Reunion in Death (In Death #14)(39)

"It'll pass." And there was the possibility, however remote, that a few hours with friends might put him in the mood to cooperate.

"So are we on?" Mavis demanded as she swung by with her zinger.

"Sure. Just give me a minute to go up and take care of some things."

"Frigid! Roarke?" Mavis tugged on his sleeve as Eve started out. "Can we take the limo? It'd be so totally mag for all of us to pile in and ride down to the D and D in style."

As the Down and Dirty was a strip joint with as much class as a rabid squirrel, Eve figured they'd be making one hell of a splash arriving in a mile-long limo, with uniformed driver. She had to be grateful the thing was built like an armored tank.

She stripped off her weapon harness, strapped on an ankle holster, checked her smaller, off-duty clutch piece to be certain it was fully charged. For grooming purposes, she dragged her fingers through her hair and considered the job done.

She strode back out of the bedroom, then came up short when she saw Sam standing in the hall. "I didn't want to disturb you," he began. "But you have a headache. I felt it," he explained before she could speak. "I can help you with it."

"It's okay. It's nothing."

"I hate to see anything in pain." His expression was soft with compassion. "It'll only take a minute."

"I don't like doing chemicals,"

Now he smiled. "I don't blame you. I'm a sensitive." He stepped toward her. "With a touch of the empath. It's here, isn't it?" He skimmed a fingertip down the center of her forehead, but didn't touch her. "And behind your eyes. It'll only get worse if you go out to a noisy club without tending it. I won't hurt you."

His voice was soothing and compelling. Even as she shook her head, he continued to speak, and drew her gently in.

"It's just a matter of touch, of concentration. Close your eyes, try to relax. Think of something else. You went to Chicago today."

"Yeah." Her lids drooped closed as he brushed that fingertip over her brow. "To interview people at the prison."

"All that violent and conflicting energy. No wonder you have a headache."

His fingertips fluttered against her closed lids. Warmth. His voice murmured. Comfort. No man had ever offered her both of those things, but for Roarke. She let herself drift; it was almost impossible not to. And the thought passed through her head, the wonder of what it would be like to have a man, a father, give kindness instead of pain.

Sam drew the ache out, into his fingertips, his fingers, into his palm. It throbbed there, dully, pulsed like an echo in his forehead, before he let it spread and dissipate.

As it faded, it felt another, sharper pain. Deeper, it cut fast and violent into his center. With it, he had a flash. And saw into her mind, her thoughts, her memory, before he broke the link and blocked.

"Wow." She swayed a little from the sudden lack of support, though she hadn't been aware of leaning. She was aware that the headache was gone, and in its place a sensation of calm well-being. "Better than any damn blocker," she began as she opened hen eyes.

He was staring at her, his face drained of color, full of shock and sorrow. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"What? What's wrong? Does that deal make you sick?" She reached out to take his arm, but he gripped her hand. And now his were cold as winter.

"Eve, I never intended-such a strong mind. I should've realized. I was focused on relieving the pain. It's necessary to lower the block, very briefly, but I do light healing as a matter of course, and never intrude. I never meant to."

She stiffened. "What do you mean, intrude?"

"I didn't look, I promise you. It's against everything I believe to look into another person without express invitation. But you opened, and the image was there before I could block it. From your childhood." He saw from her face she understood him. "I'm so very sorry."

"You looked in my head?"

"No. But I saw. And seeing, however unintentional, is still a betrayal of trust."

She felt stripped and raw. Stepped back from him. "That's private."

"Yes, very private. I don't know what I can do to make this up to you, but-"

"You forget what you saw," she snapped. "And you don't talk about it. Ever. To anyone."

"You have my word I won't speak of it. Eve, if you want Phoebe and me to go-"

"I don't give a damn what you do. Just stay out of my head. Stay the hell out of my head." She strode away, had to force herself not to run. Instead she fought to compose herself before she went back down, into the parlor.

She couldn't think of anything she wanted more now than an hour at the D and D where she could smother out her own thoughts in horrible music played at a level to damage eardrums, to drink bad booze until misery was sunken and drowned.

...

Duty won out, and she only got half-drunk, which took some work in the single hour she'd allowed herself. She'd avoided Sam, sitting as far away from him as possible on the wild and noisy ride downtown, then making sure she was at the opposite end of the table from him during the stint at the club.

He'd made it easy for her, and kept his distance.

Even when Mavis had insisted everybody dance with everybody else, they'd bypassed each other. But neither that nor the burn of bad brew had improved her mood.