Bonnie Vanak - The Empath

Palm tree fronds rustled in secret communication with each other. Raucous laughter from the Tiki Bar drifted over the sands. It sounded like fun. I’m so damn alone .

You are not alone .

Maggie whipped her head around. Wind tossed her hair as she searched into the gathering twilight. Nothing but wind and distant laughter. But someone was here.

“Get a grip, Mags,” she whispered. Too much time alone, then the erotic dream, stirred her imagination.

But she could smell him? Pine, earth, a woodsy pleasing scent tugged her in a nostalgic way.

I’m here , the same, deep voice assured in her mind. Quiet, nonthreatening. Maggie wrapped her arms about herself. Maybe I’m insane .

Only those of us craving absolute power turn, losing their minds, what’s left of their souls .

A subtle note of warning threaded through it. She shivered.

Do you smell that? Be careful .

This was too weird. Maggie went to cut off her imaginary friend by thinking of cell mitosis. She stopped. The heels of the wind brought a faint but foul odor.

Like rotting seaweed at low tide mixed with raw sewage. Except this stench carried nothing natural about it. Maggie fingered the chunky turquoise bracelet on her wrist. Grappling with control, she decided to indulge this voice, a fragment left over from her dream. A strong male presence, wanting to protect her.

You’re wearing turquoise. Good .

Turquoise fends off evil seaweed?

No. But it fends off an evil werewolf. For a while .

Maybe I should wear silver as well. Fend off rotting seaweed and werewolves .

Silver? That doesn’t stop them. I’ve tried .

Fear spilled through her like ice water. Tiny hairs on the nape of her neck saluted the air.

You’ve nothing to fear. I’m here now. But don’t remove the bracelet .

The quiet, masculine voice settled her raging nerves. Maggie rubbed her arms, reasoning this internal monologue was a stress reliever.

Superman saves the day. And turquoise is the kryptonite to fend off the Big Bad …

Wolf .

Ridiculous. Wolves in Florida? Only in bars. Her imagination was running amok, result of being alone too long.

She needed company. The pull of human laughter from the Tiki Bar tugged at her like a siren song. Maggie glanced at the dog lying drowsily on the tile. “I’m going out for a bit, Misha. Just a drink and sunset. Stay here and guard the house. And if any burglars break in, try not to lick them to death, deal?”

The dog raised her brown head, then slumped back to the tile. A lump clogged Maggie’s throat. She locked the sliders, went to the bathroom and brushed her hair. Dark purple shadows lined deep hollows beneath her eyes. She thought about cosmetics, decided she wasn’t getting married today. Giving a cursory glance at the turquoise bracelet, she sniffed.

No more imaginary voices. Unhooking the clasp, she let it fall to the counter with a clatter. For a moment, a heavy sigh echoed in her mind.

Ridiculous.

After changing into white linen shorts, a turquoise sleeveless blouse and Birkenstocks, she set off down the beach.

Sand sank into her toes. Maggie slipped out of her sandals, wriggled her toes with delight. Sandals swinging from one hand, she ambled toward the trilling laughter and clinking glasses.

Minutes later, she stood before the thatched hut bar. Buxom women in tight shorts and tighter T-shirts clustered about the bar like bees around a honeycomb. Younger men in wild tropical prints and khaki shorts buzzed around them. Some grizzled salty types downed beer and roared at off-color jokes. She recognized only one person. John, a client, was engaged in serious conversation with a taller man.

Doubts assailed her. What was she doing here? She didn’t drink. But something propelled her forward. Reasoning too many solitary days and nights isolated in her grief caused this yearning, she opted for the company. Maggie shouldered her resolve, slipped into her sandals again and approached.

The bar was elbow to elbow, people sitting on the wood benches, smoking, talking, laughing. Maggie sauntered to the counter with more confidence than she felt. Had she been so alone all this time she’d forgotten how to order a drink?

Then he caught her eye. Maggie’s heart hammered out an erratic beat. She stared.

A black T-shirt stretched taut over broad, muscled shoulders. Faded denim jeans hugged lean hips, molded to muscular thighs the size of tree trunks. Dark bristles shadowed his taut jawline. He had arresting features, a strong nose, firm, sensual mouth and silky black brows. A hank of inky hair hung over his forehead, spilled down past his collar. But his eyes, oh, they commanded her attention. Expressive and dark brown, they were soulful and deep. They observed the bar scene a little sadly, and he held himself aloof.

As if he, too, did not truly belong here.

Biceps bulged as he lifted his beer and drank. Fascinated, she watched his throat muscles work. He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand.

His gaze swung around, captured hers. For a moment Maggie forgot to breathe. Her hand fled to her throat. Arousal, sharp and deep, flooded her. A deep throb began between her legs.

You’re pathetic. Getting all hot and bothered over a stranger at a bar .

Maggie jerked her gaze away, shouldered her way to the bar. Trying to squish between the bodies crowding the bar, she barely managed to push through. Why the hell was she here, anyway? Ready to flee for the safety of home and hearth, she started to turn when a deep male voice interjected.

“Room here.”

Tall, dark and gorgeous gestured to the empty seat beside him. She hesitated.

“Grab it before it, or the sunset, is gone.”

His mouth, chiseled and full, quirked in a charming half smile. Maggie mustered a smile and joined him. What the hell. She needed this.

“Drink?” he asked. His voice was deep, smooth, the burn of whiskey sliding down a parched throat.

She didn’t like strangers buying drinks for her. The man arched a silky black brow. “You buy. I get the bartender’s attention. Deal?”

Fair enough. “Pinot noir.”

“Good choice,” he murmured. The stranger signaled. A bartender floated over as if jerked by invisible strings and a minute later, a rounded glass of ruby liquid sat before Maggie.

The stranger lifted his glass. “Here’s to the beauty of nature,” he murmured.

They clinked, drank. Maggie savored the rich taste on her tongue. Awkwardness came over her. So long since she’d conversed with a total stranger other than clients. And such a gorgeous one. She struggled for conversational openers. Cell mitosis wouldn’t do.

“I usually don’t like crowds of strangers, but the scenery in my room was boring. How many times can you watch hurricane storm stories on the Weather Channel without wanting to drown yourself in the bathtub?” the man said.

Maggie gave a reluctant smile. “I tried drowning myself in the bathtub once after watching one, but I had just returned from the hairdresser and had a good hair day for once.”

He laughed. “Here’s to good hair days.”

Maggie clinked glasses. She took another brief swallow. Here we go again, what do you do, do you come here often …

“Baths are overrated. Too much water, unless you share.”

Maggie stole another glance at his firm chin and the delicious sprinkling of stubble. His mouth was full and sensual. Most striking were the eyes, dark brown with swirls of caramel. Enticing. Hypnotic.

He tipped his glass toward her. “Nicolas Keenan, here by way of New Mexico.”

Maggie smiled. “Maggie Sinclair, here by way of the beach.”