When Bruce Met Cyn. Lori Foster
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“Alyx doesn’t live here?”
“Not yet, but I expect her to move to Visitation any day now. So far she’s restricted herself to monthly visits, which is probably all that’s saved Scott’s sanity.” Bruce put the plate in the microwave and turned it on. “I can’t tell you about Visitation without mentioning Jamie Creed.”
Cyn cocked her head to the side. Curiosity shone from her light eyes. “Jamie Creed?”
He opened the refrigerator and surveyed drinks. “Jamie has never come right out and said it, but he’s a psychic of some sort. Or maybe more specifically an empath.”
“He picks up on others’ emotions?”
Bruce frowned at himself. “Yes, but actually, it goes beyond even that. Jamie somehow knows things, even before they happen. And he knows how they’ll happen, how to manipulate events so they work out the way he wants them to.”
“Sounds spooky.”
“Not really. The women in town see him as a dark, romantic mystery. The men, from my observations, are both jealous and leery of him.”
“Why would they be leery?”
Bruce poured her iced tea, which was about all he had to offer other than water, then joined her at the small oak table. “Jamie has this habit of only showing himself long enough to shake things up. He lives up on the mountain—where, exactly, I’m not sure. One minute he’ll be here, then he’ll be gone, and he only comes back when it suits him to do so.”
Cyn’s expression became pinched. “He lives in the middle of tall trees with no one else around?”
Because he watched her so closely, with so much fascination, Bruce noticed how the mention of Jamie affected her. “As I said, I don’t really know. I suppose so, though. The mountains here are so thick with trees, they’re almost impenetrable.”
Cyn slowly licked her lips. “He’s tall. Dark hair, a beard. Trim but muscular.”
Bruce leaned toward her. “You’ve met Jamie?”
“No.” She shook her head. “But he has the darkest brown eyes, not sexy like yours, but almost black and empty and sort of eerie…”
The microwave dinged, and Cyn nearly jumped out of her chair.
Bruce reached for her hand. “You haven’t met him, but you’ve seen him?”
She avoided his gaze. “This’ll clinch it. You’ll definitely think I’m nuts.”
“I know Jamie, who fades in and out, and I don’t think he’s nuts. Trust me, nothing you can say will shock me after meeting him.”
“All right, you asked for it.” She gave him a crooked smile. “It’s this strange dream that I keep having. Remember I said Visitation pulled at me? Well, I didn’t know it was Visitation, I just knew what it looked like and how it felt. I’d see this big, clean lake and so many trees that sometimes you couldn’t see the sky and I saw…Jamie Creed. I didn’t know his name, I just saw him. But unlike the other things, like the lake and the trees, he was always vague. There, but not real defined.”
Beyond fascinated, Bruce rose from his seat to get her plate, giving himself a moment to think. Was it possible that she knew Jamie from somewhere? Maybe Jamie’s mysterious past was somehow tied in with hers. “What did he say to you in this dream?”
“Nothing. He was just there. Quiet and not really frowning, but not smiling, either.”
“No, Jamie doesn’t smile much.” Too many times to count, Bruce had pondered Jamie and his too serious, too sober outlook on life. Jamie seemed to feel responsible for everyone, even though it was plain he wanted to keep himself separate from others.
But now Cyn had some sort of connection to him.
“Will I get to meet Jamie, do you think?”
He set her plate in front of her and watched her inhale the scent of roast chicken with great anticipation. “That’s up to Jamie. If he wants to meet you, he’ll show up.”
She accepted that with a nod. Before Bruce realized what she was doing, she’d dug a small pill bottle out of her purse and had two round tablets ready to toss in her mouth.
He caught her wrist. “What are you taking?”
She stared at his restraining hand, and slowly, her gaze moved up to his face. They had a visual standoff, but Bruce didn’t relent, so finally she said, “It’s aspirin. For my ankle.”
“Let me see.”
She stiffened and her chin tucked in. “You’re calling me a liar?”
Her wrist felt slender, almost fragile, with his fingers wrapped around it. “I don’t like drugs.”
She jerked away from him. “And I don’t like pain.”
“What pain?”
Her foot got thrust in his face. “You saw me limping. You even kept harping about it. Remember?”
Bruce wrapped his fingers around the arch of her small foot. He lowered it to his lap so he could inspect her ankle. It was swollen and bruised and she sucked in her breath when he touched it. “I don’t think you broke anything or you wouldn’t have been able to walk at all, but it’s probably sprained.”
“So do I have Your Majesty’s permission to pop some aspirin?”
Leaving her foot balanced on his thigh, Bruce again caught her wrist and pried her fingers open. Two small, chalky-white pills were on her palm. He recognized them as brand-name aspirin.
She started to jerk her foot away, but Bruce held her still. “I’m sorry.”
She didn’t soften one bit. “I’m not a drug head.”
He’d already apologized, and by her comment, he knew she understood his concern. “I’m glad.”
His simple but sincere sentiment took the heat from her eyes. She licked her lips. “I know a lot of the other girls took drugs, but I never did.”
“Other girls?” She made sarcastic comments, but hadn’t outright admitted to being a prostitute yet.
She met his gaze without flinching. “From the time I was seventeen, until now, I was a hooker. But you already knew that.”
“I thought it was possible.” It took all his resolve to keep his expression impassive, when inside his emotions churned. Seventeen. It hurt him to even consider it. “Why?”
“The usual reason—I needed money.”
“Why prostitution? Why not some other job?”
“Whoring is easier?”