Now You See Her Linda Howard(32)

"What would you call it? If I pay up, you'll refrain from ruining a career. That sounds remarkably like extortion to me." He got up and seized her by the arm, forcing her up from the chair. "Get out."

"Richard, wait!"

"I said get out." He propelled her toward the door, past the astonished faces of his two assistants.

Embarrassment turned her face dark red.

She jerked her arm free and whirled to face him. "I'll make you regret treating me like this," she said in a voice clogged with angry tears.

"Sign the papers," he said, opening the door and ushering her out. "Or you'll regret it."




Chapter 8


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Sweeney moved restlessly around her studio, studying canvases without really seeing them. What did it matter anyway? She seemed to have lost the ability to judge her own work, but Candra was enthusiastic, so all she could do at this point was take the completed pieces to the gallery and go from there.

She had looked up the address for David and Jacob Stokes, attorneys-at-law, and mailed the sketch of their father to them, along with a note of condolence. Then she had spent the rest of the day working, just working, automatically applying paint to canvas and not even thinking about what she was doing.

A lot of disturbing things had happened to her in the past year, and for the most part, she thought she had handled them with remarkable composure. Though she hadn't been able to find any logical explanation, such as having a near-death experience or being struck by lightning, for why she had suddenly become able to see ghosts, at least she had found references to countless other people who claimed the same ability. She had to believe them, because why would anyone claim to see spirits if they didn't? It wasn't exactly something you wanted on an application for employment.



But in all the books on paranormal subjects she had read, she hadn't found anything to explain that death scene she had painted. She didn't remember painting it, so she had to assume she had been sleepwalking and had done the painting in her sleep. When she had gone out to mail the sketch she had stopped by the library and checked out some books on sleepwalking, but she hadn't had a chance to read them yet. She had flipped through one, though, and found the explanation that people who walked in their sleep were often under stress.

Well, duh. Like seeing ghosts was supposed to be relaxing. But she had been seeing ghosts for a year, and the night the old vendor died was the first time she had ever sleepwalked. The books didn't even have chapters on sleep-painting.

But that wasn't even what bothered her most. Guessing the questions to the Jeopardy! answers before she knew anything more than the categories was a little annoying, but not alarming. Anyone who had watched the show for years, as she had, was familiar with the categories and possible answers, and could guess right occasionally. Her success rate was a lot higher than that, like one hundred percent, but at least she could rationalize that.

She couldn't rationalize painting in her sleep, especially not the death scene of a man she hadn't known had died. That wasn't just chance, that was… weird. Strange. Spooky.

Who was she kidding? She knew the word that applied, having come across it a lot in her research on ghosts.

Clairvoyant.

She kept fighting down a sense of panic. This frightened her more than anything else that had ever happened to her. She had thought her situation was static, but instead it seemed to be intensifying, with new situations being thrown at her just as she thought she had a handle on the old ones. She had even adjusted to seeing ghosts, though that was neither amusing nor enjoyable, like her effect on traffic signals and the growth of plants. The constant cold wasn't enjoyable either, but she had decided that came with the ghosts.

Jeopardy! she realized, had probably just signaled the beginning of clairvoyance. She was terrified that the ugly death-scene painting was just the next step in a progression that would have her foreseeing massacres, plane crashes, famines, and plagues. What did it matter that her plants were beautiful, when mentally she would live with constant death and suffering? The part of painting she loved most was the creation of beauty, and this development threatened to take that away from her.

She had always enjoyed her solitude, but now for the first time she wished she didn't live alone. Even a cat or a dog would be better than this sense of being completely on her own, with no one to turn to for help.

She could always call Richard.

The temptation was almost overpowering. He would hold her as he had before, and she could sleep, warm and safe, in his arms. She had never before felt that way with anyone, certainly not her parents.

She had grown up knowing she had to handle things herself, that there was no soft, comforting lap in which she could rest. Not that Richard's lap had been soft; she had a very clear memoryof exactly how hard he had been. Nor had his lap been particularly comforting. But she had felt secure, and… and cherished. Or at least desired.

She couldn't call him. She had been right to send him away, and her reasons for doing so still existed.

She knew her views on morality were much more stringent than was generally held to be normal, but after seeing the harm done by her parents' indiscriminate infidelities, the wonder was she hadn't entered a convent. She was more than a little startled by Richard's desire for her, but she was absolutely astounded by her own desire for him. That had never happened before, and she wasn't certain of her ability to resist it. The urge to lie down with him was so potent she could feel her insides tighten now, just thinking about him. With Richard around, she thought, she would never be cold again. Every time she felt a chill, she could crawl into his lap and let him warm her, maybe from the inside out.