True Colors (11 page)

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Authors: Joyce Lamb

Tags: #Fiction, #Suspense, #Romance, #Paranormal

BOOK: True Colors
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“That must be tough to accept.”
“I admit that I really miss her.”
Logan searched for something to say to lighten her mood. “So . . . why six dogs and no cats?”
She gave him a crooked smile. “Charlie has a cat, so that angle’s covered.” But then the smile faltered. “Apparently, I surround myself with dogs because people cause too much pain.”
He couldn’t stop his brows from arching. Not the answer he was expecting.
She shook her head and picked up her wine. “Forget I said that. It’s just something someone said earlier that I want to believe is a load of baloney.”
“You
want
to believe it, but you don’t.” Come on, Alex. Talk to me.
She toyed with her glass, swirling the last half inch of wine in the bottom. He thought she might actually start spilling what was on her mind, but instead, she set down the stemware and scooted back from the table. “Want to take the mutts for a walk with me? They’ve been cooped up most of the day.”
She was avoiding him, but at least she didn’t ask him to leave, or even hint that she wanted him to. For now, he’d let her get away with it. “Sure, a walk sounds great.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
T
he walk with the menagerie and Logan helped relax Alex some. Now, they sat on the sofa, hands loosely linked, and watched a
Seinfeld
rerun. Leaning against the warmth of Logan’s body, feeling his strength seep into her, comforted her, though the aimless wanderings of Jerry and friends through a parking garage did little to distract her from her circling thoughts.
She knew Logan was worried about her, could sense the tension in his muscles, but she didn’t know how to tell him what was on her mind. Blurting, “Hey, guess what? I’m psychic,” didn’t strike her as a good approach. He’d think she’d lost her mind. And maybe she had. Maybe she
would
if she touched the wrong person.
Besides, she didn’t know where she and Logan stood now. He’d pushed her away when they’d kissed in the kitchen. Well, all right, he hadn’t
pushed
her away. But he’d made it clear that he was more interested in dinner than walking her backward down the hall to her bedroom.
And, damn it, kissing had been the wrong thing to do just then anyway. They hadn’t even graduated to hand-holding at that point, though they did round that base on their walk. The moment he’d caught her fingers with his had made her heart give a happy jump. So maybe he’d insisted on dinner instead of what she’d wanted—the physical release that would wipe her whirling mind clear—because he’d sensed her turmoil.
God, she was
still
so freaking confused. Was she empathic or not? Earlier, she’d touched Logan deliberately, had taken his hand in hers and waited for the impact of something that had happened to him in his past. A test of sorts. If she couldn’t handle what haunted him, then how could she handle a relationship with him? Mostly, she’d succumbed to curiosity about her ability. She still wasn’t sure how this empathy thing worked—or whether she even believed something so unbelievable could exist. Instead of a trauma from Logan’s early life hitting her, though, she’d experienced the intensity of his fear and concern for her when he’d found her dead asleep on the sofa. A recent trauma, rather than a blast from the past. So maybe Charlie was right. Maybe with Logan, she wouldn’t get thrust into his past like she had with AnnaCoreen and Charlie. Different body chemistries and all that. Maybe she’d flash only on his most recent terrifying moment, and that was it. She thought she could live with that.
With that mystery possibly solved, she’d looked into his eyes and wanted nothing more than to kiss him and forget everything that had ruined her day . . . and possibly her life.
Then he’d stepped back.
Wham. More confusion.
She
hated
confusion.
Hated
angst. She’d decided a long time ago that she would live her life as a happy person, wasting no time on the dark stuff that got other people down. Getting shot, and almost dying, had further cemented that goal in her mind. Life was too short to get caught up in unnecessary drama and worries about what
could
happen.
Logan shifted to loop his arm around her shoulders and draw her closer against him, keeping his fingers tangled with hers in his lap. Then he pressed a kiss to her temple. “When you’re ready to talk, I’m here,” he murmured.
Tears instantly burned her eyes. How did she get so lucky? Here she was, cuddled up with one of the greatest guys ever, watching sitcoms on the sofa, surrounded by six dozing dogs . . . it was exactly what she’d always wanted. No way in hell would she let some
stupid
psychic ability wreck that.
She vowed then to never tell Logan about her empathy. It had no place in her life, in their relationship. She’d find a way to suppress it, take drugs if she had to, avoid going out in public . . . whatever it took to keep other people’s past traumas from ruling her life.
She relaxed fully against Logan and closed her eyes, smiling as he gently rested his chin on the top of her head. She was still so tired. Dropping into sleep in this man’s arms felt like the most natural thing in the world . . .
 
 
The child looks up with wide, blue eyes, so young, so innocent, his bottom lip quivering as one tear tracks a dirt-smudged cheek. My hand trembles, finger poised on the trigger, my heart thudding in my ears. Sweat trickles into my eyes, and I furiously blink the stinging away. Focus. You have to focus.
Someone’s shouting. Someone else—another child?—screams. It’s all distant, surreal. All that matters is the boy staring up at me, pleading with large, terrified eyes. He can’t be more than six. Too thin, scraggly blond hair, dirty face and dirtier clothes. He has a scrape across the bridge of his nose, and he’s trying desperately not to blubber.
Despite the effort, the little boy’s face screws up, and he begins to cry in earnest. “Daddy! Where’s Daddy?”
My finger jerks on the trigger.
The gunshot is deafening.
Alex bolted up with a scream of denial. Strong hands fumbled to hold her down, and a fresh burst of stunned horror shot through her, her own hoarse scream echoing in her ears.
“Hey! Whoa, whoa, it’s okay, it’s okay.”
She struggled, in a panic because she didn’t know where she was or who had hold of her. The hands that gripped her arms gave her a firm shake. “Alex, it’s okay. You were dreaming.”
The words finally penetrated the lingering shock. She sagged back into the sofa cushions, blinking against the lamplight and only now becoming aware of the dogs’ frantic barking. Logan was braced over her, his tanned face pale. He looked as though her screams had jerked him out of his own deep sleep.
She relaxed in slow degrees, heartbeat still frantic, lungs fighting for air. Everything was fine. Logan was here.
She sat up. “Nightmare. The dogs—”
“I’ll take care of them.”
He got up and strode into the kitchen, beckoning the mutts to follow. Dieter lingered behind and rested his chin on her knee. She scratched his ears with both hands, then cupped his head to look into his earnest, though sightless, puppy-dog eyes. “I’m okay, sweetie.”
The treat cabinet in the kitchen opened, and Dieter’s ears pricked, but he stayed put. She gave him a nudge. “You’d better go before the others eat yours.”
The German shepherd trotted out of the living room.
Alex heard Logan open the back door. His voice, low and soothing, grew fainter as he went outside with the pack and assured the animals that Mommy was fine.
She sank back against the sofa cushions and dragged a hand through her sweat-damp hair. Her whole body felt warm and sticky, her brain muzzy with sleep. A nauseating horror clutched at her. She’d shot a child in her dream. A small, helpless little boy. Where the hell had
that
come from?
Logan returned from tending to the mutts and sat down next to her. “You okay?”
She nodded.
“Sure?”
She closed her eyes and swallowed against the urge to be sick. She’d never had such a horrific dream before, though she’d definitely had some doozies after she’d gotten shot. Charlie had suggested cutting back on pain medication, which had done the trick. Until now.
Logan scooted closer and put both hands on her shoulders, rolling the tight muscles with his large, gentle fingers. Through the cotton of her shirt, she detected a tremor in those strong fingers and turned her head to glance at him. He looked tense, his jaw set, a you-freaked-me-the-hell-out muscle flexing at his temple. She couldn’t blame him. The first time they’d fallen asleep cuddling, and she’d awakened screaming. Poor guy.
“Want to tell me about it?” he asked.
She rolled her shoulders, distracted by the heat of his hands through her shirt, distracted further by the heat gathering low in her belly. Was it twisted that she shifted so quickly from the revulsion of the dream to how much she wanted to turn into this man’s arms and ask him to kiss away the lingering distress?
“Is it about when you were shot?” he prodded.
She shook her head. “No.”
“Then what?”
“I . . . don’t think I . . . It’s too . . . disturbing.” Her head started to throb like it had after her empathic trek through Charlie’s encounter with her kidnapper. The terror of that memory returned, and her stomach knotted further. A chill moved up her spine, a trail of goose bumps in its wake.
“Maybe talking about it would help,” Logan said.
Somehow, she didn’t think so. Nothing would help dispel the memory of her hand holding the gun that shot a little boy. It was just too . . . revolting.
She pushed up from the sofa and shoved wayward curls behind her ears. She needed some time to herself, time to get her head clear. “I’m really sorry, but I think I need to go to bed.”
“Are you sure you’re okay? You’re awfully pale.”
She tried a reassuring smile. “I’ll be fine. Thank you for dinner. I’m sorry I’ve been such lousy company.”
“Are you kidding me? Other than that nightmare, this has been the perfect evening.”
Her attempt at a smile turned genuine. “You’re sweet to say that.”
“I mean it. How about you go lie down right now, and I’ll take care of letting the dogs in from outside?”
She kissed him on the cheek, lingering for a moment to inhale his fresh, soapy scent. She yearned to ask him to stay but feared he’d balk at such an offer after the somewhat disastrous kitchen kiss. And, really, she had no energy for anything but sleep anyway. Exhaustion pulled at her like anchors sinking through Gulf waters.
She gave him one last smile. “You’re the best.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
B
utch McGee ambled into the Lake Avalon Public Safety Building and tapped the ring-for-service bell. An attractive young woman with a wavy blond ponytail and chic square eyeglasses hurried over to help him. She wore a simple white blouse tucked into a straight skirt and had sparkly blue eyes, peach-sized breasts, a small waist and slim hips. Librarian by day and stripper by night. His grumpy mood—caused by John Logan failing to show up at home last night or this morning—lifted.
She returned his smile, showing lovely white teeth with a slight gap in the middle. A sucker for a handsome man. “May I help you?”
He leaned on the Formica customer-service counter, turning on the I’m-a-hunky-but-clueless-guy charm. “I sure hope you can. I’m . . .” He trailed off and cocked his head with an embarrassed smile. “Well, I hope you won’t hold it against me when you hear why I’m here.”
“Oh, I doubt I’ll do that,” she replied with a soft, lilting laugh.
He breathed in the fresh breath of her laugh and wished he had time to spend with her. Quality time that they both would enjoy. He would love making her scream.
“Long story short: My family and my brother had a parting of ways a few years back. My fault, I’m afraid. He moved away and never looked back, and well, my mother’s heart has been broken ever since. Yesterday, I spotted his picture in the newspaper and drove straight here from Detroit to see him.” He let his smile tremble just slightly, reeling her in. “It’s been my goal in life to bring home Mom’s little Johnny.”
Sheila, according to her shiny gold name tag, made an I’m-so-sorry face and reached out to grasp his hand. Her skin was warm and soft against his, and he had to swallow against the surge of want. He had such a hard spot for beautiful women.
He tried to focus himself. “Anyway, I saw in the newspaper that my baby brother is not only a hero, but he’s a police officer here in Lake Avalon.”
“Are you talking about John Logan?”
He nodded. “Yes. Johnny Logan. Do you know how I can reach him?”
She shook her blond ponytail. “I’m not allowed to share his contact information.”
He did his best to look crestfallen. “Not even to mend an old woman’s broken heart?” Cheesy bullshit, but who knew? Maybe once he mixed it with wounded-dog eyes and a beseeching can-you-help-me-out-here expression, it’d work.

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