Her Secret Spy. Cindy DeesЧитать онлайн книгу.
out the tiny LED flashlight attached to his key chain and pointed it into the dark. A dozen steps led into a low, cramped space that looked for all the world like some kind of vault. The walls looked like steel-reinforced concrete. He felt the nearest one and was startled to register some sort of thick sealant or covering on the surface. Windowless and stuffy, it felt like a prison cell.
Or a secret storeroom. Did the mob move contraband through here? Drugs, maybe? What in the hell was this place?
It was not nearly as cluttered as the shop was. Big wooden crates were stacked along one wall, and several old steamer trunks sat along the opposite wall. He moved to the crates first and was surprised to see everything from wrapped curios to bottles of wine. But not just any wine. This stuff was old, French and had a famous label that would fetch thousands at auction if the dates on the labels were real. The stuff had to be illegal. He was no great connoisseur of wine, but to his knowledge the vineyard itself was the only importer of this brand to the United States. Based on the amount of dust on the bottles, the wine had been there for some time.
He had a look in the nearest steamer trunk. Max opened the heavy lid and was gratified to see the thing filled to the brim with papers. Bingo. This was exactly the kind of place Callista might have hidden her client list. He picked up a fistful of papers and began to read.
A magic spell. A recipe for a love potion of some kind. A ritual for luck described in details. Seriously? C’mon, Callista. Give up your client list already. A chuckle sounded nearby, making him whip around in the dark, swinging his flashlight wildly back and forth.
And then he realized it was the furnace kicking on. This place really gave him the creeps. That haunting face Lissa had drawn must have gotten under his skin more than he wanted to admit. Those eyes—they watched him pleadingly, begging for help. Thank God he’d gotten to Lissa before that bastard had dragged her off to heaven knew where to do heaven knew what and put a similar expression in her eyes.
He shook his shoulders hard, trying to rid himself of the sensation of something or someone watching him. He was a professional, for goodness’ sake. Trained for most of his life in the art of covert operations. He was a man of cool logic and action. He did not do ghosts, and he did not do supernatural. Period.
* * *
Lissa’s eyes opened drowsily as a hand caressed her forehead. She was too sleepy to bother pushing away the spirits tonight. “Is that you, Aunt Cal?” she mumbled to the room in general. “I’m fine—I promise. That lovely man, Max, or whatever his name is, took care of me. Did you send him to me?”
Another whisper of touch across her cheek. She would take that as a yes. “Thanks.” She sighed.
The ghost caressed her cheek again, this time beseechingly. It wanted her to listen. Reluctantly, she woke up more thoroughly, sitting up in bed and speaking directly to the invisible spirit hovering nearby. “Listen, Aunt Callista. About the whole psychic thing. I’m giving it up. I want to know what it’s like to be normal. To live like other people. Maybe find a nice guy and settle down. Have a family. I can’t keep talking to dead people and have a regular life. I know it’s selfish. But I’ve given my whole life to helping dead people. It’s time for me to live a little.”
The ghost of her aunt, if that was who’d woken her this morning, did not deign to answer. There were no more gentle, loving touches on her skin.
Lissa flopped back to her pillow, trying to enjoy the warmth of the morning sun streaming through her window. But that girl’s face from her attacker’s mind still lingered. She’d dreamed of her last night, too.
It had been awful having to endure the girl’s screams and cries for help. Help that had never come. Lissa shoved away the memory of her death, also dreamed about in vivid, high-definition color and surround sound. That was the worst part of dreaming. Lissa had no control over it, and the spirits seemed determined to take advantage of her weakness to torture her.
The nameless, but no longer faceless, girl was dead, and nothing would bring her back. The good news was that her killer was in custody and not likely to go free anytime soon. Lissa could let it go. Justice had been served. So the powers that be could just leave her out of the matter.
She sat up with conviction and threw back the antique quilt that had supposedly been made by a great-great-great-grandmother of hers. She had places to go and things to do. Determined to focus on those, she swung her feet to the cold wooden floor. This room needed a rug. A nice thick Persian one that she could dig her toes into.
What to wear? Max had promised to come back this morning and escort her down to the police station. She wanted to look her best for him, since she hadn’t exactly been in top form last night.
Lissa, my dear, she told herself, you have a crush on Mr. Smith. A big, fat, juicy one. And normal women acted on their crushes. They put out signals and feelers, and maybe even asked the men they liked out for a cup of coffee or a bite to eat. He did say last night that the next meal was on him. That meant he was open to the idea of seeing her again, right?
If only she’d had a more normal life, maybe she would know how to land a man like Max Smith. As it was, she stood in front of her closet and panicked. Then she moved into the bathroom and stared at the mirror over the sink and despaired. She couldn’t do this. He was so out of her league. She was an amateur at romance, and he was obviously a world-class master of the art.
Master of romance didn’t quite capture the raw magnetism of Max Smith, or whatever his name was. The Max part felt right, but the Smith part felt slightly off. Although now that she was living a normal life, she probably should ignore the intuition and just accept his name at face value.
Not that all intuition was bad, though. Last night, as he’d walked her to the store, there’d been a moment. The kind of moment she’d fantasized about. That instant of connection as eyes met and instinctive recognition of true love broke over both parties. As angelic hosts sang and heavenly trumpets blared to announce the miracle. Or something along those lines.
The moment had left her breathless and thinking the kind of racy thoughts she’d rarely had time for before she’d set aside her unfortunate gift.
Resolutely, she picked up a tube of eyeliner and prayed that it would cooperate with her this morning. The makeup gods were capricious demons from time to time.
As she carefully accented the roundness and width of her big dark eyes, she allowed herself to remember her other dream from last night. The one about Max. Who knew a girl could make herself blush just by dreaming about a man she’d just met? Except in her dream they’d known each other—or at least had a connection—for a long time.
She stared critically at herself in the mirror and then down at her pitiful selection of lipsticks. She wanted to come off breezy. Demure but sexy—whoa, whoa, whoa. Back up. Why was she going to all this trouble for this guy?
She’d always subscribed to the notion that any man worth her love would adore her just the way she was, with no makeup and her curls sticking out all over her head and a smudge of paint on her nose. Apparently that notion had flown right out the window at the first sign of a hot guy. He was not out of her league, darn it! She deserved any man she was attracted to.
But an insidious thread of doubt whispered warnings of what he would think if he knew about the circumstances of her conception and birth. She was tainted. Had bad genes. Her stepfather said once that they would come through in the end. The comment, uttered in anger, had stuck with her ever since. Was he right?
The sun shone a little less brightly through her window.
Max was, of course, punctual to the minute. She waited by the shop’s main entrance, picking at the black widow’s weeds she’d opted to wear. The old-fashioned dress swathed her in gloom and made her look at least a decade older than her twenty-six years.
“Going to a funeral after you make your statement?” he asked drily as he strolled down the sidewalk toward her.
Rendered speechless by his easy elegance in those flannel trousers and crisply starched dress shirt, she could only stare at him.