Iris Johansen - Eight Days To Live

“That’s an understatement.” She started to take the blanket, but he was already tucking it around her. His hand brushed her throat, and she inhaled sharply. It was only the lightest touch but her skin tingled, burned.

And he knew it. His gaze was on her face, and there was a stillness, a watchfulness, that made her chest tighten and her heart start to pound. It was like that primitive moment at the cottage when he’d thrown Weismann down before her. He was wrapped, surrounded in heat, but now it had nothing to do with violence and everything to do with sexuality.

She jerked her own eyes away and moved back away from him. She huddled under the blanket and tried desperately to think of something that would break that intimacy. “It’s soft…”

“Cashmere.” His gaze never left her face. “Marc has a lot of business executives who hire him to fly them around. They appreciate the finer things.”

She looked around the luxuriously appointed cabin. Thick, gray carpet, twelve plush seats in burgundy suede framed in polished mahogany. Lina and Jock were sitting near the back of the plane, and Lina’s eyes were already closed.

“I appreciate the finer things, too.” She stroked the feather-soft wool. “Particularly when they have to do with comfort. Celine and I never agreed about designer luxuries. She thought a little discomfort was worth the-” She stopped as her eyes started to sting. They had been so frantically busy that Celine’s death had faded from the forefront of her mind. Now the memory was back and all the more poignant for the suddenness of its coming. She blinked fast, hard. “Damn. Sneak attack.”

“The worst kind of ambush.” That almost primitive sensuality was gone though the electricity still lingered between them. Caleb handed her his handkerchief as he sat down in the seat across the aisle from her.

She dabbed at her eyes. “I want to go back. I want her alive. I want to change things. If I hadn’t agreed to that damn art show and gone to Paris, then she wouldn’t be dead.”

“That’s true. Unless you believe in destiny. You could also say that if you’d never painted Guilt , none of this would have happened. Maybe changing one piece of the puzzle wouldn’t make a difference.”

“It’s all crazy. I told you, it was pure chance that Guilt looks like their idea of Judas. He’s a figment of my imagination. A dream.”

His brows rose. “Dream?”

She hadn’t meant to blurt that out. Certainly not to him. “Maybe I did see his face in a few dreams, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

He was smiling. “Oh, Jane. You do protest too much.”

“Bullshit.”

“I realize that admitting that you may have a tinge of weirdness yourself is against your every instinct. You’re such a wonderfully grounded, practical woman. It took all your tolerance just to accept that I’m a freak.”

“I’m not that closed-minded. I’ve come to realize that there are some people with legitimate psychic gifts. I’m just not one of them.”

“Then why did I immediately feel a closeness to you the moment we met? I knew you’d understand whatever I-”

“I don’t know why you would feel like that,” she interrupted.

“And you don’t want to hear it. I scared you tonight. You don’t want to claim any similarity with me. You’re shying away from everything about me that you don’t understand.”

“You didn’t scare me. But you’re right, there are too many things about you that I don’t understand.”

“Then ask me. I don’t promise to answer everything, but I’ll be honest with what I do tell you.”

She wasn’t sure she wanted him to be honest when she remembered the brutality of the night. And when she was still overpoweringly aware of how he had aroused her only a moment ago.

Yes, she did. He had fascinated and intrigued her since the moment he had come into her life. Admit it, she thought. I want those answers. “You seem to go into people’s minds and mold them and pull out whatever you need so easily. Yet you told me that you wanted to be careful with Adah so that it would be smoother. Is it harder to do than it appears?”

“Sometimes. It depends on the mind. Most of the time it’s like skating on firm, fresh ice. Sometimes it’s a fight to get in, and that can cause serious damage unless I take my time. But I can overcome it.”

“But you didn’t take your time with Weismann.”

“No, I didn’t give a damn. He was already a dead man as far as I was concerned.”

The blunt ruthlessness of the statement shocked her. He had promised to be honest with her, and he was keeping to his word.

He smiled crookedly. “Was that a little too much information for you? Is that all you wanted to know?”

She was silent a moment. “No, one more question. You said it was very rare that you ran up against someone you couldn’t manipulate. Even if you try all your bag of tricks?”

“After all these years of practice, I’m close to perfect.” He shrugged. “But yes, there are a few people out there who I can’t touch. Very strong minds. And then there are the quagmires. Whenever I hit one of those, I pull out and run like hell.”

“Quagmires? What’s that?”

“I call it the quagmire effect. There are some people whose minds are constructed oddly. They don’t necessarily even have to be strong. They’re just… different. It’s like being caught in quicksand. Intense pain and sensation of smothering. If it went on too long, I think it would kill me.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve only had it happen twice. The first time I didn’t know what was happening, and I backed out right away. But I was still dizzy and sick for a day afterward. The second time, I couldn’t get out of his mind and I blacked out. I didn’t wake up for two days. I was very careful after that. I’ve learned to recognize the signs.” He smiled. “You see, I trust you. I’m letting you know all my vulnerabilities.”

“Perhaps a tiny percentage of your vulnerabilities. You’re as heavily armored as a tank.”

He chuckled. “Next time I’ll reveal another Achilles’ heel. I’ll be like Scheherazade telling you a tale a night to keep you interested.”

“More like a narrator from the Twilight Zone .” She pulled the blanket higher around her. “I’m going to take that nap now.”

“Do that. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” He was silent a moment. “Have there been other dreams, Jane?”

She tensed. “Everyone has dreams.”

“Like that one?”

She didn’t want to answer. Why was she feeling compelled to do it? “Sort of. Maybe.”

“What’s it like when you dream? Disjointed?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know. Clear. Very clear. As if I’m there, part of it. It’s as if a story is… unfolding.”

“Interesting. Will you tell me more about them?”

“No.”

“If you change your mind…”

“No.”

“Dreams don’t make you weird. Or at least only in the most minor category on the scale. Believe me, I know about weird.”

“I do believe you,” she said emphatically.

He chuckled. “I know you do. Tell me, where is Guilt right now.”

“MacDuff’s Run. MacDuff took it for safekeeping. Why?”

“I want to see it. I want to see your dream, Jane,” he added thoughtfully. “It must have been a very powerful dream. Do you believe that it could have been brought on by the thoughts and vibes of all those thousands of worshipers in Judas’s temple?”

Shock jolted through her. “No, I do not.”

“Just a thought.”

A very disturbing thought. But then Caleb was a very disturbing man. She wished she’d never made that verbal slip about the dream of Guilt . He would probe and gnaw at it until he was satisfied or had it in pieces and devoured.