Raintree. Linda Winstead Jones
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from his forehead. “There was a wreck on the interstate that had traffic backed up—”
“No problem,” he said, easing the young man’s anxiety. “Thanks for bringing this out.” Since he was continuing to pay his staff’s salaries, he thought they might as well make themselves useful in whatever manner he needed.
He took the shoe box to the kitchen, where Lorna was still rooted to the spot. “Here you go, try them on,” he said, handing the box to her.
She glared at him and refused to take it.
Guess he couldn’t blame her.
He took the shoes from the box, the wads of tissue paper from the toes, and went down on one knee. He expected her to stubbornly refuse to pick up her foot, but she let him lift it, wipe his hand over her bare sole to remove any grit, and slide the buttery-soft black flat on her foot. He repeated the process with her other foot, then remained on one knee as he looked up at her. “Do they fit? Do they pinch anywhere?”
The shoes were much like her ruined ones, he knew: simple black flats. But that was where the resemblance ended. This pair was made of quality leather, with good arch support and good construction. Her other pair had had paper-thin soles, and the seams had been starting to fray. She’d been carrying over seven thousand dollars in her pocket, and wearing fifteen-dollar shoes. Whatever she was spending all that money on, clothing wasn’t it.
“They feel okay,” she said grudgingly. “But not a hundred and twenty-eight dollars worth of okay.”
He laughed quietly as he rose to his feet and looked down at her face for a moment, charmed all over again by her stubbornness. She was one of those women whose personality made her prettier than she actually was, if one considered only her features. Not that she wasn’t pretty; she was. Not flashy, not beautiful, just pleasant to look at. It was that attitude, that sarcastic, sassy mouth, the damn-you-to-hell-and-back eyes, that made her sparkle with vitality. The one way Lorna Clay would never be described was restful.
He should release her from the compulsion that kept her here, but if he did, she would leave—not just this house, but Reno. He knew it with a certainty that chilled him.
Dante functioned very well in the normal, human world, but he was the Raintree Dranir, and within his realm, he was obeyed. He had been Dranir for seventeen years now, since he was twenty, but even before that, he hadn’t led an ordinary life. He was of the Raintree Royal Family. He had been Prince, Heir Apparent and then Dranir.
“No” wasn’t a word he heard very often, nor did he care to hear it from Lorna.
“You may go anywhere you wish within this house,” he said, and silently added a proviso that in case of danger, the compulsion was ended. If the house caught fire, he wanted her to be able to escape. After last night, such things were very much on his mind.
“Why can’t I leave?” Her hazel green eyes were snapping with ire, but at least she didn’t punch, pinch or kick him.
“Because you’ll run.”
She didn’t deny it, instead narrowed her eyes at him. “So? I’m not wanted for any crimes.”
“So I feel responsible for you. There’s a lot you need to know about your gifts, and I can teach you.” That was as good a reason as any, and sounded logical.
“I don’t—” She started to deny she had any gifts, but stopped and drew a deep breath. There was no point in denying the obvious. When he had first broached the subject to her, in his office, her denial had been immediate and absolute. At least now she was beginning to accept what she was.
How had she come to so adamantly deny everything she was? He suspected he knew, but unless she was willing to talk about it, he wouldn’t pry.
After a moment she said obstinately, “I’m responsible for myself. I don’t want or need your charity.”
“Charity, no. Knowledge, yes. I think I was wrong when I said you’re precognitive.” He watched relief flare on her face, then immediately die when he continued. “I think you may be claircognitive. Have you ever even heard of that?”
“No.”
“How about el-sike?”
“That’s an Arab name.”
He grinned. El-sike was pronounced el-see-kay—and she was right, it did sound Arab. “It’s a form of storm control. My brother Gideon has that gift. He can call lightning to him.”
She gave him a pitying look. “It sounds like a form of brain damage. What fool wants to be near lightning?”
“Gideon. He feeds off electricity. He also has electrical psychokinesis, which in a nutshell means he plays hell with electronics. He explodes streetlights. He fries computers. It isn’t safe for him to fly unless I send him a shielding charm.”
Her interest was caught, however reluctantly. He saw the quicksilver gleam of it in her eyes. “Why doesn’t he make his own shielding charms?”
“That’s kind of along the same lines of precogs not being able to see their own futures. Only those in the royal family can gift charms, but never for themselves. He’s a cop, a homicide detective, so I keep him stocked in protection charms, and if he has to fly, I send him a charm that shields his electrical energy so he won’t fry all the plane’s computers.”
“Electrical psychokinesis,” she said slowly, trying out the words. “Sounds kinky.”
“So I’ve heard,” he said dryly. He’d also heard that Gideon sometimes glowed after sex—or maybe that was before. Or during. Some things a brother just didn’t ask too many questions about. But if Lorna was at last interested in learning about the whole range of paranormal abilities, he didn’t mind using some of the more exotic gifts to keep her intrigued.
“Tell you what,” he said, as if he’d just thought of the idea, when in fact he’d been considering something of the sort all morning. “Why don’t you agree to a short trial period—say, a week—and let me teach you some basic stuff to protect yourself? You’re so sensitive to every passing wave of energy that I’m surprised you’re able to go out in public. I can also set up some simple tests, get a ballpark idea of how gifted you are in different areas.”
He saw the instant repudiation of that idea in her expression, a quick flash, then her curiosity rose to counter it. Almost immediately, caution followed; she didn’t easily put herself in anyone’s hands. “What would I have to do?” she asked warily.
“You don’t have to do anything. If you’re absolutely dead set against the idea of learning more, then I’m not going to tie you to a chair and make you read lessons. But since you’re going to be here for a few days anyway, you might as well use the time to learn something about yourself.”
“I’ll need my clothes,” she said, which was as close to capitulation as he was likely to hear from her.
“Give me your address and I’ll have them brought here.”
“This is just for a few days. After that, I want your word you’ll lift this stupid compulsion thing and let me go.”
Dante considered that. He was the Dranir; he didn’t, couldn’t, give his word lightly. Finally he said, “After a week, I’ll consider it. You’re smart, you can learn a lot in a week. But I can’t make a definite promise.”
Chapter Thirteen
“What, exactly, went wrong?”
Cael Ansara’s tone was pleasant and even, which didn’t fool Ruben McWilliams at all. Cousin or not, there had always been something about Cael that made Ruben tread very warily around him. When Cael was at his most pleasant, that was when it paid to be extra cautious. Ruben didn’t like the son of a bitch, but there you go, rebellion made for strange bedfel-lows.
His intuition had told