White Lies

  “It’s the address I was given,” the chauffeur said.

  He climbed out and opened Clare’s door. She collected her purse and extricated herself from the dark interior of the vehicle.

  She did a quick survey of her surroundings on her way to the front door. The house was one of a number of elegant, low-profile homes scattered about Stone Canyon. Unlike the Glazebrook house, which was situated on a golf course, this residence was surrounded by a lot of open, rolling desert.

  The door opened before she could knock. Jake stood in the tiled entranceway. He was dressed in a pair of black trousers and a midnight blue shirt. The collar was open and the sleeves were rolled up on his forearms. He was not wearing his glasses, she noticed.

  He examined her from head to toe, taking in the sleek, off-the-shoulder black dress and the high-heeled black patent sandals. Masculine approval and something she was pretty sure was sensual heat darkened his eyes. The excitement that had been stirring inside her intensified, stirring the hair on the nape of her neck.

  “Great dress,” Jake said.

  “Thanks. You’re lucky to see it in one piece.” She stepped into the hallway. “It nearly got run over in the parking garage at the mall where I bought it this afternoon.”

  “Yeah?” He closed the door and turned to face her. “What happened?”

  “Some fool driving a monster SUV either didn’t see me walking toward my car or else decided to play a game of chicken. I had to scramble to get out of his way. Dropped the shopping bags in the process. Fortunately nothing got damaged.”

  His expression sharpened. “You’re all right?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m fine. I was just a little shaken up, that’s all.”

  “It was that close?”

  “Certainly seemed like it at the time, although I may have exaggerated the incident in retrospect. I’ve got a creative imagination.”

  “Get a look at the car?” he asked.

  “Not really. It was big. Late model. Like every other vehicle in the garage it was sort of silvery gray.” She smiled. “Don’t worry about it, Jake. It was probably a teenager playing games or someone talking on the phone. Either way, no major harm was done.” The incident in the garage was the last thing she wanted to talk about tonight, she thought. She searched for another topic. “This is a nice place for a rental.”

  He followed her gaze, taking in the tile floors, Mediterranean yellow walls and dark wooden beams as though he had not previously noticed them.

  “It serves my purpose and it’s convenient to the Glazebrook offices,” he said. “Would you care for a glass of wine?”

  “That sounds like a really terrific idea.”

  “This way.”

  He ushered her along the wide hallway that divided the living room and a library, through an arched opening and into a large kitchen that gleamed with a lot of modern, high-tech appliances.

  Clare stopped short. “Wow. You could film a cooking show in here.”

  He opened the door of a wine cooler and removed a bottle. “The kitchen was one of the reasons I chose the place.”

  “You like to cook?”

  He set the bottle on the large island in the center of the kitchen and went to work on the cork with an opener. “If I didn’t, I’d have to eat out or order in every night.”

  “You could afford a housekeeper,” she pointed out.

  “I like my privacy when I’m home. Besides, cooking is a form of relaxation for me.”

  She walked forward slowly and came to a halt on the opposite side of the island. “I enjoy cooking, too. But when you live alone—”

  “I know.” He set the cork down on the island. “Part of the pleasure of food is sharing it.”

  He filled two glasses and handed one to her.

  “To shared pleasures,” he said, tapping his glass lightly against hers.

  She smiled. “To shared pleasures.”

  She took a sip, savoring the crisp, elegant white. When she looked up she saw that Jake was watching her very intently. She was suddenly conscious of the intimacy of the situation. She was here, on his territory, drinking wine that he had poured for her. Why did that make her shiver ever so slightly?

  He handed her his glass, breaking the small spell. “If you’ll take this outside for me, I’ll get the bruschetta.”

  She carried his glass and hers through the open sliding glass doors. The wings of the house framed the pool and patio on three sides. On the fourth side a decorative wrought-iron fence and gate were all that stood between the house and the wildness of the desert landscape.

  Jake followed her, carrying a wooden tray.

  They settled into a pair of cushioned patio loungers. The heat of the day had faded to a comfortable temperature. Beyond the wrought-iron fence the desert was cloaked in the long shadows of twilight.

  Clare helped herself to some bruschetta, wondering why something as simple as a slice of grilled bread topped with excellent olive oil, a little salt and delicately chopped tomato and basil leaves could taste so good.

  “Wonderful,” she said, munching happily. “Absolutely fantastic.”

  “Glad you like it.” Jake leaned back in the chair and cocked one ankle over a knee. “How did the talk with Archer go?”

  “I’m not sure. Archer wants to establish a foundation. He wants me to run it. I told him no but I agreed to hang around here in Arizona for another forty-eight hours. I’m very sure I don’t want to run his foundation, but I might consider consulting for him.”

  “What kind of consulting?”

  “Well, since you ask, getting fired from the Draper Trust has pushed me into making a decision that I have been considering for quite a while now.”

  “You want to set up an independent consulting firm?”

  “Not exactly. I’m going to establish my own psychic investigation agency. Detecting scam artists and frauds for private foundations and charitable institutions will be one of the services I’ll offer.”

  Jake just looked at her. “Huh.”

  “Thanks for the enthusiastic encouragement.”

  “Huh,” Jake said again. “You want to be a private investigator?”

  “It’s been my dream for a while now. I’ve applied several times to the West Coast office of Jones & Jones but the dumbass who runs the firm won’t hire me.”

  “Dumbass?” Jake repeated neutrally.

  “Fallon Jones.” She made a face. “I know those Jones men are legends in the Society, at least the Joneses who trace their descent back to Sylvester Jones are. But if you ask me, Fallon Jones is a narrow-minded, hidebound, dumbass jerk who can’t see past the myths about my kind of talent long enough to realize that all human lie detectors are not the same.”

  “Huh.”

  “Honestly, you’d think that of all people in the Society, a Jones would be especially open-minded. I mean, it’s not like a lot of the Jones men haven’t been pretty extreme talents, now, is it?”

  “No,” Jake admitted, sounding very cautious. “No, it’s not as if there haven’t been some exotics in that family.”

  “Exactly. A Jones should be able to look beyond the myths and stories and rumors about certain kinds of unusual talents. But Dumbass Fallon Jones obviously can’t do that.”

  “Huh,” he said again.

  She smiled, satisfaction bubbling up inside her. “So, I’m going to start up my own psychic investigation agency and give J&J a little competition.”

  “Should be interesting.”

  “I expect it will be. Getting fired unexpectedly from the trust kind of put a crimp in my business plan. I had intended to work for another year in order to put together enough capital to open my agency. I was also hoping to persuade the trust to become my first big client after I left. But that all went up in smoke when the rumors about my connection to the McAllister murder reached management. So, to make ends meet, I tried to find another position right away.”

  “But that didn’t work out.”

  “No,”
she admitted. “And now I think it was for the best. As I said, it has given me the impetus to take the big leap out on my own.” She polished off the rest of a piece of bruschetta. “Speaking of your professional activities, Mr. Salter, I went online and did a little research on you.”

  “Learn anything interesting?”

  She cleared her throat. “Came across your website and some personal stuff. That’s all.”

  “Personal stuff.” He crunched bruschetta. “That would be an oblique reference to my divorce?”

  “As you can see, I have a natural talent for inducing people to give up information.”

  “Probably be useful in the investigation business,” he said. “What do you want to know about my divorce?”

  “It’s not really any of my business.”

  “True. But that doesn’t alter the fact that you’re curious, does it?”

  “Okay, I wondered if your ex was a sensitive,” she said.

  “No.” He turned the wineglass in his hand, studying the contents. “That was a deliberate choice on my part. I thought maybe she wouldn’t notice my little eccentricities.”

  She watched him closely. “They’re not so little, are they?”

  He did not respond immediately. For a few seconds she wondered if he was going to lie.

  He met her eyes. “I’m a level-ten parasensitive.”

  The truth at last. She whistled softly. “Well, that explains a lot.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as why you let everyone think you’re a mid-range strategy talent. Level tens of any kind tend to make a lot of people nervous.”

  He watched her with an unwavering gaze. “It doesn’t bother you?”

  “I’m a ten, too, remember? What happened to your marriage?”

  “Let’s see.” He stretched out his legs and assumed a reflective air. “As I recall, about three months into the marriage, she started to complain that I was being over-protective and that I was trying to run her life.”

  “Let me guess. Before the marriage your protective streak seemed very romantic to her.”

  “Don’t know about that. All I can tell you is that she didn’t mention the problem until three months into the marriage.”

  “Any other complaints?”

  “I believe she may have mentioned that I was overly demanding.”

  “Overly demanding?”

  He looked at her. “In bed.”

  “Oh.” She gulped some wine and swallowed hard. “I see.”

  “Four months into the marriage she started talking about needing more space. Six months in, she went to see a divorce lawyer.”

  “Your marriage only lasted six months?”

  “It was a disaster from the start.” He drank some more of his wine. “I should have known better. The experts always tell you that strong parasensitives don’t do well with people who are not also sensitive. Hate to admit it, but I think they’re right.”

  “Maybe.” She settled back in her lounger. The wine was starting to have an effect. She was feeling much more relaxed than a few minutes before. A lot more insightful, too. “But in your case I’m not so sure that your marriage went on the rocks just because you married an outsider.”

  He raised one brow. “Got a better theory?”

  She contemplated the glowing pool. “You’re the take-charge type. Not your fault. It’s part of who you are.”

  Jake made no comment. Inspired by his lack of argument, she warmed to her theme.

  “The way I see it, your ex-wife was probably telling you the truth when she said that you were trying to run her life. Running things is what you do.” Clare raised a finger. “But your instincts weren’t the problem. Neither were your intentions. The real issue was that she didn’t know how to hold her own with you.”

  “Think that was it?” Jake asked in an odd tone of voice.

  “She probably couldn’t set boundaries and, when necessary, put you in your place. So, in the end, she panicked and fled the scene, leaving you confused and bewildered and wondering what the hell you did wrong.”

  “You sound very certain of your analysis.”

  “Yep.” She nodded, feeling very sage now. “You are what they sometimes call an alpha male. Leader of the pack. Trouble is, in the modern world, there aren’t a lot of packs to lead so your natural talents get applied to whatever comes into your orbit. Family, spouse, business, whatever.”

  Silence greeted that statement.

  Clare turned her head to see how he was taking her brilliant insights. A cold shock went through her when she realized that he was watching her with an unnervingly enigmatic air.

  “How did you know?” he asked evenly.

  She cleared her throat. “Sorry. Just a wild hunch, honest.”

  “How did you know?” This time the question sounded distinctly dangerous.

  “That you are a much stronger talent than you lead others to believe?” A trickle of unease penetrated the pleasant wine haze. “Uh, well, it really isn’t all that hard to tell. I mean, it’s sort of obvious.”

  “No, it is not obvious.” He put his half-finished wine down on the table. “And it isn’t in the Arcane Society’s genealogy files, either, at least not the ones that are open to the public. So how did you figure it out?”

  “I’m getting a little confused here, Jake. What, exactly, is so secret about you being a take-charge type?”

  “I’m talking about your alpha male comment. Don’t try to slide out of this. You know, don’t you?”

  Understanding finally dawned on her. “Oh. I see. You’re a hunter.”

  He watched her with the steady, unblinking gaze of a top-of-the-line predator.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Actually, I hadn’t guessed that part. Just that you’re a high-end talent.”

  The corners of his eyes tightened ever so slightly.

  She cleared her throat. “Well, you have to admit that it does sort of explain your little problem with your marriage. Everyone knows that hunters are very difficult to match.”

  “Some people think that’s because our type of sensitivity is so damned primitive,” he said. There was a gleaming edge on every word. “They used to call us throwbacks. Some people still do.”

  “Get over it. We’re all primitive beneath the surface. That’s why they invented civilization, remember?”

  “Civilization doesn’t always work.”

  “Maybe not, but it’s definitely way ahead of whatever is in second place.” She frowned at the nearly empty plate. “Are you going to eat that last piece of bruschetta?”

  There was no response to what seemed to her to be a perfectly polite question. When she looked up from the plate she saw that Jake was still studying her with a disturbing gaze.

  “What now?” she asked.

  “It doesn’t bother you.”

  “Knowing that you’re a hunter? Nah. It’s kind of reassuring.”

  “Why?”

  “It explains why you have to lie a lot. I respect secrets, Jake. And I know how to keep them. Trust me. Now, about that last piece of bruschetta.”

  “Help yourself,” he said.

  “Thanks.” She scooped up the bruschetta and took a crunchy bite. “What with having to shop for this dress and nearly getting run down in the garage, I didn’t have time for lunch. I’m starving.”

  “Dinner will be ready soon.”

  “Lovely.” She drank a little more wine, ate the last of the bruschetta and settled back to enjoy the descent of the desert night.

  “Level-ten hunters often make other sensitives nervous,” Jake said after a while.

  “Hey, you want to narrow your social life down to a humiliatingly small vanishing point? Try telling everyone you know that you’re a human lie detector.”

  “I can see where that might do the trick,” he said.

  “I blame the whole negative attitude toward hunters on the Jones men,” she said. “The Joneses who are the direct descendents of the founder, that is.
”

  “Why do you hold them responsible for the bad image?”

  “They haven’t all been what we call hunters by any means, but some of them were and over the years that bunch managed to make themselves legends in the Society, right?”

  “I’ve heard that,” he agreed.

  “That’s all well and good. Every community needs its legends. But the problem with a powerful legend is that it usually consists of a little dollop of truth surrounded by several layers of fluffy lies. After a while the lies conceal the truth at the core and everyone starts to believe the lies. In the case of hunters, there has been a decidedly dangerous image associated with that type of talent because so many of the stories connected to the Jones men who were hunters involve violence.”

  “So?”

  She took another sip of wine. “The way I see it, hunters, in general, get a bad rap simply because of those darn Jones men. If they had pursued normal, ordinary careers the way you have instead of chasing after bad guys, no one would think twice about a sensitive who happened to be a hunter today.”

  “You don’t think that answer might be a little too simplistic?”

  “Makes sense to me.”

  He let that ride for a while.

  “Did your engagement end because of your sensitivity?” he asked eventually.

  “Nope. I did a pretty good job of covering that up. It ended because of what happened here in Stone Canyon.”

  “The McAllister murder?” he asked.

  “Uh-huh. Between you and me, I think someone right here in Stone Canyon phoned Greg and warned him that he was engaged to an ax murderer.”

  “McAllister wasn’t murdered with an ax.”

  “Details.” She waved that off. “The bottom line is my fiancé had good reason to get cold feet.”

  “Did he?”

  She frowned. “Well, yes. What would you have done in his shoes?”

  “If I had questions, I would have gone hunting.”

  She stilled in the act of taking another sip of wine. Slowly she lowered the glass. “I beg your pardon?”

  He stretched out his legs and contemplated the jeweled pool. “You heard me.”

  “You would have gone hunting for what, exactly?”

  “Answers.” He picked up his wine and drank what was left in the glass.