Dream Weaver. Jenna Ryan

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СКАЧАТЬ FBI standard. He had an incredible face, all lines, planes and angles, a devastating mouth and eyes the color of smoked charcoal. Friends used to tease them that if their kids didn’t have some form of gray eyes, it would be absolute proof that Meliana had been unfaithful.

      Never could have happened, she reflected on a wistful note. She’d loved Johnny Grand with everything she had inside her—and that had been a considerable amount. Johnny said Chris had been hitting on her at their wedding. She believed him, but hadn’t noticed. She still didn’t, even in retrospect. All she remembered about that day was being deliriously happy and grateful that her father, on parole after having served six years of his ten-year sentence, had been permitted to attend.

      “Summer’s heading south,” Johnny commented over the rain and music. “There was a bite in the air at Blue Lake, and a lot of the birds are gone.”

      She continued to study him. “Do you get bored up there?”

      “Sometimes. Then I remind myself that being there’s essential to my mental rehab, and I replace a shingle or two.”

      “Does it work?”

      “As rehab?” He moved a shoulder. “You tell me. Do I seem less stressed than before?”

      “At the moment, yes. But not when you flew into the bedroom earlier. I’m not going to get paranoid about what happened, Johnny. I’ll talk to Charlie, get Lokie back, change my alarm code and leave the rest to Julie.”

      “What about the card that came on Lokie’s collar?”

      “I have it somewhere. I’ll dig it out. Turn here.”

      She indicated a narrow street that read more like a downtown alley. Rusty fire-escape ladders hung from dilapidated brick and concrete buildings. Many of the windows were blacked out and the darkness and rain only reinforced the sinister atmosphere.

      “It’s great here,” Meliana remarked. “Like Al Capone meets West Side Story.”

      “In Dracula’s dungeon.”

      “This is an old part of the city. You should see Los Angeles after sunset.”

      “I have.”

      And New York and Miami and Cartagena and Mexico City. “I’ll call ahead.” She punched her colleague’s number on her cell. “Heads up, Lightfoot,” she warned. “We’re here.” She slid her gaze to Johnny. “Yeah, okay, I’ll tell him.”

      Johnny stared straight ahead. “I don’t want to know.”

      “He says for you not to use the bathroom, and no matter how suspicious the tea smells, it’s only a Chinese herb blend.”

      “You believe that?”

      “I’m due in the O.R. at 11:00 a.m. I need to believe.”

      Johnny, who’d had more than a few strange conversations with Charlie Lightfoot since the separation, cast dubious eyes over the ravaged balcony railings. “Babe, I hope you know what you’re doing.”

      “THIS IS PRETTY.” Charlie held Meliana’s black slip up by the straps and grinned like a fool. “Where’d you get it?”

      “New York City.” Meliana sat cross-legged on his sofa—at least, Johnny assumed there was a sofa under the massive Native American blanket. “Do you feel anything, Charlie?” Her eyes sparkled. “Other than hot and bothered?”

      “That’s top of the list, Mel.” He ran a ringed hand over the silky fabric. “I see you at a swanky cocktail party. Nope, sorry, wedding reception.”

      Johnny frowned. “Who got married?”

      “One of the surgical nurses, last July. That slip’s been washed half a dozen times since then. How long do vibes linger?”

      Charlie drank his tea laced with God knew what and winked at them. “Depends on the strength of the memory. Did you have fun?”

      “No.”

      “Ah, well, bad’s as weighty as good.” Eyes closed, he fingered the lace trim. “Relax, Johnny,” he advised. “This isn’t black magic. It’s just a little tap I sometimes have into a part of the brain most of us don’t use.”

      What could he say to that? Johnny watched Meliana sip her tea while she in turn watched Charlie psychoanalyze her slip.

      To be truthful, he didn’t dislike Charlie Lightfoot. He just felt a little edgy around the guy. But then, he felt edgy around most people these days. Thus his requested leave from active duty and a solo retreat to Blue Lake.

      Charlie pressed three fingers to the headband he habitually wore. If he started humming, Johnny thought he’d have to leave the room. He might have to get out anyway. The air in the cramped apartment was ripe with the smells of simmering herbs, strawberry incense and two grizzled old terriers.

      Charlie sat barefoot on a faded Persian carpet, across from Meliana. He wore a cotton T-shirt with a peace symbol on the chest, worn jeans and three earrings in his left lobe. His hair was as long as Johnny’s, although there wasn’t quite as much of it, and it was much darker—almost the same color as Meliana’s, in fact.

      Different heritage, though. Johnny drank the beer Charlie had given him and slid his gaze to his wife. Charlie Lightfoot was half Blackfoot, half French. Meliana was one quarter Hawaiian on her mother’s side and 100 percent drop-dead gorgeous. Johnny had fantasized about her hair while he’d been undercover. It was very nearly black, extremely thick and just the slightest bit wavy. It skimmed her collarbone these days, though when he’d met her five and half years ago it had actually been several inches longer.

      “Calhoun,” Charlie said clearly.

      “That was the groom’s name.” Reaching out, Meliana gave the slip a tug. “Forget weddings.”

      “Maybe you need to be in it for the vibe thing to work,” Johnny suggested.

      “Always a possibility.” Charlie stared unblinking at the fabric. Johnny had no idea how he did it. His head was throbbing, and his eyes stung from the herbs and incense. And Jethro Tull on scratchy vinyl in the background wasn’t helping.

      He massaged his temples. “Do you need the rose?”

      “Could be.” Charlie bunched the slip and breathed in. “Sounds lunatic, I know, but this really does work sometimes. Tell me about the other roses, Mel.”

      Johnny moved his lips into a smile. “Yes, tell both of us.”

      She set her cup aside. “They appeared in different places each time. I found the first one four weeks ago on the driver’s seat of my car. The second showed up ten days later on my desk at the hospital. The third was in my locker, which wasn’t locked—yes, I know, Johnny, not smart—and the fourth found its way into my lab coat pocket. He must have slipped it to me while I was making my rounds. It could happen,” she said with a shrug. “You bump into people all the time in hospital corridors.”

      “Nurses, orderlies, patients?” Charlie assumed.

      “Other doctors, maintenance СКАЧАТЬ