Sandra Steffen - Slightly Psychic

“Steffen is one of those authors whose characters and their emotions ring true, which makes each book a heartfelt treat.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

“Steffen’s characters are thoroughly and thoughtfully conceived…the charm of this tale lies in her lovely portrayal of complex family relationships.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Cottage

“Sandra Steffen is a veritable master at creating characters. On a scale of 1–10, a 15!”

—ReaderToReader.com

“Steffen knows exactly how hard to tug on readers’ heart-strings for maximum effect.”

—Booklist

“A powerfully riveting story that pulls the reader in from page one and doesn’t stop…one of the most original plots I’ve ever seen…flawless characterization.”

—Romance Reviews Today on Come Summer

Slightly Psychic isn’t Sandra Steffen’s first venture into tales about unexplainable psychic phenomena. Child of Her Dreams, one of her earliest novels (about a woman who is clairvoyant), won the 1994 National Reader’s Choice award. Since then more than thirty-five of Sandra’s novels have graced bookshelves in the United States and a dozen foreign countries. When she isn’t writing, she’s either thinking about writing or honing her slightly psychic abilities on her ever-growing circle of friends and family.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Dear Reader,

I’ve just filled three hundred pages, and now, when I’m all out of words, I wish for a few more to tell you how pleased I am to be able to entertain you with my newest creation, Slightly Psychic. Goodness, I have goose bumps!

Partway into telling this story, I almost had to change the title to Slightly Superstitious. First my computer had a motherboard problem (oh, the angst!), then a few weeks ago it shut down and refused to restart. It seems the fan fell off inside. Since I’ve never thrown salt over my shoulder and my cat is black and brings me nothing but joy, I’m sticking with my original title. After all, we make our own luck…but all women (and some men) become Slightly Psychic eventually. I have a hunch you already knew that.

I’m off to buy a new computer so I’m ready when the inspiration for my next novel washes over me. Meanwhile, I would love to hear from you. Since I’m not proficient in deciphering telepathic messages, please write to me via my Web site, www.sandrasteffen.com.

Until next time and always,

Sandra

For the newlyweds

Brad and Kelli

“For those who believe, no proof is necessary.

For those who don’t believe, no proof is possible.”

—Author unknown

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

Lila Delaney waited to look the detective in the eye until after he ushered her into the small, cluttered office at police headquarters in Hartford. He watched her closely as she took her seat at the marred, Formica-topped table. A second detective adjusted the blinds before dropping to the chair opposite her. They didn’t believe what she’d told them over the phone.

“You said you know where Holly Baxter is,” the first one said the instant introductions were out of the way.

Lila’s reply was an anxious little cough that did nothing to alleviate the nerves jumping in her stomach. She hadn’t expected this to be easy. After all, she wasn’t a world-renowned psychic who could foretell the future. She simply had an unexplainable intuition that came in handy when helping her friends make career choices or find a lost pet. She’d never tried to help the police find a missing person. Of course, until this week, she’d never experienced a vision of this magnitude, and she’d certainly never ignored her own voice of reason, the one telling her to run, race, bolt in the opposite direction. Instead, here she was in Connecticut preparing to tell the authorities what she knew.

They wouldn’t have agreed to her request for a meeting if their meager leads hadn’t fizzled. The fact was, they were desperate to find Senator Charles Baxter’s twenty-two-year-old daughter, Holly, who’d been missing for four days. Foul play was suspected, and everyone feared the worst.

“On the phone you said you saw Holly in your dreams.” The older of the two, Lieutenant Owens was doing the talking, Detective Malone the smirking.

Lila couldn’t decide who they reminded her of. Not Batman and Robin or the Lone Ranger and Tonto. Fred and Rickie? Ralph and Ed? Her longtime fiancé Alex Richardson often complained that she watched too much late-night television. He was due back from Dallas tomorrow. Surely if he were here, he would have tried to talk her out of this.

“Ms. Delaney?”

Hearing her name startled her. Recovering, she said, “My vision was similar to a dream, except I was awake when I saw her.”

Owens strummed his fingers on the tabletop. Malone leaned back in his metal chair, bored. Lila could only sigh. Trying to make a nonbeliever believe was like trying to make a color-blind man see yellow, green and blue.

Leveling both men an I’m-not-enjoying-this-any-more-than-you-are stare, she said, “Look. I’m a busy psychologist with a successful practice. I didn’t have to come here, and I want your word that you won’t exploit me or my efforts to help.” She waited for Owens to nod before she continued. “I believe Holly Baxter is being held in an old stone inn deep in the Hartford countryside.”

The detectives couldn’t help leaning ahead in their chairs. “What do you mean she’s being held?”

“Her hands were cuffed.”

“But she’s alive?”

Lila had seen Holly Baxter writhing, an expression of intense pain on her young face. Closing her eyes on a feeling of deep and imminent sadness, she said, “I believe she is, yes.”

“Where is this inn?” Malone asked, speaking for the first time.

This was the part Lila most dreaded trying to explain. “I don’t know where it is, exactly.”

“Oh, for crying out loud. She’s wasting our time.”

Malone was going to be no help whatsoever. Turning to his partner, Lila said, “I’m pretty sure I’ll know it when I see it.”

She wasn’t the only one who was surprised when he said, “Let’s go.”

Twenty minutes later she was sitting in the passenger seat of an unmarked police car heading out of Hartford. Other than occasional static on the police radio, not a sound came from the interior of that car. Keeping her mind clear of doubt, she concentrated on the falling leaves and the shadows cast by the evening sun. Every so often she told Detective Malone to turn right or left. She lost the trail a few times, and had to ask him to turn around. Each time they neared an old house that had been converted into a bed-and-break-fast inn, he slowed slightly, waiting for her to say something.