Special Gifts Read online

  And then it left her. The hands on her body, the mouth on hers, the smell and feel of him vanished, and there was blood everywhere. Blood on the red shoe, blood on her hands, blood on Sam Oliver’s hands. And blood in a pool around Phil Grayson.

  She shivered, trying to break away, but the warmth, the human touch, was having its usual, devastating effect, increasing her visions, bringing them horrifyingly close, surrounding her. And she saw Sam watching Phil, watching the lifeblood drain away, and his face was a mask of murderous rage.

  She felt the scream form in the back of her throat, and her hands curled into fists as she fought to break free of him, to break free of the vision that she couldn’t face. A moment later she found herself backed against the wall, staring at her uninvited visitor.

  Sam shrugged. “Sorry. I must have misread the situation. I never offer my attentions where they aren’t wanted.”

  It was a good act, Elizabeth had to concede him that. He sounded like a wounded ski bum on the make, a little insulted, but more than willing to move on to the next available female.

  But Elizabeth didn’t believe him. That touch, that kiss, that quick, hideous vision, had cleared away the mask that stood between them. Who are you? she asked him without words. But she knew he wouldn’t tell her.

  “Yes,” she said evenly. “You misread the situation.” And she moved to the telephone, wondering whether he’d try to stop her.

  He didn’t move. Instead he sat down on the sofa by the fire, watching her as she dialed, his face still set in that faintly offended expression.

  “If you’re calling the road crew you don’t need to worry,” he said. “I told you, I won’t bother you.”

  “I’m calling the police,” she said.

  “Lady,” he whined, his eyes sharp and clear. “For pity’s sake . . .”

  Phil Grayson’s sleepy voice answered on the fourth ring. “It’s Elizabeth, Phil,” she said in a clear, calm tone.

  The voice on the other end was immediately alert. So was the man in the room with her. “What’s wrong? Are you okay, Elizabeth?”

  “I’m fine. I just want to know if you sent him.”

  There was a long pause at the other end, and Elizabeth had her answer. “Elizabeth,” he began, but she carefully replaced the telephone, turning back to Sam.

  He was watching her, and he no longer bothered to disguise his watchfulness. “Give me the pillow,” she said.

  “You mean you aren’t going to let me stay after all?”

  “You can stay. I trust Phil, even if he doesn’t happen to trust me,” she said, her voice icy.

  “So why do you want the pillow?”

  “Because you and I both know that you never use one,” she said, holding out her hand.

  He handed it back to her, probably for lack of anything better to do, Elizabeth thought. “You don’t want to ask any questions?”

  She shook her head. “Tomorrow will be soon enough. I hope you don’t snore.” Her voice was polite.

  The skepticism had been waiting; she’d known it was there, and now it blossomed forth, twisting his handsome face. “You tell me,” he countered.

  She felt the hot bile of temper rise in her stomach, and it took the last of her energy to push it back. “Good night,” she said instead, and turned toward her bedroom.

  He had the last word after all. “Pleasant dreams, Elizabeth.”

  Chapter 3

  PHIL GRAYSON ARRIVED at Elizabeth’s house sometime after nine the next morning. The road crew had been more efficient than usual, encouraged, no doubt, by the combined pressure of the Denver police department and the United States government, and for the first time Elizabeth’s driveway suddenly became top priority.

  She lay in the center of her double bed, a narrow, huddled figure, the electric blanket pulled over her head. She woke up long enough to hear the voices in the living room, to recognize Phil’s midwestern twang, and to smell the coffee. And then she sank back into the deep, comforting fog of sleep. Maybe by the time she was ready to face the world they’d both be gone.

  “SO WHAT DO YOU think?” Phil took the mug of coffee Sam handed him and sat down on the living room couch.

  Sam waited for a moment, letting the much-needed caffeine take effect. He’d had no more than four hours of sleep in the past forty-eight, and though he’d long ago trained his body to ignore things like deprivation, the coffee helped. He drained half the mug of strong, black brew, and leaned his shoulders against the mantel. “I think she’s a phony,” he said flatly. “An operative, part of the Spandau Corporation, and not to be trusted.”

  “Sam, I’ve worked with her for almost two years—” Phil began, but Sam cut him off.

  “You know as well as I do that a sleeper agent can live for decades like any normal citizen, until they’re needed.”

  “But we’re not talking KGB, Sam. We’re talking about a bunch of loonies. Terrorists are notoriously unstable. They can’t support something of this complexity. Not to mention the patience involved in a long-term plan.”

  “The Spandau Corporation . . . damn, I hate calling them that,” he said bitterly, draining his coffee. “The Spandau Corporation doesn’t consist of your run-of-the-mill terrorists. They’re the cream of the crop, the smartest, fastest, deadliest bunch of fanatics you’d ever want to meet.”

  “And you think that exhausted little girl asleep in there is one of them.”

  “Exhausted little girl?” Sam echoed. “What the hell happened to your brain, Grayson? That little girl could very well be a dragon lady, and you have nothing but your instincts and a sentimental streak to tell you otherwise. You know what that kind of trust can do to you—you’ve seen it as often as I have.”

  Grayson shook his head. “I think you’ve been in the business too long, Sam.”

  “And I think you’ve been out of the business too long,” he shot back, setting the empty mug on the mantel with a decisive snap. “I want more on her. Your police files had diddly-squat about her past.”

  “Sam, we weren’t investigating her.”

  “Well, I am. Did anything come through on the computer this morning?”

  “Not when I left. There’s a time difference—”

  “Which should work in my favor,” he interrupted. “Phil, if you didn’t want to help, why the hell did you call me?”

  “I do want to help. I just don’t want Elizabeth Hardy crucified like . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Like Amy Lee,” Sam supplied in a flat voice.

  “I didn’t mean to bring her up.”

  “No, of course not. And we’re not going to get anywhere if we hide behind polite phrases. We both know that Amy Lee died, and the two of us could have saved her. I learned to live with it, and I thought you had, too.”

  “Why do you think I retired?” Phil demanded. “Hell, Sam, you may be able to forget that your wife was killed, but I have a harder time dealing with it.”

  “Do you really?” Sam said evenly.

  A long, uncomfortable silence reigned in the rustic living room, broken only by the hiss and crackle of the fire and the drip of melting snow outside the front window. Sam looked at his old friend in the merciless light of day, and his cold, bleak rage vanished as abruptly as it had appeared. Phil had aged—he looked ten years older than his fifty-one. Damn Marge anyway, he thought savagely. And damn Phil, for marrying a woman who couldn’t take the rigors of being married to someone with their kind of dangerous life-style, and then letting her tear his heart out.

  He reached out a hand and clasped Phil’s sagging shoulder. It was a brief touch, reaffirming their friendship, and Phil managed a weary smile. “Got any more of this coffee?”

  “Enough to float half of Denver. I’ll get us both some while we go over what we know about Elizabeth Hardy.”

  “It’s not much.” Phil trailed after him, out to the spotless galley kitchen that clearly didn’t see much cooking. The whole place reminded Sam of a convent, a place not much giv
en to the physical pleasures of life.

  “She’s what . . . twenty-nine?” Sam said, pouring the coffee. “Never married, born in North Carolina, raised by her grandmother. Moved to Denver a little over two years ago. Right?”

  “Right,” Phil agreed.

  “How long has she been in this house?”

  “Two years.”

  Sam looked up, startled, and took another curious glance around the bare confines of the kitchen. “Really? It’s not what I’d call a homey place. What does she do for a living? How’d she pay for this place? It’s small, but I have a pretty good idea what even a tiny house outside of Denver would cost.”

  “I don’t know. She doesn’t have a regular job. She helps me out, but she doesn’t take any money for it. Every time I’ve called her, she’s always been home. As far as I know she doesn’t have any friends, apart from me.”

  “Apart from you,” Sam echoed flatly, wishing he could trust his old friend’s instincts. “What about lovers?”

  There was no change of expression on Phil’s lined face. “None, as far as I know. But then, I’m not nosy.”

  “Well, I sure the hell am. I want to know everything about her. What happened to her parents, where she got the money for this place, how she supports herself, what she does all day long. I want her life history tattooed on my brain. I don’t want a day unaccounted for.”

  “And how do you plan to do that?”

  Sam smiled briefly. “I have friends in high places. You’ve forgotten how efficient they can be when they have the right motivation. And the Spandau Corporation is a high priority. Not to mention . . .” He considered for a moment.

  “Not to mention?” Phil echoed. “What else is going on? Is there something happening out there with Spandau right now? Something that made you come hotfooting out here?”

  “You might say so. I don’t know if there’s a connection between your helpless little flower and the current situation—I decided not to say anything about my suspicions until I checked things out here.”

  “Are you going to tell me?”

  “It’s a need-to-know situation—”

  “Don’t give me that, Sam!” Grayson snapped. “I’m not in the service anymore. If you want my help you’re going to have to be open with me. What the hell is going on?”

  Sam just stood there in the barren, sunlit kitchen. “Why don’t we ask your little friend?”

  “Cut it out, Sam. She doesn’t need tests to prove herself. Besides, she’ll probably be sleeping for another . . .” The distant sound of the shower drifted to the kitchen, and Phil shook his head. “You always had the damnedest hearing. Okay, we’ll ask her. But give her time to have a cup of coffee first.”

  Sam smiled faintly. “She can have a cup of coffee,” he agreed, and headed back into the living room.

  THE SHOWER FELT absolutely wonderful, so wonderful, in fact, that Elizabeth considered just staying there until her unwanted visitors left. Considered, then rejected the idea. For one thing, her hot water supply wasn’t inexhaustible. For another, Sam Oliver wasn’t the type of man who’d take a hint.

  What in heaven’s name did he want from her? It was more than clear that he didn’t believe her, didn’t believe in her dubious gifts. That was fine with her; she was used to skepticism, and even preferred it to certain people’s macabre fascination. But what had caused Phil Grayson, a man whose trust she counted on, to summon assistance in the form of that tall, forbidding stranger?

  For that was what he was. Despite the easy smile, the handsome face, the phony charm that she’d wanted to believe, Sam Oliver was a very dangerous, distant man. Someone whose defenses and masks would be impossible even for her to penetrate. He frightened her a little, she thought, turning off the streaming jets of water. And whether she liked it or not, he attracted her.

  It was probably just proximity, she thought, wrapping a towel around her wet tangle of hair. She’d been so careful not to let any man close, any man near enough to breach her defenses, not since Alan died. Sam Oliver had slipped through when she wasn’t looking. Hell, she’d probably respond to a kiss from King Kong at this point. She’d never tried to deny the fact that she had normal, healthy desires like anyone else. She just didn’t dare fulfill them.

  Why was he here? Why had Phil sent him? And, more important, how soon would he leave?

  They’d certainly made themselves at home, she thought with a trace of irritation when she finally unlocked her door and stepped out of her bedroom. Her feet were bare on the chilly floors; the cotton sweater was oversize and enveloping on her slender body, and her jeans were baggy and faded. She’d wound her wet hair in a coil at the back of her neck, and it sat there, chilly and damp, ready to bring on a cold, she thought gloomily.

  The two conspirators looked up. They were sitting across from each other, each having taken possession of one of the living room couches, and she could smell the coffee. “Don’t let me disturb you,” she said politely, moving straight past them toward the kitchen.

  Sam was ahead of her. He didn’t touch her, and for that she could be profoundly grateful, but his sheer size stopped her cold. In the daylight he might look less menacing to a normal person. Not to her. She looked up, way up, into his dark blue eyes, and knew they had looked into hell without flinching, and would do so again. His mouth was wide, a little grim, his cheekbones high, and his dark hair was cut too short. Army short, she thought.

  She just stood there, waiting. Patience had always been her strong suit, patience and self-control. She could stand there forever.

  “Come off it, you two,” Phil said from his spot on the sofa. “Bring Elizabeth some coffee and then we can talk. Come back here, sweetheart. I’m sorry I sprang Sam on you without warning.”

  She turned back to him, turning away from the tall man in front of her. She was genuinely fond of Phil Grayson and forgiving him was simple enough. Forgiving the rock-hard man who’d just walked into her kitchen as if he owned it might be a different matter entirely.

  She sat down on the couch opposite Phil, curling her feet under her. “You want to tell me what’s going on, Phil?” she asked quietly. “Has Mary Nelson been found?”

  “Still no word on her,” he admitted, and she recognized the usual softening in his eyes as they rested on her. “As for what’s going on, I’m not quite sure. Sam wanted to wait until you were up before he explained it to me.”

  “But why did you call him?” she persisted. She could feel the man return from the kitchen, could feel the cold, wet bun of hair at the back of her neck warm with the uncomfortable heat of his gaze, but she refused to turn and look at him. Refused to ask him any questions.

  “Here’s your coffee,” Sam said, moving around the couch and holding out her mug.

  She looked at the coffee. His hands were large, in keeping with the rest of him, and his fingers were long and narrow. The mug was barely visible beneath those large hands, and she nodded toward the coffee table, unwilling to risk touching him again. “You can put it down there.”

  Sam just stood there, holding out the coffee, not moving. His dark blue eyes were opaque as they looked down at her, only a faint hint of challenge filtering through, and Elizabeth knew with sudden clarity that here was a match for her own patience and stubbornness. And damn it, she needed her coffee.

  She sighed. “Aren’t you a little old for games, Mr. Oliver?”

  “Colonel Oliver. Army Intelligence,” he corrected. “But you may as well call me Sam. You want your coffee, Elizabeth?”

  “Sam . . .” Grayson said, but they both ignored him, brown eyes staring up into blue ones, anger and distrust and something else flaring between them.

  “Yes, I want my coffee.”

  “Then take it from me,” he said, still holding the mug out for her.

  She could do it without touching him. She’d had plenty of experience avoiding human contact, never knowing what it might set off, and when someone was as dangerous as Colonel Oliver, she knew she h
ad to be doubly careful. She reached up for the coffee mug, for the proffered handle.

  Her hand was shaking. She noticed it as she reached, and in what seemed almost like slow motion, her hand reached for the coffee mug and instead touched him. His flesh was warm, smooth, alive, against her fingers, and she jerked away. The coffee went flying, over the couch, over Sam Oliver’s legs and over Elizabeth’s hands, scalding her.

  She didn’t move, didn’t jump away. She sat back, wrapping her arms around her body and tucking her hands away. “I drink too much coffee anyway,” she said in a small voice.

  Sam ducked down to retrieve the fallen mug, set it on the table where he should have put it in the first place and moved back to his spot by the mantel. “We’ll go by the assumption that you really don’t have anything to do with what’s going on,” he said, ignoring the coffee incident completely. “Since you’re unlikely to admit you’re a member of the Spandau Corporation . . .”

  “The Spandau Corporation?” Elizabeth echoed. “Is that what started all this?”

  “What do you know about the Spandau Corporation?” Sam demanded, sounding less and less like the charming ski bum he’d pretended to be and more like a drill sergeant.

  Elizabeth glared up at him. Somehow his handsome face made his icy manner even worse, she thought. If he were old and ugly she wouldn’t be tempted to go find another cup of coffee and douse him more thoroughly. “Their name was printed on the side of a panel truck,” she said. “Actually, it had been painted over. That’s the only time I’ve seen it or heard of it.”

  “Where?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Where did you see the panel truck?”

  That stopped her for a moment. She turned to look at Grayson, and the older man nodded slightly. Sam Oliver knew exactly where she’d seen it. He was just trying to make her uncomfortable by having to explain it to him.