“I can’t. There has to be something in your mind.”
“Nice shot, but it doesn’t prove anything.” He kept his voice low, almost crooning. “Make me believe it.”
“I don’t do parlor tricks,” she snapped, goaded. She was drawing more and more taut, the force of his nearness wearing on her nerves.
“Not even to prove yourself innocent of murder?” He pushed her even further. “This isn’t a party, babe, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Her head whipped around, dark hair flying, and she gave him the full force of her glare, blue eyes narrowing like a cat’s. “I suppose I could change you into a toad,” she said speculatively, then shrugged. “But someone has already beaten me to it.”
He gave a bark of laughter, startling her. “You’ve seen too many of the old ’Bewitched’ shows; that’s witchcraft, not ESP.”
The slow circling finally got to her. Abruptly she bolted, toward the kitchen. He let her go, following closely behind her. “Coffee,” he said blandly. “Good idea.”
She hadn’t planned on making coffee, of course. She had simply been fleeing. But she seized gratefully on something to do, as he had known she would. She was rattled, and fighting it every inch of the way. He was beginning to realize how important control was to her. Too bad he couldn’t let her keep it.
She opened a cabinet door and took down a canister of coffee. Her hands were visibly shaking. Then she halted, her back to him as she carefully set the canister down on the countertop. “I don’t read minds,” she blurted. “I’m not telepathic.”
“Aren’t you?” That wasn’t what Dr. Ewell had said, exactly. He felt a tinge of triumph. Finally she was starting to talk to him, rather than resisting him. He wanted to put his arms around her and hold her close, shelter her from the trauma of her own memories, but it was too soon. She was physically aware of him now, but she was still frightened, still hostile.
“Not—not a classic telepath.” She looked down at the coffee. He could see that her hands were still shaking.
“So what are you?”
So what are you? Marlie heard the question echo in her mind. Freak, some people might say. Charlatan was the word others would use. Detective Hollister hadn’t been that polite. He’d called her a fake, and possibly an accomplice to murder. It was ridiculous, of course. Even he would have had to give up on that idea by now, faced with a complete lack of evidence, opportunity, and motive. But he’d checked her out, he’d actually gone to Boulder and talked to Dr. Ewell. He knew about her now. He might not believe, but at least now he was asking instead of simply accusing. But how much did he know? Dr. Ewell could teach discretion to a diplomat, when he so chose; how much would he have told a stranger, even if that stranger was a cop? Marlie hoped desperately that he didn’t know it all, because then he would ask her about it, and she didn’t think she could bear to bring it all up now. She felt oddly vulnerable and exposed, her nerve endings raw. He had done that to her, forcing his big body so close to her that his heat had seared her skin, deliberately brushing against her, blatantly staring at her breasts.
She didn’t, want to be even more aware of him than she had already been. She was safe in her solitude.
“What are you?” he repeated calmly.
She turned to face him, her movements slow and deliberate. She squared her shoulders as if bracing herself for an ordeal. “I’m a clairvoyant empath. Or I was.” Suddenly confused, she rubbed her forehead. “I suppose I still am.”
“But you have read minds before.”
“Maybe. Not exactly.” It was difficult to describe being so linked with someone that you could interpret his thoughts through his emotions. Sometimes the link was so strong that it happened.
Choosing his words carefully, he said, “According to Dr. Ewell, you were the most sensitive receptor he’s ever known.”
She gave him a harassed look. “Receptor’s as good a word as any. I pick up—I used to pick up things. Emotions, energy from actions. Thoughts, too, sometimes, but usually it was emotion rather than actual thoughts. The static was unbelievable.”
“That’s why you joined Dr. Ewell’s study, for the peace of controlled surroundings.”
She bit her lip. “Yes. I couldn’t drive down a street, shop in a mall, go to a movie. It was like a thousand voices screaming at me at once. Most people don’t make any effort to shield themselves, they just blast everything out like a shotgun, spewing their emotions in all directions.”
“You didn’t live at the Institute, though.”
“No, I had a little place outside of Boulder. It was peaceful.”
“I know about what happened six years ago.”
The brusque statement was like being hit between the eyes. She reeled from the force of the blow, staggering back against the cabinet. He moved, coming toward her with that lethal, catlike grace so unusual in such a big man. Dazed, appalled, she held out a hand to ward him off. With ludicrous ease he brushed it aside and instead pulled her into his arms.
The shock of his hard body against hers was stunning. He was incredibly hot, burning her even through their layers of clothing. His muscled arms were as unyielding as steel bands; they forced her closer, until her thighs were against his, until her breasts were flattened against the hard ridges of his stomach muscles. She felt weak, disoriented, and automatically clutched his biceps in an effort to steady herself.
“Don’t be scared,” he murmured, bending his head down to hers. His warm breath tickled her ear as he gently nuzzled the side of her neck. He licked the small hollow beneath her ear and the sensation, as tender as a mother’s kiss, made her begin to tremble. “I won’t let anything like that happen to you again. I know you’re skittish with men now, babe, but I’ll take care of you. I’m going to take real goodcare of you.”