She must have just arrived from the mainland, he concluded; someplace where it had been raining probably because she wore a lightweight trench coat. Was he an ace detective or what? The coat was unbuttoned over a pair of dark pants and a classically cut shirt in a deep coppery color. The collar of the shirt was pulled up high and flared out a little, framing her throat and somehow subtly protecting it. A black leather handbag trimmed with bronze buckles was hooked over one straight shoulder. The hand that wasn’t wrapped around the handle of the suitcase was tucked into the pocket of the trench.
He could not take his eyes off her. Maybe it was just him. No one else seemed to be paying any attention to the woman. This was a fine time for his long-dormant sexual appetite to wake up and go on the prowl. Life had been so peaceful since he’d sunk into his own private well of gloom. Maybe Wayne and Petra and Milly were right. Maybe he had been flirting with depression. But at least life had been calm.
It had also been damned uninteresting.
She was close enough now. He jacked up his senses. Light and dark inverted. Most of the people in the crowded concourse were instantly transformed into human glowworms, their auras flaring and pulsing in the usual hues and patterns that he had learned to associate with those who did not possess strong psychic talents.
Power flared around the dark-haired woman, however. She stood out in the crowd like some incandescent butterfly surrounded by a swarm of pale, nondescript moths.
She was a strong talent of some kind. That was probably what his senses were responding to. Even on the normal plane he had picked up the exciting strength of her psychic energy. Here in the paranormal realm, it was just as compelling. He wanted to get closer, a lot closer.
He tightened his hand on the handle of the cane and straightened away from the wall. He had a few more minutes until the elderly genealogist arrived.
He took one step forward and halted abruptly. What was he thinking? He was here to do a job. Let her go, you idiot. Just two psychics passing in the night. It happens.
Yes, but it had never happened like this, not to him. He’d met other strong sensitives before, lots of them. Two months ago one had tried to kill him. He’d never responded to any of them with this kind of gut-deep awareness.
She was less than six feet away now. Before he could move to intercept her, she halted directly in front of him, dazzling him with a fire that threatened to ignite his senses. He knew in that moment that she had made him as another sensitive, just as he had recognized her.
Damn. What were the odds?
“Mr. Malone?” she said quietly.
He snapped back into normal focus. The iridescent fire around the woman disappeared but his hungry fascination did not. The memory of Fallon Jones laughing on the other end of the phone flashed through him. An elderly, gray-haired librarian, my sweet ass.
“I’m Malone,” he said. “Grace Renquist?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what do you know. Fallon Jones has a sense of humor, after all.”
She smiled slightly. “Badly warped, I’m afraid.”
“Only to be expected. He’s still Fallon Jones.” He held out his hand. “A pleasure, Miss Renquist. Uh, it is Miss, isn’t it? Or did I get that wrong, too?”
“It’s Miss.” She inclined her head politely. “Who or what were you expecting?”
He glanced down and saw that she was still gripping the suitcase handle with one gloved hand. Her other hand was firmly planted out of sight in the pocket of the trench coat. He lowered his own hand.
“Let’s just say I had the impression you would look a lot more mature,” he said.
She removed the dark glasses. Dry amusement gleamed in a pair of smoky, sage-green eyes.
“Gray-haired, perhaps?” she said. “Maybe equipped with a hearing aid?”
“Fallon encouraged me to leap to a few conclusions.”
“If you think I’m something of a surprise, wait until you see your new ID packet.”
She took her hand out of her pocket for the first time, revealing another thin, expensive-looking leather driving glove.
“Little warm for a coat and gloves,” he said neutrally.
She ignored the comment just as she had his attempt to shake hands earlier. Instead, she took the leather bag off her shoulder, opened it and reached inside for an envelope. When she handed it to him she was careful not to let her gloved fingers brush against his bare skin.
Just his luck. The most exciting woman ever to walk into his life had some kind of serious phobia about touching other people. Well, hey, it’s not like I’m real normal, either.
He opened the envelope and removed a driver’s license, a couple of credit cards and the folded hotel registration. A quick glance at the license and the plastic told him that his new name was Andrew Carstairs and that he lived in L.A. The registration informed him that he was married. He looked up.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Carstairs,” he said, refolding the form.
To his surprise, she blushed and quickly shoved her gloved hands back into the pockets of her coat. “Mr. Jones didn’t tell me about our cover until it was too late for me to back out of the assignment.”
“Jones has a way of getting what he wants from his agents.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ve got some time before we leave for Maui. Want something to eat?”
“I’m not hungry but I could use a cup of coffee.”
“Sounds good.”
They walked a short distance to a coffee bar. Grace ordered her coffee black, he noticed. It was how he drank his. Hey, something in common. Focus on the positive.
They sat together at one of the tiny tables.
He studied Grace’s hand, which was currently wrapped around her cup.
“You’re going to have to lose the gloves before we get on the plane to Maui,” he said quietly.
She paused, the cup halfway to her mouth. “Why?”
“Because if you insist on wearing them, you’re going to stand out like, well, like a sore thumb.”
She winced and looked at her gloved fingers. “I was afraid you would say that.”
“How big a problem is it?” he asked.
“I have some issues,” she said coolly.
He angled his chin toward the cane hooked over the edge of the table. “So do I. Mine are physical. Yours?”
“Psychical. But the problem is linked to my sense of touch, which makes things complicated at times.”
“Seen one of the Society’s shrinks?”
Her eyes narrowed. He could practically feel her withdrawing from him.