Goes Down Easy. Alison Kent

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      He shouldn’t have gone off on Perry the way he had. Didn’t it just figure that the anger he tried to keep buried would come back to life in a haunted house owned by a psychic? One who used her supposed visions to help the police—and whose niece Jack wouldn’t mind sharing his sleeping bag with.

      He couldn’t help it. Ever since that ridiculous pinky swear, all he could think about was her eyes. Okay. Not so much just her eyes. Her mouth was an equally big part of his lust. He wanted to kiss her, but not half as much as he wanted to feel her mouth on his body.

      She’d noticed his hands-on habit, commented on it more than once. What she didn’t know—couldn’t know—was how much he ached to have a woman’s hands on him. It had been a long time since he’d spent enough time in bed with a woman to give her the chance to touch him. Usually he was in and out and on his way before he had a chance to think.

      He wanted to feel Perry’s hands, her long, strong fingers, her palms, the nails she kept short. But lying here on his back, his head pillowed on his stacked wrists, staring up at the kitchen ceiling with sweat slick on his skin, was not the time or place to be working himself up. Especially since what he wanted from her went beyond the physical.

      Her loyalty to her aunt said a lot about the woman Perry was. He had yet to learn much more, but he liked that particular detail—even if it was a big part of why, as long as he was here, he knew they’d continue to butt heads.

      So far, Perry had seemed unwilling to consider that he might have a reason to doubt what she held to be the truth. And since he wasn’t exactly in touch with his feminine side and prone to blurt out his feelings, well, they’d have to figure out how best to come to a meeting of the minds.

      Because it had to happen. What he wanted to know was how Della Brazille was connected to Dayton Eckhardt. And he wasn’t leaving until he got the answers he’d come to New Orleans to get.

      He had just closed his eyes and was drifting off when he heard the beaded curtain between the shop and the kitchen jangle as someone walked through. Since no one knew he’d made himself at home in the kitchen, he sat up.

      And as soon as he saw the dark cloud of Perry’s hair turned to a bright blue-black by the light from the sink’s window, he made himself known. “Perry, don’t freak. I’m camped out by the door.”

      The tray of dishes she was carrying didn’t even rattle when she set it on the counter. “I thought you might be. Your SUV’s still outside.”

      Why was he not surprised? “You’ve been watching for me to leave?”

      “Not for you to leave. Just watching.” She set the plates and bowls in the sink, rinsed and dried the tray.

      He thought about getting to his feet, helping out, seeing if he could steer the conversation where he wanted it by showing her that he was as handy when it came to doing dishes as he was with replacing doors.

      But then he thought better.

      She’d been watching to see if he’d left. She knew that he hadn’t, and yet here she was. Not scared, not running away. He hadn’t forgotten about that pinky swear made behind the counter in Sugar Blues, and was pretty damn sure that was a big part of Perry being here now.

      Here in the dark, in the middle of the night, with no one else around to talk her out of anything. And so he stayed where he was and waited to see what she had on her mind. In another minute, she surprised the hell out of him by joining him on the floor.

      Resting against a wall of cabinets, she pulled her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms around them. She was wearing a full skirt again, this one printed with the reds, yellows, oranges and browns of autumn. Gold threads outlining the leaves sparkled where they were spun.

      She cleared her throat, breathed deeply. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this except that it’s what I had wanted to tell you before.”

      When she paused, he shifted to sit straighter. “I’m listening.”

      “I almost think it’s easier to talk to you in the dark,” she said, laughing so softly he strained to hear.

      He tried to set her at ease. “I’ve been told I’m hard on the eyes.”

      “Then you’ve been lied to,” she replied without hesitation. “You are very…disturbing. You make me forget what I’m trying to say.”

      He filed away the ammunition to use later, waited for her to go on.

      “Here’s the thing, Jack,” she said, when she finally did. “I’ve lived with Della since I was ten years old. I’ve seen how she suffers because of this gift.”

      “Physically?”

      She nodded. Her face remained in shadow; he saw the movement in the light through her hair. “Killer migraines that exhaust her for days. And then there’s the worry over the meaning of what she sees. Whether or not a life might be lost if no one can make sense of her visions.”

      “Does that actually happen?”

      “We have no way of knowing.”

      Made sense, he supposed. “If there’s nothing she can do or control, then it seems like a waste to worry.”

      “A waste of what?”

      He shrugged, uncertain how far beneath the surface the ice in her voice ran. “Her energy? Her time?”

      “Della’s not like that. She’s not so…cruel.”

      “It’s practical, not cruel.”

      Again with the shake of the head. “I knew you wouldn’t get it.”

      He wasn’t being hardheaded on purpose. It was just that he didn’t put stock in what he couldn’t see, what he couldn’t touch. “Try me. Start from the beginning. You said you went to live with Della when you were ten.”

      “Yes. After my parents’ death.”

      Wow. Not good. “That must’ve been tough, losing them both, being so young.”

      She tugged her skirt tighter over her knees. “It was. I was pretty confused for a while. But Della had always been a big part of my life, almost more like my older sister than my father’s younger one.”

      “Anyone else in the family…special?”

      “You mean psychic?” she asked, when he bobbled the word. “Your true colors are showing, Jack.”

      “I wasn’t trying to hide them.” Honest enough. He was who he was and knew quite well where he’d come from, what experiences had made him, which ones he would always regret. “’Course I doubt they’re as bright as that skirt you’re wearing.”

      “Don’t try to change the subject.”

      Was that what he was doing? “I was just saying—”

      “You were not saying. You were totally avoiding having the word psychic come out of your mouth.”

      “I believe СКАЧАТЬ