the floor. She wore a sleeveless dark orange blouse and a long full skirt in eye-popping orange, red and yellow print. The extra fabric was tucked between her legs, giving some semblance of modesty, and it rustled as she kept the chair in motion with the foot on the floor.
Her hair was up that afternoon, baring that long, lovely neck, and her lids were heavy, as if the heat of the day and the peace of the porch had lulled her someplace else. But that, Robbie thought, was an act. She was as aware of him as he was of her.
After a moment, the rocking stopped and she let her leg slide down. Both feet were bare except for a coat of deep red polish on the toenails. No toe ring. No bracelet circling her delicate ankle.
“Robbie Calloway,” she said at last.
“How did you know? Oh, my God, you must be psychic,” he said drily. Crossing the porch, he sat in another rocker that creaked with each backstroke.
She smiled at his response. “It’s been a long time since you’ve gone anywhere in Copper Lake without being recognized. After all, you’re not just a Calloway. You’re one of the Calloways. You, your brothers, your mother—you’re considered the best of the best.”
“And you know this…?”
“I’m psychic, remember? And I read the paper. I talk to people.” She leaned forward and extended her right hand. “I’m—”
“Anamaria Duquesne. You scam people for a living.” He took her hand as he spoke and felt her muscles tighten at his remark. She didn’t try to pull away, though, even if he was holding on far too long for a handshake. Her skin was soft and warm, and it made him wonder if she felt like that all over. She was gorgeous with her clothes on. He could only imagine how stunning she would be with them off.
When he let go of her hand, she sat back and crossed one leg over the other. “You know what they call ten lawyers at the bottom of the sea? A good start. You have some nerve, criticizing what I do for a living.” Her voice was soft, fluid, the accent pure coastal Georgia. It was a voice that could quiet a cranky child, soothe a troubled soul or arouse a man until he hurt. If she ever took her clairvoyant nonsense to the radio, every man within listening range, believer or not, would tune in just to hear that voice.
“I understand you used to live here,” he said.
“A long time ago.”
“Why are you here now?”
She smiled faintly. “Because I used to live here. Why are you here?” Before he could answer, she went on. “Let me guess. Harrison Kennedy asked you to check me out.”
“Do you blame him?”
Her brows arched as she shrugged. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“You have an arrest record.”
Another shrug. “You would have one, too, if you weren’t a Calloway, and for more serious charges than my own.”
Robbie couldn’t argue the fact with her. He and his brothers had gotten into a lot of trouble when they were kids. There was no doubt that the family name, as well as Granddad, had kept them out of jail on more than one occasion.
“What do you call what you do?” he continued.
“A gift. Sometimes, not so much.”
He gestured. “Are you a psychic? Seer? Reader? Palmist? Do you have a sign outside your house in Savannah that says Sister Anamaria Sees All, with an evil eye and a palm, a moon and some stars?”
“I’m an advisor. No signs.”
“Then how do your customers find you?”
“Everyone in Savannah knows where to find Mama Odette’s girl.” Uncrossing her legs, she stood gracefully. Her skirt flowed around her in psychedelic ripples. “Would you like a glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade? I use Auntie Lueena’s recipe. I’m sure you know who she is.”
“Sure. Why not?”
She went to the door, opened it, then turned back to give him a devilish smile. “And I promise, Robbie Calloway, I won’t doctor it with anything. Healing or otherwise.”
It took only a moment to fill two glasses with ice, another to remove the pitcher from the refrigerator. Balancing it all, she carried it through the quiet house and onto the porch. The pitcher was already sweating when she set it on a small table, then filled the glasses.
“What is it exactly that Mr. Kennedy wants to know about me?” She handed one glass to Robbie, careful not to touch him, then sat down again in Mama’s rocker, cradling her own glass between her palms.
“Who you are. Why you’re here. What you’re up to.”
“You know who I am. Do I need an explanation for coming to stay at a house I’ve owned for twenty-three years? As for what I’m up to…I’m resting. Taking a break from my regular life. Retreating.” After a long drink of lemonade, she went on. “I suspect Mr. Kennedy’s primary interest is what I want with Miss Lydia.”
“What do you want with Miss Lydia?”
“For me, nothing. My mother had a message for her that I agreed to pass on.”
Skepticism crossed Robbie’s face. “You talk to your dead mother?”
Ignoring the sting of pain deep inside, Anamaria shook her head. “I don’t have that ability. She speaks to my grandmother.” As a small child, Anamaria would have been afraid to suddenly hear Mama’s voice again. As a teenager, she would have given a lot to hear her say one more time, Everything’s gonna be all right, baby doll. As an adult, she felt snubbed. She hadn’t asked for any sort of abilities, but if she had to have something, why couldn’t it have been the one gift that would allow her to connect with the mother she missed so desperately?
“What are your abilities?”
She smiled the aloof, mysterious sort of smile that customers always responded to. “I can read your palm, your tea leaves or your cards. I can look into your future and tell you something so vague it could be taken a dozen ways. I can gaze into the crystal ball or throw the bones or study your astral charts and give you information so startlingly imprecise that it could apply to anything or nothing at all.”
“So you’re a total fraud.” He grinned. He was handsome enough when his mouth was set in a grim line, but when he grinned…That flash of blinding-white teeth made his dark hair darker, his blue eyes bluer, his bronzed skin damn near lustrous.
A warning sounded distantly in her mind. Men and love were the downfall of the Duquesne women, together more dangerous than anything else they might face. So far, she had managed to avoid feeling passionately about anyone, but she was always on watch, always drawing away.
But if any man was safe for her, it was this one. Robbie Calloway was the most elite of an elite group. He was white, very socially aware, raised with two hundred years of teaching that the races didn’t mingle. His family, his church, his country club, his office, his circle of friends—all white. He’d dated enough women to populate a sorority house or two—all white. He wasn’t a threat to Anamaria.
Though he might make her a threat to herself.
“Did you take time from your busy workday just to check me out?”
His smile was wry. “Yeah, I lead a busy life. Twenty hours a week in the office is about ten too many for my tastes.”
“I thought you were a successful lawyer.” She hadn’t lied about reading the newspaper; reading back issues of the Clarion had been one of the first things she’d done once she’d decided to make this journey. His name appeared on a regular basis, as much for professional activities as for social ones.
“I am successful. I just don’t see the point of expending too much time or energy at it.”
“It’s not your passion?”
He