Sudden Attraction. Rebecca York
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for Cypress, and she followed a few paces behind him.
FROM THE SHADOWS, George Camden watched and listened, his hands clenched as he cursed the way his excellent plans had just gotten screwed up.
When he’d heard the thunder, he’d thought the storm would give him some cover when he broke into the mansion again so he could grab Gabriella. Then he’d watched her come out of the house and thought, what luck.
He’d been on his way toward her when Luke Buckley had tackled her. There was something strange about him, although George hadn’t figured it out yet. But it looked as if the guy had started to assault her, then changed his mind. Yeah, assault had turned into a pretty heated scene.
He laughed. That was an interesting development.
Too bad the guy had stuck his nose in where it didn’t belong.
But why?
He’d heard them talking. It had been a strange conversation, as if George was only hearing part of it. Which could have been true from the way the wind was howling. Maybe it had carried away words spoken softly, but he had caught that Luke Buckley wasn’t his real name. Interesting.
Did they know each other or not? Part of the time it had sounded as if they did—then not so much.
Or maybe the mom had given the daughter an earful about the renter. Did Mrs. Boudreaux know that the guy was using an alias? Or just the daughter?
As drops of rain hit his head, George narrowed his eyes. He hadn’t signed up for this job to be wet and miserable. However, Gabriella had to come out of the guy’s cottage some time, and when she did, he wanted to be ready.
Lips set in a grim line, he moved cautiously across the lawn, finding a spot under a tree that gave him a little shelter—and where he could still watch the cottage door.
Of course, you weren’t supposed to stand under a tree in a lightning storm, but he’d take a chance on that.
As he huddled in the cold, he played the scene again in his mind. Why had Buckley come out in the first place? Did he suspect someone else was on the property? Or was he just jumpy about something to do with his alias?
One thing was sure: renting a cottage on the plantation had put Luke Buckley in the wrong place at the wrong time—as far as George was concerned. Too bad for him.
LUKE AND GABRIELLA HURRIED onto the porch as the storm finally broke, sending rain pouring down.
“Close call,” he muttered as he opened the door.
When she hung back, he stepped quickly inside and turned on two of the battery-powered lamps that he’d bought after Mrs. Boudreaux had told him the electricity often went out in the middle of a storm.
Gabriella came in after him. As she looked around at the mess he’d made of the living room, he suddenly wished that he hadn’t been so quick to offer the lamps. However, if he hadn’t, she might not have come inside.
He knew she was staring at the epitome of a junked-up bachelor pad. He’d been working, and he’d left papers all over the desk. Books and other research materials were stacked on the coffee and end tables. Sitting on top of them were several plates and glasses that he hadn’t carried to the kitchen area, which was at the side of the room.
Of course, he hadn’t expected company, but still, he should have kept the place a little neater. What if his landlady dropped by?
Well, that wasn’t going to happen, he reminded himself.
He quickly picked up the glasses and plates and ferried them to the sink. Probably he should have hired a maid. But then he’d have to put his papers away. They were confidential, and dangerous, come to that.
He swept them into a pile now, putting them into a desk drawer.
He didn’t want Gabriella poking around his research, for her sake as well as his. The less she knew about the New Jersey mob, the better.
Of course, she’d been poking around in his mind, he reminded himself. Which meant she already knew too much.
Turning, he said, “I’m sorry about your mother.”
“Thank you. Or whatever you’re supposed to say.”
“That works. Why don’t you sit down,” he offered, thinking how lame that sounded.
Without comment, she took one of the easy chairs facing the sofa.
He leaned his hips against the kitchen counter, trying to look as if he wasn’t studying her, seeing in person what he’d only seen in his mind. Her short blond hair framed a narrow face, and her large, expressive eyes were either green or blue. She was staring back, taking his measure with as much interest. He knew his dark hair was too long and that he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. Probably he looked like a criminal. Which might be what she was already thinking.
To break the silence, he asked, “Can I get you something? A beer? I’ve got some from the local brewery.”
She pursed her lips. “Okay. Maybe I could use one.”
“Yeah, I guess you had a rough day.”
“Uh-huh.”
It was a strange conversation, two people who should know nothing about each other. But not really. Not when they’d suddenly gotten inside each other’s heads.
Although he wanted to ask, that mind to mind thing ever happen to you before? he hadn’t worked up the nerve yet.
He pulled out two bottles out of the refrigerator and twisted off the caps.
“Do you want a glass?”
“No, this is fine.”
He moved back to the living area and set one of the bottles on the coffee table, then lowered himself to the other easy chair.
Outside the rain pounded down, giving him a feeling of two people meeting at the end of the world, like in the science fiction stories he’d read as a kid. Science fiction had appealed to him, maybe because he’d been disappointed with reality.
They each took a sip of beer.
Although he’d turned on a couple of battery lights, he thought the conversation might go better in semidarkness.
She ran her finger around the outside of the beer bottle before breaking the silence. “What happened out there?”
He winced. “I thought you were sneaking up on me.”
“Lucky you didn’t shoot me.”
“Yeah.”
“That was a gun I felt in your waistband.”
“Yeah,” he said again, pulling it out and setting it on the table between them.
She stared down at it and took another sip of beer before saying, “I didn’t mean—why did you tackle me. I meant—what happened when we touched?”
She’d been brave enough to ask the question. All he could say was, “We read each other’s thoughts and memories.”
“Which should be impossible.” She added, “So the next question is—how did it happen?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.” The silence stretched again before he asked, “Do you have some psychic ability?”
She hesitated. “Not that you could … document.”
“Which means what?”
She raised one shoulder. “It means, there were times when I got a glimpse of the future.”
“Like what?”
“My mom called this afternoon. I knew it was going to be her, and I sensed that something bad …” Her voice trailed off, and she started again, “Something bad was going to happen. I didn’t know she was going to … die.” Her voice