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Parker And The Gypsy
Susan Carroll


JUST LIKE A DAME…"It was one of those days when life arrives on your doorstep, unannounced. A day full of weak coffee and bourbon-colored memories. A day, like every other. Until she walked in the door… " Private Investigator Mike Parker was too cynical to believe in love.And when free-spirited Sara Holyfield showed up, requesting help with a strange missing-persons case, his first instinct was to show her the door. But something about Sara drew him in. Maybe it was her innocent face - or her not-so-innocent body. Or maybe it was the fact that Mike's archenemy had told him to stay away.But whatever the cause, Mike suddenly found himself faced with the biggest assignment of his career - protecting his wayward heart.







“It’s Late. I Should Be Going.” (#ue8794267-42e2-5205-b03c-eeba12d1a72a)Letter to Reader (#u2d4b768f-67dd-523b-85c5-af46b115405a)Title Page (#uca5cb746-208c-58ca-82b0-b28281a8334d)About the Author (#u7631be1d-4998-5828-bb3a-4bb59f25794f)Dedication (#ua127e346-57e0-58c1-9536-6c45fff25478)Chapter One (#u0c751035-a6d2-5eec-8cee-e5428240b17c)Chapter Two (#u574c519a-34a5-501a-9675-06762ba55dd9)Chapter Three (#u7011f589-654f-5f9f-8e72-1c6d2fb39740)Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


“It’s Late. I Should Be Going.”

“No!” Sara’s cry seemed almost involuntary. “I—I mean, you don’t have to. You could...stay.”

There was no mistaking her meaning. Her face was suffused with the delicate flush of passion, the glow of a woman waiting, willing to be loved. He’d never realized that desire could be such a pure and simple thing, almost holy when shining from a pair of deep blue eyes.

She was offering him everything he hungered for, and he didn’t know why he didn’t just reach out and take advantage of it. She was his gypsy lady. All the warmth that had always been missing from his black-and-white world.

He hesitated one moment more before taking the biggest risk of his life.

Mike Parker reached out of the shadows and took Sara’s hand.


Dear Reader,

A sexy fire fighter, a crazy cat and a dynamite heroine—that’s what you’ll find in Lucy and the Loner, Elizabeth Bevarly’s wonderful MAN OF THE MONTH. It’s the next in her installment of THE FAMILY McCORMICK series, and it’s also a MAN OF THE MONTH book you’ll never forget—warm, humorous and very sexy!

A story from Lass Small is always a delight, and Chancy’s Cowboy is Lass at her most marvelous. Don’t miss out as Chancy decides to take some lessons in love from a handsome hunk of a cowboy!

Eileen Wilks’s latest, The Wrong Wife, is chock-full with the sizzling tension and compelling reading that you’ve come to expect from this rising Desire star. And so many of you know and love Barbara McCauley that she needs no introduction, but this month’s The Nanny and the Reluctant Rancher is sure to both please her current fans...and win her new readers!

Suzannah Davis is another new author that we’re excited about, and Dr. Holt and the Texan may just be her best book to date! And the month is completed with a delightful romp from Susan Carroll, Parker and the Gypsy.

There’s something for everyone. So come and relish the romantic variety you’ve come to expect from Silhouette Desire!






Lucia Macro

And the Editors at Silhouette Desire

Please address questions and book requests to:

Silhouette Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3


Susan Carroll

Parker And The Gypsy










www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


SUSAN CARROLL

began her career by writing Regency romances. It was a long way from the starch of the British aristocracy to the sizzle of a contemporary American love story. But, in making the leap, Susan found one thing remained the same: that spark of humor that gives zest to any romance, no matter what the time period.

Susan draws on the same humor in her own life. Currently residing in Illinois, she keeps busy between books, coping with two lively children, two rambunctious cats and one very noisy hamster.


To my friend Paula Jolly, for reading the runes and helping to keep my aura fluffed.


One

Mikey ran through the maze of dark alleys, heart thumping beneath his ragged T-shirt, his grubby sneakers pounding the cold, hard concrete. Behind the kid, the shadow of a man loomed, tall and wavering in the streetlights, like a dangling spider.

Mikey glanced wildly about him for an escape route, but there was none. Brick walls enclosed him on all four sides. A ragged sob tore from his chest as he whirled about. The shadow man crept closer, ever closer. The boy flattened himself against the wall, tears streaking down his dirty cheeks as his stalker stepped into the light.

Mikey could almost see his face now....

“No! Go away,” the boy screamed as the shadow-man grabbed at him, his fingers sinking into Mikey’s shoulder like bony talons. With his other hand, the dark demon raised his knife—

“No!”

The word tore from Mike Parker’s throat as he wrenched awake, his head snapping back against the battered upholstery of his office chair. The leather creaked as he sat bolt upright and clenched the sides of his old oak desk, his brown eyes flying wide open. It took a few moments for him to remember where he was. The four plaster walls, the steel file cabinets and other trappings of his one man detective agency slowly penetrated his sleep-fogged brain.

No dark alleys. No shadow man. No knife. He had just dozed off at his desk, had a bad dream. That was all. But for a brief second, Mike felt all of twelve years old again. Small, helpless and scared. His hand crept reflexively to his shoulder, seeking traces of the wound that had long ago healed. Or should have. Damp patches stained the black T-shirt that hugged the hard contours of his chest, but they were from perspiration, not blood.

Swearing under his breath, Mike shook his head in disgust, raking back uneven lengths of tawny-colored hair from his eyes.

At the age of thirty four, he was too old for this, to be still having nightmares about the bogeyman. Or in this case, a day-mare. Anytime he was overtired or a little run-down, he could almost count on that stupid dream to come creeping up on him again. But after all these years, why, damn it?

“The answer is obvious, Michael,” the grad student from Rutgers he’d once dated had told him. “The dream is a manifest sign about some unresolved issue from your childhood.”

“You don’t say,” Mike had snapped, wondering how they’d gotten around to discussing his restless sleep habits in the first place. He’d been quick to change the subject with a suggestive remark that had brought both the uncomfortable conversation and his dinner date with the lovely Carolyn Saunders to an abrupt end. As she had stormed out of the restaurant, Mike had resolved upon two things. In the future, to steer clear of women who called him Michael. And to keep his dreams to himself.

“Manifest sign,” he muttered, still irritated by the memory of Carolyn’s attempts to play Sigmund Freud. The issues of his childhood had all been resolved quite well as far as he was concerned. Locked neatly away behind the bars of Trenton State Prison and forgotten.

The only thing the damn dream was ever a sign of was a hangover, just like the one that was making his head pound this morning. The dull pain still throbbed behind his eyes despite the cold shower and aspirin tablets that had gotten him awake and into his office earlier that morning.

Rummaging around in his top desk drawer, Mike managed to locate the plastic bottle and shook out two more white tablets into his hand. Uncoiling his six-foot-two frame from the chair, he dragged himself over to the water cooler and filled a stained ceramic coffee cup. He gagged down both aspirin in one huge gulp.

The blasted air-conditioning was on the fritz again and outside his open second story window, the heat and noisy traffic of another Atlantic City summer morning assaulted his much-battered senses in one great oppressive wave. He couldn’t remember how much he’d had to drink last night, but if it had him dreaming about the shadow man again, it had obviously been too much.

It had all started out harmlessly enough—hefting a few cool ones at Boom Boom’s Bar and Grill with his friend Jimmy Potts, in celebration of Jimmy’s upcoming marriage. Mike had spent most of the time staring morosely into his glass and wondering how many months it would take before Jimmy turned up in his office, hiring Mike to get the goods on the little woman when she took to cheating with some new Romeo. That, in Mike’s bitter experience, was how most marital bliss panned out. All those hearts and flowers, promises of love and eternal devotion—just another con game.

Despite his raging headache. Mike congratulated himself on surviving this bachelor party better than he had the last one, when he’d trailed after the girl who’d jumped out of the cake. Darcy Robbins. But she was another nightmare he’d just as soon forget.

Rubbing one hand along his unshaven jaw, Mike tried to summon up the energy to return to his desk and complete the report he’d been working on before he’d fallen asleep. Skip traces on some missing deadbeats for a local finance company. Boring as hell but—

A knock sounded on his office door, nearly startling him into dropping the coffee cup. As he replaced the mug back on top of the water cooler, he grumbled, “Now what?”

He knew it couldn’t be his secretary. Rosa had no respect for a closed door. She barged in whenever she felt like it. The rapping sounded again, causing Mike to wince. “All right, all right!” he snarled. “Just stop the damn pounding and come in.”

The door opened slowly and Mike blinked at the vision that filled his threshold. It was as though a burst of sunlight had pierced his gloom-ridden office and assumed the form of a woman. She was all softness, from the rainbow-hued skirt that clung to the willowy outline of her hips, to the white flowing blouse that shifted half off her creamy shoulders.

Golden ringlets rioted about a heart-shaped face with features as delicate as fine porcelain, from the dainty nose to the small determined chin. She regarded Mike with the most wistful blue eyes he’d ever seen.

She had an angel’s hair, an angel’s eyes, an angel’s mouth. It took Mike a moment to realize he wasn’t breathing and to exhale deeply. It took him a moment longer to snap back to his senses and remember that the only angels he had any use for were the fallen kind.

This young woman had that look of dewy-eyed innocence about her that usually meant nothing but trouble. When she hesitated, fretting her lip, Mike barked out, “What can I do for you, sis? Are you sure you’ve got the right office? The Save-a-Soul Mission’s on the first floor.”

“I’m not looking for the mission,” she said softly.

She had an angel’s voice, too. Mike grimaced.

“I’m looking for Michael Parker.”

“You’ve found him.”

“Oh, no!” Her mouth dropped open in dismay. She took a cautious step closer, her remarkable blue eyes traveling over him. “I—I mean you just can’t be Mr. Parker.”

“I forget a lot of things the morning after I’ve tied one on,” Mike said with a sardonic lift of one brow, “but I generally manage to remember my name.”

“I’m sorry.” A flush rose into her cheeks. “I guess I do see the resemblance now.”

Her shoulders sagged as disbelief appeared to give way to disappointment, but Mike was used to that. He’d been disappointing people all his life—his high school teachers, his foster parents, his ex-wife....

The woman’s gaze flicked from Mike to the newspaper she held clutched in her hand. “It’s just that you don’t look very much like your picture.”

Closing the distance between them, Mike snatched the paper away to see just what she had there. It was a puff piece about him, inserted in the Golden Times Gazette, a weekly magazine distributed mostly to local retirement communities, written and edited by Mrs. Eudora Jenkins, a very grateful former client of his. A more glowing testimonial about the Parker Agency could hardly have been penned by his own grandmother.

Mike didn’t know what was worse: the glaring headline, Mike Parker, Crusading P.I., or the sappy photograph that accompanied the article. He would have been hard-pressed to recognize himself from the picture, his broad shoulders encased in a tuxedo, his slightly crooked mouth angled into a debonair smile.

Mike thrust the paper back at the woman who had invaded his office. “I was doing undercover work,” he explained.

“Oh!” Her brow cleared. “You mean you were on a stakeout last night. That explains...everything.” Her gaze drifted over his disheveled appearance.

No, it didn’t, Mike wanted to argue. What he’d meant was that he’d been doing undercover work when he’d been all trussed up in that tuxedo. His present appearance—the beat-up sneakers, the faded jeans, the T-shirt—was much closer to his natural state.

But somehow he couldn’t bring himself to tell her that. Not with her beaming at him that way, with such a radiant smile.

She had an angel’s smile...

He caught himself wishing that he had at least taken time to shave after his quick shower. Finger combing his hair in a self-conscious gesture, Mike cleared his throat. “I don’t usually see walk-ins. But if you’d like to step out in the reception room and set up an appointment with my secretary—”

“But she isn’t there.”

Mike stepped around her to peer into the outer office. She was right. Rosa’s desk was empty. She had never come in to work.

“Damn! She’s probably planning to call in sick again,” he said. “Off to visit Dr. Blackjack at the United Memorial Casino.”

When his visitor regarded him blankly, Mike explained, “That’s a joke.”

“Oh.” Again that blinding smile.

It galvanized Mike into stalking forward and pulling up one of the seasick green vinyl chairs that comprised his office decor. He couldn’t remember when the last time was he’d leapt to hold a chair for any woman, but he was doing it now.

“As long as you’re here,” he said, “you might as well sit down.”

“Thank you.” She sank gracefully onto the seat. As Mike pushed the chair into place before his desk, he experienced a double assault on his senses. First the sight of her slim, shapely legs as she crossed them. Then the exotic scent that seemed to radiate from the golden cloud of her hair.

The sweet perfume rendered him a little dizzy. Or maybe, he told himself, it was still the effect of last night’s excesses. He stumbled back to his own seat behind the desk and tried to look nonchalant, leaning back in his chair.

“So what can I do for you?”

“Well, Mr. Parker—”

“Please. Mr. Parker was my father.” Or at least it was until the old man traded his name for the number stamped across his prison inmate’s uniform. Mike shoved the grim thought aside before adding, “Call me ‘Mike.’”

“Mike,” she repeated, her smile gone suddenly shy. Her golden-tipped lashes drifted down. “It’s very hard for me to know where to begin.”

“Then why don’t we start with something easy? Like your name.”

“It’s Sara Holyfield. And no h. In Sara, that is.”

“Sara with no h,” Mike murmured, but he was distracted by the silvery glint of her earrings. To his complete fascination, he saw that she was wearing naked fairies dangling off each ear. Very nubile fairies with delicate wings.

And there appeared to be another one suspended from a chain around her neck. This creature poised on top of some kind of crystal. Mike started to lean forward, tracing the path of the fairy where it danced down the front of her blouse, but he caught himself just in time.

Shoving aside the stack of paper that littered his desk—several days’ worth of unopened mail—Mike attempted to assume a more professional stance. He managed to locate a notepad and a pen that actually worked. Jotting down Sara’s name, he pressed her for a few more basic facts such as her address and phone number.

“Aurora Falls, New Jersey, huh?” he commented as he scrawled the information on his pad. “You drove a long way to find yourself a detective.”

“There was no one back there who could help me.”

“Suppose you tell me what the problem is and I’ll see what I can do.”

Sara nodded, but she still appeared reluctant to proceed. Mike had encountered this before in first-time clients—the nervousness, the embarrassment to talk of what were often highly personal difficulties. Usually he lost patience and ordered his customers to cut to the chase.

But something about Sara Holyfield inspired an unaccustomed gentleness in him. Mike tried to set her at her ease by offering her a piece of his favorite peppermint gum. When she declined, he popped a stick in his own mouth, then settled back in his chair with what he hoped was a father-confessor type of expression.

“Just relax and take your time,” he soothed.

She started to speak and ended up fretting with her purse strings instead. She had smooth graceful fingers with neat, well-trimmed nails—nothing like those red-painted talons his ex-wife, Darcy, had sported. Mike had a notion Sara’s hands would feel all warm and silky, just like the rest of her ivory-toned skin.

He clicked the peppermint gum against his teeth, annoyed that he had let his mind go skipping off like that again. After an awkward silence, he probed delicately, “There’s some trouble with your husband perhaps?”

She shook her head vigorously, the fairies swinging with her hair. “I’ve never been married.”

“A boyfriend, then?”

“He’s moved to Texas.”

“And you want me to trace him?”

“No.” Her lips quirked in a wry half smile. “I assure you I don’t want him found.”

“Good! I mean, that’s too bad. I mean—” Hell, Mike wasn’t sure what he meant or why this woman was unnerving him so. Maybe it was because he could usually peg any client within minutes after they’d walked in the door, guess what they wanted before they ever opened their mouths.

But he wasn’t able to do that with her. He didn’t have a clue why she was there. Angels shouldn’t have problems, should they? But something was sure distressing this one. Beyond that serene exterior, he could see it in her eyes. A deep-rooted sadness. If his heart hadn’t been made of shoe leather, it would have moved even him.

“I suppose I should start by telling you a little more about myself,” she said at last. She stood up and paced restlessly to the window. The sunlight filtering through the blinds haloed her hair and rendered her white cotton blouse almost transparent.

“Have you ever had a revelation, Mr. Parker?” she asked.

“No,” Mike croaked. But he was having one now. She wasn’t wearing a bra. He could see the shadow of her small, full breasts quite clearly, down to the pert outline of her nipples.

His response was swift, inevitable and very male. Chewing his gum furiously, Mike forced himself to look away. This surge of attraction was unprofessional, but he couldn’t seem to help it. The life of a private detective was far from glamorous. It was pretty mundane most of the time. After months of pot-bellied men and little old ladies coming through his door, no wonder he was jolted by the sight of a beautiful young woman.

It was like something out of one of those hokey old detective movies that he had a sneaking fondness for. The mysterious dame swishes into the gumshoe’s office, innocent, but alluring, begging for his help.

There would be danger, hairbreadth escapes. Of course, he’d eventually save her life and she would be terribly grateful. Mike got to the point in his imaginings where Miss Sara Holyfield was demonstrating some of that gratitude, slipping that soft blouse off her even-softer shoulders, guiding his hands toward her—

Whoa! This ridiculous fantasy wasn’t doing anything to help his—er—condition. He actually felt beads of sweat gathering on his brow. Sara had finally started talking and he’d hardly registered a word of it.

“...and I realized I’d been wasting my life and talents. After I received the inheritance from my great-aunt Marilla, I walked out of my job at the bank and never looked back. I went to work for myself the very next day.”

Mike risked a peek at her. Mercifully she had stepped out of the revealing pool of sunlight. He didn’t know whether he was more relieved or disappointed.

She turned slowly to face him. “Which brings me to why I’m here. I need to hire you to collaborate with me on a case.”

Mike blinked. Boy, he must have really missed something when he’d been daydreaming. “You are a detective?”

“Of a sort.” Her chin tipped up a notch in an attitude that could have been pride or defiance. “I’m a psychic investigator.”

Mike swallowed his gum and damn near choked. “You—you mean like—like a ghost buster?”

“I don’t bust ghosts, Mr. Parker. I merely explore evidence of supernatural phenomenon.”

“Oh, is that all?”

“I also run a New Age book store and do psychic readings.”

Mike stared at her. She stared back, looking as calm as if she’d just told him she was a dental hygienist. He expelled his breath in a long sigh. Great. He’d finally gotten his alluring, mysterious dame, and with his usual luck, she turned out to be a nut case. Or else she was planning to pull off some incredible hustle on him. Life was so damned unfair.

Swiveling glumly back to the desk, he said, “Sorry, Miss Holyfield, but I don’t think I can help you. I always confine my investigations to this side of the grave.”

“I don’t expect you to go ghost hunting with me, if that’s what you’re afraid of. I have no trouble with that.”

“I’ll bet,” Mike mumbled under his breath.

Bracing her hands upon his desk, she leaned forward. Mike was assaulted again by the scent of her perfume, the soft rise and fall of her breasts.

What a waste. He stifled a groan.

She peered down at him earnestly. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I haven’t been making myself all that clear. I’m here on behalf of a Miss Mamie Patrick. She’s trying to find her son.”

“Oh. A missing-persons case. Why didn’t you say so to begin with? That’s different. That’s—” Normal Mike almost added. It wasn’t the first time someone like this Patrick woman was misguided or desperate enough to consult a psychic to recover their missing child. Mike wasn’t sure he wanted to get mixed-up in this business. But his interest was piqued enough to reach for his notepad again.

“Okay, sit down,” he said to Sara. “And this time give-it to me straight without the psychic bull—that is, just give me the cold, hard facts.”

Sara sank back into her chair, folding her hands primly. “Well, Mamie—Miss Patrick—first made contact with me about two weeks ago. Her only son, John Francis, was put up for adoption when he was six years old. For her own peace of mind, she desperately needs to see him again.”

Mike noted the name of the Patrick kid on his pad. “And how long has it been since she last saw the boy?”

“John Patrick would be somewhere in his late thirties by now.” Sara added anxiously, “Do you think there’s any real hope that you can find him after all this time, Mr. Parker?”

“Anything’s possible. Although I have to warn you, adoption records in New Jersey are sealed.” Mike shrugged. “I’ll have to talk to this Miss Patrick myself and see what leads she can give me, but frankly, I think you should make sure she really wants this matter pursued. These tender family reunions you watch on the talk shows are not always what they’re cracked up to be. After all this time, Mamie Patrick might be better off forgetting about her son and getting on with her life.”

“That would be difficult,” Sara said quietly. “She’s dead.”

“What!” Mike pressed down so hard with the pen, he punctured the paper.

“Mamie Patrick died over thirty years ago.”

“You mean...you’re telling me this client of yours is—is a—”

“A supernatural manifestation.”

“Let’s use plain English here. You mean a ghost.”

“Well... yes.”

“Ah, jeez!” Mike ripped off the sheet of notebook paper he’d been filling out and crumpled it into a ball that he arced into his metal waste can. Shoving to his feet, he stalked around the desk.

Sara shrank back, looking mildly alarmed as Mike’s hands closed around her arms. He tugged her to her feet.

“Mr. Parker! Mike, what—what are you doing?”

“It’s not what I’m doing, doll. It’s what you’re doing. Leaving.”

He started hustling her toward the door, but Sara dug in her heels. “What’s the matter? Have I said something wrong?”

Mike rolled his eyes. “No, nothing much. You just waltzed in here and asked me to go to work for some woman who kicked the bucket over a quarter of a century ago.”

“Oh, so that’s it.” Sara managed to wriggle free of his grasp. She angled a challenging glance up at him. “You don’t believe in ghosts?”

“No, I sure as hell don’t.”

“But you just said a moment ago that anything’s possible.”

“I meant anything normal, not things that go bump in the night. I don’t believe in anything that I can’t see, hear, smell or feel.”

“Then that means that you don’t believe in intuition. Or faith. Or even love.” She exuded a soft sigh. “That’s very sad.”

“Yeah, tragic.” She was the one ready for a straitjacket and yet she had the nerve to stand there looking as though she felt sorry for him.

Stepping around her, he swung open the door. “Sorry I can’t be of service, but I’m sure you and Miss Patrick will manage just swell without me. Maybe you can locate the guy in your crystal ball.”

“I don’t have a crystal ball,” Sara said reproachfully. “If I had that much psychic power, I wouldn’t need you to help Mamie.”

“If she’s a ghost, why doesn’t Miss Mamie just fly off and find the kid herself?”

“She’s restricted to the old Pine Top Inn, the last place she lived before she died. Manifestations usually cannot go wherever they want to.”

“Ghosts have rules?”

“Everyone has rules, Mr. Parker.”

“And one of mine happens to be I don’t take on any client where I have to hold a seance to present my bill. So if you don’t mind—” Mike indicated the door with a sweeping gesture, but Sara ignored him, fishing inside her purse instead.

“If you’re worried about being paid, you needn’t be,” she said. “I can write you a check right now.”

Mike pressed one hand to his brow. This woman just wasn’t getting the message. As she started to drag out her checkbook, he covered her hand to stop her.

“Look, honey, save your dough. I have a feeling you’re going to need it. Good psychiatric care is expensive these days.”

She flinched as though he’d struck her “I was hoping that you would be much more open-minded, Mr. Parker.”

“Whatever gave you an idea like that?”

“It was your picture in the paper. Your face...it seemed so wise and accepting. And kind.”

“That was my dazed look. A flashbulb had just gone off in my eyes.”

“But I was so certain you were the one to help,” Sara murmured almost to herself. “I could sense it, and when I trust my instincts, I’m almost never wrong.”

Pressing her lips in a stubborn line, she gazed up at Mike again. “Would you mind letting me feel your aura?”

“Feel my what?” Mike’s pulses rioted with the possibilities. But it was only his hand she reached for. She turned it palm upward.

He tugged free of her grasp, but she begged, “Please. Just let me run this one little test. Then I promise I’ll go away and leave you alone.”

Mike opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again as she looked up at him, pleading. Why was he always such a sucker for big blue eyes?

Grimacing, he held out his hand. “This test isn’t going to involve voodoo pins or anything like that?”

“Of course not.” She cupped his hand in her own smaller fragile one. “Now close your eyes.”

“What for?” he asked suspiciously.

“I’m not going to hurt you. Trust me.”

It had been a damned long time since Mike had trusted anyone, but he gave a long-suffering sigh and shut his eyes. She ran her fingertips lightly across his open palm.

“Just relax, Mr. Parker.”

Mike sucked in his breath. That wasn’t what was going to happen if she kept stroking him in that slow, sensual fashion. When her soft fingers danced across his wrist, his pulse gave an erratic leap. He was starting to really enjoy this when, to his disappointment, she stopped.

“Now I’m going to close my eyes and lower my hand toward yours. If we do this right, as I get closer, you should feel a surge of power between us.”

“This is stupid,” Mike grumbled. He wished she’d go back to the caressing part again. He felt like a total idiot standing here with his hand held out like a bellboy hoping for a tip.

“Please, Mr. Parker. Concentrate and keep your eyes closed.”

Mike tried to, but he’d always had the same problem not peeking whenever he played hide-and-seek as a kid. He cracked one eye open and realized that whatever else Sara might be, she wasn’t a con artist. She really believed in all this mumbo jumbo.

Her smooth brow was furrowed in earnest concentration. Her purse balanced in her left hand, her right one hovered barely an inch above his own. There was something strangely arousing about standing so close to her, just short of touching. He had only to reach out to bury his fingers in her ripples of silky gold hair, trace the line of that fairy chain along the smooth white column of her throat.

With her eyes closed, a delicate flush coloring her cheeks, she almost appeared as though she were in some sort of trance, like that sleeping princess in those sappy stories his one foster mom had insisted upon reading to him. If Sleeping Beauty had looked anything like Sara, no wonder that dopey prince had risked burning his a—fighting dragons to get to her bedroom.

“Are you experiencing anything yet, Mr. Parker?” she asked.

“Not a blessed thing,” Mike denied, but he was disturbed to notice his hand begin to tremble. A tingling sensation started in his fingertips, quickly spreading along his arm, through the rest of his body to become the most intoxicating rush of desire he’d ever known.

Sara’s eyes fluttered open to stare straight into his. She frowned. “You haven’t really been trying. Didn’t you feel any impulse at all?”

Mike shook his head. Oh, he was having plenty of impulses all right, but none, he feared, that Sara would approve of.

“Let’s try it again,” he murmured. “Close your eyes.”

She looked a little wary, but obeyed. She stood before him, her lips half-parted in unconscious invitation. This was too easy, Mike thought with a groan. He should be ashamed of himself. He should resist the temptation, but he didn’t seem able to help himself.

Bending forward, he covered her mouth with his own. He felt Sara stiffen with surprise, but then he was a little surprised himself. He’d never kissed any woman this gently before. At least, it started out that way.

But when Sara didn’t resist, he folded her in his arms, deepening the embrace. She tasted and felt just like she smelled—all softness, innocence and seduction. He kissed her with increasing hunger, passion and heat rushing through him, warming places inside him that he had not even realized had gone cold.


Two

Sara clung to Mike’s shoulders, his mouth wreaking havoc with her senses, even her sixth one. Since she’d set foot in the door, this interview had gone nothing like she’d anticipated. Not only had Mike Parker turned out to be more rough-edged than she’d expected, he was now kissing her in a way to make her curls stand on end.

Any protest she should have voiced was swept away beneath the hot mastery of Mike’s lips on hers. Her purse dropped from her nerveless fingers, hitting the carpet with a soft thud. She melted closer, her head reeling. Her mind felt like she was floating, her body like it was on fire.

It was only when his tongue breached her lips, exploring her mouth with even greater intimacy, that alarm set in. Struggling to be free, she insinuated her hands between them, breaking off the heated contact of their mouths.

His breathing ragged, Mike blinked at her. For a moment, he looked as dazed as she felt. She had never experienced a kiss like that in her whole life. It would have been rather wonderful... if only he had really meant it.

But Mike was already making a rapid recovery. The tender set of his mouth hardened into the familiar sarcastic smirk.

“Sorry,” he said. “I guess my psychic—um—gizmo got a little out of control.”

Sara felt her cheeks heat, but this time with humiliation. Mike’s arms were still wrapped loosely about her waist. Bracing both hands against his chest, she squirmed away from him.

“You don’t have to believe in the same things I do, Mr. Parker,” she said. “But you don’t have to make fun of me, either.”

“I wasn’t making fun of you.”

“Then what do you call this?” Sara raised a trembling finger to her bruised lips.

“I was kissing you.” A shade of irritation crept into Mike’s voice. “You can’t go feeling up a guy’s aura and not expect him to react.”

“That wasn’t the sort of reaction you were supposed to—Oh, never mind.” Sara bent down to retrieve her purse from the carpet, gathering up the tattered remains of her dignity, as well. By the time she straightened, she managed to face Mike with some degree of calm.

“I’m sorry you’re such an unhappy man, Mr. Parker. But that doesn’t give you the right to mock and hurt other people.”

“I’m not unhappy, just hung over. So if you don’t mind, close the door quietly on your way out.”

“I’ll go,” Sara said. “But that doesn’t change anything. You’re a miserable and lonely man with a very disturbed aura, full of bitterness and a pain that’s as old as—as your wound.”

“Wound?” Mike scowled at her. “What wound?”

Sara blinked as she realized the words she’d just blurted out. She stared at Mike and suddenly an image came to her of Mike’s bare chest in all its glorious detail—hard-sculpted muscle from the flat plane of his stomach to the broad reach of his shoulders, smooth skin as bronzed and warm as sunlight. Except for—

“You—you have a scar on your left shoulder,” Sara said haltingly.

Mike’s eyes widened. “What have you got, X-ray vision or something?”

“N-no.” Sara flushed, feeling as if she’d been caught sneaking peeks at Mike naked in his shower. “I told you I was psychic, didn’t I? Sometimes these perceptions just come to me. That scar on your shoulder goes as deep as your soul, Mike Parker. It was made by something cold...something sharp.” Sara shivered. “A knife perhaps? With a long—”

“Enough, already,” Mike snarled, breaking her concentration. “Who the hell put you up to this?”

“Put me up to—Why, no one. I don’t know what you mean.”

“Either some jerk with a warped sense of humor sent you here to yank my chain or else you really are one total spook. Either way, I want you out of my office. Now!”

Sara took a hasty step back at Mike’s menacing approach. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, but I assure you no one sent me. I came to you because I honestly needed your help, Mr. Parker. What am I supposed to do about finding John Patrick? If you won’t take the case, could you at least—”

“Out!”

Before Sara could say another word, she found herself being roughly shoved into the tiny outer office. Mike slammed the door closed between them with a bang that was both loud and final.

“Recommend another detective?” Sara finished weakly, realizing she was addressing dead silence. She sensed that Mike Parker had just closed more doors than the one to his office. Any extrasensory perceptions she’d been having about Mike had ceased as abruptly as a phone line being disconnected.

Which was probably just as well. She’d definitely struck some kind of nerve when she’d started to probe into the mysteries of the scar on his shoulder. She’d never meant for that to happen. She tried not to invade the privacy of anyone’s personal life or thoughts unless invited to do so. But she hadn’t been able to help herself in Mike’s case.

The vision had caught her completely unaware. It had been as exhilarating and frightening as standing on the brink of some dark chasm, unable to see what lay at the bottom, but watching a ray of light slowly starting to stretch downward. Even if Mike hadn’t stopped her, Sara would have snatched herself back. Beneath his teasing wise-guy manner, she sensed something dark and disturbing about the man. She didn’t want a closer look at the secrets of his mind...or his body.

“You didn’t come here today to do a psychic reading or to be mentally undressing Mike Parker,” she reminded herself. “You came here to hire a detective.”

And in that she had just failed miserably.

Sara stole another look at Mike’s closed door and issued a long sigh of frustration and disappointment.

“So what am I supposed to do now?” she murmured, sagging down dispiritedly into the office’s sole waiting chair. On the secretary’s desk, the phone console burred softly, the incoming call light blinking off and on. Between throwing paying customers out of his office and ignoring his phone calls, Sara wondered how Mike Parker managed to stay in business.

She thought of reaching for the battered telephone directory she saw perched on the corner of the absent Rosa’s desk, thumbing through it for the listing of another private detective, but after her failure with Mike, she couldn’t seem to summon up the heart to do so.

She had been just so blasted convinced that Mike would be the man to help her find Mamie’s lost son. She’d already tried everything she could think of, even going so far as to insert an ad in the newspaper, asking that anyone with information on Mamie or John Patrick contact her at once. When Sara had met with no response, the sympathetic Mrs. Jenkins had suggested she hire Mike Parker, the old lady showing her the glowing article written about the man.

Sara had come to Atlantic City with high hopes, expecting to find a man with the wisdom of Sherlock Holmes, the dapperness of Hercule Poirot and the sophistication of Nick Charles all rolled into one.

But instead of the storybook detective she’d envisioned, Mike Parker was more like an older version of one of the Dead End Kids, lean and sexy in his formfitting jeans and T-shirt, street tough and smart mouthed.

Yet despite his disconcerting appearance and the less-than-successful look of his office, she could not rid herself of the impression that Mike was damned good at his job when he wanted to be. A shrewd intelligence lurked behind those lazy brown eyes, and the set of the man’s jaw had a bulldog tenacity about it. Sara had a feeling that he could have easily found Mamie’s missing son if he had cared enough to do so.

But even after one brief meeting with the man, Sara could sense that that would always be the trick with the cynical Mr. Parker—to make him care.

It was certainly quite beyond her abilities, she thought ruefully. Maybe she could have persuaded Mike to have taken the case if she had just presented it to him differently, as a simple missing-persons matter, told him nothing about ghosts or auras or psychic impressions.

There was only one problem with that. She was tired of pretending. She’d done it for far too many years, stifling the extraordinary perceptions that made her feel strange and different from everyone else, that frequently got her labeled as crazy, even by her own family.

It was only during the past year that Sara had finally developed the courage to face herself in the mirror and say, “My psychic abilities are as real and natural as the color of my eyes and the shape of my nose. I am not crazy.”

She certainly didn’t need a cynic like Mike Parker to chip away at her newfound confidence. Sara touched one hand to her mouth, still tender from the force of Mike’s kiss. Or to cause other disturbances of a less spiritual nature.

“No,” Sara resolved, forcing herself up from the chair. Setting her chin to a stubborn angle, she cast one last wistful look at the closed office door. “I will manage just fine without the services of Mr. Michael Parker.”

Mike lowered his office blinds and peered between the slats, watching as Sara emerged from the building, her gypsycolored skirt and golden tumble of curls a splash of color on the gray concrete of the pavement below.

Furtively observing her movements, Mike frowned, still not certain what he was expecting to see—Sara being met by one of those idiots from down at Boom Boom’s, to have a laugh over the good one they’d just put over on poor old Mike. Or perhaps someone more sinister from his past, melting out of the shadows to congratulate Sara on a performance well-done, the first phase in some elaborate revenge plot to drive Mike Parker round the bend.

“It’d be a real short trip, doll,” Mike muttered, at the same time chiding himself for letting his usual suspicious nature and imagination run away with him. He couldn’t make either of those scenarios he’d conjured up fit with the wide-eyed and earnest young woman he’d tossed out of his office.

Sara was doing nothing more sinister than pacing distractedly along the sidewalk, totally unaware of her surroundings, the obscene come-on gestures from the construction workers across the street or the interest she was drawing from a gang of street punks hanging out on the corner.

Mike’s office wasn’t exactly located at one of the swankier addresses in the city. He caught himself tensing, watching until Sara managed to hail herself a cab and was spirited safely away.

Not, he assured himself gruffly, because he cared in the least what happened to Little Miss Blue Eyes. He just wanted to make sure she was really gone. Mike let the blind fall back into place and turned away from the window with a dismissive shake of his head.

Now that he’d had a chance to calm down, he was pretty convinced that Sara had been acting all on her own, that she was nothing more than she seemed, a harmless kook, an angel with her halo screwed on a little too tight.

But she really had you going for a minute there, didn’t she, Parker? a voice inside him taunted. In more ways than one.

“The hell she did,” Mike growled, seeking to deny both the surge of attraction he’d felt for Sara and the fact that she’d managed to shake him. Not even in that one moment when she’d seemed to look straight through him, her blue eyes so clear and honest and searching?

No, not even then. But Mike did admit to an uncomfortable twinge. He had no objection to a woman trying to see through his clothes, but he didn’t want anyone probing deeper than that. There were places in the dark, murky backwaters of his mind even he didn’t want to go, memories he didn’t want dredged out into the light of day.

But Sara Holyfield was no mind reader—not even close. She was about as psychic as...as the wilted plant his secretary had insisted upon leaving on his windowsill to die.

All right, then. So how’d she know about your old wound?

Mike shrugged. A certain knack for perception and a few good hunches. Maybe Sara had even felt the outline of his scar when they had been locked in that clinch. His T-shirt was thin enough. And how’d she known about the knife? A lucky guess, that was all.

And as for all that stuff she’d spouted about him being such a miserable and bitter man... The lady was completely off the mark there. Hell, he was doing better now than he had in the two years since he’d quit his job at the police force. Business was good, at least good enough that he could now afford to have a secretary—when Rosa bothered to show up. And his divorce had become final last fall. He was a free man again, free to go out cruising for gorgeous honeys, free to get lucky every night if he wanted to.

Which didn’t help to explain why he’d reacted to Sara like a man stranded for years on a desert island, pulling her into his arms and kissing her that way. Or why when Mike tried to dismiss the whole episode, he couldn’t seem to get Sara out of his mind.

Settling back into his chair, he reached for the report he’d been working on, but somehow he kept seeing Sara’s woebegone face when he shoved her into the outer office and slammed the door closed.

“I came to you because I honestly needed your help, Mr. Parker.”

Mike experienced a brief twinge of conscience. He supposed he hadn’t needed to get that rough with the poor kid, but she could always find some other investigator. There was bound to be someone who would be happy to play ghost hunt with her and sucker her out of her money.

Another unpleasant thought. Mike thrust it ruthlessly aside. No, he’d done right by getting rid of Sara and forgetting about her.

Because a woman who thought she could read minds and see ghosts, well she was bound to be nothing but trouble. Especially packaged the way Sara was. Her pretty face all vulnerable and innocent, filling a man’s head with stupid noble impulses to fight the baser urges her body was arousing in him.

And what a body. Mike stretched back in his chair, latching his hands behind his head. Good thing he’d resolved to stop thinking about Sara. Because if he closed his eyes, he could still remember how tempting her breasts had looked outlined by the sun, how good it had felt to have those soft curves pressed against him. A faint trace of her perfume still lingered in the air and it brought with it the memory of the kiss they shared. He could still feel the sweet surprise of Sara’s lips yielding beneath his, the imprint of her body in his arms, warm, fragile and feminine. It was almost as though she had left some—some sort of aura behind.

Aura? Mike straightened abruptly, his eyes flying open wide. Had that thought really come from him? His gaze darted around his office like a man who’d misplaced his mind and was trying to locate it again.

Oh, man! Mike rubbed one hand across his unshaven jaw. If he was starting to entertain thoughts about Sara’s aura, he really needed to get out of here for a while, go get himself a cup of coffee or some breakfast. Yeah, likely that was what was wrong with him. He’d gone hungry enough as a kid to know that the world always made more sense on a full stomach.

Shoving an unfinished report in the top drawer, Mike leapt up and strode out of the room. In the outer office, Rosa’s modest switchboard was lit up like the neon sign at a strip joint. Mike paused long enough to switch on the answering machine before trudging down three hot airless flights of stairs that connected his office to the outer world.

He emerged into the heat and noisy blare of the street just in time to catch some little blue-haired punk painting graffiti on his office sign.

“Hey,” Mike bellowed.

The kid dropped the spray can and took to his heels. Swearing, Mike gave halfhearted chase for half a block, slowed by the heat and the lingering effects of his hangover. As the kid darted down a narrow alley, Mike gave it up in disgust and turned back to see how much damage had been done.

Instead of the usual obscenities, the kid had merely altered the sign to read Ma Parker’s Detective Agency, Two Flights Up.

“Great,” Mike muttered. Just what he needed—a graffiti artist with a wit. Grabbing some paper napkins that lay tumbled by a nearby trash can, Mike sought to repair the damage before the paint had a chance to dry, but he only succeeded in smearing it worse.

Preoccupied by his cursing and rubbing, he forgot his own cardinal rule about always being aware of what was happening on the street around him. He didn’t realize he had company until a finger poked him sharply in the back of his shoulder.

Mike spun around to find himself all but hemmed to the wall by a burly gorilla of a man attired in a chauffeur’s uniform, salt-and-pepper hair bushing out from beneath his driver’s cap, his coarse ruddy features and slightly crooked nose shoved in Mike’s face. It was a nose Mike remembered well. He’d broken it himself. Though he had trouble recollecting the big ape’s moniker—Greg or George perhaps—Mike knew all too well the name of the man who held his leash—

Storm. Xavier Storm.

Every muscle in Mike’s body went taut, but he masked his tension behind an insolent drawl. “Well, well, if it isn’t George of the Jungle. What brings you to this part of town? Isn’t the zoo the other way?”

The gorilla’s face scrunched up into a mighty scowl beneath the brim of his driver’s cap. “It’s Mr. George to you, Parker.” He jerked one large callused thumb in the direction of a long black limo that stood idling at the curbside. “Mr. Storm is waiting in the car. He’d like to have a word with you.”

“I’ve got one for him.” With a dark smile, Mike spat out the expletive between clenched teeth.

“That’s two words,” George objected.

“What d’you know? The ape can count.” Mike tried to elbow his way past, but with a low growl the driver clamped his hand around Mike’s upper arm.

Mike shot him a black, warning look, but the goon only tightened his grip, snarling, “Mr. Storm ain’t got no time to waste with you, wise guy. He told me to request your presence and I’m requestin’. Now, it can either be at your convenience or your inconvenience, if you get my drift.”

Mike’s hand clenched into a fist, his immediate impulse to deliver a solid blow to the big ape’s solar plexus. He didn’t know what stopped him. It was what a younger Mike Parker would have done. But maybe he was finally starting to get a little older and wiser. Maybe he remembered too well the result of his last encounter with good old George—three cracked ribs, a dislocated jaw and a night in jail.

And maybe it was nothing more than the besetting sin that had landed Mike in a heap of trouble more than once in his life—curiosity. It had been a couple of years since he had crossed paths with Xavier Storm and they hadn’t exactly parted on friendly terms. What the hell could Storm possibly want with him now?

After a brief hesitation, Mike forced himself to relax. “All right,” he said, breaking George’s grip with a quick, sharp movement. “I’ll go see your boss. Just keep the paws to yourself. I wouldn’t want to have to do anything that would mess up your pretty uniform.”

George gave a contemptuous snort but retreated a step. As Mike sauntered over to the car, the driver dogged his heels like a suspicious pit bull preparing to chomp into Mike’s ankle at any moment if he showed any signs of attempting to escape.

Mike noted the limo awaited him, eased next to the yellow curb of a no-parking zone. But that was typical of Storm’s arrogance, Mike thought sourly. From his penthouse high atop his hotel casino at the end of the boardwalk, the man thought he owned the whole damned town.

George stepped forward to open the rear door. He barely gave Mike time to scramble inside the limo before slamming it closed again. Mike sank down into an air-conditioned interior that was better outfitted than his office—dark luxurious leather upholstery, a minibar, a TV, a personal computer and printer. All of it was as sleek, cool and expensive as the man who sat in the opposite corner, speaking into a cellular phone.

Xavier Storm gave Mike a brief nod of greeting and continued with his conversation, which seemed to consist mostly of dictating orders to whoever was on the other end. Storm could have been an ad for Gentlemen’s Quarterly, not a strand of his thick black hair out of place, his tailored linen trousers crisp, his necktie perfectly arranged, his subtle pinstripe shirt immaculate, the square links that fastened the cuffs simple in design, but obviously solid gold.

He gave an impression of height and power even while lounging in the back of a limo, his hooded green eyes dispassionate, faintly bored as he listened to whatever excuses the subordinate was apparently whining into his ears through the phone. The cast of his features was gaunt, almost predatory. Mike supposed Storm could have been called handsome, if you liked that lean, arrogant look that many women appeared to, including Mike’s own ex-wife.

The chauffeur resettled his large bulk behind the wheel of the car. Never missing a beat in his phone conversation, Storm depressed a button, raising a tinted glass, turning the back seat of the limo into a very private, sealed-off world.

“How cozy,” Mike muttered, his fingers drumming out an impatient tattoo on the armrest. Between the minibar and a seat large enough to be a bed, Storm really had it made. Make-out city if the rumors about Storm were true. An unwelcome image surged into Mike’s head no matter how hard he tried to fight it.

So was it here in the back seat that Storm had seduced Darcy, or had he deemed her worth the cost of a hotel room?

The thought no longer had the power to burn Mike with a jealous rage, but the cold ashes of his hate for Storm remained.

Even if it hadn’t been for the bad blood between them over Darcy, Mike feared his dislike of Storm would have still been intense. There was just something about the man and his mocking arrogance that brought out in Mike a side of himself he didn’t like. Storm’s wealth and breeding was like a slap in the face, a constant reminder to Mike of who he was and where he came from. The son of a no-account gambler and petty con man from the wrong side of the tracks. Little Mikey Parker, the throwaway kid, worth more dead than alive even at the tender age of twelve.

Mike felt familiar bitterness chum through his gut and mumbled, “The hell with this.” He reached for the door only to discover it was locked and there was no sign of a release button. Storm chose that moment to end his conversation. Snapping the phone shut and tossing it on top of the minibar, he turned toward Mike with an urbane smile.

“So sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Parker,” he said in a low purring voice. “It was good of you to agree to meet with me on such short notice.”

Mike shot him a glare. “It’s not as though I had a helluva lot of choice.”

Storm hunched one shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “Mr. George is a very devoted employee. But you have my apologies if he was a little...overzealous in carrying out my commands. I trust I didn’t drag you away from anything too important.” Storm arched one thin black brow as his gaze roved over Mike’s disheveled appearance. “May I offer you anything? A drink perhaps? Or a comb and razor?”

“No thanks, Storm. If I wanted to slit your throat, I would’ve brought my own.”

A glimmer of amusement appeared in Storm’s hooded green eyes. “Do I still detect a note of hostility, Mr. Parker? After all this time, I would have thought the little misunderstanding between us long forgotten.” After a brief hesitation, Storm asked, “How is Dulcie?”

Mike’s jaw clenched. The son of a bitch didn’t even remember her name. “Darcy is doing just fine for all I know. She’s probably living quite well down there in Florida with all the money she managed to clean out of me after the divorce.”

“Pity you didn’t think to have a prenuptial agreement,” Storm drawled. “You could have hardly expected to have formed a permanent relationship with a woman you found in a cake.”

“And you’d know all about permanent relationships, wouldn’t you, Storm?” Mike said with a sneer. “Didn’t I just see in the papers that you finished up your third divorce? In most ball games I’ve ever heard of, three strikes and you’re out.”

For a moment, Storm’s imperturbable mask slipped and his mouth tightened with what might have been pain if he’d been anything other than the coldhearted man he was. “Perhaps it would be better if I come right to the point.”

“Oh? You’ve got a reason for wasting my time? I’m dying to hear it.”

Storm ignored the sarcasm and went on. “I have reason to believe that you may soon be receiving a visit from a woman seeking the services of a detective. A woman from Aurora Falls named Sara—Sara—” Storm frowned slightly as he groped for the name.

Mike gaped at him. He didn’t know quite what he’d been expecting this little tête à tête to be about, but it certainly wasn’t this. He was so stunned, he forgot his usual caution about volunteering information and supplied, “Holyfield. Sara Holyfield.”

Storm’s eyes narrowed. “So the young lady has already been to see you.” It was more of a statement than a question, but Mike was hardly paying attention.

He still couldn’t fathom the connection. Sara and Storm? It was like trying to imagine an angel chatting with the devil over a friendly cup of tea.

“You know Sara Holyfield?” he demanded in utter disbelief.

Storm merely raised his brows. “Let’s just say I know of her.”

“You surprise me, Storm. I thought hardheaded businessmen like you confined your money dealings to this world. What’ve you been trying to do, find a way to take it with you?”

When Storm’s brow furrowed in confusion, Mike took a keen pleasure in needling him. “Looks like your sources are holding out on you. Didn’t they tell you? Sara’s a selfprofessed psychic. Some kind of a medium.” Mike dropped his voice to an exaggerated spooky hush. “The lady deals in ghosts, Storm.”

For a moment Storm looked taken aback, then irritated. “That particular aspect of Miss Holyfield’s life doesn’t interest me. It’s her reason for calling upon you that concerns me. She came to ask you to take on a missing-persons case, didn’t she? To search for a man named...John Patrick.”

“What if she did? What’s it to you?”

“Simply this.” Storm’s reply was soft and chilling. “I don’t want him found.”

Mike stared at him, astonished. As though he feared he had been too brusque, Storm hurried on. “I don’t know what induced this Miss Holyfield to meddle in this affair, but I assure you she has gotten in over her head.”

So she had, if Sara was inadvertently doing something to trample on the mighty Storm’s toes. Oh, angel, what have you stumbled into here? Mike wondered. Though he maintained his nonchalant pose, all his detecting instincts went on full alert.

“If you know something that would be to my client’s benefit, I think you’d better tell me, Storm,” Mike said, shoving to the back of his mind the fact that he had thrown Sara out of his office and told her to go get herself a good shrink.

“All your client needs to know is that her quest to find John Patrick should be dropped. You should advise her to do so, and if she refuses to listen, you’d do well to back off from this case yourself, Mr. Parker.”

“Is that some kind of a threat, Storm?”

“Consider it an offer. I would be prepared to triple your usual rates if you could persuade Miss Holyfield to abandon this foolish search.”

“And what makes you think you can buy me like a cheap suit?”

Storm’s insolent green eyes raked over Mike, from his scuffed sneakers to his T-shirt “Because, my dear Mr. Parker, I could probably calculate your entire net worth to the nearest penny. And I fear the sum would likely be in pennies.”

Mike had been told that he was worth nothing in far more blunt ways but none had ever stung worse than Storm’s elegant way of expressing it.

He told Storm what to do with himself in a short but pithy terms and reached for the door handle, only to curse in frustration. He’d forgotten he was virtually a prisoner in Storm’s little luxury-bound den on wheels.

“I’m sorry if my lack of tact offends you, Mr. Parker. Despite your dislike of me, I bear you no ill will,” Storm said, adopting a more conciliatory tone. “I admire your talents and feel they are completely wasted trying to run some two-bit detective agency. I told you that years ago when I first tried to hire you to run security for my casino.”

“Well, maybe you should have spent more time trying to tempt me and less time tempting my wife,” Mike snarled. “I wasn’t interested in working for you then, Storm. And I’m not now. So I suggest you unlock this damned door before I find my own way out of here, like smashing that fancy little computer of yours through one of the windows.”

His angry gaze collided with Storm’s and held for a moment. Then Storm’s heavy lids drifted down, veiling his eyes. Reaching to his side, he depressed a button and the door lock clicked open.

Mike shoved the door open and thrust himself out of the car, but before he even had time to straighten, Storm’s silky voice echoed from the cavernous recesses of the limo.

“Parker, one last word of caution. You’d be wise to forget about taking on this case.”

“I’ve never been noted for my wisdom. Have a nice day, Mr. Storm.” Mike slammed the door closed and stalked off down the sidewalk without looking back. He charged upstream through a pack of stupid tourists who didn’t seem to know that if they wanted to find the boardwalk, they had to head toward the ocean, not away from it.

Crossing against the light, Mike was nearly grazed by a honking taxi and its cursing driver, but he continued blindly on for several more blocks before he managed to cool down.

When he finally paused to draw breath, he was more irritated with himself than Storm. Irritated that even after all this time, he’d still let the guy get to him.

“What a morning,” he muttered. First the queen of the gypsies and now the casino king, the two of them bizarrely connected by a ghost and a missing chump named John Patrick. It was like stumbling into the plot of an old mystery movie after you’d missed the whole first reel.

But it wasn’t his mystery, Mike reminded himself. Then why had he allowed Storm to believe he’d taken on Sara as a client? The answer was simple. For the first time since he’d met the guy, the smooth-polished Mr. Storm had actually seemed capable of breaking into a sweat like any ordinary Joe. Whether he was alive or dead, this John Patrick person obviously posed some sort of threat to Storm, which meant he had something to hide—a fact that didn’t surprise Mike at all.

Nobody pulled down the kind of millions and deals that Storm had and did it completely honestly. That was a bitter truth Mike had learned long ago from watching the antics of his own father. The only difference between Storm and Mike’s old man, was that Storm appeared to be the better gambler.

But maybe his luck was about to run out. Mike’s mouth set into a grim line. He’d owed Storm one for a very long time, and not just because of that business with Darcy. Even more because Mike had an innate dislike of all cheats and con men. And behind that Ivy League manner and prominent Philadelphia family background, Mike had always had a gut feeling that Xavier Storm would prove to be the biggest fraud of all.

The more he thought about it, the more nosing around into this Patrick business began to appeal to Mike.

Are you sure that’s what’s appealing to you? his inner voice tormented. Or the excuse to see a certain big-eyed, curly-haired angel of a blonde again?

“No way!” Mike blurted out so loud that he startled several teenagers passing by. But despite his denial, he was once again overpowered by that feeling of Sara melting in his arms.

He was quick to shut it down with a vehement shake of his head. Despite the sizzling kiss they’d shared, he didn’t want to be anywhere near a woman who read tea leaves, who might want to try reading him. If he decided to go looking for John Patrick, he’d do it on his own, Mike resolved. “I can do just fine without the psychic services of Miss Sara Holyfield.”

Long after Mike Parker had slammed his way out of the back seat, the black limo continued to idle at the curbside. His shoulders slumped, Xavier Storm leaned forward, bracing his head upon his hands in a display of weariness he never allowed anyone else to see.

Waiting for some instructions from his employer, Storm’s driver eventually became concerned and lowered the tinted glass himself. Twisting around in his seat, Mr. George glanced anxiously back at Storm. “You okay, boss? You get that business with Parker all taken care of?”

With a long sigh, Storm straightened. “No, I handled the situation rather badly. I fear I overplayed my hand, Mr. George.”

A mistake Xavier Storm rarely made, but his usual icy calm had been badly shaken ever since he’d stumbled across the advertisement in the papers and realized that someone was looking for John Patrick. Why? After all these years? When he’d recovered from his initial shock, he initiated a few careful inquiries after the person who’d placed the ad, only to discover the situation had already grown worse.

Only yesterday morning, Miss Holyfield had cheerfully informed the newspaper she was discontinuing her ad in favor of a more direct approach. She was off to Atlantic City to hire herself a famous investigator, Mr. Michael Parker.

Storm’s mouth twitched into a grim smile that held little humor. “Of all the detectives in New Jersey, why did that foolish girl have to drag Parker into this?” he murmured.

“I dunno, boss.” Mr. George’s deep-set eyes darkened with concern. “But what are you going to do? If Parker and the Holyfield girl succeed in finding the truth about John Patrick...” the chauffeur trailed off.

“If they succeed, Mr. George?” Storm’s face set in taut lines, his voice assuming its customary dangerous purr. “Well, we will simply have to make certain that they don’t.”


Three

Mike guided his lipstick red Mustang convertible down the shaded streets of Aurora Falls. It was definitely a one-fast-food-joint type of little burg with Yuppie pretensions. Even the quickie mart sported a blasted pink-and-white awning.

As he turned the corner onto a street that looked suspiciously like one he’d already been down, his radio speaker blared out the sound of the Eagles warning him to take it easy. Probably way too loud for Dullsville, so Mike leaned over and switched the cassette tape off.

He brushed aside a bead of sweat trickling down his brow. The afternoon sun baked down through the open top of the convertible, making Mike curse his choice of apparel—dress blue jeans, his best T-shirt topped off with a navy sports jacket. Mike Parker, P.I. in his professional mode. Ready, perhaps, to make a better impression on Miss Sara Holyfield.

No way! Mike scowled his denial, quick and sharp, that his spiffed-up appearance had anything to do with Sara.

Oh, yeah? a voice inside him taunted. And so who’s the close shave, the freshly trimmed hair and the liberal dose of Mr. Manly cologne supposed to be for? The ghost?

Mike was beginning to find his inner voice damned annoying, especially when it was right. Okay, maybe he had given a thought or two to Sara when he’d spent that extra five minutes in front of the mirror this morning. If he wanted the woman’s cooperation, he had a few fences to mend with her after the way he’d treated her yesterday. Making a pass at her, flinging out sarcastic insults, chucking her out of his office.

When he saw her again, he’d be lucky if she didn’t tell him to go to hell. If he hoped to get any information out of her regarding this Patrick business, then he was going to have to turn on a little charm, a pretty scarce commodity with him.

But first, he was going to have to find her. After Sara had left yesterday, he tossed all the information he’d taken down about her straight into the trash. And wouldn’t you know it? It would be the one day Rosa would creep into work and decide to make herself useful by tidying up his office. Sara’s address and phone number were now buried somewhere in a city Dumpster.

But it shouldn’t be too difficult for Mike to locate her in a small town like this, should it? After all, he was supposed to be a detective. Squeaking through on the yellow end of a traffic light, Mike whipped the Mustang onto what he presumed to be Aurora Fall’s main street.

Mostly because there was a sign that proclaimed helpfully Main Street. The wide boulevard planted with skinny striplings of trees and lined with a row of spanking new shops, tried desperately to convey an impression of old-moneyed charm. Like a gaggle of ladies wearing bonnets, almost every shop front was adorned with one of those prissy awnings, except for—

Mike slammed on the brakes, staring through his windshield • at the store set midway down the block. Instead of an awning, its doorway was overhung by a huge mechanical eye, winking open and closed, the Plasticine lashes drifting coyly up and down. Beneath this device dangled a sign announcing the store’s name in bright red letters. The Omniscent Eye. Then in small print, New Age Bookstore.

And Mike had been wondering how difficult it was going to be to find Sara Holyfield. As he studied the sign, a slow grin spread over his face. He didn’t realize he was holding up traffic until a horn blared loudly behind him.

“All right, all right,” Mike groused.

Easing his car into the nearest parking space, Mike got out, fed some change into the meter and then sauntered down the sidewalk for a closer inspection of Sara’s shop front. While the monster eye whirred merrily over his head, Mike couldn’t help chuckling to himself. He was able to imagine what a stir Sara’s advertising device must be creating with her nearest neighbors, a petite sizes boutique where Mike could see a snooty blonde working behind the counter, and on the other side an antique “emporium” complete with bay window. Mike liked Sara all the better for what must be her defiance of the local awning-and-swirly-sign dress code.

Ducking down, Mike paused to check his reflection in the shop glass, wetting his fingers and slicking down a stray cowlick of hair. Reaching for the handle, he pushed open the door.

As he entered the store, a symphony of chimes tinkled, but the noise was almost lost in the other sounds that swirled around him—watt speakers pouring forth the sounds of pattering rain, birdcalls and chittering monkeys. The illusion of having strayed into some kind of tropical rain forest was helped by the fact that plants littered the surface of counters, fronds and ferns everywhere, green waxy-looking leaves sprouting lush and exotic flowers.

Although small and cramped with merchandise, Sara’s shop seemed somehow cool and soothing after the bustle of summer traffic outside. The place smelled of books and some subtle fragrant incense. As the door eased softly shut behind him, Mike caught himself glancing around.

Shelves lined with texts promised to help him with everything, from thinking himself thin to channeling his past lives. Crowding the aisle were displays of tarot cards, herbal remedies, incense stacked like cinnamon sticks in glass jars, meditation tapes and CDs. Mike didn’t bother looking closer at those. Somehow he doubted he would find familiar musical groups tucked in among them.

Flicking one finger over a weird-looking goddess incense burner, Mike pulled a wry face. He supposed someone must buy this stuff considering some of the things his old man had been able to palm off on unsuspecting marks.

But thinking about his father was only sure to darken his day and Mike was in a reasonably good mood for once. He didn’t want to spoil it, so he was quick to shunt all thoughts of Robert Parker aside.

Edging cautiously past a stand filled with scented candles, he nearly bumped his head against some sort of circular rope hanging adorned with feathers, the sort of thing that could have been woven by a demented spider.

He was beginning to feel a little like the Alice kid who’d jumped down a manhole or something only to find herself alone in some kind of strange wonderland. The shop seemed deserted. But at the back of the store, he saw a doorway hung with a beaded curtain.

He headed for it and found the glass counter display of crystals and silver jewelry. An old-fashioned cash register that would make a satisfying ring when recording a sale sat on the well-polished surface.

Behind the counter, perched on a stool, her head bent over a book, was Sara. She didn’t even seem to have noticed that anybody had come into her shop. A customer could waltz in and rob her blind. But perhaps she didn’t have that kind of problem in a store like this. Maybe shoplifting spiritual doodads was considered bad karma.

Mike paused a moment to study Sara before making his presence known. She was just as beautiful and angelic as he’d remembered. Today she wore her hair pulled up high into a ponytail, ringlets falling down like a silken blond cascade, drawing attention to the delicate nape of her neck. Darkframed reading glasses balanced on the tip of her nose, magnifying the solemn intensity of her blue eyes, making her look at once sweet and sexy and...

And those were exactly the kind of thoughts that had gotten him into trouble with Sara Holyfield yesterday. Mike reined himself in sharply—he was here for business, strictly business. Find out exactly how much Sara knew about John Patrick and then get the hell out of this voodoo joint.

Mike took a step closer to the counter and cleared his throat.

“Yes? May I help you?” Sara asked, looking reluctantly up from her book with a bright smile. Her gaze collided with his and she froze. Her lovely smile faded and Mike was sorry to see it go. But he supposed he could hardly have expected any different.

“Mr. Parker,” she said after a painful pause. “What—what a surprise.”

Mike summoned up his most charming smile. “Yeah, I guess it is. I just happened to be passing through Aurora Falls and I noticed the shop and thought what the heck? I might as well look you up.”

“Really?” she asked politely, but doubt shadowed her porcelain-fine features. The woman was too nice to come right out and call him a liar, but Mike almost wished she would glare at him, shout, order him out of her store. Anything but barrage him with this sad and watchful silence.

After another of those awkward hesitations, she removed her glasses as though she liked him better out of focus. “After yesterday, I never expected to see you again.”

“Well,” Mike started to drawl, then stopped. No, breezy and casual clearly wasn’t going to work here. Time to revert to an enchantingly frank and sincere apology.

“Actually,” he said, straightening a little. “The truth is I wasn’t just passing by. I came here on purpose to find you. Ever since you left my office, I kept thinking that I’d been a little abrupt with you.”

“A little?” Sara’s lashes drifted down as she toyed with the binding of her book. “You accused me of being a charlatan and a lunatic. You slammed your office door in my face.”

Her words were very matter of fact, but beneath the calm, he caught the barest threading of hurt. He’d far rather she be ready to smash her crystal ball over his head.

She sat there with that quietly wistful expression, that sad, sad look in her eyes, until Mike squirmed, feeling like the kind of creep that goes around kicking helpless kittens and telling kids there isn’t a Santa Claus.

Dropping all pretense and slick moves, Mike stepped straight up to the counter and heaved a gusty sigh. “Look, Sara, I—I’m really sorry. I know I behaved like a total jerk. I guess I was—um—having a bad aura day. But give me another chance, okay?”

He bent down to peer coaxingly into her face. “My aura’s much better today. Wanna feel?”

“No, thank you,” she said. Her lips twitched with the beginnings of a smile, although she whipped her hands off the counter and safely out of his reach.

She risked a look up at him and he saw that the light was back in her eyes. They stared at each other for a long moment, and to Mike it seemed as though the air in the shop suddenly changed, becoming closer, warmer, heavier with the weight of something. Auras, incense. Hell, he didn’t know what it was. He just found himself leaning closer, pulled in by the tug of her big blue eyes, overcome by the urge to kiss Sara full on the mouth.

Their lips were little more than a whisper apart when Sara blinked and took flight, scrambling off her stool like a startled butterfly. Taking a wary step back, she folded her hands, saying, “Well, it—it was very nice of you stop by.”

Mike jerked upright, wondering once again what the hell had come over him. Sara’s tone sounded nervous, but dismissive. He’d better get his act together and remember what he’d come here for. Time to lay all his cards on the table.

“Actually,” he confessed, “I didn’t come all the way to Aurora Falls just to apologize.”

“Oh? Then why are you here, Mr. Parker?”

“Not Mr. Parker,” he said with a trace of irritation. “I asked you to use my first name, remember?”

“Alright...Michael.”

Michael? Alarm bells should have been going off in his head. But somehow he liked the way she said it, as light and silvery as the little chimes that tinkled over her doorway. Then, too, he was distracted as she came out from behind the counter.

Flowed out would have been a more accurate description. She had to be one of the most graceful women he’d ever known, and he considered himself an expert on the wiggle and jiggle of the feminine form. His ex, Darcy, had moved with a blatantly sultry sway, very earthy, but Sara seemed to float on a cloud, enticing a man with thoughts of more heavenly pleasures.

A sundress of shimmering blue swirled to midcalf about her shapely legs, the silky pattern bespangled with little stars and half-moons as though Sara had draped her willowy form in a bit of heaven. The bodice was modest and sweet rather than plunging, but the effect was somehow even more tantalizing, thin spaghetti straps keeping the fabric tugged well up and over the gentle swell of her breasts.

Was she wearing a bra today? Mike caught himself wishing for a blaze of sunlight when the sound of Sara’s voice called his wayward male mind back to order.

“Michael?” she said in a tone that suggested she’d been forced to repeat herself. “Just why are you here, then?”

Why was he here? Mike wrenched his eyes from the curve of Sara’s breast. Why was he here? Oh, yeah.

He paced off a few steps, jingling the change in his pockets if for no other reason than to make sure he kept his hands to himself. “It just so happens,” he said, “that I unexpectedly cleared up some of the things I’d been working on, so now I have a little time available. I’ve reconsidered the case you brought me and decided I can take it after all.”

“Oh,” Sara said softly.

Oh? That was it. Just oh? Mike felt unreasonably piqued. He hadn’t expected her to fling herself at him in a fit of gratitude, but it wouldn’t have hurt her to show some enthusiasm. Maybe she hadn’t understood him, so he added, “What I mean is that I can help you find your missing dude. John Patrick, wasn’t it?”

Sara nodded, showing she understood quite clearly. Then she floored him by demanding, “Why?”

“Why? Why. what?”

“Why did you change your mind so suddenly?”

Mike stifled a grimace. He should have guessed she might ask that, but he was not prepared to tell her that he was out to nail Xavier Storm. That he thought John Patrick might be the key. Somehow Mike couldn’t picture his angel going in for revenge as a good motive, so he hedged, saying, “I told you, I’ve got some time to kill and your case sounded...um, interesting. And I can use the extra work. That’s all there is to it.”

“Is it?” She gave him one of those looks he didn’t like, soft and clear and searching. He didn’t know if there was really anything to this psychic business, but he did his best to block his thoughts until Sara averted her gaze.

“Yes, those are my reasons,” he insisted. “Now if you’ve got the time to fill me in on some stuff, I’d like to get started today.”

Sara didn’t reply immediately. A tiny furrow marred her brow and then she said, “I’m very sorry, Michael. But I’m afraid you’ve driven a long way for nothing. I don’t need your services any longer.”

“Why? Have you already hired another detective?” Mike was surprised to feel a stab of jealousy tear through him.

But to his relief, Sara shook her head. “No, I’ve simply decided that I can handle finding John Patrick on my own. I checked this book out of our local library yesterday evening.”

“Book? What kind of book?”




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