Holding her gaze, Chopin leaned over the table, his presence all but enveloping her. “And it’s Roy.”
Faith considered him and the way his pulse and body temperature belied his cool attitude. “Oh. Well, if you’re asking for personal reasons…I mean, if you’re asking because you’re interested…” She didn’t quite have the guts to finish that sentence, unsure as she felt. “Anyway, you really should be clear about that, and not hide it behind official business.”
He sat back now, folded his arms, studied her. Then he nodded. “Yeah. Okay. Tomorrow’s my night off. Go out with me.”
She stared. For someone who telegraphed his emotions that strongly, he’d surprised her twice in just a few minutes!
Maybe he only telegraphed what he wanted to telegraph. The strength. The intensity. The threat. Things that would tell any suspect with a few brain cells to rub together that this wasn’t anybody to mess with. The other stuff, the more personal stuff, he hid that pretty well.
She only caught a whiff of regret when something in his intense eyes faded. “Or not,” he said, shrugging. “I just wanted to get that out of the way before—”
“Okay.” Now she’d been surprised three times. She hadn’t expected to be surprised by herself, though.
He blinked at her, then widened his eyes, raised those expressive brows. “Okay?”
“Tomorrow night. It’s a date.” Faith was so used to reading what other people gave off, it took her a moment to realize that the flip-flopping in her stomach came from her, not anyone or anything else. But that reaction, at least, wasn’t surprising.
She didn’t date. Being whatever she was—not knowing what she was—made things way too complicated. And now she’d said yes? To a homicide detective? One she was hiding things from?
But I’m only hiding Cassandra, she thought grimly. I’m only hiding that I’m not…normal.
What was she supposed to do, make every possible date contingent on a confession of her abnormalities? Magazines suggested that a person keep private problems like STDs or past relationships quiet until at least the second date…or before getting naked, whichever came first. Why was her own freakishness any different?
Now she could barely breathe past the butterflies. What had she done?
She’d taken a defiant stab at being normal, that’s what.
“Good,” said Roy, with a decisive nod. She could tell he was pleased, though he hid it well. “Now, could we move on to the important stuff? How long have you known these people? Not because you’re a suspect—but how well do you understand them?”
It was easier, talking about impersonal things like the New Orleans occult community. And the Big Easy definitely had a thriving occult community. Of course, Chopin—Roy—knew a lot already. He’d seen the Voodoo Museum and Marie Laveau’s tomb. He knew where the vampire bars were—not for true immortals, as far as Faith knew, but for wannabes marginally more Goth than Absinthe. Lord knew Roy couldn’t have patrolled Jackson Square without seeing the readers. But he’d never taken the time to learn what really motivated the psychics.
Until now. When in detective mode, he wasn’t a lousy listener.
Faith explained that none of them seemed to be cult members—an official cult had to have a leader, and the majority of psychics were self-taught. She clarified the more innocent reasons that readers often chose new names, and how careful most of them were to abide by the vice laws that—hopefully—kept people from being defrauded by cons like the old curse-removal ploy. She thought she did a pretty good job at not focusing too intently on the detective’s thick wrists while she talked, or the dark hair on the back of his wrists, or his big hands as he cradled his cup of coffee and stared intently at her, listening. She thought she managed not to breathe in his scent and think about their upcoming date too often.
Would he touch her?
Would he kiss her?
Did she want him to?
How ridiculous was it that she was freaking about something this basic at twenty-two years old! It was time to practice Krystal’s quiet breathing techniques.
“So upstairs,” he said, thankfully oblivious, “some of the readers as you call ’em only charge a nickel a pop.”
“Nothing that cheap,” said Faith. “It starts at five dollars….”
Roy grinned as if she’d said something cute. He looked a lot more approachable when he grinned, even if it was mocking. “Butch was right. You are an innocent. A nickel is five dollars, hon. And when I say that for some of those readers, you need a Jackson to get past the door…?”
She didn’t like being an innocent. It sounded too close to being stupid. “You mean a twenty? Got it.”
“So why the difference? I mean, it’s fantasyland either way. Do they actually think there’s something there?”
“It’s not fantasyland.”
He cocked his head as if waiting for the punch line.
“Really,” she insisted. “Some of the readers are so good it’s uncanny—”
“Look, Corbett, I’ve read reports. There’s all kinds of tricks people use to make it seem like they’re reading your mind when they’re just telling you what you want to hear. Now if Miss Cleo up there’s only charging a Jackson for it, I can live and let live—I mean, it would cost that much for a hand…uh, for, uh, other kinds of happy feelings that are less legal. If you know what I mean.”
He paused, examining her. “I honestly don’t know if you do know what I mean. I think I like that about you.”
She was pretty sure she did know what he meant, but it seemed counterproductive to say so. Especially when her tummy was flip-flopping just because he’d said he liked her.
Get a grip. You aren’t even sure you like him!
“So the amount they charge makes a difference to you?” she asked.
“The clients are asking to be duped. But what I want to know is, do these people honestly not realize they’re fleecing anybody?”
“Maybe you should get to know them better.” Faith couldn’t keep the ice out of her tone, and Roy visibly drew back. “If you did, you’d know that the majority of psychic readers are honest people trying to provide an honest service. They aren’t fleecing anybody. They decide what to charge based on who’s been practicing the longest and who has the best track record.”
“Come on. If everyone up there was really psychic, why wouldn’t they win the lottery instead of getting paid a few Jacksons at a time?”
“This is a psychic fair. It’s community outreach. Personal readings cost a lot more than a few Jacksons.”
“Not an argument in their favor.”
“And psychic abilities don’t necessarily work that way. How’s your eyesight?”
Damn, but he had expressive eyebrows. “Come
