Senoita who quite obviously took the cheetah, a tech of some sort from Tucson Brevis and a mid-teen youth who couldn’t more obviously be in retreat from the mundane world while he grew accustomed to his burgeoning Sentinel gifts.
The accumulated effect left him far, far from the buffered and isolated conditions of his lab. Trying to pin down the subtleties of what he’d felt had only served to trigger a headache, driving him outside to wait while he ignored Fernie’s reminder that the whole point of his presence here was to take a break from such things.
The faintest sound of a footfall on sandy grit lifted his head from those inner thoughts. When Ana appeared over the wall some moments later, he was waiting, his mood lifted by an anticipation he hadn’t expected. She caught sight of him and turned to rest her elbows on the wall. “Surely I’m not that late?”
“Not late at all,” he told her, resolutely stuffing the amulet away. “But I’m not much good at sitting still.”
“I got that impression.” Her smile softened those dry words, lighting features that had seemed just a little too somber before she’d seen him. A delicately angular jaw, a sweet curve of a mouth, dark eyes that dominated her face...they lent her an air of mystery, the impression of strength and vulnerability that wasn’t the least offset by the way the breeze teased her hair—short enough to reveal the peek of earlobe and the graceful sweep of her neck, long enough to tousle and beguile.
But he’d looked too long, for the smile faltered. Not so much uncertain as just a little too serious. “You know, I never asked. I thought at first this place was your home, and Fernie your housekeeper. But as I was leaving yesterday—”
“Jack came out.” Lured by Fernie’s muffins, no doubt, given how much the kid could eat.
“And I heard laughter from the lower level, so I gather you’re not alone. Family?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Ian told her the truth easily enough, if not the entirety of it. “This place is a retreat. Sometimes it’s a think tank, and sometimes it’s just a place our people come when they want the same thing you’re here for—a quiet vacation.”
She looked at the house a moment longer, a faint furrow between her brows. “Your people?”
“The group I work for.” It was close enough. He laced his fingers between hers over the top of the wall and his thoughts stumbled, his equilibrium lost. For an instant he knew the stunning peace of having one focus and one focus only. Ana.
“Are you all right?” She let him keep her hand, but not without concern. “You look...distracted. Something’s wrong?”
“The opposite,” he told her, and captured that hand, too—did it without second thought, as though he had every right. Even the headache had lifted. “You ready to take in some Georgia O’Keeffe? It’s a twenty-minute walk from here.”
She didn’t hide her bemusement. “Something tells me you’ll enjoy that twenty minutes of motion more than the museum itself.”
“I’ll enjoy the company,” he said, surprising himself by just how much he meant it. And she surprised him back, squeezing his hands in an unspoken response.
She might just have surprised herself, to judge by the look on her face—a little bit uncertain, a little bit amused. She glanced down the greenway path. “Would you like to just...walk?”
“I’ve got a better idea.” He looked east toward the mountains—not thinking of the trail where he’d encountered the mountain lion, but a little south of it, where the scenic byway wound upward to Vista Grande through splashes of aspen gold. “If you don’t mind a motorcycle, that is.”
Her eyes widened faintly, pleasure behind them. Ian grinned at her, for the moment, not thinking of the silent amulets at all.
“I’ve never been on one,” she warned him.
“It’s a touring bike,” he assured her, and then laughed when she only looked blankly in response. “It’s comfortable. You’ll feel secure. Though the retreat has a car—we can take that, if you’d prefer.”
She lifted a brow. “What kind of car?”
He nodded at the side of the house, where the bright blue Smart car just barely peeked out. She eyed it and then leaned over the wall to also ostentatiously eye the length of his leg. “Maybe not.”
Ian laughed. “Maybe not,” he agreed. “Come on around. We’ve got a jacket you can use. It’ll be cool up on the mountain.”
The retreat had plenty of such little extras, and if the leather jacket was a little big on her, the sleeves shoved back well enough—and the biking gloves fit perfectly. He showed her how to secure the motorcycle helmet, threading the double-D rings and snapping the trailing strap, then stowed her purse in the saddlebags. A quick primer on mounting, the foot pegs, the muffler placement and how to be a neutral passenger, and they were ready to go.
By then Fernie had emerged from the kitchen, an unusual flush to her features and her smile looking a bit determined. She proffered a packed lunch, and while Ian tucked it away and grabbed his own jacket, all black leather and zippers and snaps, Fernie leaned close to Ana as if Ian didn’t have the ears of a Sentinel to hear every word. “You hang on tight, now.”
Ana laughed—a faint uncertainty to it, but a low musical note, too, and one that tickled his ears.
Only once, after he’d mounted the bike and held it steady for her to settle in behind him, did she hesitate—and then, only just for a moment. Long enough to touch the pocket of her dark slacks, and he guessed she had her phone there—although reception on the mountain road would be touch and go at best. Then she climbed on, placing herself precisely on the seat and her feet on the passenger pegs, her legs barely brushing the outside of his hips and her hands resting loosely just above them.
“The trick is not to think too hard about it,” he told her, briefly resting a hand on the side of her lower leg. “And just nudge my shoulder if you need anything. I’ll pull over.”
“What are you waiting for?” she demanded.
He laughed and started the bike—and if she clutched tightly at him on the first turn and made him fight to keep the bike on line at the second turn, by the time they eased out of town and through the expensive foothills real estate, she’d started to relax. By the time they’d climbed through the piñon-juniper to the ponderosa, swooping gently through the curves and ever climbing upward, her hands rested around his waist as though they’d always been there, her knees snug at his hips without tension.
She shifted only slightly, never interfering with their balance, as he pointed out the things he spotted along the ride—the ferruginous hawk perched off the side of the road, the amazing tower of an ancient pine. He slowed down for the scatter of elk in the trees, giving her a good look and grinning when her hands tightened in the thrill of spotting them.
And along the way, he found himself just as relaxed as she was—just as willing to go along with the moment, without the constant nag of activity in his mind.
Huh.
Sixteen miles later he pulled over at the Vista Grande overlook, bracing the bike while she dismounted, her hands suddenly self-conscious as she steadied herself on his shoulder. He felt the distance like a cold chill, the descent
