Out of Mind coa-2 Page 6

  “Willow also makes sure her events run smoothly,” Val interrupted. “She’s a natural hostess and you know how often Chloe isn’t up to all the noise and fuss. Look around. Everyone’s having one hell of a time.”

  “I shall steal you away from Val and Chloe then,” Vanity said. “I have the worst time getting good help.”

  “We found her so she’s ours,” Val said, laughing. “We’re going to keep her so busy she won’t have time for you or anyone else.”

  Willow grew more uncomfortable by the second. This wasn’t her scene. She was happy supervising staff at an event like this, but she realized that she had no interest in playing hostess.

  “Millet,” Valerie said suddenly, snapping her fingers. “Not the Millets? The voodoo ones?”

  “Psychic,” Willow said reflexively. Darn her carelessness. “That’s the story they tell about us, anyway.”

  “Mmm,” Vanity said, giving Willow a piercing look. “But you say it isn’t true? All the red-haired, green eyes stuff? You are all red-haired and green-eyed?”

  This could get boring. “Actually not. But a number of us are. It’s just worked out that way.” She forced a little laugh. “The family has a penchant for a certain look in the people they choose as partners.”

  “You did admit the psychic bit,” Vanity said and her dark eyes sparkled with interest.

  “I said that’s the story about us,” Willow told her. “That’s all. New Orleans does love its little myths.”

  Screams from the pool demanded attention. Two men held a streaming beauty aloft while she stripped off the top of her bikini and flung out her arms. Torchlight flickered over her large, white breasts before she kicked free and landed back in the water. A great deal of splashing and screeching followed, and a lot of underwater action. Willow turned hot.

  Vanity bent to whisper in Willow’s ear. “Women like her embarrass me. How about you?”

  “I’m not supposed to have opinions when I’m working,” Willow said. “But I agree with you.”

  A shadow passed over her and she felt as if it slipped away into a group to the right. Willow’s skin tightened and she shivered. She looked to see what or who had caught her attention, but couldn’t make out anything remarkable.

  Her throat tightened, as if a big hand had gripped her there and she dragged in a breath.

  A subtle shift in the atmosphere, almost nothing at first, made it hard to concentrate.

  Anger?

  In every direction she saw apparently gleeful partygoers, yet she felt growing anger around her. A harsh current buffeted her, and she glanced from Val to Vanity, neither of whom registered anything unusual.

  “Look after Vanity, will you,” Val said to Willow. “I want to run inside and see if there’s a message from Chloe. She should be here.” He went toward the house.

  “You don’t need to look after me. I’m not Chloe.” Vanity sounded somber enough to make Willow stare at her. Somber, but not angry. “Chloe isn’t strong—I don’t mean physically—and I watch out for her. I’m like the sister she never had. All of this is something she hates, all the noise and fuss. And she can’t stand anything lewd, which is getting harder to avoid these days—particularly with the circles they move in. He’s worried because she’s late.” She nodded after Val’s retreating back.

  “Oh, dear.” She wondered why Val had lied about Chloe liking big parties.

  Vanity shook her head. “It’s okay. She’ll have found somewhere to be alone until she can cope. She has her places.”

  More parts of swimsuits landed beside the pool. And more guests jumped in, most of them naked before they reached the water.

  “And a good time was had by almost all,” Vanity said, sounding impatient. “Fortunately, they’ll start peeling off before long. Just as soon as they have to crash—or whatever else they have to do. Don’t open any closed bedroom doors or look behind bushes.”

  Willow decided she liked Vanity’s commonsense attitude, even if the party was already out of hand and scary. She didn’t like the thought of going down the driveway and out to the street in the dark on her own when the time came, but she had parked the scooter out there to avoid getting blocked in.

  A man in an orange aloha shirt and relaxed silk shorts confronted Vanity and held out his arms. “There’s my best girl,” he said. “And they’re playing our song.”

  Vanity smiled and let him dance her away to the area near the combo where couples clung together and swayed in the colored puddles from fairy lights around an awning.

  Willow decided she would go into the kitchen and see if she could help freshen up any of the platters. What she really wanted was to be back in her flat, preferably with Winnie curled up beside her if that could be managed. Keeping busy was the next best thing. She nodded and smiled approvingly at a man replenishing jugs of sangria.

  A flash of dread wiped away her smile.

  Slick, cool awareness opened her mind until she saw everything as if by floodlight. The warning signs of the so-called power she unwillingly shouldered were familiar. Until a few months ago they had come to her rarely, but the frequency was increasing.

  “Leave me alone,” she whispered fiercely, feeling wild. “Go away.” Then she felt ridiculous talking to nothing and no one in particular.

  Her eyes met those of an elegant man lounging on the cushions of a wrought-iron chaise. Immediately, she lowered her gaze—to his well-made body clad in dark gray, his long legs and bare feet.

  She had to see his face again.

  Younger than she’d thought at first, perhaps much younger. In his twenties, but with mature, confident features.

  Anger.

  Wincing, she barely stopped herself from whirling away. Was it this man who caused the anger that swirled around her? Why would he?

  Vibrations, like an intermittent stream of air blasted against a thin rubber membrane, blocked out the voices, the music.

  Not just anger, but rage. She felt it more strongly by the moment. And it was all around her, pushing at her, tossing her hair and plastering her skirt to her legs.

  Someone touched her and she knew it would be the young man from the chaise. “Are you okay?” he said, inclining his head. Up close he looked a little older, perhaps in his early thirties. His concern showed.

  “Fine,” she said. “I was thinking about some things I have to get done.”

  He inclined his head. “It’s a party. What do you have to do except enjoy yourself?”

  Pretense didn’t sit well with her—it always seemed pointless. “I’m an employee,” she said pleasantly. “I’m helping out, overseeing things until Mrs. Brandt gets here.”

  He raised arched brows. “Val Brandt has good taste. Don’t hold your breath for Chloe to show up—poor girl hates parties. She may come when just about everyone else has left.” He took stock of the surrounding activities. “This isn’t her scene. She’s quiet—distinguished, I guess you’d say.”

  “So why have parties like this?” she asked before she could edit herself. “Forget I asked. It’s not my business.”

  “What’s your name?” he said. “I’m Preston Moriarty.”

  “Willow Millet.”

  “Well, Willow Millet, it is your business if you’re supposed to make sure a party is a success. Not that these parties are what you’d call theme affairs, or even guided revels.”

  “Is it always like this?” Willow asked.

  “Not always. The crowd varies.”

  “But you’re often here?”

  He dazzled her with a smile. “Uh-huh. I hope you’re going to be here often, too. I’d have more to look forward to.”

  “Why do you come if you don’t like it?”

  He looked away. “I didn’t say that. I’m part of the trappings, the expected hangers-on. Val and Chloe have been very good to me, and they like having me around. There are never enough single men—or so they insist.”

  “I see,” Willow said although she didn’t really.

&nbs
p; Willow’s eyelids slipped shut. Iciness enveloped her, encased her like armor. She felt so cold she wasn’t sure she could move, so cold her flesh seemed numb. And through the numbness she felt, very vaguely, a stroking pressure that passed all over her body—repeatedly—before resting heavily on her head. Her neck wobbled.

  Once again the exploration of her body began, so intimate she tingled, but she couldn’t say a word or try to evade these invisible hands.

  “Willow?”

  Her eyes wouldn’t open. Under her hair and around her neck passed firm pressing fingers. Surely she felt fingers. Her mind wouldn’t stay focused. Small, sharp pricks tapped on flesh that felt thick, as if it was anesthetized.

  Over her shoulders the fingers passed, down, beneath her arms, then over her breasts. She shuddered. Her nipples peaked and the stimulation speared down between her legs.

  The fingers tweaked her nipples and still she stood like a statue, unmoving, but quivering inside. Onward. Whatever this was mapped her body in an openly sexual way. It smoothed her buttocks through the dress, cupped her there, slid around to the front, cupped her mound and delved into the folds where the clitoris felt swollen and intensely aware—ready.

  Her legs began to buckle.

  “Willow, look at me.”

  Her eyelids shot open and she looked up at Preston Moriarty. His frown, the narrowing of his eyes made her wonder what he had seen.

  “You’re trembling all over,” he said. “Are you ill?”

  Even while she longed to drop to her knees and curl up on the ground, she searched for an excuse. It would have to be some excuse.

  He pulled her into his arms and stroked her back. “It’s okay. Tell me what you need me to do.”

  She wanted to pull away but hadn’t the strength. “An old illness,” she muttered. Not so far away from the truth. “There’s a residue and sometimes it hits me. That hasn’t happened in so long I can’t remember the last time.” Nothing like it had ever happened, but she could choose to lump it together with the inconvenient reminders of the powers she continually tried to ignore, like insights into the pasts of others with startling visions of terrible suffering they had endured.

  “Malaria?” he said. “Something like that?”

  “Similar,” she said and straightened away from him. “You’re so kind. I’m glad you were standing there. I think I could have passed out otherwise. Yuck, that was awful.”

  He slipped an arm around her. “Would a drink help? Or coffee? Let me take you inside.”

  Willow didn’t want this man holding her. Or any of the strangers who surrounded her.

  “I might have known you’d find the prettiest girl out here,” Val Brandt said, stopping in front of them. “You have to watch out for Preston, my dear. He wouldn’t be good for your reputation.”

  She gave a short laugh and looked at Preston. The compression of his mouth was anything but a sign of amusement.

  “Willow here felt a bit faint,” he said. “She should probably sit down.”

  “I’m fine now,” Willow said.

  “Excuse us, Preston,” Val said. “Willow and I need some time alone.”

  “Do you now?” With a half smile, Preston walked away, toward the pool, pulling his shirt over his head as he went. He dropped his pants and shorts and stood naked, his back to them, for several seconds.

  He picked up his clothes and turned to drop them on a table, looking fully at Willow as he did so.

  Preston Moriarty was quite a man.

  “Come and take a dip,” he called to her. “It would make you feel better.”

  Two running footsteps and he dived into the pool.

  Val rested an arm where Preston’s had been. “Come and let’s find a quieter place,” he said.

  Willow started to panic. Being in a strange place with a lot of people she did not know or trust wasn’t something she would ever seek out, and with perceptions heightened, and threatening premonitions bombarding her, she grew close to running blindly for the way out.

  “You’re upset, aren’t you?” Val said. “This wasn’t the best night to have you come for the first time. Believe me when I say things rarely get like this.”

  He sounded sincere, but she was not sure she believed him at all.

  “I spoke to Chloe and she’ll be here in about half an hour. Let’s just sit here.” He pulled out a chair for her at an empty table. “Sangria?” He picked up a jug that stood there surrounded by glasses and poured.

  She didn’t accept or refuse, but let him put a drink in front of her and pour one for himself.

  “Name your price,” he said.

  Willow looked at him slowly. “Excuse me?”

  Val shrugged. “This is a new venture for me, hiring someone to run our lives around this house. I have no idea what the going rates are and I don’t care. We’ll pay whatever will make you happy.”

  Willow gathered herself. “I don’t think this is the best time for us to have this discussion,” she said. “My company can accommodate most household and entertaining needs. Why don’t we make an appointment to talk when your wife can be here to explain exactly what she has in mind.”

  He ran blunt fingers through the hair that fell repeatedly over his forehead. “I told you she’ll be back shortly.”

  Willow let her eyes wander, not really seeing anything, while she tried to decide what to do. He hadn’t threatened her, not at all. In fact, he had been polite and done his best to show her approval. It wasn’t his fault she seemed to be having an emotional crisis.

  Standing near the combo, holding one of the poles that supported a striped awning, a very familiar, tall, lithe, dark-haired man stared in her direction.

  The instant she saw him, her body relaxed. And just as quickly she tensed again and got mad. Ben Fortune was following her around. Who had told him where to find her?

  Ben said something to the bass player and strolled toward Willow.

  “Are you mad?”

  She heard him enter her mind but turned to Val and ignored Ben. “We are pretty busy at the moment,” she said. “But we could deal with upkeep of the house—and the grounds, if you need that. Shopping—”

  “You don’t belong in a place like this. There’s danger here. Tell whoever he is you’re leaving.”

  Ben’s arrogance infuriated her.

  “I think Chloe hopes you’ll live in,” Val said, his tone concerned. “There’s a wonderful, private apartment she’s redecorated in the house. Chloe gets her mind set on things. You aren’t married, are you?”

  “No,” she said.

  “It’s none of his business,” Ben told her furiously.

  It wasn’t, but she could be forgiven for responding automatically to Val’s question.

  “There’s Chloe’s car now.” Val got up and pointed toward a separate garage beside the house where lights had gone on inside. “She’ll be right out.”

  “Are you going to excuse yourself? Now?”

  Willow tasted the sangria. “This is good,” she said, frowning and trying to concentrate. “A little orgeat syrup might make it even better.”

  “I’ll make sure I pass that on,” Val said, grinning. “You’re going to love it here. You’ll have complete freedom to take charge of things.”

  The glass flew from Willow’s hand and smashed on the stone terrace.

  Val shouted, “Broken glass. Stand back everybody.”

  “Good heavens,” Willow explained. “I’m so sorry.”

  Of its own volition, the table upended, followed by the three chairs Willow was not sitting in.

  She got up and the fourth chair tipped over.

  A woman screamed, and another, and men yelled.

  A wind whipped across the grounds, bending trees double, roiled across the surface of the pool and turned it into whirling funnels that splashed over the sides and over those who sat or stood nearby.

  Someone yelled, “Tornado!”

  Willow shut her mind tightly, blocked out anything else B
en might have to say and gritted her teeth. Glances into the areas beyond the front walls proved what she expected—all was calm out there.

  The torches blew out, fairy lights failed and lights in the house went off. Yelling and shoving raged around Willow, and she closed her eyes.

  It was no wind that swept her from her feet. All she could do was allow herself to be borne away in unyielding arms, her hair tossed across her face, her body racked by the force of speed.

  Speech was out of the question.

  When she tried to see, thick darkness blocked everything.

  She couldn’t feel emotion, or react.

  Silence came as suddenly as the madness had arrived. She sat on something soft and the air was pleasantly warm. Cautiously, Willow opened her eyes again.

  Seated on the couch in her living room, she was alone—except for a small, red-brown dog at her feet.

  Chapter 8

  He was in deep shit.

  Ben hung out in the courtyard overlooked by the Millets’ flats, and the shadowy forms of stone angels. There was nothing to stop him from going up to Sykes’s place and tucking himself into bed—other than intense curiosity and a sense of doom about Willow’s reaction to her little journey.

  She was no fool, and she’d spent enough time around families like theirs to know she’d been snaffled, and who she had been snaffled by.

  He smiled slightly. This might not be all bad. First he’d gotten her away from the sleazeballs Uptown, and then he’d created the kind of upheaval bound to get her attention.

  Ben wanted Willow’s attention, on him. He also wanted to quit waiting for something crazy to start happening. Not that a couple of people dying for peculiar, indefinite reasons wasn’t crazy, but that didn’t have to be the end of it.

  That was the other thing. Those deaths seemed to have something to do with Willow and her company—otherwise why would both events take place around the presence of Willow or one of her employees?

  He had gone a bit far at that party.

  Could be he should have found another way to protect Willow—and get her attention.

  Soft laughter met his thoughts and he looked sharply around the courtyard. Water poured lightly from a fountain in the center, a young angel holding a shell. He couldn’t see it clearly, but he remembered it well enough.