Feeling a strong urge to obey, she went reluctantly to the chair, perched on the edge. Now what? She looked around the kitchen for a weapon, anything she could use against this . . .
What the hell was he
?
“Give me your hands,” he ordered, holding his own large hands out.
She balled her hands into fists in her lap, wincing at the pain. Then she felt that strange urge again—the compulsion to follow his order. Of their own volition, her trembling hands came off her lap, and placed themselves, palms up, on the table. She saw they were scraped from her fall on the floor, but her fear at her inability to control them obliterated the pain.
Luke placed his hands over them, and a heated tingling immediately shot up her arms. It was like she’d placed her finger in a light socket, only it wasn’t painful. She tried to pull back, but he tightened his fingers.
“Easy now,” he soothed. “Part of what you’re feeling is the natural Sentinel/conductor energy. Part of it is energy I’m sending to your wounds. That was me closing the door and moving the chair, by the way.”
And that’s me, either being murdered by a space alien, or being taken away to the psych ward at Harris County Hospital.
“Better?” Luke asked, and she realized her palms weren’t stinging anymore.
She nodded, and he released her. She stared at her hands. They weren’t healed, but they weren’t as red.
“Our abilities are somewhat limited,” he said, watching her closely. “I can’t totally heal wounds or cure diseases, but I can send a calming energy to an injury. It helps reduce the inflammation that causes the pain.”
She looked at her palms again. “I’m hallucinating.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I must be drugged.” Her gaze shifted to her coffee. “You put something in my coffee!”
“No.” He picked up her mug, took several swallows, set it back down. “See? It’s not drugged. You’re not dreaming. You’re not hallucinating. This is real, Marla.”
Her practical accountant’s mind simply couldn’t accept that. There were nice orderly laws that kept the universe running smoothly, laws like gravity, aerodynamics, and thermodynamics. She’d had a double major in college—accounting and science—so she was familiar with these laws. Doors closing on their own, chairs levitating, spontaneous healing were
not
the natural order of the universe.
“Sometimes you just have to step outside the box,” Luke said quietly. “Do you believe in God, Marla? That’s something that can’t be seen or touched, yet it’s a reality to many.”
God’s existence was a questionable subject since the night of the attack. Yet she’d never quite relinquished her hold on something she’d believed as far back as she could remember. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Here’s something you can’t deny.” He pushed back his chair and rose. He came around the table, very large, very intimidating.
With a little squeak, she leaped up, intending to flee, but he was there. He gripped her upper arms, drew her closer, until only a few inches separated them. The assault on her senses was instant, the electricity, the powerful current flowing between their bodies, heating her blood like molten lava. She could only stare up at him, caught in the snare of those glowing blue eyes.
“There’s no denying this,” he told her. “No denying the power of the chemistry between us, of the sexual surge just beneath the surface, waiting to be triggered by chakra energies. When we met at the bar Friday night, that wasn’t static electricity you felt. That was the Sentinel/conductor energy. You can’t tell me you’re not affected.”
She didn’t understand any of it, but her body did, responding to his like a spark to lighter fluid.
Mind over matter,
she told herself. She damn well would deny it. She shook her head. “No. There’s nothing between us.”
Dark blond brows raised “No? Then how do you explain the fact that your nipples are hard? That you’re also aroused elsewhere? What would you call it?”
She didn’t have to look down at her swollen breasts to know what he saw, although she didn’t have a clue how he could know about the wetness between her legs. She struggled to find some logical explanation in this insanity. Thought of the stories of women who’d been kidnapped and, oddly, bonded with their abductors. “Stockholm syndrome.”
He had the nerve to laugh. Shaking his head, he gave her that sexy, devastating smile. “I don’t think so.”
Her body didn’t think so, either. She shivered, and he shifted, pulling her against him. “Hey, it’s okay. Really. This attraction between us is a
good
thing, Marla. It means you’re a natural conductor, and you can help me.”
She rested against him, mentally exhausted. It was surprisingly comforting, in a totally insane/Stockholm syndrome/raging lust kind of way. His body was hard, yet that only reinforced the sense of solidness and security surrounding her. She wasn’t a small woman, but he dwarfed her. Her face was pressed against a very impressive chest. She drew a deep breath. He smelled great.
It was crazy—this whole thing was whacked—but somehow, she actually was starting to believe him. Maybe it was all that warmth flowing through her, the whisper of safety and protection she so desperately sought. Or maybe it was the way he was holding her, with infinite gentleness. No man had ever held her that way.
Or maybe it was the pheromones zinging around them. He was right about one thing—there was no denying the incredible chemistry between them.
And that, more than anything, was starting to convince her. Ever since that night eleven years ago, when she’d helplessly watched her sister being brutally beaten and raped, she’d had no sexual desire, at least not with a partner.
She definitely had normal, biological urges, but whenever she attempted to date someone or act on those urges, she went dead inside. Since she felt absolutely nothing sexual for women, either, she knew it wasn’t a gender preference issue. Watching Julia being raped had so traumatized her, her body simply wasn’t able to respond to sexual situations.
Until she’d met Luke. Then her body’s reaction had been instantaneous—and explosive. It responded that way every time she got into close proximity to him, subsided when she was away from him. Her reaction was specifically to him. What were the odds of that?
What if he is really telling the truth?
Like
The Twilight Zone
, only in real life.
She just didn’t know. Nor did she have much choice in the matter—for now. So she’d hear him out, and see where it went from there.
She pushed against him, and he let her go. Backing away, she shoved her glasses back up her nose and tried to finger comb her wild mass of hair out of her face.
“All right,” she said. “I want something for this headache and some more coffee. Then I’m ready to listen.”
JULIA Reynolds lived her life by discipline and order. Both work and personal endeavors were planned out in a detailed schedule, performed methodically and flawlessly. It was the best way to avoid chaos, which to her way of thinking, clouded the mind with unnecessary clutter and emotions.
Being in control of her life and her emotions was crucial to her well being.
So she got up at nine o’clock Sunday morning (the one day she allowed herself to sleep that late), had her customary egg white omelet, whole wheat toast, cup of blueberries, and coffee. Not that her sensible diet seemed to have any effect on her voluptuous figure, she thought wryly. Reynolds women just had nonskinny genes.
Like it really mattered what she looked like.
She cleared the breakfast dishes and then enjoyed her second—and last—cup of coffee as she read the newspaper. Her leisurely Sunday mornings were a luxury she savored, and she read until noon sharp. She didn’t care that sitting so long left her stiff; reading the paper was worth it.
She pushed up from the chair and reached for her cane. Eleven years ago, they’d thought she wouldn’t walk again. But Reynolds women were made of sturdy stuff. Julia’s determination had been as strong as the plates and pins holding her shattered leg together.
She laboriously made her way to her study and settled at her desk to grade test papers from the differential equations mathematics course she taught at the University of Houston. She found a deep satisfaction working with numbers. They were so precise, so predictable, so stable. Unlike a lot of things in life, you always knew what to expect when dealing with numbers.
She was well aware why she felt that way, why she lived her unremarkable life in the shelter of order and system and objectivity. Knew and accepted it. She’d done all the victim assistance and self-help programs; her parents’ hard-earned money had likely funded college for Dr. Jackson’s kids. Julia accepted that nothing could change the past, and that she had to go on with her life.
She’d done so, but she’d insured every aspect was well controlled, that there would be no surprises. And while it might be dull, it was fulfilling on a number of levels, and most importantly, her life was as safe as she could make it.
As the day went by, Julia lost herself in the intricacies of bifurcation theory and higher order equations, wrote comments and calculated grades, getting up to stretch and move around every hour, until her portable timer went off at exactly four o’clock. She organized and neatly stacked the papers, slipping them in color coded folders, and put them away in her briefcase.
Next, before she prepared an early dinner, she would read her e-mail and make her semiweekly telephone calls to her parents and Marla. She powered up her computer and opened her browser, then her e-mail. She did a quick sweep to prioritize reading order. There was one from Marla, from late Saturday night. That was odd, since they always talked on Sunday.
Julia clicked on the message and read:
Hey Jules, I wanted to let you know I’m going out of town tomorrow. Since I’m off work this week, I decided to take a few days and go down to Mexico, maybe meet up with a few friends there. The dog is with me. I’ll talk to you when I get back. Love, M.
This couldn’t be right. She reread the message. No, something was wrong. For one thing, Marla was rarely impulsive. Like Julia, her life was well thought out. A trip to Mexico on the spur of the moment was too impetuous for Marla. Not only that, but she had been planning to paint two rooms in her house next week. She’d already bought the paint and supplies.
Julia read the message a third time. It didn’t read right, either. Marla didn’t talk or write the way some of the things were phrased. The nickname “Jules” was normal, as was the “M” Marla always signed. But she’d never say “meet up with a few friends,” or refer to Bryony as “the dog.”
Not only that, but the few times Marla had been away from home, she’d asked Julia or their parents to take care of Bryony. This whole thing was very wrong, very out of character.
Julia picked up the phone on her desk and dialed Marla. Getting no answer, she called her parents’ house next. Maybe they would know something.
But her mother was just as baffled. “No . . . Marla didn’t mention anything about a trip. She told me she was painting next week. She spent hours finding the colors she wanted. You know she doesn’t travel much. And she likes to plan way ahead.” She paused, then asked, “You don’t think anything’s wrong, do you?”
Julia hastened to assure her mother, although her own alarm level was rising. “Oh, I’m sure everything’s fine. Maybe she got a last-minute opportunity to go to Mexico and just decided to do something spontaneous.”
“Maybe,” Mom said doubtfully. “You might check with her friend Rebecca. You know, that British girl? She and Marla appear to be close. She might know something.”
“That’s a good idea. Let me do that. I’ll call you later.”
Julia pulled out the personal phone directory she kept in her desk. She never threw out a phone number, not even one given by a passing acquaintance. It was a habit that had been useful on a number of occasions, like now. She looked up Rebecca Smithson’s number and dialed.
“Hello,” said a brisk British voice.
“Is this Rebecca?”
“Yes. Who’s ringing?”
“This is Julia Reynolds. I’m Marla’s sister.”
“Oh, yes. We met at your family gathering. Quite a lovely group.”
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m wondering if you know where Marla might have gone.”
“Gone? What do you mean?”
“She sent me an e-mail saying she made a last-minute decision to go to Mexico, and might meet some friends down there. I wondered if you knew anything about it.”
“What? Miss ‘Plans Everything’ taking a last-minute trip to Mexico? Well.” Rebecca considered a moment. “I’m quite surprised, to be honest. She didn’t mention it to me. I’m leaving tomorrow to go there myself, and suggested she go along. She said she was going to paint her house.”
A sick feeling settled in Julia’s stomach. “Do you think she might try to catch up with you there?”
