A Gift of Thought Read online

  Not that it mattered. She wasn’t going to let him get to her.

  Bending over, she picked up the box. It was silver, light cardboard, a gift box from a department store if she had to guess. An envelope taped to the outside had her name on it. With a sigh, Sylvie tossed the box, Frisbee-style, into her apartment before closing and locking the door.

  She’d look at it after her run.

  Maybe.

  If she felt like it.

  Or maybe she’d just ignore it, try to stuff it out of her mind the way she’d been trying to stuff Lucas out for the past forty-some hours, ever since Monday morning.

  Running, though, didn’t work the way it should have. She couldn’t find the sweet spot, the place where her brain went quiet and all that mattered was the thud of her feet against the ground, the burn of her breath in her lungs, the pleasant stretch of the muscles down the back of her legs. Instead her mind kept churning.

  Lucas.

  The first time she’d met him, she hadn’t known it was him. She’d been panicking during a math final. It was the end of her junior year; she’d been in Tassamara for about six weeks; and she was about to fail geometry for the second time. And she’d studied, she had, but the classroom was so noisy, she couldn’t concentrate, and the more she stared at the paper and thought about how bad it was going to be if she failed again, the less she could remember. Then suddenly the answer to the first question was in her head. ‘42. Write it down.’

  One after another, the answers came to her. She didn’t ask questions, she just wrote them down. And that was that. End of the school year, she’d passed geometry. She was thankful for the miracle, but she tried not to think too hard about it. Because if she questioned it—well, who could she ask? Her mom had enough to worry about without thinking that her daughter might be going crazy.

  But then she met Lucas. Really met him. She’d gotten a summer job at the concession stand at the state park. She’d been storing a kayak, lifting it above her head to slot it into the storage rack, when suddenly he was helping her.

  “Thanks, but I had it,” she’d said.

  “I like helping you,” he’d answered.

  Great. Another tourist looking for a vacation fling, she’d thought. “I don’t need help.” The words were dismissive, and she’d turned her back on him without waiting for a response.

  “Ouch,” he’d said. ‘I cheated on a test for you,’ he’d thought, and she’d whirled around at the words.

  He’d grinned at her, and that was it. The dark hair, the bright blue eyes, the even features—sure, they added up to handsome, but Sylvie didn’t trust handsome. Yet when Lucas smiled it was like the sun breaking through the clouds on an overcast day.

  Never once, never, had he told her he was fifteen. And he’d been in her math class.

  Not that it would have mattered if he had. Lucas didn’t look at her like she was insane. He had his own gift and understood hers and together they were stronger; thoughts flowed back and forth between them like water running downhill.

  Feelings, too.

  She was pregnant before summer’s end.

  Her mom was great about it. A little disappointed, a little worried, but she’d been a sixteen-year-old mother herself. His parents were not quite so calm, but by the time Dillon was born, they’d been excited to have a grandson. They were nice people, Lucas’s parents.

  What could have happened?

  How had Dillon died?

  And why was Lucas in Chesney’s study?

  And what was in the box?

  Six miles and not once had Sylvie hit the zone.

  She glared at the box lying on the floor and walked around it as if it were dangerous on her way to shower.

  Dressed, hair dried, she ate a bowl of granola while standing in the kitchen, eyes on the box. What if the note said something important? That he couldn’t make it tonight? What if the box held . . . but she couldn’t think of anything that fit the box’s shape and light weight. Papers? Information? Answers?

  No, she knew what the box held.

  Putting her bowl in the sink with a clatter of spoon against ceramic, she crossed to the box and picked it up. Setting it on the table, she plucked the envelope off, slid a finger deftly under the flap, and slipped out the card inside.

  Ruffles don’t suit you.

  She bit back her smile. It was so Lucas.

  But then she sobered. Dillon was still dead. That wasn’t something that she was going to get over easily. Not after Milan.

  Reaching for the box, she broke the tape and shook off the top. The dress inside was wrapped in tissue paper, neatly folded. She took it out gently, lifting it by the shoulders and held it up in front of her.

  It was a cocktail dress made of black chiffon and black leather. The bodice was leather, with a sweetheart neckline, the kind that shaped to the body, and chiffon straps. From a high empire-style waist, layers of chiffon draped to mid-calf length. She looked a little closer, then dropped the dress over one arm, pushing the layers of chiffon aside. Underneath the fluttery, flowing cloth, the black leather continued for several inches. It would hug her body all the way down to her thighs before it flared out into more layers of chiffon. But more than that, it would hug her gun. There were pockets tucked into either side of the leather. It was a concealed carry dress. She’d never even heard of such a thing.

  She glanced at the clock.

  Not enough time to try it on.

  She scowled. What did she want to do?

  *****

  ‘You didn’t wear it.’ It was a thought, not a sound.

  Sylvie didn’t flinch, just finished her low-voiced conversation with Ty. As he stepped out into the garden, she turned away from the French doors, letting her eyes scan the room in front of her but trying to seem casual. Should she tell Lucas? But the thought slipped out before she could stop it. ‘Not working the party.’

  ‘You liked it then?’

  ‘Smug, much?’ He’d be able to feel the acerbic tone to her thought, before she relented and conceded. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  Where was he? Sylvie’s location in the loggia, adjacent to the hotel lobby, gave her a good view of her surroundings. She let her eyes drift over the wide chairs, the white and black marble floor, the plants, the piano, the well-dressed people populating the elegant environs.

  December in DC was party season. Chesney, with his connections, his wealth, and his political acumen, would be attending holiday events almost daily leading up to New Year’s. Tonight’s was relatively low-key, although exclusive—a political action committee’s celebration for its biggest donors, to be held in the Fairmont’s Colonnade Room. Fortunately, Rachel wasn’t attending. Sylvie had dropped her off at the house after her afternoon activities and then come to the hotel to run the advance screening and risk assessment.

  ‘Dillon will—’ Lucas started, before breaking off the thought.

  Sylvie stilled. Dillon would what? Why was Lucas talking about Dillon in the present tense? She’d thought from the feel of his emotions that Lucas had recovered, that he was over his grief. That feeling had only made her angrier. But was Lucas in denial instead?

  She swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, and kept looking. Lucas must be close by, but she couldn’t see him.

  ‘Look up,’ he answered her unspoken question.

  A curved staircase led down into the lobby. He was standing on the platform, wearing a dark suit.

  ‘Holy—’ It was Sylvie’s turn to bite back a thought. But she’d never seen him in a suit before. He looked . . . debonair. Dangerous. Not that he hadn’t always been dangerous to her, but she hadn’t ever seen him looking so formal. She couldn’t help the amused appreciation that slipped through to him.

  ‘What? You object to the suit?’ His thought radiated amusement back at her.

  ‘Not in the least,’ she assured him, not looking away as he made his way down the stairs to her. And then she sobered. Damn it, this was so typical. One sight of him and she fo
rgot all her reservations.

  Three times.

  She’d seen him three times in the past twenty years. And every time, they fell into bed together as if it was as easy as breathing. But it never was, not really.

  “Dinner?” he asked, when he reached her. “I’m told the Juniper has an excellent mushroom casserole.”

  She quirked an eyebrow at him, skepticism clear.

  “Ah,” he answered the expression. “Still a meat and potatoes girl? Woman?”

  “Mushrooms are fungus. Athlete’s foot is fungus. Would you eat athlete’s foot?” she asked. “Yeah, didn’t think so,” she added, answering his wince.

  “I’m sure they have something that would suit your tastes,” he said. ‘Probably no MREs, though.’

  ‘Hey, that beef stew’s not bad,’ Sylvie answered the thought, unable to hold back her smile. But then she sobered. “We need to talk, Lucas.”

  “Garden?” he asked her, gesturing toward the French doors. The loggia was entirely walled in glass but opened onto an enclosed courtyard garden with a stone fountain and carefully tended plants. Even at the end of November, it was verdant and beautiful.

  Sylvie nodded and preceded him through the door. It was cold outside, and she shivered instinctively. She was wearing a dark suit of her own with a sleek silk top underneath the jacket. It wasn’t really appropriate for this weather. But the hotel had space heaters positioned around the courtyard to encourage guests to take advantage of the outdoor tables, and she headed straight to one of them.

  Under the light of the heater, she turned to face him. “Dillon first,” she said. “When was it?” She pressed her lips together and swallowed hard.

  “Five years.”

  Five years. She would have been in Iraq. Zane couldn’t have found her from that far away. But five years? And Lucas hadn’t yet accepted his death?

  “What happened?”

  “He wanted to be psychic.”

  “Ha.” Sylvie couldn’t contain her instinctive objection. Sure, her sixth sense came in handy sometimes, but it caused a lot more problems than it solved. Her life would have been easier—if possibly shorter—without her ability.

  “I know,” Lucas said. “He didn’t understand. I think he only saw the positive side. But he found a website that claimed hallucinations could start psychic powers so he took some medication of my mom’s. The prescription said that hallucinations could be a possible side effect.”

  Sylvie closed her eyes and took a deep breath. That was almost worse than she’d imagined. She’d pictured car accident or long slow illness. At least Lucas hadn’t known that time was short and not tried to find her. One of her fears was wrong. It would have been quick.

  “But that’s not . . .” Lucas started and then paused again. “Let’s talk about Chesney first.”

  Sylvie frowned. She didn’t want to talk about Chesney. But she did need to know why Lucas had broken into Chesney’s office and she also knew that talking about Dillon was likely to end the same way every conversation between them about him had ended in the past twenty years: with her stomping off in fury.

  “What about Chesney?” The words were reluctant. They were both being careful, she could tell. She was trying to hold her emotions in rein and he was controlling his own. But what she got from him with the mention of Chesney was like a bad taste showing up in her mouth, a bitterness that made her grimace. “He’s highly respected in DC,” she protested.

  ‘Have you read him?’ It was a thought, not spoken aloud.

  Sylvie shrugged. The answer was no, not really. She didn’t work around Chesney. He’d wanted female protection on his daughter and she was Ty’s best female op. Most of her time was spent accompanying Rachel to school or after-school activities. “I guard his daughter.”

  “He’s mixed up with the Mexican drug cartels.”

  Sylvie laughed. “No way.”

  But Lucas’s expression was serious. She took a step closer to him, looking up into his face, trying to read his emotions, to feel the flavor of his thoughts.

  “He’s Raymond Chesney,” she said, pointing out the obvious. “He’s the ultimate DC power broker. Hell, his company probably raked in millions from their Iraq contracts. Maybe billions.”

  “AlecCorp?”

  “They were everywhere in Iraq,” Sylvie confirmed.

  “You were there?”

  Sylvie nodded. “Private contractor. I wanted to re-enlist using my real name, but I couldn’t.” She gave a half-chuckle, not really amused, but no longer bitter, either. “No high school diploma. So I served my country for money instead of honor.”

  Lucas paused. Sylvie could feel the questions he wanted to ask, but she forestalled him by saying, “Not the point. Chesney has no reason to be in business with the cartels.”

  “He’s selling them weapons,” Lucas answered.

  Weapons? Sylvie frowned, searching Lucas’s face. He believed he was telling the truth, she could see. And the idea of Chesney selling weapons illegally didn’t cause the same instinctive recoil on her part as the thought of drugs did. It felt unlikely, but not impossible. “Someone at AlecCorp would have to be involved.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “But I don’t know who.”

  Sylvie didn’t answer. He’d just told her what he was looking for in Chesney’s office, she knew. But what was she supposed to do with that information? “I work for him,” she finally said. “I’m not going to spy on him. And I’m definitely not helping you break into his office.”

  “I didn’t ask you to,” Lucas answered.

  “I think you’re crazy to believe he’d get mixed up with drug dealers. He’s Raymond Chesney. He supports the tough-on-crime, pro-drug-war politicians. Pro-every-war actually, but that’s not the point.”

  “It might be,” Lucas answered, but Sylvie ignored him.

  An idea had just occurred to her. Was it terrible? Possibly. Spending time with Lucas was dangerous and she needed to remember that. But he was also persistent and unlikely to give up this ridiculous notion easily. “Next Friday night . . .”

  Lucas waited before prompting her. “Yes?”

  She looked away from him, shaking her head, already regretting her own insanity. “AlecCorp has a big holiday party. We were all invited, some kind of collegial courtesy thing because of Chesney. I wasn’t going to go, but all the bigwigs will be there, including Chesney. If you wanted to peek into a few minds . . .”

  Lucas was starting to smile. “Are you inviting me to a party, Sylvie?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I have no intention of spying on my employer. If reading a few minds will reassure you, I’ll help you. But only with this. I’m not doing anything else.”

  “I don’t want you to,” Lucas said quickly. “It’s too dangerous for you. I don’t want you involved.”

  “Dangerous?” Did he forget which one of them was an ex-Marine? “I can take care of myself, Lucas.”

  “I know you, Sylvie. If you find out—”

  “You know me.” Sylvie interrupted him, scoffing. “Lucas, you don’t know me. You haven’t seen me in years and I work for Chesney. I could know all about his questionable business practices.”

  “You could be working for the Zetas?” Lucas offered. It was his turn to step closer, close enough that he was almost touching her, and she could feel his warmth on her front, gentler than the warmth of the heater at her back. “You’re not.”

  “Ha.” She tried to laugh. “We haven’t met in a decade. Life happens. People change. We’re not the same. For all you know, I’m married. With kids. You could be married.” She wasn’t asking a question. Really, she wasn’t.

  “I’m not.”

  “Lucas . . .” It was almost a whisper, and then Sylvie shook her head and took a decisive step backward, out of the circle of light cast by the heat lamp and into a shade lit by the tiny holiday lights decorating the garden. “Ty investigated you. You’re still working for your dad’s company, but people in DC think it’s some s
ort of psychic think tank, instead of a research lab and investment firm. No one wants to talk about you officially, unless it’s to laugh at the idea, but the people who don’t want to talk are way more interesting than those who do.”

  ‘Changing the subject?’

  Sylvie’s chin went up. She wasn’t blocking him, she couldn’t, but she wasn’t thinking in words. “You’ve met other telepaths by now. You’ve had this . . .” She let the sentence trail off. She didn’t know the word that could describe what they had.

  “I’ve met other telepaths, yes,” he answered. ‘It’s not the same.’ He took a step closer to her and Sylvie automatically took another step back, until her legs hit the wood of a planter.

  “You don’t know me,” she insisted.

  “You’d work for the Zetas?” he asked her, voice mild, as if the question was casual, even as he moved closer.

  When did he get so big, she wondered? The wide chest, the muscular arms? The Lucas she’d known had still been boyish. “Of course not,” she snapped back, finally answering his question, but feeling pressured by his intrusion into her space.

  ‘Then I do know you,’ he thought, bending his head to hers.

  Her murmur was protest, truly it was, but her lips parted under his as if she had words to say instead of just breath to give him. The fire started at her toes and soared up through her veins, turning her muscles into molten lava, her brain into mush.

  ‘Damn it, Lucas,’ she thought, even as she melted into him, even as her lips greedily took his and she felt the warmth of his hands sliding up her back as her own hands slid under his jacket and tugged at his shirt, pulling it loose from his pants. Closer, closer, that was always the way with him. As if they could find a place where the two of them became one, not only metaphorically but literally.

  Her hands were burning against his skin, her lips teasing his, their tongues tangling, when she felt the faint buzz of a vibrating phone against her waist.

  She ignored it. He did, too. But it kept buzzing, pausing momentarily and then starting up again, until finally Sylvie pulled away from Lucas and, breathless, said, “Your phone?”