Sweet Mercy (4 page)

“Hmmm.” They fell into brief silence. He, for his own part, remembering the sense of how stunned the whole world had been by the event.

“I didn’t find out about my luck for a while. My longest ever winning streak in the dorm poker parties clued me in.”

“You were in college?”

“Yep. My first year. I had ‘Partying 101’ as my unofficial major. But the constant partying lost its appeal after a while. I completed a degree in Business Management, studied some European Folk Literature…”
and learned a couple languages and a dozen skills, from disarming bombs to unarmed combat, to gardening and needlepoint, to the mechanics it took to maintain my own cars in top condition
. The whole resume sounded like bragging, so he only mentioned the first couple items.

He didn’t want to tell her the part of his story involving all the women. She seemed so shy of the attraction he felt from her, allowing only hints of it to escape her control. Didn’t seem like she’d relate to exactly how much experience
he
had with the opposite sex.

He’d met all kinds of women in the ten years since the P-Bomb had changed his life. He’d met even more after building up a bankroll in Vegas and parlaying his incredible luck into a fortune, playing the stock markets. Just another kind of gambling, really. His money and looks were catnip to some women. He’d tired of the sort soon enough. Easy come, easy to let go. When he’d started moving in circles with women of real substance he’d been motivated to become more than luck and money alone could make him.

Still, he’d never met a woman who could make him feel things the way Rachel did. Even with feelings as wonderful as the amazing inner peace he got from her, it worried—well,
concerned
him. No one should have that kind of power over him. But he wouldn’t run blindly from a threat, any more than he’d turn down a dare. And getting to know Rachel Connolly could be a lot of fun…

A shift of topic seemed in order. Better than the silence of things unsaid. “So how does this thing of yours work?” He broke the silence.

“Hmm?” She turned back to him as if she’d wandered off into some daydream. “Oh, it works all by itself—whether I like it or not. The trick is to keep it from flooding the airwaves with my every passing reaction. You have no idea how embarrassing it can be, knowing every stranger in my neighborhood knows about my every flash of jealousy or resentment, my every childish urge.”

“I haven’t gotten any of that from you.”

“Only because I’ve gained some skill at dealing with the troublesome feelings before they become a problem.”

“How do you manage that?”

“The yogis say, ‘Those who practice compassion are its first beneficiaries
.
’”

He glanced from the road to see the lines of her features limned by the light of the fresh June day. He’d thought at first her eyes were brown, but now, large and luminous, they looked a soft, mossy green, radiating her serenity. “How’s that?” he asked.

“When I meditate, focusing compassion on the feelings that embarrass me, it changes them: calms, soothes, eases. It puts things in perspective, and instead of bothering everyone around me I can spread a sense of peace.” Her glance revealed a flash of sunshine, warming him in the instant it passed.

“You make it sound easy enough.” He spoke wryly, sure nothing so good could come easily.

“If only.” She grinned, and for the first time he caught a sense of merriment from her, a pleasure surpassing even the serenity she’d radiated before. What would it be like to keep her amused, to delight her, to share in her happiness, her total pleasure? The thought sent a rush of arousal through his system.

“How about you?” she asked, still smiling. “I don’t quite get what your talent is —did it let you know how to disarm that bomb?”

“Not exactly.” He took the Lake Street exit off the highway, cleared his throat. “I had no idea which wire was safe—I’m just lucky.”

“Oh. My. God.”

Three

Mesmero kept a discreet distance from the red Porsche. A lot of people wore shades these days, trying to look cool, but the two people who’d gotten into the fancy car looked like the real deal. Not otherwise stylish enough to be fashionistas, and something in the way they moved, kind of in-sync, made them look like part of a team. He’d bet money they were with Team Guardian, and he’d bet they’d just helped foil his plans. He wanted more info at this point. His years of sales experience had taught him.
Aways know who you’re dealing with.

Normally he steered clear of other freaks—too unpredictable. You never knew exactly what you faced. Now, if these people had meddled in his plans, he’d better find out about them, be prepared before moving on to Plan B.

He kept two car lengths behind them and followed when they exited the highway. He idled his old Camaro at the corner stop sign while the flashy car pulled up to a huge old turn-of-the-century house in middling repair, halfway up a residential street lined with similar houses.

~ * ~

Fluke didn’t wait for Rachel to let herself out of the car, but made it around to her door before she’d unfastened her seatbelt.

“Here, let me see you in.”

She made some sound of protest but couldn’t completely conceal the tingle of her pleasure as he took her arm. Everything he knew about women told him Rachel was the sort who hid behind her warm smiles while eluding any true connection. She’d walk into that house alone and never look back—if he let her.

“I insist. I’ve never visited an ashram before. You’ll have to show me around.”

“Fine.” She slid her arm from his grasp.

He grinned to himself as he caught a hint of her annoyance at her own slip. She knew that he knew about her attraction to him. Good. So it
was
possible to get under her skin.

He hung back enough to admire the rear view as she led the way

along a neatly kept walk edged with some small flowers blooming in an array of pastel shades. Her loose slacks flowed around her legs, revealing their neat shape as she mounted to a porch where more flowers bloomed in pots beside wicker chairs cushioned in bright, flowery fabric. Her hair swung across her face as she bent to unlock the door. She radiated a sense of fond familiarity, and some slight embarrassment when she glanced at the white paint chipping and peeling away in patches from the clapboard siding.

“We’ll have to keep our voices down. Tamara teaches classes now.” Rachel spoke quietly as she pushed open the door of heavy, dark wood. Pegs lined an entry area where half a dozen jackets and sweaters hung above and a dozen pair of shoes in assorted sizes protruded from under low benches.

“Take off your shoes or proceed no further,” Rachel whispered.

He kicked off his expensive Italian loafers and tucked them under a bench.

Through an archway the strains of some new-agey music sounded softly. There, on an expanse of polished maple flooring, a row of people crouched on their yoga mats. A coffee-skinned woman with her dark hair in dreads crouched in the same pose facing them at the front of the room.

“That’s the classroom,” Rachel whispered. “C’mon.” She tugged on his arm and led him on tiptoe past the archway, down a short hall and through another door into a large kitchen. “This,” she announced in a normal tone, gesturing broadly, “is my domain.” She projected a sense of pride and accomplishment that led him to look around him more closely than he’d ordinarily bother to look at a kitchen. A kitchen was a kitchen, right? This one seemed clean at least: a lot of polished surfaces, stone countertops and steel appliances. “Nice,” he said.

“It’s my little piece of heaven on Earth,” she told him in a confiding tone. “You have no idea how nice it is for me to have all this after the years David and I lived on the run, scrounging out of dumpsters, begging on the streets, eating whatever got handed to us at shelters. We hardly ever got hot food cooked the way we liked it.” She ran a possessive hand along a sleek countertop.

“It’s all about choice here. I choose the menu. I choose the ingredients. I can cook things just the way I like and I’ll cook for the others to their tastes.” She fell silent after the brief spate of volubility, accompanied with a garnish of her enthusiasm, flavored only slightly with the hint of regret when she mentioned her past deprivation.

“After all that, I hope you’re a good cook.”

“You’ll have to judge for yourself. You hungry? I rushed off without brunch and I’m more than ready for a decent meal now.”

“I could eat.” His stomach growled, loudly, in agreement. Come to think of it, he’d missed breakfast and lunch too. But, as she opened the fridge, bent forward and peered into it, the view she presented stirred other hungers. Her sweet form filled out her slacks to perfection and flowed in supple curves up through her lithe waist to a limber back and the leanly muscled bare arms bracing her in the fridge door.

“Do you like dolmades?” she asked. “Tamara is vegetarian, but I’m not and I could offer you some gyros to go with…” She turned toward him, meeting his eyes with a question she might have thought involved dolmades, but the hunger he caught there had nothing to do with grape leaves —instead evoking thoughts of what lay beneath figurative fig leaves. Their eyes stayed locked. He felt a rush of desire he couldn’t swear to be his own, a heat doubled and redoubled like images in facing mirrors.

He made it to her side in that instant, closing the fridge and crowding her against it even as he cupped her unresisting chin in his hand. He tilted it, the touch of her flesh warm and silken, to put her slightly-parted lips at the perfect angle to meet his swooping mouth. Like hawk upon dove he descended, capturing the vibrant responses he knew lay hidden beneath her reserved manner. But he found no gentle dove in his grip. She met him with as fierce a need as his own. With a single, gasping moan she rose into the kiss.

~ * ~

Rachel couldn’t help herself. He’d caught her by surprise. His touch, his hands, his lips on hers, all galvanized her to ferocious life. She wanted this, this electric thrill, the unfettered slippery heat of their joined mouths, the world falling away, leaving nothing but each other locked around the need to touch, to hold, to be together.

Her hands found the hem of his shirt and shot greedily up the slopes of his ribs, tracing, owning what they could hold only briefly in the imperative to hold it all. His hands moved upon her with the same urgency, having found their way beneath her top, fumbling at her bra, then cupping her breasts regardless of the garment. All the while, joined lips suckled at each other, tongues slid and thrust to take all the pleasure they could reach.

Every particle of her being thrummed with vibrant life, sang out for more, rang with a passion that gripped her like its twelve-string guitar—

“Rachel!” The voice cut sharply through the flood of sensation. She sprang away from Fluke’s grip. Tamara! Oh, good heavens! What had she been thinking?

“What do you think you’re doing? I’ve got half a dozen students in the next room!”

Rachel straightened, flooded now with chagrin as she realized the situation. She adjusted her clothes as Fluke withdrew, swiping his tousled hair back into place.

“Everyone lost concentration,” Tamara went on. “Mr. and Mrs. Cox started making out on their mats. I’ve got Jenna leading the class through some core-strengthening exercises right now.” She shot a look at Fluke, who backed further off. Tamara took Rachel’s hands. “Breathe. Center. Focus.”

Embarrassment burned on her cheeks and her thoughts bobbed like a 
beach ball tossed in a whirlpool. Rachel took a deep breath, falling into the familiar calming routine.
Center. Breathe
. Visualize compassion, compassion for her human neediness, for her desires, for her embarrassment.
It was all natural, all good. Breathe. Let it go.

“It’s okay.” Tamara assured her. “This is just not the time or place. Maybe you two should take a drive, find a nice secluded place to park?” She grinned at them before heading back to the classroom.

~ * ~