat flooded her cheeks as she clung to the shreds of her composure. “I got distracted.” She pressed her fists against her belly. She wasn’t her mother. She refused to collapse like her mother had, over so much less. With sheer desperation, she forced her lungs to work and her knees to hold. With her palms safe from physical contact, she felt secure enough to open herself to her vision. Her clairvoyance showed Dillon staring at her in puzzlement, his black eyes narrowed in speculation.
“Jordan’s blind,” Shanna confided in a whisper with the swift delivery of discomfort, as if to excuse her strange behavior. Dillon Gavin had to be a good friend—not just a favored customer—for Shanna to share that. She knew Jordan preferred to keep her blindness to herself.
Dillon’s eyes widened, clearly taken aback by the revelation. Jordan wasn’t surprised; she’d worked hard to foster an appearance of normalcy. Her clairvoyance usually allowed her handicap to pass unnoticed.
“Well, look who’s here.” A deep voice cut through the din of music and polite conversation around them.
To her relief, Dillon’s attention shifted, pure delight lighting his face as he grinned up at the speaker, hardly the image of a man with blood on his hands. “There you are. I thought it’d take a search party to find you.”
Jordan drew a sharp breath as her clairvoyance showed her the newcomer. Dillon’s comrade in arms. He’d looked every inch a warrior in her vision but here he cut a devoted figure, standing with a solicitous arm around a beautiful and very pregnant redhead. Shanna had introduced them earlier: John Atlantis and his wife, Kiera. She’d never have suspected such a gallant man could have taken part in the violence she’d witnessed.
* * *
Lantis met Dillon’s gaze with the slightest arch to his brow, then slid his eyes sidewise to indicate his wife meaningfully. Kiera appeared radiant, evidently contented with life in general and enjoying the exhibit. But if Dillon knew his heart sister, she’d put in a full day in the office, despite the advanced state of her pregnancy, running the toy company she inherited from her father. Lantis probably thought she needed to rest.
“You look like you could use a day off.” Dillon leaned over to kiss Kiera’s proffered cheek.
She grimaced at him, obviously sensing a double-team in progress, then admitted ruefully as she rubbed her back, “Putting my feet up would help.”
“Well, then. I won’t keep you standing around.” Dillon exchanged a look of satisfaction with his former partner, ignoring a stab of disappointment at their early departure with the ease of long practice.
Reflexively, he put the best light to the situation: this would give him the opportunity to try charming Jordan out of her reticence. While her blindness might explain her initial lack of response to him, the way she’d jerked her hand free nettled his curiosity, immediately identifying her on his mental radar as a challenge. What was she like when making love? Would her air of calm shatter or dissipate like a fog bank before rising wind? He dearly wanted to find out.
Reading his carnal intentions like an open book, Lantis gave him the barest quirk of his lips. There were few things Dillon could keep hidden from his best friend. A brief fling while on R&R wasn’t one of them.
“Drop by later, after you’ve seen everything?” the taller man suggested in a murmur. He evidently didn’t think much of Dillon’s chances of getting into Jordan’s bed tonight.
“Tomorrow.” So Kiera wouldn’t wait up. Dillon grinned, suddenly filled with good cheer; his former partner had an uncanny habit of being right. Well, he wanted a diversion. It wouldn’t do if he had it easy. Deprived of eye contact, he’d just have to be more creative in wooing Jordan.
* * *
The look Dillon and his teammate shared held a library of meaning, speaking to Jordan of shadowy deeds and hidden danger. And a secret capacity for violence that sent a perverse frisson of sweet excitement through her body. Her unthinking response made her shiver. How could she even be attracted to such a man? Yet despite her knowledge, something inside her melted at his proximity.
“Do you do portraits, Jordan?”
Dragging her attention from the oh-so-intriguing yet dangerous Mr. Gavin, Jordan turned to the willowy blonde in a short black dress talking to her. A popular fashion model—or so Shanna told her—Lindsay Thorpe was a patron of Jordan’s work. Shanna would never forgive Jordan if she ignored Shanna’s directive to socialize and cultivate buyers.
Tilting her head toward the woman’s flat voice, Jordan smiled ruefully to soften her answer and kept her hands clasped together at her waist. “I’m afraid my muse keeps me too busy for portraits.” The last thing she wanted was to risk a client triggering her psychometry. That run-in with Dillon merely served to reinforce the wisdom of her stance.
Unfortunately, some people had a difficult time accepting “no” for an answer. The model appeared to be one of them. “I’m sure something could be arranged,” Lindsay countered, her wide lips stretching in a smug smile.
If the other woman hadn’t bought her work before, Jordan would have thought it was the cachet of a Jordan Kane portrait that was the main attraction. In fact, Lindsay didn’t strike her as someone interested in the arts; the model had spent more time holding court than looking at the psyprints on display.
“I rarely accept commissions.” A tug on her sleeve drew Jordan’s attention to Shanna. She turned to her agent with relief, hoping to avoid a scene.
The rescue proved to be worse.
“Dillon has a few questions about your landscapes. Why don’t you go talk to him?” Obviously a rhetorical question since Shanna pushed her in his direction.
Jordan made her escape while her agent diverted the blonde’s attention. Dillon was at her side almost instantly, an expression of solicitude on his face as he drew her away, his large hand like a hot brand on the small of her back. To her dismay, he was alone. “What happened to your friends?”
“They had to leave,” he explained, giving her a sharp look that had her nipples tightening with unwanted awareness. “Kiera was getting tired.”
“That’s too bad,” Jordan murmured politely, swallowing her reluctance as Dillon cupped his warm hand under her elbow. It wouldn’t be wise to irritate such a dangerous man unnecessarily. Perhaps she could slip away later.
Tingles of pleasure radiated up her arm from where he held her. How could she still be responding to him? He was a man of violence, one who frequently risked his life. That alone made him off-limits. Now if she could only convince her hormones of the wisdom of avoiding him. “Which landscapes interest you?”
“Actually, I haven’t had time to go through the entire exhibit yet. Care to join me?”
Jordan’s heart sank. Since Shanna had facilitated her escape, she suspected her agent wouldn’t object if Dillon monopolized her. This late in the evening, the important sales pitches were done. There was no way she could avoid spending time with him.
She accompanied him through the exhibit, intensely aware of his scent and warmth at her side, the pleasant timbre of his voice evoking an ineffably carnal response from her body. His thumb drew teasing circles on the tender skin of her inner arm—nothing objectionable, except the gentle friction had her core fluttering in delighted anticipation.
Despite her inexplicably insistent libido, it was a rare pleasure to hear the opinion of a man who didn’t try to impress her with his knowledge, to impose his own interpretation of the rightness or wrongness of her work. One who didn’t dismiss it as overly indulgent fancies. Yet it was surprising to hear it from someone of his violent line of work. An appreciation of art wasn’t something she’d expected in a killer, especially one whose polite attentions were making her come undone.
“I was wondering about your inspiration for this sunrise.” He waved his hand at a psyprint, then caught himself in mid-gesture, obviously remembering her handicap. A look of discomfiture flashed across his face, one Jordan suspected he was unaccustomed to wearing. “It’s the one with a purplish haze over an old town.”
As Dillon studied the psyprint, his strong features softened, losing the edge that hinted at knife-ready reflexes.
Her clairvoyance persisted in showing her the curve of his kissable lips, the sparkle in his dark eyes, the firm line of his jaw. She cursed it even while she wondered what his features would feel like under her fingers.
Somehow, she gathered enough wit to provide a sensible answer. “There was something in the news about escalating racial tensions in Europe.” Hate crimes and rising incidents of vandalistic magic. “I wanted to acknowledge the reality yet point to a brighter future.”
He nodded, evincing no surprise at her words. Did his job require him to keep abreast of such news?
“It reminds me of Rotterdam.”
Startlement rendered Jordan speechless. The indistinct skyline in the psyprint played across her vision. She hadn’t incorporated any landmarks, leaving it a nameless town at twilight, pierced here and there by valiant sparks of light. With all the tourist havens in Europe, how had he unerringly identified the city?
“That’s very specific,” she finally managed.
“It’s the roofline, I think. I haven’t seen its like in Italy, Spain, or France.” Whatever his thoughts were, they gave his features a devilish cast, a warning to whomever might think to cross him.
Edging away from Dillon, Jordan laced her fingers together in self-protection, preferring not to risk triggering her psychometry, in case he was thinking of battle. Men seemed to enjoy the bloodiest things. “You sound well-traveled.”
* * *
“I’ve done my share of traveling, seen some sights.” Dillon grinned at his understatement. He knew his way around most of the hellholes in developing countries although he’d had missions in Europe. But that had no bearing on his current hunt.
“What do you do?” Jordan’s brows drew together in gentle interest—contrary to the wary tension of her body and the two surreptitious half steps she’d taken away from him, but she didn’t go so far as to free her arm from his grasp. Obviously, the pretty artist had picked up on his desire and was uncertain what to do about it. He was tempted to assure her he didn’t bite . . . much, though he’d bet she’d make a sweet mouthful.
Maybe later.
“I’m a troubleshooter,” Dillon replied, tongue in cheek. “My company sends me where there are problems with ongoing projects and I do my best to fix things.”
She blinked several times, as if she were batting her lashes at him, except she wasn’t—couldn’t be—looking at him. “It sounds rather stressful.”
Remembering his last mission and the deafening exchange of gunfire and offensive magics that had capped it, Dillon shook his head. She had no idea! “It has its moments.” Which he didn’t want to think about right now, not when he had the undivided attention of the woman he wanted in his bed.
“Do you like it?”
“It keeps things interesting. It’s also widened my horizons considerably.” He forced himself to survey the psyprints near them and not the gentle curves swaying near the back of his hand; yet he couldn’t resist stroking the delicate skin under his thumb. Just the friction sent a tingle through his cock that he couldn’t help but relish. “That’s part of the appeal your work has for me, I think.”
“What do you mean?” Jordan stepped closer with some reluctance, giving him a better view of her soft lips and the intriguing whorls of her ear with its bare and vulnerable lobe. Were they sensitive? How would she react if he licked the velvety nub? If he took it between his lips and sucked on it?
“This orchid scene, for example. I’ve seen something like it in my travels but never quite like this.” Dillon stared blindly at the almost-photographic image, the way her mouth puckered, as though inviting his kiss, filling his mind’s eye. It took some doing to drag his thoughts back to their conversation. “I like the effect of the light glittering on the petals and the raindrops clinging to them. The contrast to the darkness of the rain forest’s foliage is stark, but at the same time very hopeful.” It cast a different light on his own experiences. The jungles he’d hacked, crawled, and sometimes swum through really hadn’t been all bad.
The beauty in her art was amazing, made more so by her blindness. How had she been able to conceive it, much less depict it?
Jordan tilted her head to one side, almost as if she were studying the psyprint. “I don’t know why I did it that way. I’m not even sure it’s right.” Her hands traced patterns in the air, the graceful motions seeming to sketch the exotic flower in the picture. She rubbed the tip of her nose, frowning. “Do orchids shimmer?” She fell silent, the pensive expression on her face making him think she’d forgotten his presence.
Dillon spoke to draw her back from wherever she’d gone. “Actually, some do.”
Her head jerked up. “You’ve seen this?” She leaned toward him, her hands folded together at her waist, her knuckles turning pale. There was a strange urgency in her voice, as though she needed confirmation of the reality of her artistic vision—enough to temporarily overcome her wariness of him.
“Several times.” His curious brain wondered at her intensity, poking at her question for hidden meanings.
The brilliant smile Jordan gave him almost made Dillon forget what he was saying. His cock twitched at this sign of her interest. Perhaps he’d prove Lantis wrong this time.
She stiffened suddenly, her smile vanishing like faerie light. The corded tendons along her neck and slight cant of her chin told him her attention had focused elsewhere.
Following the angle of her head, Dillon shot a sidelong glance over his shoulder. The predatory fashion model was staring in their direction, making sharp, peremptory gestures as she spoke with Shanna. Apparently, the blonde hadn’t yet given up hope of commissioning a portrait.
“Forget about her.” He ushered Jordan out of hearing range of the woman’s sultry demands. As much as he usually admired tenacity, anything that made Jordan uncomfortable was beyond the pale—especially when it impeded his pursuit.
Her back rigid under his hand, Jordan turned a startled look at him, then gave him a smile—albeit a grudging one.
Well, well. Things are looking up. “What is it?”
Her brows twitched at his question. “Huh?”
“You were smiling at me,” he explained. “I wondered why.”
She ducked her head and shrugged, a fine tension still quivering through her muscles; if it weren’t too soon, he’d have taken her into his arms and stroked away her disquiet. “Nothing. You just reminded me of someone.”
“Who?” Dillon prompted, inordinately disappointed that the look on her face hadn’t been meant for him. His hackles rose at the hint of competition.
Jordan shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
Her demurral hardened his determination. “No, really. I’m curious.”
“It wouldn’t mean anything even if I told you.” Her glossy pink lips curled up at the corners in a secretive smirk. Damned if it didn’t make him want to give her something else to fill them.
“But, now, you’ve pricked my curiosity.”
“Timothy.” She kept her answer simple without any elaboration. Just that one name.
“Who?” Another man? What else, dolt? He could hardly have reminded her of a woman. At least he hoped not.
“See. I told you it wouldn’t mean anything to you.” She stepped away from under his hand. “Do you have any more questions? About my work, I mean.”
Dillon accepted the hint and directed the conversation back to art. He hadn’t wanted an easy hunt, after all. Courting Jordan promised to keep him well occupied. Suddenly, a whole month of R&R didn’t seem long enough.
* * *
Jordan’s knowledge of her companion’s dangerous lifestyle did nothing to dispel her fascination with him. Her clairvoyance persisted in parading Dillon’s body before her mind’s eye. His shoulders were broad and well-muscled, no mere paper pusher. He had to work hard to maintain that physique—probably a necessity in his profession. He shrugged absently, the simple movement making his chest bunch and his shirt glide over his broad back. The ripple of muscle derailed her train of thought like a sudden decadent whiff of dark-chocolate fudge brownies. Fluid poetry in motion. Her fingers ached to touch him.
He’d be even better naked.
Aghast at the thought, Jordan licked her suddenly dry lips. Dillon Gavin’s off-limits, damn it! The reminder did little to calm her racing pulse or the ardent hunger heating her heavy core. She needed to do something to distance herself and help her cool off. “All this talking’s made me thirsty.”
“Can’t have that.” With his solicitous hand under her elbow—hot, rough palms stroking her body all over, her hyperactive libido whispered—Dillon led her to the tables near the bar that was set up in a corner of the gallery. “What would you like to drink?”
Jordan fanned her warm face, grateful the air-conditioning kept her from overheating. “Anything but dry.”
“I guess you get too much of that, talking about your art. I’ll see what they have.”
As Dillon left for the bar, Jordan reached back, feeling for the seat. While she knew there was a chair behind her, she couldn’t tell how far it was. Her clairvoyance enabled her to get around in unfamiliar places, but it wasn’t the same as not being blind. Her vision wasn’t anchored to her perspective, allowing her to see all angles and distances. If she wanted, she could have a three-dimensional, close-up view of whatever interested her, but it also meant she had difficulty using it to judge spatial relations.
Her fingers finally found the hard edge of the bar chair. She patted it surreptitiously, orienting herself by feel. Soft leather brushed her fingertips.
A knife slashed down, cutting upraised arms. Blood splattered black walls, dripped on a dark floor. A mangled face trying to scream.
Jordan recoiled in horror, ramming her side into a table edge. What on earth? Her skin prickled at the vision, gooseflesh running down her arms. A murder? Was that what she’d seen?
Extending a trembling hand, she cautiously prodded the seat’s rigid plastic. Nothing came to her. She touched leather.
A knife slashed—
Jordan slammed down her mental barriers. Pulled into herself until nothing from her sight could reach her. Only then did she explore, limiting her inputs to touch.
Soft, fine-grain leather. Small—she spanned the width with her hands—and strangely shaped. Tight seams. Narrow wedges. Like fingers? Gloves! Long-fingered gloves elegant in their simplicity and lack of adornment.
She shivered. These were witnesses to a murder?
“Is something wrong?” Dillon’s soft murmur cut through the darkness, resonant with undeniable concern. His audible sympathy drew Jordan out of her mental fugue.
She smiled weakly in his direction, a chill running down her spine, her ribs raising a belated complaint. “Uh, no. I don’t think so.” The possibility that she’d found evidence pointing to a bloody crime in the middle of her own exhibit was preposterous. But her sight, the visions she received from her psychometry were never wrong.
Not wanting to think about the implications, Jordan tucked the gloves into her purse.
* * *
Automatically monitoring the conversations around him, Dillon studied Jordan as he placed the plate of cheese and crackers on the table. Fall fashion, stock market movements, oil prices—none of that interested him. They weren’t what bothered Jordan. From the pallor of her face, whatever had happened to frighten her wasn’t anything so mundane. Tamping down his arousal, he scanned their surroundings for the source of her distress but everything seemed normal, including the thwarted model frowning at them over the people clustered around her.
“I think you’ll like this. It’s a dessert wine.” He set Jordan’s white wine down on the table, the glass ringing with crystal clarity.
Despite her blindness, Jordan picked up the goblet without any awkwardness, possibly homing in on the sound. Raising it to her lips in a controlled motion, she inhaled absently, as though going through the motions of normalcy would make it so. Then her blue eyes widened, color returning to her cheeks. “Ooh!” She took a delicate sip, then smiled brightly.
Dillon hid his grin behind his own wineglass, gratified by his success at distracting her. The fruity bouquet reached his nose, reminiscent of lychees, melons, cherries, and orange blossoms. How much more delightful would it be with her sharper senses? “Too dry?” he asked, unable to resist teasing her.
She gave a gurgle of relieved laughter. “You know it’s not. I’ll have to get some for my cellar.”
He sipped his own, relishing the burst of golden sweetness balanced by hints of pepper, hazelnut, and chocolate. “Have some cheese.” He nudged the plate forward with a gentle scrape.
Jordan frowned—at him?—then extended a tentative hand toward the plate. Did she doubt the safety of the food?
He gave an impatient mental shake of his head at his professional paranoia. Relax, man. Maybe the sound just hadn’t been loud enough for her to home in on.
Her fingers brushed the rim, then, with very little groping, she found a slice. She managed it so adroitly, he might not have realized she was blind if Shanna hadn’t told him.
“Afraid I’ll get drunk?” She sipped her wine, closing her eyes as she savored its taste with almost tangible single-mindedness.
Dillon clenched his jaw against a surge of lust, wondering if she brought a similar dedication to lovemaking. He could practically feel her legs clamped around his hips as she rode him to completion with the same absolute focus. “Actually, I’m hoping you’ll join me for dinner.”
She frowned at him—this time he was certain it was at him—as she nibbled on cheese, her lips puckering erotically as they enveloped the creamy slice.
His cock sprang to steel-hard attention with a throb of burning interest. Need knotted his gut, sending razor-edged desire stabbing through his body. Suddenly, he didn’t care about challenges and diversions. He wanted her now, in his bed, any which way he could have her. He shifted in his seat, trying to ease the tightness around his fly.
“I’m sorry, I can’t. I’ve already made plans for later.” Damned if she didn’t look at all regretful.
Dillon frowned inwardly, startled by a strong flare of possessive jealousy. Did she plan to meet this Timothy she’d mentioned earlier? He stopped himself from pressing for more detail. That would be so uncouth. She’s supposed to be just a bit of R&R, remember?
By the time Dillon watched Jordan take her leave, he’d managed to rein in the uncharacteristic proprietorial emotion. She slid into the passenger seat of a scarlet sports coupe, laughing at a quip from Shanna. From his angle, he couldn’t make out much about the driver through the tinted glass.
“It was nice meeting you, Dillon.” Hesitantly, Jordan extended a polite hand in his direction.
“It was my pleasure.” He savored the touch of skin on skin, promising her silently they’d meet again—and soon. He wanted to feel her smooth hands on his body, craved her touch like nothing he’d ever wanted before, and intended to do everything in his power to make it happen.
The hairs on his nape prickled suddenly, his battle-honed instincts warning him of undue—and hostile—attention. But from where?
Jordan freed her hand from his grasp and closed her door. With a final wave of farewell, she sat back and the car pulled away from the curb, merging smoothly with the late-night traffic.
Dillon turned back to the gallery, casually scanning his environs. There were too many people around, any one of whom could be his watcher. No one stared openly in his direction.
“So.” Shanna looked up at him, a gleam of good-natured avarice in her eyes. “Which ones are you buying?”
Chuckling, Dillon shook his head in mock sorrow. “You know me so well.” He accompanied Shanna back into the building. Despite careful scrutiny, he couldn’t spot whoever had set his intuition jangling.
* * *
Her palm still tingling from male heat, Jordan settled into the soft leather, shamelessly wallowing in a cloud of well-being. Excellent wine, creamy cheese, and lots of ego-boo were good for the soul. Even Dillon Gavin’s dangerous company had been good. She closed her mind to importunate patrons and ominous gloves, refusing to allow any unpleasantness to ruin her mood.
“Enjoy yourself?” Dan asked softly, an undemanding presence beside her. From the smell of light sweat and floral perfume coming from her cousin, he had come straight from a date.
“Um-hmm.” Jordan stifled a yawn with her fist. “Thanks for the pickup. Hope you’re not hungry.”
“No problem. I ordered takeout. It should be ready by the time we pass by for it.”
She raised a lazy hand to stop him. “Don’t tell me. I bet I can guess.” A clerk at one of their favorite fast-food chains slid a pizza topped with shellfish into a box and wrote their name on the cardboard. Drinks and a few side orders joined it. “Seafood Delight plus cocktail prawns, chicken wings, and mashed potatoes with shiitake mushrooms.”
“Wha— Oh. It’s done?” Her cousin’s nonchalant acceptance of her statement made Jordan smile.
“Um-hmm.” Sighing, she kicked off her shoes and stretched, enjoying the absence of visual imagery bombarding her mind. In addition to the forbidden Mr. Gavin, the exhibit had been stressful as always. A necessary evil in her line of work, although it did make her more appreciative of the quiet times.
But as she settled in for the drive home, the memory of how Dillon Gavin’s shirt caressed his chest and shoulders danced in her head. And her fingers itched with the need to experience the contact for herself.
* * *
The dream unfolded slowly in the formless darkness, impinging on Jordan’s slumber with relentless unconcern and waking her body with its sensual imagery.
Stroking her hands across her lover’s broad back, she strung kisses along his shoulder, the firm muscles slightly salty to her tongue. He groaned in approval, tilting his head in demand and giving her better access to the strong tendons of his neck. The control implicit in the motion fanned the flames of her excitement, dared her to drive him beyond it.
She intended to.
Nibbling gently, she swept her arms around him, her greedy hands kneading his steel-hard pectorals, laying claim to every inch of hot male flesh. She ventured downward in cautious swirls, her palms lingering over the etched slabs of his belly. So firm and resilient.
Strength incarnate.
All male.
And all hers.
His waistband posed no barrier to her exploration, yielding readily to her avid touch. His rampant sex rewarded her daring. He filled her hands to overflowing—velvet and silk over living marble. Hot and heavy. So thick she wanted to nibble on him and taste him, to feel him against her lips.
To claim him as hers—forever.
She skimmed her fingertips over him, relishing the proof of his desire. Below his erection, his furry sac hung low, promising a long, slow ride to ecstasy.
Her core clenched, its emptiness a nagging ache. Need pressed her, desire such a ponderous weight on her chest she could barely breathe. She wanted him that much.
Carnal hunger clawed her belly, requiring satisfaction. Now. She had to have him, couldn’t wait a moment longer to hold him inside her.
She swung her leg over to straddle Dillon’s narrow hips. Taking his thick penis in her hand, she set its broad head against her slick labia and—
“Prrp?” A furry paw gently patted her jaw again in an insistent request for attention.
Jordan grunted in confusion, the heaviness on her chest like a lingering wisp of her dream. She reached up, her fingers tangling with thick, silky fur. “Timothy?”
Her pet purred in confirmation.
She groaned. “It can’t be morning yet.” She flung her arm carelessly into the ever-present darkness, rapping her knuckles against the clock on her nightstand. Running her hand over its jagged face, she winced at the hour. She hadn’t been asleep that long.
Shifting the muscular cat off her chest, Jordan sat up, struggling against the sheets snaked around her body, then flailed around to return her pillows to a semblance of order. “Why’d you wake me?”
Timothy whined, rubbing his cold nose against her arm.
“No, it wasn’t a nightmare.” She stroked his back in reassurance. He’d woken her from her share of those. But this time he hadn’t. Not unless dreaming of hot sex with an extremely dangerous man was a nightmare.
Remembering the eroticism of her dream, heat flooded her cheeks. Evidently her subconscious hadn’t received the memo that Dillon Gavin was unacceptable. Because of her sight, she’d never allowed herself to be attracted to men with risky occupations, not wanting the heartache of her mother. Her few lovers had all been safe—which couldn’t be said of her companion from last night despite his unexceptionable behavior.
Jordan reached between her legs. Her wet labia were swollen and aching, throbbing at the slightest touch. Would he really be that— She jerked her hand away, appalled by the reckless thought. Despite her body’s frustration, she refused to compound her folly by deliberately fantasizing about him. That dangerous man wasn’t going to be her lover and there was no point in contemplating the possibility.
Her core spasmed in protest, desire a turgid presence in her belly.
Groaning, Jordan buried her face in Timothy’s fur. Such high-mindedness! She was in for a long night of discomfort.
