In Too Deep

  He finally got to the bottom line.

  "Only if it makes you feel awkward," he said.

  She put her arms around his neck. "Poor Fallon. How did an old-fashioned gentleman endowed with such quaint Victorian virtues ever survive in the modern world?"

  He groaned. "You think I'm some kind of throwback?"

  "Only in the nicest sense of the word."

  "Calling me old-fashioned and Victorian makes me feel ancient. I know I'm a little older than you, but not that much. I just look old."

  "No." She stood on tiptoe and brushed her mouth against his. "You don't look old. You look perfect."

  The touch of her mouth acted like an electrical switch. Everything inside him went to flashpoint in a heartbeat.

  "You're the one who is perfect," he rasped.

  He moved into the room and shut the door. The action plunged the small space into a shadowed realm, a world lit by the silver light of the canyon-country moon.

  He took off his tux jacket for the second time that evening and tossed it across the back of the nearest chair. When he started to loosen the black bow tie, Isabella stopped him.

  "Let me," she said.

  He opened his senses and saw the heat in her eyes.

  When she reached up to unknot his tie, her fingers trembled a little. He caught her hand and kissed her palm. She let the ends of the tie dangle around his neck and went to work unfastening the onyx cuff links. There were two faint clinks when she put the cuff links carefully on the table. The small, intimate sound jacked his senses even higher. He was certain he had never been so hard in his life.

  She went to work on the black studs that secured the front of his shirt.

  He kissed her and began to strip her with quick, focused motions. The evening gown collapsed into a dark pool at her feet. He got the lacy bra off next. The panties followed, leaving her in the sexy high heels.

  Energy ignited the atmosphere of the shadowed room. Isabella's effect on him could only be described in terms of alchemy, he thought. She was the fire that transmuted the cold iron inside him into gold. With her he could look into the heart of chaos and glimpse the ultimate goal of the ancient art, the Philosopher's Stone. With her he was, for a time, complete.

  Desperate now, he picked her up and braced her against the nearest surface, the wall. She put one bare leg around his waist and then the other. Her scent was more intoxicating than any drug. He cradled her with one hand and stroked her with the other until she was wet and frantic.

  "For me," he said. He caught her earlobe between his teeth and bit down a little, needing to reinforce the words. "I want you like this only for me. No one else."

  "It has never been like this with anyone else. It couldn't be. Only you." She clutched at his shoulders and looked at him with her mysterious eyes. "This had better work both ways or it's over now."

  "Only you," he said. He was shatteringly aware that his voice was hoarse with passion. He could barely speak at all. "Never like this with anyone else."

  She smiled her devastating smile.

  "Good," she said.

  Her fiercely wonderful energy filled the room, enveloping him.

  He managed to unzip his trousers and then he was pushing into her. She closed tightly around him.

  He thrust again and again, fast and hard. She clung to him, wrapping herself around him. He could hear her breathing: quick, shallow gasps that betrayed her rising excitement.

  "Fallon."

  He forced himself to stop pounding into her long enough to lift her away from the wall and put her down onto the bed. He got rid of his trousers and briefs, kicked off his shoes and lowered himself onto the bed beside her.

  "My turn," she said.

  She flattened one hand on his chest and pushed him onto his back. He went willingly. And then she was on top, sliding slowly downward, fitting her tight core to him.

  She rode him slowly, tormenting him until he thought he could not endure it. But he forced himself to let her set the pace. He gripped her soft thighs and opened his senses fully. He did not try to focus his talent. Rather, he gave himself up to the glittering exhilaration of the moment. It was only at times like this, when he was so intimately connected to Isabella, that he could safely slip the bonds of his self-control and fly free.

  Sensation and the heat of desire carried him on a relentless tide. The knowledge that Isabella was riding the same wave thrilled him beyond measure.

  When she came undone in a storm of energy, he followed her over the edge into the endless night.

  25

  She came back to her senses a long time later, aware of a faint rustling sound. Fallon was no longer in the bed.

  She opened her eyes and saw him dressing by the light of the moon. She pushed herself up on her elbows and watched him tuck the white shirt into the waistband of his trousers. She was not sure whether to be amused or annoyed or hurt.

  "You're leaving?" she asked, trying not to show any emotions at all.

  "If I stay here until morning, there's a good chance that someone will see me leaving your room."

  She relaxed, smiling a little. "I told you, everyone at the conference already knows we're sleeping together."

  "I don't have a problem with that."

  He walked to the bed, bent down and braced a hand on either side of her. He kissed her, his mouth deliciously rough on hers. It was a branding kiss, she decided. He was letting her know that on this level she belonged to him. He straightened reluctantly.

  "But there's something called discretion," he said.

  "Gosh. Haven't heard that word used in a long time. You are aware that's another old-fashioned concept?"

  "Is it?"

  "Yeah, but it's very sweet." She yawned and waved a hand toward the door. "Go on back to your room. I'll see you in the morning."

  "Breakfast at six-twenty. I want to talk to Zack before we leave and then I've got to say good-bye to my parents. Plane leaves at eight. I haven't told the pilot that we're making a detour. I'll inform him just before we take off."

  "Why not let him know earlier so he can revise the flight plan?"

  "Just a precaution." He went to the table and collected his cuff links. "No sense advertising our schedule in advance."

  A tiny chill shivered through her. "You don't want anyone to know that you're investigating my grandmother's death, do you?"

  "Zack and Raine know."

  "Sure, but they won't say anything because they've got the same concern that you do. My point is that the three of you don't want folks on the Council to suspect that you're wasting valuable time and money checking out a conspiracy theory about the murder of a known crackpot."

  His hand closed tightly around the cuff links. He watched her steadily. "I didn't say that."

  "But it's what you're thinking."

  "What I'm thinking," he said evenly, "is that the fewer people who know that I'm looking into your grandmother's death, the better. Nothing more, nothing less."

  "Ha. With you there's always something more. But never mind. I understand. Heck, I even agree with you. The fewer people who know about this, the better. See you in the morning, Fallon."

  For a moment he did not move. She held her breath, wondering if he was reconsidering his decision to leave. But after a couple of seconds he went to the door, opened it and checked the hall.

  "Lock the door after I leave," he ordered.

  "Yeah, sure."

  She waited until he moved out into the hall and shut the door before she got out of bed. She padded barefoot across the room and put on the safety lock. There was no sound out in the corridor for at least three full seconds. Then the light shifted under the door. She knew that Fallon had finally walked back to his room at the end of the hall.

  She crawled into bed, pulled up the covers and pondered the ceiling for a very long time.

  After a while she drifted off and tumbled into a troubled dream in which her grandmother appeared in the heart of a storm of icy fog. Grandma was
speaking, trying to send a warning, but as was so often the case in dreams, the words made no sense.

  SHE CAME AWAKE on a current of fear, pulse racing, heart pounding. The primal instincts of childhood took over. Do not move. Maybe the monster under the bed won't see you.

  She forced the crushing wave of panic aside, but she remained very still. Her other sight, aroused by the surge of adrenaline, was already at full throttle and sending her a confusing flood of stimulation. The psychic senses operated both independently and in conjunction with the normal senses. Engaging one's talent without also getting feedback from the regular senses could be wildly disorienting unless a person was accustomed to dealing with only the psychic sense.

  Cautiously she opened her eyes partway. She was curled on her side, facing the sliding glass doors that opened onto the little patio.

  The curtains were still parted, allowing moonlight to slant into the room. But something was different. The atmosphere was much chillier than it had been earlier. She realized that she was inhaling the fresh, clean scents of the desert night, not air-conditioning. As she watched, the edge of one of the curtains fluttered.

  The sliding glass door was partially open. Paranormal fog boiled through the entrance. Someone had entered the room. She remained frozen for another instant, trying to adjust to the shock.

  And then she tried frantically to leap from the bed. She discovered she could not move.

  "I know you're awake." The voice came out of the shadows behind her, the voice of an irritatingly unctuous salesman. "I've used my talent to trap you in the twilight zone between sleep and wakefulness. Don't bother trying to move. You can't even twiddle your thumbs."

  The hot acid of adrenaline splashed through her. She struggled desperately to get to her feet and managed to twitch, if not actually twiddle her thumbs. Her left foot jerked an inch. That was more than the intruder expected but not nearly enough to get her out of bed and through the sliding glass door to safety.

  Damn it, Fallon, why didn't you stay? This wouldn't have happened if you'd been here with me where you belong. You see where those old-fashioned notions of discretion get you?

  She stared fixedly at the open window, fighting the terrible panic so that she could concentrate on her psychic senses. They seemed to be fully functional. She had no problem perceiving the river of hot fog that seethed and roiled across the floor and past the foot of the bed.

  "You can talk," the intruder said, "but if you try to scream, I'll have to use more energy to silence you. You won't like it, trust me."

  "What do you want?" She tried to speak as loudly as possible, testing her voice. But the words emerged as a thin whisper.

  "I won't hurt you. I don't do that kind of work. I'm staying out of your range of vision because that's one of my policies. Clients and those who receive the message never see my face."

  "What are you talking about?" she hissed in the same reedy whisper.

  "They call me the Messenger. I consider myself a go-between. I'm here to make you a very handsome offer."

  "And if I refuse it?"

  "Let's not go there. It will be more profitable for both of us if we start on a positive note."

  Beneath the bedding she succeeded in getting one hand clenched into a fist. The gesture of rage was useless. Her only hope was to somehow find the strength to roll off the edge of the bed onto the floor. If she got out of the intruder's line of sight for even an instant, he would likely lose focus for a couple of seconds. That might give her enough time to scramble out the door into the night. At the very least she would be able to scream for help.

  "I'll keep this short," the Messenger said. "I represent an individual who is extremely interested in acquiring inside information about Jones & Jones. You are uniquely placed to provide that sort of data."

  "Forget it," she mumbled.

  The fact that the intruder could hold her virtually paralyzed was extraordinary on its own. That he could do so without making physical contact meant that his talent was truly off the charts. Nevertheless, he had to be using a great deal of energy to control her movements. He could not go on for long generating power at such a rate.

  She had to find a way to make him touch her. If he put a hand on her, she was sure she had enough power to disorient him.

  "Listen to the rest of the pitch before you make your decision," the Messenger said smoothly. "First, the money will be excellent. A hundred thousand dollars has already been wired into an offshore account just to show my client's good faith. There will be more as soon as you start to forward information to a certain e-mail address."

  She poured everything she had into moving one leg an inch closer to the edge of the bed. She succeeded but the effort cost her. She was drenched in sweat.

  "No," she said hoarsely.

  "I put a slip of paper with the number of the account and details for accessing it on the console."

  "No."

  "You really do want to think about the offer before you make up your mind."

  "There's nothing to think about. The answer is no."

  "Your decision, of course, but I have been instructed to inform you that turning down the offer would not be a wise move in terms of your future health and well-being."

  THE OLD DREAM Started out in the usual manner.

  He was lost. He had traveled too far out on the multidimensional grid. He had gone too deep into the dark zone. This time he would not be able to find his way back.

  The endless night was illuminated here and there by small galaxies composed of points of light. Each tiny sun was important; each was connected to another but he could not quite grasp the patterns.

  The clusters of stars were like swarms of fireflies in an endless garden of night. He was well and truly lost.

  But someone was calling to him across the vast reaches of time and space.

  Isabella.

  He looked for her but he could not see her in the shadows. He had to find her. She was infinitely more important than whatever fabulous discoveries awaited him in the heart of chaos. And she was in danger. . . .

  Fallon awoke on a rush of energy, all of his senses at full throttle. He had to find Isabella now.

  He was out of bed and reaching for his pants before he could assess and analyze the decision. The part of him that was always engaged in probabilities and possibilities did a fast assessment of the situation. If Isabella was in danger, that danger would have arrived via the patio.

  Given the hotel's desert landscaping, that meant he would be covering some rough ground. He paused long enough to pull on the low boots that he had worn on the plane. He was going to look like a lust-crazed idiot if he showed up on her patio half-naked with no good reason.

  He jerked open the sliding glass door and went out into the night.

  "ARE YOU THREATENING TO murder me?" Isabella asked. The new tide of energy slamming through her was enough to propel her to the very edge of the bed. Another inch and she would fall onto the floor. She was battling the invisible psychic thrall the whole time, but she was making some progress.

  "No, no, no, Miss Valdez. I assure you I am not a hit man. I told you, I'm the Messenger."

  "You know what happens to messengers."

  There was no sound out on the patio, just a sudden shifting of the shadows. But suddenly Fallon was there, sweeping into the unlit room on a pressure wave of energy. He went straight toward the intruder like a hawk zeroing in on prey.

  "Shit." The Messenger no longer sounded like a silver-tongued salesman. He sounded panicked. He leaped for the only available exit, the door that opened onto the hallway.

  Isabella felt the paralysis lift instantly as the intruder lost his focus. She rolled out of bed and got to her feet in time to see Fallon grab the fleeing Messenger and spin him around. For the first time, she saw the ski mask that covered the man's face. He had relied on more than his unnerving talent to conceal his identity.

  "No, wait," the Messenger gasped. He flung up his hands to ward off a blo
w.

  Energy flashed in the atmosphere.

  "Don't kill him," Isabella said quickly. "Not yet. He knows stuff. We need to talk to him first."

  "Yes," Fallon said. "We'll definitely have a chat first."

  He slammed the Messenger onto the floor. The man groaned. Fallon leaned down and ripped off the ski mask.

  "Always knew you'd come to a bad end, Lockett," Fallon said. "Didn't know I'd be the one to take you out, though. I assumed it would be some other disgruntled client."

  Lockett stiffened. He stared up at Fallon. "You know my name?"

  "I never do business with people I don't know."

  Lockett sat up slowly, clearly dazed by more than just the body slam. "I don't understand. No one knows my identity. I never let clients see me. How the hell did you find out?"

  "I don't think that's important at the moment. What are you doing in this room?"

  "He said that someone wants me to spy on J&J," Isabella said indignantly. "There was a huge bribe involved. And a threat."

  Fallon looked at her. "Robe."

  "What?"

  "You're in your nightgown. Put on a robe."

  She looked down. "Oh, right."

  Her nightgown was made of soft cotton. It was ankle length and long-sleeved. All in all it was far more modest than the evening dress she had worn earlier, but she suspected that it was the principle of the thing that worried Fallon. She grabbed her robe and slipped into it.

  Fallon turned back to Lockett. "What's this about a bribe and a threat?"

  "I never threatened her," Lockett said forcefully. "I wasn't the one trying to bribe her, either. I simply relayed the message. That's what I do. You should know that, Jones."

  "What was the message?" Fallon asked.

  Lockett heaved a world-weary sigh. "My client wanted me to offer Miss Valdez a sum of money in exchange for transmitting certain details concerning the operation of Jones & Jones. That's all there was to it."