“Shh, I’m fine,” he assured her.
“Joe,” she said. “Joe…you kept saying…”
“Saying what?”
“‘No, don’t die. You can’t die.’”
He winced. Which would be worse? Lying and telling her that he had been dreaming about Leslie, or admitting that he was dreaming about someone murdering her?
“I know what you’re thinking, but I wasn’t dreaming about Leslie,” he said softly.
She swallowed, looking at him, her eyes so caring, so concerned.
“Joe, you were saying something else, too.”
“What?”
“‘I don’t talk to the dead. I don’t.’”
“Wow, I’m having some major-league nightmares, huh?” he asked lightly.
“Joe, have you been having these dreams for a long time?” she asked.
“I don’t think so,” he said.
“Is it…me?” she asked, sounding a little ill.
“Good Lord, no!” he protested.
“I would never want to hurt you, Joe,” she said.
“It’s exactly the opposite,” he told her. “I would never hurt you. I would kill someone before I let them hurt you in any way.”
She touched his face in that special way of hers. He felt as if he were melting.
“Joe,” she said, “I’m so glad you’re here with me. I’ve wanted you here for…for a while, I admit.”
“You are a dream, do you understand?” he asked passionately. “You are the best dream, and never a nightmare,” he told her.
She seemed uncertain for a moment. Then she offered him a dry half smile. “I know I have to be careful because of that big head of yours, but…you really are incredible.”
“Aw, shucks, ma’am.”
He ran a hand down the length of her back. Sleek. Arousing. Then he turned toward her. Kissed her.
Made love to her.
They slept again, and he had no more dreams that night.
There was something wrong with Joe. She was sure of it, no matter how hard he tried to deny it.
Over coffee the next morning, Genevieve sat in her den at her desk and mulled over the fact that something was seriously troubling him.
Something?
Oh, yeah. Something.
“I don’t talk to dead people. I don’t.”
She started to pick up the phone, hesitated, then set the receiver down again.
She really was worried.
Joe cared about her, she was certain. He was still protective, of course, but there was more to it than that. He made love to her with undeniable passion. He teased her, and when she teased him back, he responded with heartfelt laughter.
But he was having terrible nightmares. The kind that made him tense up like a coiled rattler in the middle of the night. The kind that seemed to grip him in a brutal vise.
And he hadn’t been having them for long. No, only since he’d been sleeping with her.
That certainly didn’t bode well for a lasting relationship.
She opened a desk drawer that she had closed a long time ago and hadn’t opened since. It contained the newspaper articles from when she had been kidnapped.
And rescued.
There, in one of the pictures, was a man named Adam Harrison. He had come because he had been a friend of Leslie’s. And Leslie had been a psychic. A real psychic.
She remembered Adam and his firm, Harrison Investigations, from that difficult time. Soft-spoken, reassuring and kind, he had never made her feel fragile, as if people had to walk on eggshells and whisper around her. Her mother also knew Adam, but differently. He, too, had been born wealthy, and they had met in the course of their various philanthropies.
She logged on to the Internet and started searching. She found a number of articles about bizarre events that came to an end when Harrison Investigations got involved. There were even hints that the government had called in the company on occasion.
She found the official Web page for Harrison Investigations, but it made no claims for the group’s ability to communicate with the occult. In fact, it made no claims at all.
It was simply a page with a “contact us” form.
She hesitated. Then she began to type in who she was…
And what was happening to Joe in his sleep.
Joe had made a lunch date with Larry Levine. They met at a sandwich shop within sight of St. Paul’s.
“I read your article on the service this morning,” Joe told Larry.
Larry smiled, deeply pleased. “It was good, huh?” he asked.
“Excellent. A fine tribute,” Joe said.
“Have you found anything out? Is there anything I can help you with?” Larry asked him anxiously.
“That day…the day he died, you were working, right?”
“Yeah, I was in the newspaper office all day.”
“Why?” Joe asked.
All of a sudden, Larry didn’t appear to be so eager to help. “Because I’m not rich, and I have to work my ass off to make a living.”
Joe grinned without humor. “You work every day of the week, then?”
“If I need to,” Larry said grimly. “I’m always looking for a hot story. That’s what a reporter does.”