Belonging to Taylor (12 page)

"And if we're going to talk about
decency,"
she said roundly with only a faint quiver to betray her, "why don't we talk about a man who won't even let himself be decently seduced!"

"That's a contradiction in terms," he said a bit weakly.

"Not," she said, "in my dictionary, it isn't."

Trevor wiped his streaming eyes and tried to gather some vague sort of command over himself. He felt completely limp with laughter, utterly relaxed, and wholly incapable of logical thought.

"Feeling better?" she murmured suddenly.

Trevor stared at her. "You've been manipulating me, you little witch," he realized slowly.

"You were upset." Her lovely face was ingenuous. "And they do say laughter's the best medicine, after all."

He had a feeling his mouth was open and hastily closed it. He knew better than to doubt anything she'd said—particularly about her parents—but he realized his love had been playing him like a piano tuned expertly to her touch. "Three hundred years ago," he said ruefully, "you'd have been burned at the stake."

Her eyes gleamed at him. "Probably. But admit it—you do feel better."

Trevor sighed. "Yes, I feel better. I'm still not sure I'm the man for you, however."

"You laugh at my jokes," she pointed out. "And that's a more solid basis for marriage than most people ever find."

Just as she'd very nearly seduced him with black lace and garters, she now came close to performing the feat a second time. A part of him longed wistfully to share his life with a woman who could make him laugh—and feel better—in spite of himself. But there was still that part of him wary of being
too
well known.

She could read his mind.

Accordingly, he shied off again. "I'll grant that," he said carefully, "but I'm still not sure. And bear in mind, young lady, that I'll not be seduced against my will!"

"Funny, for a while there, I thought you were willing."

Trevor sent a mock glare toward her gently quizzical expression. "You know damn well I was, and stop baiting me!"

"Sorry," she murmured, still smiling.

"And now," he said sternly, "if you'll get de—uh—dressed, I'll take you home."

"I can't go home tonight," she objected.

He eyed her with foreboding. "Why not?"

"Because I'm supposed to be seducing you," she explained patiently. "If I come home before dawn, Mother and Daddy'll know I failed. Their very own daughter a failure as a temptress! Just imagine—they won't be able to hold their heads up again at their club!"

"Do they have a club?" he asked involuntarily.

"Of course they have a club, Trevor."

He got hold of himself again. "Well, no one else has to know, so they can hold their heads up."

'Trevor," she said in a very gentle, long-suffering voice, "you know my parents. D'you really believe no one else will know?"

He thought about it for a moment, then matched her tone of long-suffering. "I suppose they
would
consider it dinner-table conversation at that."

'Tennis-court conversation at the very least. And even if
they
can hold their heads up,
I'll
be utterly shamed! You wouldn't do that to me, would you?"

Trevor sighed, defeated. "If you'll promise me I won't face a shotgun wedding in the morning—"

"Trevor!"

"That," he said roundly, "is no promise!"

She giggled. "I promise. No shotgun wedding."

"I'm too limp to argue," he confessed wryly.

"Good. Listen, there's a dandy old movie on the late show tonight. D'you think—?"

"Why not?" He sighed again, then said in a stronger voice, "Now, since you're obviously too shameless to put your dress back on, I'm going to go find you a robe."

Taylor looked down at herself in some surprise. "I'd forgotten."

"I hadn't!" he said definitely, and he went in search of a robe with which to cover his love's distracting charms.

Chapter Seven

 
It didn't take long to clear up the remains of Taylor's
 
candlelight dinner. Items borrowed from her restaurant friend were washed and packed neatly back into their baskets so they could be returned the next day.

Then it was time for the late show.

A bowl of popcorn sat decorously between them on the couch. Taylor, who had categorically refused to don her dress on the grounds that what was comfortable for seduction was uncomfortable for television-viewing, was nearly swallowed whole by Trevor's blue velour robe. Legs crossed at the ankles and feet propped on his coffee table, she chatted amiably to him during commercials, clearly undisturbed by her failure to seduce him.

The violent emotions and laughter of the evening had taken their toll on Trevor. He divided his bemused attention between the TV screen and Taylor's profile, trying mentally to light a fire under those scruples of his so that he could insist on taking her home. But that fire would only sputter and die.

She'd forced his hand by coming to him, but he couldn't find it in himself to be sorry about that. Fighting his own desire to be with her had turned him into a restless, angry bear
for five interminable days. He loved being with her. She turned his world upside down, but she made him laugh, and a dim part of him recognized that he hadn't laughed enough in his life.

No matter how determined he was to edge himself painlessly out of her life, he knew ruefully just how useless that determination was; if he'd had to fight only himself or only her he might have managed to walk away from her. He couldn't fight them both. And whenever he allowed himself to hope he might be able to live with her unusual gifts, a dark and primitive panic stirred in his mind.

It certainly occurred to him that he'd felt no discomfort in being with Taylor since that first day, but he couldn't deceive himself into believing the battle won. It might not have bothered him too much thus far, but there was a vast difference between a couple of weeks and thirty or forty years. And he knew himself too well not to be certain that he needed the privacy of his own mind.

Now, as they watched an old horror movie on television, he silently acknowledged the fact that he needed her, too. It was more than love, or at least more than he knew love to be. He was not fanciful, but he thought that the "more than love" he felt might well be an instinctive recognition of—a kindred spirit. More, perhaps. The other half of himself.. . perhaps.

Could he, with the best of intentions, with the best will in the world, walk away from that?

"You're getting upset again," she said softly.

"Stop reading my mind."

Her vivid, honest eyes gazed at him quizzically. "I don't have to read your mind; your face is grim."

"I'm a lousy companion, in fact," he said lightly.

"No. Just a troubled one. Are you... angry with me, Trevor?"

He blinked in surprise. "With you? No, of course not. Why should I be angry with you?"

Taylor's smile was a little crooked. "Well, I haven't exactly been conventional. In fact, as you said, I've been shameless. But have I been . .. wrong?"

"Wrong?" He bit back a sudden laugh. 'Taylor, that's a hell of a question to ask me."

"Why?"

"Because I don't know right from wrong when I'm with you." Then he corrected himself wryly. "No, that isn't true. I know what's wrong, and it isn't you. It's me."

"Wrong for me, you mean?"

He nodded silently.

"But, why?" She half turned, folding her legs and resting an arm on the low back of the couch as she gazed seriously at him.

Her candid eyes drew the truth from him even though he was afraid it might well hurt her. "Because I'm—not comfortable with telepathy." He saw a tiny frown form in her eyes and tried to think of some way to make the truth less hurtful. "I've always believed there should be honesty in any relationship, but it's—unnerving to know I might as well speak every thought out loud. I catch myself putting up walls I shouldn't need, being guarded when I don't want to be. It isn't
you,
Taylor. It's me."

She reached for the remote control and turned the television off, then dropped it back on the coffee table and faced him again, and her expression was distressed. "Oh, Trevor, I'm sorry! I should have explained."

"Explained what?" He was gruff, feeling that he'd kicked something small and loving.

Taylor took a deep breath, clearly gathering her thoughts. "What being telepathic really means. I guess I didn't explain before now because it—it isn't
easy
to explain."

"You don't have to—"

"Yes." She gazed at him steadily. "I have to." A sudden and rueful twinkle lit her eyes. "You're perfectly entitled to sacrifice yourself on the altar of useless scruples, but I'll be damned if I'll let you sacrifice me!"

"What?" he managed, wondering when he'd lost the thread of the conversation.

"Well, maybe the choice of words was wrong, but you're putting up walls needlessly, Trevor. And if
that's
all that's standing between us, then I have to make you understand."

He nodded. "All right. But I don't see—"

"And neither do I," she interrupted firmly. "If you're afraid I'm constantly seeing into your mind, you're wrong. I've been
telepathic all my life, and after twenty-six years I've learned to build walls—necessary walls—of my own. If I didn't, I'd go crazy."

"Because of the ... mental chatter?" he asked.

"Yes. It'd be like standing in a huge room with people talking all around me; nothing would make sense, but it'd be
loud.
When 1 meet someone for the first time, a kind of door opens in my mind very briefly. Partly, I think, because telepathy is just another sense, and it's an old instinct to use all the senses in weighing up a stranger. But for me to deliberately open that door and look into someone's mind unnecessarily would be a horrible intrusion."

Trevor tried in vain to find the words to express the dark stirrings of panic he still felt. "But—you
can
read minds."

She seemed to realize what he meant. "Yes, but only the topmost level of consciousness. For instance, when we met, you were thinking of your brother, your job, and a restaurant you'd had dinner at the night before. Impressions from all of those were tangled in your thoughts; all I received was a
sense
of you made up of those impressions. No matter how hard I tried, I could never pull a complete thought out of your mind—just an impression of what you were thinking."

Taylor shook her head slightly. "If I'd worked all my life to sharpen that sense, maybe I could read coherent thoughts. But I can't. I can only see a tiny part of a very
surface
part of another mind. The majority of that mind is as hidden from me as it is from anyone with no ESP."

"You found that killer," he said, remembering the newspaper articles he'd read days before.

She paled slightly, her eyes going briefly dark. "The mind of a killer," she said in a low voice, "is very different from a normal mind. It... shouts. It isn't hard to focus on that kind of mind, but I still get only impressions."

Regretting his unthinking remark, Trevor attempted to draw her thoughts away from that dark mind she'd seen. "You always seem to know what I'm thinking," he said with forced lightness.

"Not what you're
thinking,"
she corrected. "What you're
feeling.
I mean, I always know your—your mood. That isn't telepathy, Trevor. It's empathy."

More than a little startled, Trevor realized then that he was usually very aware of
her
moods. Empathy? Recognition of a kindred spirit? He put the thought aside and focused on one of the most insidious, pleasant, unnerving facets of her telepathy. "Whenever we touch," he said slowly, "I feel a strong sense of—of well-being. As if I were wrapped in a blanket."

"You, too?" Her honest eyes held a shy, delighted smile. "I thought it was just me."

"It has nothing to do with your telepathy?" he asked incredulously, all his doubts and preconceptions swaying on their foundations.

"I've never felt that before, so I don't think so." She leaned toward him anxiously. 'Trevor, I haven't read your mind since that first day."

"You haven't?"

"No."

Impossible to doubt those naked eyes. He felt a heavy load lift from his shoulders. "Well, hell, why didn't you tell me?" he demanded wrathfully.

She laughed unsteadily. "How was I to know? Since I didn't read your mind, I just assumed you were bothered by my chasing you!"

Surprised yet again, Trevor said blankly, "I suppose I should have been, but, you know, that never bothered me at all."

"And you called
me
shameless! Being chased pandered to your ego, didn't it? Admit it!"

He grinned. "Well, I've never gotten flowers or candy before. It was a ... novel experience."

Taylor lifted the bowl of popcorn between them, looking at him with a solemn expression and dancing eyes. "Do we really need this duenna anymore?"