and come up with answers she couldn’t explain. Images from television, details from the newspaper, gossip…all pieces of a puzzle that had led her to believe she knew something she didn’t. A couple days of investigation, if that, should prove that all her suppositions were wrong.
And the bit about Sadie? He wasn’t ready to go there just yet.
“I’ll give you two days, Miss Lockhart.”
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, in obvious relief. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Lucky said sharply. “I think you’re full of crap, and I’ll be more than happy to prove it and then send you the bill.” The Benning Agency didn’t come cheap, but handling financial concerns was Cal’s job—not Lucky’s. “I’ll need to find a hotel room….”
“Oh, I’ve taken care of that,” the blonde said lightly. “It’s a bed-and-breakfast, actually. You’ll be much more comfortable there than you would be in a hotel, and it’s just down the road.”
Lucky thrust his hands in his pants pockets—so he wouldn’t strangle the client. “You made a reservation for me? Before I got here and agreed to take the job?”
“Instead of being irritable, you should thank me. This is a very busy time of year in the area, with the leaves changing colors and the weather turning cool. I didn’t know who Mr. Calhoun would send, of course, so just give Kristie my name when you check in.”
Since he had agreed to take her case, Annie Lockhart had relaxed considerably. She smiled a little, and the tears in her pretty blue eyes had dried, he noticed, as she gave him directions to the bed-and-breakfast down the hill. She was cute, but not his type. The women he dated were always beautiful. Not just cute, not merely pretty. He was drawn to women who turned heads in a major way. This woman was pretty enough, but she probably had never entered a room and immediately garnered every man’s attention—unless she sauntered in wearing a ridiculous hat like the one she’d been wearing when she’d opened the door.
His gaze skimmed her from head to toe—not for the first time—and lingered on the toes. The toenails were painted pink, and she wore one toe ring. A yellow flower. He’d bet his last dollar she had a tattoo. Somewhere. No, she was definitely not his type.
Annie Lockhart gave a brief and accurate description of the bed-and-breakfast where he’d apparently be staying. He remembered passing the large, old house on the way in. It was less than five minutes away.
Suddenly he couldn’t wait to get out of this cabin. “I’ll check into my room and call the office. In the morning we’ll get—”
“Tonight,” she interrupted. “We need to get started tonight.”
“Why?”
Suddenly she looked vulnerable again, too young and too naive to be involved in discussions of murder. “The dreams won’t stop unless I’m doing all I can to stop this killer. I can’t have those dreams again tonight. I just can’t. Come back after you check into your room and make your phone calls. I’ll cook supper for us, and we can get started.” She took a deep breath. “Please.”
“All right, Ms. Lockhart.”
“Call me Annie,” she said, not for the first time. “If we’re going to be working together…” She shrugged her shoulders, and for some reason she shifted her glance so that she was looking away from him and out a small window, even though there wasn’t much to see beyond those particular panes of glass. After a moment, she forced her gaze back in his direction.
He should invite her to call him Lucky, but he hesitated. He was already too close to liking Annie Lockhart for some reason, and the last thing he needed was to get involved with a kooky chick who wore extravagant hats and thought she was psychic. “I’ll check back with you in a couple of hours,” he said, turning away and heading—again—for the door. He really should get in his car, head for home and call Cal from there.
“Thank you, Lucky,” Annie called as he opened the door on a wonderfully cool afternoon. “I really don’t know what I’d do if you refused to help.”
And just like that, he was trapped. He’d never been able to turn his back on a woman in trouble. Maybe he had some sort of sick hero complex. Maybe he needed a doctor and some serious medication just as much as psychic Annie did. He could only hope that this time being a hero didn’t lead to complete, utter disaster.
Annie felt the urge to make fried chicken and mashed potatoes for supper, along with green peas and apple crisp. She didn’t cook often but she could cook, and having company—even if that company was a reluctant P.I. who thought she was crazy—brought out the homebody in her. Her mother had taught her the ways of the kitchen, hoping such skills would lead to a happy domestic life for her only child. That had been before divorce had soured Penny Lockhart’s views on love and marriage. The lessons had ended long ago, but Annie still remembered how to cook.
Divorce, after nearly twenty-five years of marriage, had definitely soured Penny Lockhart’s opinions on love, and it hadn’t done much for Annie’s perceptions, either. She’d always known all was not perfect with her parents, but she hadn’t expected they’d call it quits after such a long time. Her father had remarried quickly, and had more children. Two boys, to be precise. It was odd, having half brothers so much younger. Since she didn’t see her father and his new family often, it wasn’t exactly a problem. It was simply odd.
Her mother, on the other hand, visited often. Too often, to be honest. She had no qualms about jumping in her new electric-blue sports car and driving from Florida to Tennessee, almost always arriving unannounced.
These days Annie barely recognized the woman who had taught her to cook and clean and become a good wife. There would be no more marriage for Penny. She had completely embraced the life of a middle-aged single woman. She took dance lessons and was learning to play the guitar. She dated. She flirted with men half her age, and with men old enough to be her father. She dyed her hair. Red one day, blond the next. She’d lost thirty pounds, and often wore clothing intended for women thirty years younger.
Mid-fifties did not mean matronly for Penny Lockhart.
Annie could only hope that her mother didn’t make an appearance while Lucky Santana was here. How on earth would she explain him away? She certainly couldn’t tell her mother the truth. Heaven forbid.
She didn’t want her mother to know the psychic gift had reappeared. She’d freak, just as she had when as a child Annie had had nightmares about illness and accidents that too often came to pass within days. Why couldn’t she dream of winning the lottery?
By the time Lucky returned to the cabin, supper was ready. Annie had cleared a long worktable in the great room and set out notebooks and an assortment of pens. She was partial to the purple one, but she’d bet Lucky Santana wouldn’t dare take notes in anything other than blue or black.
He remained skeptical, suspicious of her every word. It didn’t matter. Eventually he would believe her. She was pretty sure he wouldn’t be happy about discovering that psychic ability was real. He liked his world neat and tidy, and to have his beliefs turned upside down would not be pleasant.
With any luck, his work would chase this unwanted return of her ability away, and she could return to her simple, uncomplicated, ordinary life, in which she didn’t dream of murderers or have very crisp visions of naked men in her bed.
Lucky ate as if he enjoyed the meal she’d prepared. The apple crisp went over especially well. He continued to hold much of himself back, but Annie didn’t take it personally. That was his nature. He wasn’t one to give his trust easily—or often. Something in his past had made him leery of getting too close to anyone—and to be honest, she needed no special gifts in order to be certain of that. She didn’t know what might’ve happened to make him so wary, and she didn’t try to see. That would be an invasion of privacy, and he was a very private person.
Besides, trying to tap deeply into her abnormal ability really wore her