White Lies

  Chapter Fifty-two

  She felt him leave the bed just before dawn. A small flicker of her senses told Clare that Jake was using some of his hunter talent in order to avoid awakening her. She smiled to herself. He could be as stealthy as he wanted. She would always know when he was near her and when he was not.

  She gave him a few minutes to collect his jeans and leave the room. He went down the hall toward the kitchen. He was probably going to make the morning tea. That sounded like a good idea.

  She gave him some time to get the kettle going. Then she eased the covers aside and rose from the bed. The white robe was hanging on a hook in the bathroom. She pulled it on, tied the sash and took a few minutes to run a brush through her hair.

  When she reached the kitchen she saw a pot of freshly brewed tea on the counter. She poured a mug for herself, savoring the delicate aroma of the clean, elegant green.

  Jake’s computer was open and glowing malevolently on the kitchen table. She wondered what he had been researching at this hour of the day.

  The sliding glass door stood open, allowing the exhilarating predawn air and the fantastic light into the room. There was nothing like morning in the desert, she thought. It gave her a rush. Or maybe she was still riding last night’s afterglow from their lovemaking.

  She could see Jake on the other side of the pool security gate, standing at the edge of the patio. He was watching the three coyotes, a mug in one hand.

  She started across the kitchen with the notion of joining him outside to savor the very special time of day.

  When she went past the table she caught a glimpse of an all-too-familiar logo on the bright computer screen. A jolting chill swept through her. She stopped abruptly.

  Welcome back to Arcanematch.com, Jake Salter Jones. Congratulations, we have a match for you! Please click on the link below to see a profile of the woman who is perfect for you.

  She staggered a little under the impact of what could only be described as a double whammy. First she had to deal with the shock of what was apparently Jake’s real last name. There were plenty of Joneses in the world but when it came to members of the Arcane Society, the name always gave one pause. Given Jake’s strong hunter senses, it was probably not a coincidence. Odds were pretty high that Jake was a direct descendent of Sylvester Jones, the founder of the Society.

  No wonder he had concealed his real name while he was working undercover in Stone Canyon, she thought. But why had he let her find out the truth in this stark fashion?

  Because he didn’t know how to tell her that he had just been matched by www.arcanematch.com, she thought. After last night’s passionate lovemaking, he hadn’t been able to face her with the news.

  She was going to lose him to some unknown woman the matchmakers had dredged up out of their damn computer files. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. She and Jake were made for each other. Ideal. Perfect. Surely he could see that.

  She wasn’t supposed to be able to pick up the psychic vibes of an electronic lie but she was certain that the Arcanematch.com computers lied.

  The panic attack screamed through her, igniting all her senses. Fight or flight.

  Her first instinct was to run. Get away from this place. Save yourself. You can’t continue with this affair now that you know they’ve found someone else for him. If you stay here your heart is going to be broken for all time. Pack. Now. Where are the car keys? Run. Hide.

  Belatedly, the psychic reflexes she had built up over the years slammed into place, damming the torrent of mindless panic. Fight. You can do this. Get a grip. You have to try. You’re not going to run. Not yet, at any rate. This is worth fighting for.

  She dragged her attention away from the cruel words on the computer screen. Jake was still out there at the edge of his territory. His back was to her.

  If you run, there’s no hope. You want him? Fight for him.

  The heat of battle rushed through her veins. She went through the open slider, circled the pool and stalked out to the edge of the patio.

  “Those stupid matchmakers at Arcanematch.com are wrong,” she announced.

  She didn’t realize how loud her voice was until she saw the three coyotes whip around to face her, ears rigidly erect. Jake turned, too, albeit in a more relaxed manner. Four sets of watchful, intelligent eyes gazed at her. Probably trying to calculate whether or not she qualified as prey.

  “No,” she said to the coyotes. “In case you’re too slow to figure it out, I’m not breakfast.”

  Jake smiled slowly. “But you taste great.”

  The wicked humor infuriated her. She marched closer to him, stopping just two steps away.

  “Don’t you dare talk to me like that.” Automatically she started to put her hands on her hips, but she realized that was impossible because she was still gripping the mug. “Not after what I just saw on that computer of yours.”

  The amusement faded from his expression. “What, exactly, did you see?”

  “The Arcanematch.com people say they found a match for you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “They lie.”

  Paranormal energy was invisible to the human eye, but she could have sworn that the air around him was suddenly shimmering with the stuff. She could feel the potent waves pulsing invisibly in the atmosphere.

  “You sure about that?” he asked.

  “Oh, yeah.” She moved another step closer. “I am absolutely positive they’re wrong.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you belong to me, that’s why.” She swept out her free hand. “We’re perfect for each other. I love you. Why do you need Arcanematch.com? What’s that woman they claim they found for you got that I don’t have?”

  The dangerous energy that had swirled around him shifted with disconcerting abruptness into sensual hunger.

  “Interesting question,” he said.

  “The answer is nothing. Zero. Zip. Nada. She’s got absolutely nothing that I don’t have. Don’t bother to set up a date with her because there will be three of us there and I don’t think she’s going to feel real comfortable chatting with me, do you?”

  “Don’t know,” he said. “It would certainly make for an unusual first date.”

  “Skip the snappy repartee. I am dead serious, Jake Salter Jones.”

  His mouth tweaked up at the corners. Heat burned in his eyes. “About me?”

  “About you. And me. We’re a match. Can’t you see that?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s more, there’s no frickin’ way those Arcanematch.com people could have found anyone who will love you more than I do.”

  “Okay, if you say so.”

  She stopped cold. “You’re laughing at me.”

  “No. Honest. I’m not laughing at you.”

  “Liar.” Scalding tears of outrage welled in her eyes. She jabbed him in the chest with a forefinger. “Why are you laughing at me?”

  “Let’s go inside.” He took her arm. “I’ll show you.”

  He walked her back into the kitchen and halted at the table where the dreadful news from Arcanematch.com still glowed with macabre good cheer.

  Jake clicked on the link that was set up to take him to a profile of his perfect mate. She watched, stomach clenched, dread in her heart, as a screen full of data and a photograph popped up. The photo was shockingly familiar.

  Meet: Clare Lancaster.

  Parasensitivity level: Ten*

  Description: Extreme sensitivity to the inconsistent psychic energy generated by those engaged in willful prevarication and/or deception.

  Clare stopped reading. “That’s me.”

  “Thought I noticed a resemblance.” Jake studied the photo on the screen with an air of satisfaction. “Great picture. I like your hair that way. The ice princess look is cool. It’s got a real touch-me-if-you-dare thing going on. I think I can feel my pulse kicking up.”

  “Where did they get that photo?” she yelped. “That was taken for the annual report of the Draper Trust la
st year. I never sent it to Arcanematch.com.”

  “Wasn’t hard to find. I just looked up a copy of the annual report online.”

  “You sent it to Arcanematch.com?”

  “Sure.” He poured himself a second cup of tea. “I got Fallon Jones to ask one of his computer techs to dig out the old registration you filed with Arcanematch.com a couple of years ago. Figured Fallon owed me that much.”

  She was dazed. “But I pulled my registration file.”

  “Nothing ever disappears completely once it’s online. It’s always out there, somewhere.”

  “And the computer matched us?”

  “That’s what it says.”

  “Good grief.” She sat down slowly, unable to take her eyes off the screen. “I don’t understand. Did you do it so you could find out whether or not we really are meant for each other?”

  “No,” Jake said. “I already knew that. I did it so you could be sure. Given your trust issues and all, I figured you needed some objective confirmation.”

  Truth rang in every word, so dazzling and crystal-sharp that it stole her breath. She did not know whether she was going to laugh or cry. She covered her face with both hands and did both.

  “Hey,” Jake said, suddenly anxious. He touched her shoulder. “Are you okay? I didn’t mean to make you cry. Damn. That’s the last thing I wanted to do.”

  She raised her head. The tears were spilling down her cheeks but she smiled anyway. “When I saw that they’d matched you I was ready to hunt down those dip squat Arcanematch.com matchmakers, wrap my hands around their scrawny little necks and start squeezing.”

  “I did get that impression,” Jake said. He looked both relieved and pleased.

  “Now, of course, I realize that I should wrap my hands around your neck, which is not scrawny. Nevertheless—”

  “If you insist. But if you’re in the mood to squeeze something maybe you would like to consider wrapping your hands around another portion of my anatomy?”

  “You are absolutely impossible.”

  “Maybe. But I love you, Clare.”

  Once again the pure, silvery energy of truth shimmered in the atmosphere.

  She leaped to her feet. “I love you so much.”

  His arms closed around her, warm, tight, strong. This was where she belonged, she thought. This was her true mate.

  “About your last name,” she said. “Can I assume that is not a coincidence? Are you one of those Joneses?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “And Dumbass Fallon Jones?”

  “A cousin. I’ve got a lot of ’em.”

  “Family, hmm?” She smiled slowly. “In that case we will definitely quadruple our consulting fees whenever we take on contract work for J&J.”

  Jake laughed. “I’ll leave the negotiations up to you.”

  He started to kiss her. She put her fingers on his mouth.

  “One more thing,” she said.

  “Yeah?”

  She took her fingers away from his lips. “What would you have done if the Arcanematch.com crowd hadn’t matched us?”

  “No problem. I would have called Fallon and told him I needed one of his techs to hack into the Arcanematch.com database to make a few adjustments to our profiles.”

  “You would have crafted a whopping great lie just to convince me to marry you?”

  “In a heartbeat.”

  She smiled. Love rushed through her, hot and sweet and true.

  “Right answer, Jones.”

  TURN THE PAGE FOR A LOOK AT

  Sizzle and Burn

  A NOVEL OF THE ARCANE SOCIETY

  BY JAYNE ANN KRENTZ

  NOW AVAILABLE FROM G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  …Burn, witch, burn…

  The voice was a dark, ghostly whisper in her head. Raine Tallentyre stopped at the top of the basement stairs. Gingerly she touched the banister with her fingertips. That was all the contact she needed. The voice, thick with bloodlust and an unholy excitement, murmured again.

  …Only one way to kill a witch. Punish her. Make her suffer. Burn, witch, burn…

  It was the same voice she had heard when she had brushed against the counter in the kitchen a few minutes ago. It whispered of darkness, fear and fire. The psychic traces were very fresh. A deeply disturbed individual had come through this house in the recent past. She could only pray that the freak was the type who limited himself to twisted fantasies played out in his head. But she’d had enough experience to know that probably wasn’t the case. This bastard was the real thing: a human monster.

  She shuddered, snatched her hand off the banister and wiped her palm against her raincoat. The gesture was pure instinct, a reflex. The coat, long and black, was wet because it was pouring outside, but no amount of water could wash away the memory of the foul energy she had just sensed.

  She looked back at Doug Spicer and heard another voice, her aunt’s this time. The warning came straight out of her teenage memories. Never tell them about the whispers in your head, Raine. They’ll say you’re crazy, like me.

  “I just want to take a quick look around the basement,” she said, dreading what lay ahead.

  Doug peered uneasily down into the darkness at the foot of the stairs. “Do you really think that’s necessary, Miss Tallentyre? There will probably be mice or maybe even rats or snakes. Don’t worry, I can take the listing without a thorough examination of the basement.”

  Doug was the proprietor of Spicer Properties, one of three real estate companies in the small town of Shelbyville, Washington. She had contacted him when she had arrived that morning because he was the only agent who had bothered to get in touch with her after learning of Vella Tallentyre’s death. He had inquired delicately about taking the listing. She was more than happy to give it to him. It was not as if she had been besieged by enthusiastic agents. For his part, Doug was relatively new in town and struggling to establish his business. They needed each other.

  Dressed in a crisply tailored dark gray suit and pale blue tie, with a handsome brown leather briefcase in one hand, Doug looked every inch the professional real estate agent. Sleek designer glasses framed his pale eyes. His car, parked in the drive, was a Jaguar.

  She guessed him to be in his late thirties. His hairline was starting to recede and he had the solid, well-fed look of a man who, while not yet overweight, had definitely started to put on extra pounds. He had warned her that the gloom-filled house, with its aging plumbing and wiring, would not be an easy sale.

  “I’ll be right back,” she assured him.

  She couldn’t tell him that she really had no choice now that she had picked up the psychic whispers of a man who fantasized about killing witches. She had to know the truth before she could leave the house.

  “I did a little research and called Phil Brooks after I spoke with you,” Doug said. “He told me that your aunt cut off his pest control service shortly before she, uh, left town.”

  Shortly before I took her away, Raine thought. She curled the hand that had just touched the railing very tightly around the strap of her purse. Shortly before I had to put her into a very private, very expensive sanitarium.

  A month ago, Vella Tallentyre had died in her small room at St. Damian’s Psychiatric Hospital back in Oriana on the shores of Lake Washington. The cause of death was a heart attack, according to the authorities. She had been fifty-nine years old.

  It dawned on her that Doug probably didn’t want to get his pristine suit and polished shoes dirty. She didn’t blame him.

  “You don’t have to come with me,” she said. “I’ll just go to the foot of the stairs.”

  Please be a gentleman and insist on coming with me.

  “Well, if you’re sure,” Doug said, stepping back. “I don’t see a light switch up here.”

  “It’s at the foot of the stairs.”

  So much for the gentlemen’s code. What had she expected? This wasn’t the nineteenth century. The code, if it ever had existed, no longer applied. After what she
had just been through with Bradley, she should know that better than anyone.

  The thought of Detective Bradley Mitchell proved bracing. The ensuing rush of feminine outrage unleashed a useful dose of adrenaline that was strong enough to propel her down the stairs.

  Doug hovered at the top of the steps, filling the doorway. “If the light isn’t working, I’ve got a flashlight in my car.”

  The ever helpful real estate agent.

  She ignored him and descended cautiously into the darkness. Maybe she wouldn’t give him the listing, after all. The problem was, neither of the other two agents in town was eager for it. It wasn’t just that the house was in such a neglected state. The truth was that it was unlikely any of the locals would be interested in purchasing it.

  For the past few decades this house had been the property of a woman who had been certifiably crazy; a woman who heard voices in her head. That kind of history tended to dampen the enthusiasm of prospective clients. As Doug had explained, they would have to lure an out-of-town prospect; someone interested in a real fixer-upper.

  The old wooden steps creaked and groaned. She tried to avoid touching the railing on the way down and she was careful to stay close to the edge of each tread so that she would be less likely to step in his footsteps. She had learned the hard way that human psychic energy was most easily transmitted onto a surface by direct skin contact, but bloodlust this strong sometimes penetrated through the soles of shoes.

  As careful as she tried to be, she couldn’t avoid all of it.

  Make her suffer. Punish her the way Mother punished me.

  The scent of damp and mildew intensified as she went down. The darkness at the foot of the steps yawned like a bottomless well.

  She paused on the final step, groped for and found the switch. When she touched it, she got a jolt that had nothing to do with electricity. Burn, witch, burn.

  Mercifully, the naked bulb in the overhead fixture still worked, illuminating the windowless, low-ceilinged space in a weak, yellow glare.

  The basement was crammed with the detritus of Vella Tallentyre’s unhappy life. Several pieces of discarded furniture, including a massive, mirrored armoire, a chrome dining table laminated with red plastic and four matching red vinyl chairs were crowded together. Most of the rest of the space was filled with several large cardboard boxes and crates. They contained many of the innumerable paintings that Vella had produced over the years. The pictures had one unifying theme: they were all dark, disturbing images of masks.