Last of the Ravens. Linda Winstead Jones

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СКАЧАТЬ it was a pull he’d follow. Destiny or not, he would not be led by biology or mythology or whatever the hell this was. His life—and hers—was in his hands, and the decisions to be made could not be made lightly.

      “Do you need anything besides groceries?” he asked as Miranda closed the passenger door and he backed onto the road.

      She sighed. It was a very nice sigh, indeed. “Is there a decent antique or furniture store nearby?”

      “There are a couple of them along the highway.”

      “I’d like to thank the Talbots for letting me stay here by buying them something for the cabin.”

      “Like what?” he asked.

      “Maybe a couple of lamps,” she responded. “Something decorative, or maybe a small end table. The cabin is very nice, but it’s pretty, uh, sparsely furnished.”

      She almost choked on the words sparsely furnished, which gave him an idea of what she was up against. Bren smiled. “Are there ducks and bears?”

      Her head snapped around. “Yes! How did you know?”

      “The cute-animal theme is a common decorating mistake in these parts.”

      She relaxed. He could feel, as well as see, her response. “You sound as if you don’t approve. What, you don’t have dancing black bears and cavorting ducks at your place?”

      “No,” he answered decisively. “There are also no deer heads or stuffed bass, no geese in frilly white hats and, while we’re on the subject, no wax fruit in the kitchen.”

      “You must have had an enlightened decorator,” she teased.

      “No decorator. I did it all myself.”

      She studied him critically; he could feel her gaze on him. “Most men are very utilitarian when it comes to decorating.”

      Bren shrugged. “You’ll have to see my house and judge for yourself, I guess.”

      She clammed up, perhaps no more comfortable with the idea of visiting his home than he was at the idea of inviting her there.

      They hadn’t been gone more than fifteen minutes before Miranda knew agreeing to let Brennus Korbinian take her anywhere was a huge mistake. Their simple trip felt too much like a date, even though the antique store he took her to was definitely not a normal stop on any courtship route. The long warehouse was dusty and overstuffed, filled to the brim with a mixture of new and old pieces, some of them treasures, most of them junk.

      She loved the crowded, dusty store, and strangely enough Bren seemed comfortable there. He knew the woman who owned and ran the place, an older lady he called Mabel, and the greetings they’d exchanged had been simple and cordial. With the owner of the antique store he was anything but grumpy, though he wasn’t exuberant in his interactions, either. Mabel was helping another couple look for something specific, leaving Miranda and Bren to wander through the lovely mess alone.

      They hadn’t been browsing long when Bren asked almost casually, “So, how do you know Roger Talbot?”

      It was an innocent enough question, she supposed. In the Atlanta area Miranda had gotten a lot of press, some of it praising, more of it denigrating, the occasional bit meant to be amusing, she supposed. Even though her work often took her out of state, away from home Roger always managed to keep her involvement under wraps. He had not been so lucky at home base. Locally, word of her talents had been out for a while now.

      Obviously no one around here would be reading the Atlanta papers, so she was tempted to make up a believable story for Bren, something that had nothing to do with seeing ghosts or solving crimes. He would probably believe whatever she told him, unless he happened to do a Google search on her. Some days she hated the Internet! Nothing was secret anymore. Nothing was private.

      Besides, she’d been here before, she’d played that game. She meets a man. She likes him and he likes her. Why spoil it right off the bat with the truth? All goes well and then he finds out what she can do and it all goes to hell.

      Miranda picked up a small glass bowl and studied it carefully, afraid to look directly at Bren. She tried to convince herself that she didn’t like him all that much, anyway. If she scared him off here and now, what had she lost? Nothing. “I talk to the ghosts of murder victims at crime scenes and pass the information on to Roger, who uses what I find out from the departed to collect the evidence he needs to arrest and convict the guilty.”

      All was silent. Miranda listened intently to the horrendously loud ticking of a nearby ancient clock as she studied the light from the front window breaking through the glass bowl in her hand. Bren didn’t laugh, he didn’t gasp, and unless he moved soundlessly he hadn’t stepped away from her in horror, either.

      “Sounds like tough work,” he finally said in a lowered voice. “No wonder you needed a vacation.”

      Miranda twisted her head slightly and looked into Bren’s face. No, he wasn’t kidding her. He wasn’t scared or repulsed, either. There was a touch of sympathy in his eyes, but not so much that she thought he felt sorry for her. She hated pity as much as she did disbelief. Maybe more.

      He shook a finger at her, and she noted that he had a workingman’s hands, long-fingered and callused and rough and beautiful. “You weren’t talking to yourself this morning or after you fell off the road. You were talking to a ghost.”

      “I was. You don’t seem at all surprised,” she observed.

      “It takes a lot to surprise me.” He smiled. For a man who didn’t smile often, he did so very nicely. “To be honest, I’m relieved. For a while there I thought you might be a little bit off your rocker, talking to yourself and all.”

      “I do sometimes talk to myself,” she said, experiencing the strongest rush of ease she’d felt in a long time.

      “Yes, but you probably don’t tell yourself to go away.”

      She drew back a little. “You heard that?” This morning when she’d tried to order Dee to go she’d whispered so softly and Bren had been standing so far away…

      “Yeah.” He motioned to one ear with one of those long, fine fingers. “I have the Korbinian hearing. You can’t pull anything over on me.”

      Heaven above, she liked him. Cheryl’s psycho, Roger’s irate neighbor who was determined to own the entire mountain, a man who’d literally run her off the road and then chastised her for being there. She liked him much more than she should. He was alternately funny and pensive, grumpy and hospitable, and he did look fine in those worn jeans. And then an alarming thought occurred to her, a thought that wiped away all her ease.

      “You’re being nice to me so I’ll convince Roger to sell you the cabin!” She put the glass bowl down too hard. “I should’ve known,” she muttered to herself.

      “I am not,” he said without anger.

      “You are. That’s why you offered to give me a ride, that’s why you stopped and helped me after you ran me off the road.” She threw her hands up in the air. “If you didn’t want me to help you get the cabin, you probably would’ve left me there to fend for myself. You probably would’ve gotten a good laugh and just kept on driving.”

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