Page 21

The storm blew itself out shortly after ten o’clock. Oliver was still lounging in the chair but now his heels were stacked on the windowsill. Roxy had been perched on the sill, seemingly entranced by the storm and the night. She abruptly chortled.

He looked up from the Vortex file he had been studying. The rain had stopped. Energy-infused fog glowed on the other side of the window.

“Looks like the worst is over,” he said. “It wasn’t that bad. I doubt the bridge washed out. The gang back at the diner will be disappointed.”

“I’m sure that was a threat meant to intimidate us into leaving,” Leona said.

“I got the same impression.”

He looked at her, aware of the quiet pleasure of her company. She was sitting on the bed, propped up against a stack of pillows, fully dressed except for her shoes. The files he had given her to read were stacked on the quilt beside her. Several tendrils of her hair had come free and there was a sexy, rumpled look about her that rezzed a pleasant fantasy. The vision involved him getting out of the chair, moving to the bed, and pulling her into his arms.

Roxy chortled again and tapped the glass with one of her paws.

“I think she wants out,” Leona said.

Oliver swung his legs off the sill and got to his feet. “I’ll open the window for her.”

“No, wait. We’re on the second floor. I’ll take her downstairs.”

“I don’t think you need to worry. Those six paws probably make her a very good climber.”

“Yes, she is, actually. You’re right.”

He opened the window. Damp, psi-heavy air flowed into the room. Roxy chortled farewell and dashed out onto the ledge. The ribbons of the fascinator fluttered behind her. She shimmied down a drainpipe and vanished into the radiant mist.

Leona got up and walked to the window. He looked at her, conscious of the deep sense of recognition that whispered through him. I’ve been waiting for you all of my life, Leona Griffin .

“There’s certainly a lot of energy in these mountains,” Leona observed.

So much for the crystalline moment of romantic intimacy. She was thinking about the local atmosphere, not him.

Suppressing a groan, he closed the window. “Yes, there is. I’d better get back to my room. It’s late and we’ve got that appointment with Thacker in the morning. Breakfast at seven.”

“I remember.”

He did not want to leave. It had been very comfortable sitting here with Leona, going over paperwork, discussing the history of Vortex, the Bluestone Project, and the legends that swirled around Vincent Lee Vance. Maybe too comfortable. He could get used to not having to rez the low-level vibe he habitually generated when he was with people he did not know well—the vibe that made them see what they expected to see: a dull, harmless academic who belonged in a museum.

The effort would have been wasted on Leona. She saw through the camouflage and she was unfazed by what she saw. That raised a question that he knew was going to haunt him. What, exactly, did she see when she looked at him? Did she see the man who wanted to climb into bed with her?

And yes, he really needed to get out of here now before he did something stupid—like ask if he could stay for a while longer. The whole night, maybe.

He gathered up the files, stuffed them into the messenger bag, and headed for the door. “See you in the morning.”

“Good night,” she said.

She trailed after him to the door. He went out into the hall and stopped.

“You were lying when you said the reason you weren’t planning to register with a matchmaking agency was that you were dedicated to your career,” he said.

She folded her arms and propped one shoulder against the doorframe. “I am dedicated to my career.”

“But that’s not the reason you’ve never registered, is it?”

“I’m a free spirit, remember?”

He nodded. “Okay. I get it. None of my business.”

He took the few steps to his room and rezzed the lock. When he opened the door, she spoke.

“I told you the truth,” she said. “I love my work and I plan to live my life as a free spirit, but you’re right. Those aren’t the reasons I’ve never registered.”

He waited, saying nothing.

“My reason is similar to yours,” she said quietly. “A problematic para-psych profile. I guess I’m afraid of rejection.”

“Figured as much,” he said. “You’re strong, aren’t you?”

She blinked. “What makes you say that?”

He smiled. “The mysterious lab accident. In addition to your locksmith abilities, you can activate Alien artifacts, can’t you?”

She winced. “Some of them.”

“Only some?”

“It’s not the sort of talent you want to run a lot of experiments with. That would be a good way to accidentally murder someone. There’s a reason there are strict laws regarding the handling of artifacts of unknown power.”

“Sure. But just so you know, if you mentioned that aspect of your talent on a matchmaking agency questionnaire, I wouldn’t reject you because of it.”

Her eyes heated. “Are you suggesting that you might ask me out on a real date, not just a date to tour your museum?”

“If I did, would you turn me down?”

“No,” she said. “No, I wouldn’t turn you down. Good night, Oliver.”

She straightened and gently closed the door.

He went into his room and rezzed the lights. He was suddenly feeling remarkably cheerful—more cheerful than he had in a very long time.