True Colors Part 9

She hated confusion. Hated angst. She'd decided a long time ago that she would live her life as a happy person, wasting no time on the dark stuff that got other people down. Getting shot, and almost dying, had further cemented that goal in her mind. Life was too short to get caught up in unnecessary drama and worries about what could happen.

Logan s.h.i.+fted to loop his arm around her shoulders and draw her closer against him, keeping his fingers tangled with hers in his lap. Then he pressed a kiss to her temple. "When you're ready to talk, I'm here," he murmured.

Tears instantly burned her eyes. How did she get so lucky? Here she was, cuddled up with one of the greatest guys ever, watching sitcoms on the sofa, surrounded by six dozing dogs . . . it was exactly what she'd always wanted. No way in h.e.l.l would she let some stupid psychic ability wreck that.

She vowed then to never tell Logan about her empathy. It had no place in her life, in their relations.h.i.+p. She'd find a way to suppress it, take drugs if she had to, avoid going out in public . . . whatever it took to keep other people's past traumas from ruling her life.

She relaxed fully against Logan and closed her eyes, smiling as he gently rested his chin on the top of her head. She was still so tired. Dropping into sleep in this man's arms felt like the most natural thing in the world . . .

The child looks up with wide, blue eyes, so young, so innocent, his bottom lip quivering as one tear tracks a dirt-smudged cheek. My hand trembles, finger poised on the trigger, my heart thudding in my ears. Sweat trickles into my eyes, and I furiously blink the stinging away. Focus. You have to focus.

Someone's shouting. Someone else-another child?-screams. It's all distant, surreal. All that matters is the boy staring up at me, pleading with large, terrified eyes. He can't be more than six. Too thin, scraggly blond hair, dirty face and dirtier clothes. He has a sc.r.a.pe across the bridge of his nose, and he's trying desperately not to blubber.

Despite the effort, the little boy's face screws up, and he begins to cry in earnest. "Daddy! Where's Daddy?"

My finger jerks on the trigger.

The gunshot is deafening.

Alex bolted up with a scream of denial. Strong hands fumbled to hold her down, and a fresh burst of stunned horror shot through her, her own hoa.r.s.e scream echoing in her ears.

"Hey! Whoa, whoa, it's okay, it's okay."

She struggled, in a panic because she didn't know where she was or who had hold of her. The hands that gripped her arms gave her a firm shake. "Alex, it's okay. You were dreaming."

The words finally penetrated the lingering shock. She sagged back into the sofa cus.h.i.+ons, blinking against the lamplight and only now becoming aware of the dogs' frantic barking. Logan was braced over her, his tanned face pale. He looked as though her screams had jerked him out of his own deep sleep.

She relaxed in slow degrees, heartbeat still frantic, lungs fighting for air. Everything was fine. Logan was here.

She sat up. "Nightmare. The dogs-"

"I'll take care of them."

He got up and strode into the kitchen, beckoning the mutts to follow. Dieter lingered behind and rested his chin on her knee. She scratched his ears with both hands, then cupped his head to look into his earnest, though sightless, puppy-dog eyes. "I'm okay, sweetie."

The treat cabinet in the kitchen opened, and Dieter's ears p.r.i.c.ked, but he stayed put. She gave him a nudge. "You'd better go before the others eat yours."

The German shepherd trotted out of the living room.

Alex heard Logan open the back door. His voice, low and soothing, grew fainter as he went outside with the pack and a.s.sured the animals that Mommy was fine.

She sank back against the sofa cus.h.i.+ons and dragged a hand through her sweat-damp hair. Her whole body felt warm and sticky, her brain muzzy with sleep. A nauseating horror clutched at her. She'd shot a child in her dream. A small, helpless little boy. Where the h.e.l.l had that come from?

Logan returned from tending to the mutts and sat down next to her. "You okay?"

She nodded.

"Sure?"

She closed her eyes and swallowed against the urge to be sick. She'd never had such a horrific dream before, though she'd definitely had some doozies after she'd gotten shot. Charlie had suggested cutting back on pain medication, which had done the trick. Until now.

Logan scooted closer and put both hands on her shoulders, rolling the tight muscles with his large, gentle fingers. Through the cotton of her s.h.i.+rt, she detected a tremor in those strong fingers and turned her head to glance at him. He looked tense, his jaw set, a you-freaked-me-the-h.e.l.l-out muscle flexing at his temple. She couldn't blame him. The first time they'd fallen asleep cuddling, and she'd awakened screaming. Poor guy.

"Want to tell me about it?" he asked.

She rolled her shoulders, distracted by the heat of his hands through her s.h.i.+rt, distracted further by the heat gathering low in her belly. Was it twisted that she s.h.i.+fted so quickly from the revulsion of the dream to how much she wanted to turn into this man's arms and ask him to kiss away the lingering distress?

"Is it about when you were shot?" he prodded.

She shook her head. "No."

"Then what?"

"I . . . don't think I . . . It's too . . . disturbing." Her head started to throb like it had after her empathic trek through Charlie's encounter with her kidnapper. The terror of that memory returned, and her stomach knotted further. A chill moved up her spine, a trail of goose b.u.mps in its wake.

"Maybe talking about it would help," Logan said.

Somehow, she didn't think so. Nothing would help dispel the memory of her hand holding the gun that shot a little boy. It was just too . . . revolting.

She pushed up from the sofa and shoved wayward curls behind her ears. She needed some time to herself, time to get her head clear. "I'm really sorry, but I think I need to go to bed."

"Are you sure you're okay? You're awfully pale."

She tried a rea.s.suring smile. "I'll be fine. Thank you for dinner. I'm sorry I've been such lousy company."

"Are you kidding me? Other than that nightmare, this has been the perfect evening."

Her attempt at a smile turned genuine. "You're sweet to say that."

"I mean it. How about you go lie down right now, and I'll take care of letting the dogs in from outside?"

She kissed him on the cheek, lingering for a moment to inhale his fresh, soapy scent. She yearned to ask him to stay but feared he'd balk at such an offer after the somewhat disastrous kitchen kiss. And, really, she had no energy for anything but sleep anyway. Exhaustion pulled at her like anchors sinking through Gulf waters.

She gave him one last smile. "You're the best."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

Butch McGee ambled into the Lake Avalon Public Safety Building and tapped the ring-for-service bell. An attractive young woman with a wavy blond ponytail and chic square eyegla.s.ses hurried over to help him. She wore a simple white blouse tucked into a straight skirt and had sparkly blue eyes, peach-sized b.r.e.a.s.t.s, a small waist and slim hips. Librarian by day and stripper by night. His grumpy mood-caused by John Logan failing to show up at home last night or this morning-lifted.

She returned his smile, showing lovely white teeth with a slight gap in the middle. A sucker for a handsome man. "May I help you?"

He leaned on the Formica customer-service counter, turning on the I'm-a-hunky-but-clueless-guy charm. "I sure hope you can. I'm . . ." He trailed off and c.o.c.ked his head with an embarra.s.sed smile. "Well, I hope you won't hold it against me when you hear why I'm here."

"Oh, I doubt I'll do that," she replied with a soft, lilting laugh.

He breathed in the fresh breath of her laugh and wished he had time to spend with her. Quality time that they both would enjoy. He would love making her scream.

"Long story short: My family and my brother had a parting of ways a few years back. My fault, I'm afraid. He moved away and never looked back, and well, my mother's heart has been broken ever since. Yesterday, I spotted his picture in the newspaper and drove straight here from Detroit to see him." He let his smile tremble just slightly, reeling her in. "It's been my goal in life to bring home Mom's little Johnny."

Sheila, according to her s.h.i.+ny gold name tag, made an I'm-so-sorry face and reached out to grasp his hand. Her skin was warm and soft against his, and he had to swallow against the surge of want. He had such a hard spot for beautiful women.

He tried to focus himself. "Anyway, I saw in the newspaper that my baby brother is not only a hero, but he's a police officer here in Lake Avalon."

"Are you talking about John Logan?"

He nodded. "Yes. Johnny Logan. Do you know how I can reach him?"

She shook her blond ponytail. "I'm not allowed to share his contact information."

He did his best to look crestfallen. "Not even to mend an old woman's broken heart?" Cheesy bulls.h.i.+t, but who knew? Maybe once he mixed it with wounded-dog eyes and a beseeching can-you-help-me-out-here expression, it'd work.

Sheila glanced around, as if checking to make sure no one nearby could overhear. "I'd get into a lot of trouble if I gave out his info, but someone at the newspaper might be able to help you."

He leaned in closer, taking a moment to breathe in her flowery perfume. Holy Christ, this woman smelled like heaven. The need churning to life inside him began to overwhelm the bone-shaking satisfaction he'd found during his last kill. He needed to find John Logan soon, or he'd have to find a way to take the edge off.

"Who at the newspaper?" he asked, keeping his voice low, like hers.

"A good friend of Logan's, Alex Trudeau, took the photo you saw."

"And you think he'll point me in Johnny boy's direction?"

Sheila's eyes glinted at that. "Alex Trudeau is a she, and rumor has it she knows your brother quite well." She winked at him, clearly happy to help without breaking any rules. "If you know what I mean."

Butch's heart swelled, and his cheeks heated with excitement. It sounded as though John Logan did have a girlfriend. "Do you know how I might contact Alex Trudeau?"

"I can't give you that information, either, but I believe she's listed in the phone book."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

Alex woke slowly, aware first that she felt . . . better. Much better. Sitting up, she ran her hands through her out-of-control curls to try to tame them. The action reminded her of Logan's fingers clutched in her hair as he kissed her breathless and aching. Right before he'd stepped back. d.a.m.n. It figured she'd think of that first thing.

She pushed back the pang of disappointment that knotted in her belly and got out of bed. Right now, she was hungry, which she considered a good sign. When she'd fallen into bed last night, slightly nauseated and fighting a headache, she'd thought she'd never want food again.

First, she stopped in the bathroom to take care of business and wash her face. The mirror told her that empathy wreaked havoc on a girl's face. Dark circles rimmed her eyes, and her skin looked ashen, her cheeks hollow. If she stretched out on her back and rested crossed hands over her chest, she'd look ready for a coffin. Lovely.

Breakfast would help, she decided. A heaping plate of protein and carbs to chase away the pallor, to restore energy. Then she'd figure out her next step. No way in h.e.l.l did she plan to just sit back and let her new psychic ability drive a stake into what she had with Logan. If she was going to learn how to cope without him knowing she could drop into his head right after something bad happened to him, she had to get busy.

As she walked down the hall toward the kitchen, she wondered why the brood of pooches hadn't spent the night sprawled in various positions around her bedroom as usual. In the arched doorway that led to the living room, she stopped to see each member of the menagerie occupying a different area of carpet, some still dozing, others lifting their furry heads to ask with their eyes how she was today. She saw why in the next instant and stopped to stare, eyes welling within a heartbeat.

Logan was sprawled on his back on her sofa, in cargo shorts and nothing else, one tantalizingly veined forearm thrown over his eyes, his other hand resting flat on his muscular abdomen. A light snore told her he hadn't heard her stir, and that was fine with her, because it gave her a chance to admire that tan, ripped body.

Her mouth watered, and she swallowed, getting familiar now with the tightening low in her belly when she was around him. A woman would have to be dead not to appreciate the planes and valleys and ridges of this man's physique. The fact that he'd camped out on her sofa after she'd so unartfully fled to bed last night just made him all the more appealing.

Determined to do something nice for him, to make up for the night before, she went into the kitchen, a trail of furry critters in her wake. She fed them, taking care to lavish lots of affection on each, shooed them out the back door into the warm suns.h.i.+ne, then got started on breakfast for humans.

She'd transferred the last of the sizzling bacon to a paper-towel-covered plate when Logan's hands settled on her shoulders from behind, his palms warm against skin bared by the straps of her tank top. Instant tension stiffened her spine, but when nothing nasty happened in her head, she relaxed again. The empathy was behaving as she expected.

She turned toward him with a smile, faintly disappointed to see that he'd donned his white T-s.h.i.+rt. "Good morning."

He studied her face for a moment, eyes narrowed and critical. Any second now he would probably try to take her temperature. She figured she must look better than she had in the mirror earlier. Caffeine and a couple of bacon strips-not to mention the sight of the tantalizing beefcake snoozing on her sofa-had done wonders to perk her up.

"I'm fine," she said when he continued to scrutinize. "I had a bad day yesterday, but it's over."

"You sure?" he asked, Scope-fresh breath wafting over her face.

"Positive." She took a chance and sealed the a.s.surance with a kiss, one hand holding the plate of bacon, the other resting against his stubbled cheek.

He didn't respond at first, and she thought, c.r.a.p, here we go again. Somebody fetch me a dunce cap.

But then he started kissing her back, and she nearly dropped the bacon as he stepped into her, forcing her back against the counter. He angled his head to take the kiss deeper, one hand settling at the curve of her waist, the other coming up to cup the back of her neck.

He tasted like cool water and mint, and she sank into his scents and textures, losing herself in the stroke of his tongue, the contact of his warm hand against her nape, the growing nudge of his erection against her hip.

He lifted his mouth from hers just an inch. "You have no idea how much I've been wanting you," he breathed against her cheek.

Her knees weakened, and the bacon plate almost slid off her hand. Luckily, she held on to her composure and the dinnerware. "I have a pretty good idea," she replied, canting one hip against the bulge in his cargo shorts.

He groaned, low and hot. "There's nothing s.e.xier than a beautiful woman holding a plate of fresh-fried bacon."

She thought he'd kiss her again, perhaps venture a palm up to her breast to cop a quick feel, but instead he eased back and rescued the plate. "Shall we eat?"

She stood frozen in shock as he placed the bacon on the table, then moved to the coffeemaker to pour himself a cup. Again with the food over s.e.x? What the- "Does your coffee need freshening?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Uh, sure." Okay, she thought. She could deal. He had a hard-on the size of Florida, but he wanted food more. Interesting. Mystifying.

She shook herself out of her bewilderment and-okay, she'd admit it-disappointment, and used a spatula to sc.r.a.pe scrambled eggs from the skillet into a bowl.

"There's toast," she said.

"Yum." He reached around her to snag the slices out of the toaster, taking a second to brush his lips over the side of her neck.

She froze again, her heart stuttering at the light, random embrace. Good G.o.d, was this his idea of foreplay? Because it was working. With a capital F.

"Coming?" he asked as he pulled out a chair and settled.

Suppressing a snicker at his deliberate word choice, she joined him at the table.