Texas Moon. Joan Elliott Pickart
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creepy in regard to this. I can live without that and the other adjectives she’d come up with. Secondly, I don’t know what the danger is, how serious it might be, or how ridiculous.”
“True. If she does see a mouse and gets hysterical, then that’s the end of the story. But you did say she works and lives in a high-crime neighborhood, so...” Dr. Nixon’s voice trailed off.
“Yeah, I hear you,” Tux said, frowning.
“Having listened to the details of your background, Tux, you’re more than capable of protecting Nancy.” He paused. “The lifelong researcher in me is fascinated by all of this. I’m just sorry I can’t give you concrete data as to why this happened. All I can offer you is my opinion.”
“Which is?”
“I believe that you and Nancy Shatner are connected in some way. The men of science would say that you two had an unexplainable link that enabled you to receive a message from Nancy that was based on events yet to happen.”
“Great,” Tux said dryly.
“However, there might be another theory coming from the romantics, those who speak more from their hearts than their minds.”
“Oh?”
“They’d be inclined to feel that you and Nancy are soul mates, found each other with thoughts before you actually met. She called out to you, you came. Destiny, son, destiny.”
“And you? What do you believe?”
Dr. Nixon smiled. “I believe I’ll be very eager to hear which theory proves to be true. You will keep me posted, won’t you?”
Tux got to his feet. “Yes, of course I will, providing I survive it all. I swear, I really—”
“Hate this,” Jeremiah concluded for him, laughing. “Tux, the data is crystal clear.”
Destiny.
When Dr. Nixon had explained the two approaches to viewing the situation, Tux had filed the information and not paid active attention to it.
But as he drove away from the old gentleman’s house, he realized he was actually hearing for the first time that portion of what had been said.
Destiny.
Destiny?
Ah, come on, give it a rest, Tux thought, with an impatient shake of his head. That really was the nonsense of romantics.
Soul mates.
He was chucking that one out the window, too. He and Nancy Shatner were not soul mates, not each other’s destiny. That was a bunch of hogwash. He and Nancy had connected by thought waves because they hadn’t yet met as they were destined to do? Ridiculous.
But...
Nancy had called out to him.
And he’d come.
She was in some kind of potential danger.
He fully intended to watch over and protect her until the source of that danger could be discovered and dealt with,
He’d been determined to locate the beautiful, gypsylike woman, who had pleaded for help in his visions.
And when he did find her, he’d kissed her.
Tux tightened his hold on the steering wheel and shifted slightly on the seat as heat coiled low and tight in his body from the remembrance of the kisses shared with Nancy.
She’d turned him inside out, that was for sure. He’d never been so instantly consumed by lust when kissing a woman.
“Wrong,” he said, smacking the steering wheel with the heel of his hand.
It hadn’t been just lust. What had swept throughout him like a hot, flaming rocket when he’d held Nancy in his arms, kissed her, savored the feel of her feminine, delicate body nestled against him, had not been just lust.
There had been a maze of indiscernible emotions tumbling through his mind as well. He’d recognized protectiveness and possessiveness, but the remainder were a tangled puzzle.
Protectiveness? That was easily explained. Nancy was in some kind of danger from an event yet to take place. It was perfectly natural for a decent, basically nice guy, to be determined to protect her from that danger lurking in future shadows.
Possessiveness? Well, that was reasonable, too. After all, he was the one who had been mentally informed of that danger, then delivered the news flash of its existence to Nancy. She was his for the duration of this dilemma; his to protect. His. Hence, the emotion of possessiveness.
Tux nodded decisively.
Destiny? Soul mates? Forget it. He was a realist, a man who operated with his feet firmly on the ground.
Logical thinking dictated that romantic-based psychic messages could only be received by someone who had a mind receptive to those kinds of thoughts, a place to receive them.
That wasn’t him, not by a long shot. Therefore, he was back to Dr. Nixon’s theory one, the scientific analysis. By some cosmic...or whatever...fluke, his brain waves had mistakenly connected with Nancy’s. It was like dialing the telephone and getting the wrong number.
There, he decided, he had at least some of this disaster figured out, and felt better for it. The fact remained though, that he was well and truly stuck with the situation itself, had to see it through to its proper end.
He’d protect Nancy Shatner.
Because, for now, she was his.
Fine.
Tux turned on the radio and began to sing along to a country-and-western song declaring that mamas shouldn’t let their babies grow up to be cowboys.
“Whoa,” he said suddenly, “I’m supposed to be at Mom and Dad’s house for dinner.”
He flicked on the blinker, changed lanes, and concentrated on the heavy traffic.
He totally ignored the whispering little voice in his mind that repeated one word over and over...destiny.
In her apartment above Buttons and Beads, Nancy set a salad and a plate of toast on the table next to a tall glass of iced tea. She sank wearily onto a wobbly wooden chair and sighed.
The remainder of the day after Tux had left the store had seemed like a never-going-to-end series of hours. She’d had difficulty concentrating, and had to continually recount piles of beads as she lost track of what number she was on.
Images of what had taken place with Tux Bishop kept flitting before her mind’s eye from every direction.
She saw him frowning, then smiling that sinfully lethal smile, saw desire in the mesmerizing depths of his incredible blue eyes.
She saw herself in his arms, responding to his kisses in total abandon, her behavior far removed from her normal conduct.
And she saw the bright blue shawl.
Nancy picked up a slice of toast, glared at it, then dropped it back onto the plate. She got to her feet and crossed the small room to look out the window, her gaze sweeping over as much of the block as she could see.
Was there really something, someone, out there intent on doing her harm? Was she in danger from a source unknown?
Oh, if only she could turn back the clock, erase the moment that Tux had opened the door and entered Buttons and Beads, and remove this nightmare from her life.
But if she had the power to do that, she would never have experienced the ecstasy of kissing Tux, being held by him, savoring the wonderful feel of his magnificent, strong body pressed against her.
“Nancy,” she said dismally, “you’re a befuddled mess.”
She continued to stare out the window, her hands