Mind Game (GhostWalkers, #2)(38)

“Aren’t you afraid your name is on a hit list right alongside mine?”

“They have no idea who I am. No one got a good look at my face, and the only one who might have been able to identify me was the sniper they set on our trail. He’s not in any condition to tell them who I am.”

“How would he know?”

He shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t know. Most likely he didn’t, but we have a feel for one another. How we walk a path, that sort of thing.”

“I see.” She didn’t, but she was becoming restless. “I need to walk around outside, Nicolas. It isn’t you, really, you’re being really supportive, but even Milly and Bernadette never spent more than fifteen or twenty minutes with me unless we were outdoors.”

“Am I projecting sexual energy?” He was watching her hands again. She was whirling the amethyst spheres beneath her fingertips, never touching them, keeping them afloat in the air just beneath her palm.

“There’s always energy, but that’s not it. You’re amazingly low-key. Most of the time, unless it is sexual, I don’t feel anything. You’re a very restful person to be with.”

“How about going out into the courtyard, Dahlia? You can sit out there and relax. I’ll make a list of things we need and call in the order and then make us something to eat.”

She nodded. “Thanks for being understanding. I really appreciate it.”

“Dahlia.” He stopped her before she made it to the door. “Is it something I can help you with?”

She should have known he would see beyond mere words. Dahlia shook her head. “I’ve always relieved the buildup by physical activity. You saw my gym. I can wait until dark and use the rooftops. I get a little shaky is all.”

“Are you hurting?”

“It isn’t bad—and don’t offer pain meds. I don’t take them. I have a fairly high tolerance, and I get by.”

He waved her toward the courtyard. Dahlia didn’t hesitate. She needed to be alone. Part of it was she didn’t want him to see her as she really was. She put her hands out, fists clenched around the spheres. Both hands were shaking. She was used to her routine, the sanctuary of her home. Interacting with Nicolas was exhilarating, but it took its toll. She began to jog around the courtyard, all the while keeping the spheres moving beneath the fingers of both hands.





CHAPTER SEVEN


Dahlia paced back and forth in the small bedroom, her mind refusing to give her peace. Something was wrong. She’d walked the entire parameters of the house several times. She jogged in the courtyard. Her dinner, a traditional Cajun dish, wasn’t sitting well in her stomach despite having been cooked to perfection. She missed something. Granted, she’d lost everything, and she’d been distracted by running through the bayou and practically sleeping with a man, but she never had so much trouble figuring things out. It was right there, within her grasp, yet she couldn’t quite reach it.

She leapt onto the bed and raced halfway up the wall, taking refuge in physical activity. Someone wanted her dead. They shot Jesse. Was it possible the very people she worked for had sent a team to kill her? Her bare feet beat a small tattoo on the lower part of the wall as she ran lightly around it, circling several times before attempting to race up the wall to the ceiling. Why did they shoot Jesse and not kill him? They would know he didn’t know where she was. She was late. She never had contact with Jesse until she reached her house. It was always set up that way. It never varied. She didn’t carry a cell phone or a pager or anything else. Once he gave her the mission, she planned it and carried it out alone. Why did they shoot Jesse? Just to torture him? It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t the first time a recovery had taken a wrong turn, though she always completed the assignment, but there was a strong possibility the attack on her home and family was connected.

Dahlia raced up the side of the wall until she was upside down, hanging from the ceiling. It took a great deal of concentration. Her mind was not sufficiently following the process and she fell like a rag doll, hitting the bed and bouncing slightly, the breath slammed from her lungs at the jolt.

“What the hell are you doing?” Nicolas stood in the door looking disheveled and shaken from his usual calm. “Are you out of your mind?”

Dahlia sucked in air, enough to allow a smooth somersault that brought her upright and sitting tailor-fashion in the middle of the bed. She shook back her hair and looked at him. “I missed something important.”

He couldn’t help staring at her. Drinking her in. Dahlia wasn’t shy or vain, or even modest. She didn’t seem to notice her personal appearance. She sat on the bed, the covers rumpled, in a tank top that bared her shoulders and midriff and a loose pair of cotton drawstring pants. With her hair tumbling around her and pooling on the sheets she looked mysterious and feminine and all too sexy when she clearly wasn’t trying.

A frown slipped across her face. “Quit fixating on my breasts. You cannot do whatever it is you’re thinking right through my shirt, thank you very much. For heaven’s sake, do you ever think of anything besides sex?”

“Apparently not,” he admitted wryly. “I’ve never had the problem before I met you.” He was damned if he’d be embarrassed. He could see the darker outline of her nipples through the thin white tank top, an intriguing shadow that tempted and beckoned and begged to be suckled. It wasn’t his fault the woman never wore adequate clothing.