He picked it up, half expecting another crack of painful electricity, but it was nothing more than a plain, cheap ring, devoid of power. ‘It’s just a ring,’ he said. ‘Harmless. Except if the wrong person wears it.’

She started to reach for it, but a sizzle of blue electricity danced between them, and she jerked her hand back. ‘You’re doing that,’ she said in a sulky voice.

‘Believe what you want. But you’re not wearing it until I leave. We aren’t going to get anywhere if we practically get electrocuted every time I touch you.’

‘I don’t see why you need to touch me,’ she protested.

He closed his eyes in momentary exasperation. ‘Didn’t you have any training at all? I can help you channel your energy – you don’t have to start getting paranoid.’

‘That’s right, your mind isn’t clouded by lust. If it was I’d be able to make you do what I want.’

He wasn’t about to argue with it. His mind wasn’t clouded with lust – he’d been able to compartmentalize it very neatly. Yes, there was a strong, deep attraction that made no sense, and it was entirely inconvenient and, as far as he could tell, completely one-sided. So he’d banished it with the ruthless efficiency he’d perfected, never to think about it again until he was far enough away from her that it wouldn’t be a danger.

He put the ring back down on the workbench. ‘You can have it when I leave. In the meantime, I’ll show you what I mean.’

He had no idea why he did it, when he’d just been thinking how dangerous she was. Maybe he hadn’t banished that errant strain of lust as efficiently as he thought. He reached out to put his hand on her shoulder, as he had before, but for some reason it slid up the side of her neck, cupping her face, and there was no snap of static power between them. Instead it was a pulse, strong and powerful, flowing between them, awash with color and the heartbeat of the universe. And without thinking he moved his head down to kiss her.

Danny James opened the door to the Greasy Fork and ushered Dee in. Dee couldn’t think of anyplace more platonic to have her one drink with Danny than the Greasy Fork, the epitome of the smalltown diner with its scarred Formica and Coke-and-hamburger menu. Plus no alcohol. She’d be safe there.

She led him through the bustling early-dinner crowd over to her favorite booth by the front window where she could see the town square, the river, and the cliffs beyond that were her favorite haunt. The sun was low, throwing a golden wash over the red brick buildings and limning the trees. Dee sighed. What the hell had she been thinking? She needed to be outside in that perfect light. Not here. Not with Danny James, for God’s sake.

She’d laid in a few brushstrokes of burnt sienna along the lines of his throat, where the warm sun had left shadows.

Dee shook her head, feeling oddly bereft. Damn fantasy. ‘Nice place,’ Danny said behind her with a suspiciously dry voice.

‘Did I tell you the drink choices here are Coke, Coke, and coffee?’ she asked as she tossed her briefcase onto the seat and slid in.

Danny looked around. ‘Yeah. I can see that.’

‘No, no,’ the waitress said as she bustled over. ‘It’s your lucky day. We got a liquor license. I know how much you like a good martini, Dee. How ‘bout it?’

‘Wonderful,’ Dee said faintly. ‘Thanks, Maxine.’

Without taking her eyes off Danny, Maxine dug into her pocket, where she usually kept her order pad. ‘And you, sir?’

‘I’ll just have a longneck,’ Danny said with another one of those killer smiles as he settled across from her.

Every person within a four-booth radius turned their way. Maxine headed off to get their drinks, making it a point to wait until she was out of Danny’s line of sight before vigorously fanning herself for Dee’s benefit. Yeah, Dee thought. He’s all that and more. She just wished she knew what that more was.

He looked like a yuppie exec on casual day, his oxford shirt open and rolled up to his elbows, his hair just that much disordered, his shoes tasseled. He smelled like the male animal. Dee recognized the scent from her times as a fox. Musk and power and salt. The clean hint of soap, and something that was particularly Danny James. Something deadly she couldn’t quite identify. Probably the uncut scent of pheromones. And she was sitting across from him in hundred-weight wool and a pool of sweat. Very attractive.

She was feeling flushed again. Just who’d thought this would be a good idea? Across from her, Danny pulled a tape recorder from his jacket pocket and set it on the booth.

‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Dee said, stone-faced.

He gave a wry shrug and put it away. ‘You can only say no.’

‘I could beat you into insensibility with your own equipment.’

She could change into a wolverine and chew his face off. But it was too nice a face.

‘Oh, you don’t want to do that,’ he said without looking up. ‘I have such a nice face.’

Dee went very still. Just which bit of vitriol had he been responding to? And if he was letting her know that he’d heard her thoughts, why wasn’t he flashing her an ‘I know what you are’ smile?

She surreptitiously took another sniff. Again, she caught the man scent, the soap. And… ah, hell. She should have known. That mystery scent hadn’t just been pheromones. It held the tang of ozone before a storm. The crackle of electricity. Whatever else this guy was or wasn’t, he was one of them. He smelled like psychic power.

Dee fought to keep from sweating like a suspect. What did it mean? Why was he really here? And damn it, how could just smelling the power on him make her so darned itchy? No, that was the wool against her ass, which she suddenly couldn’t seem to hold still, as if rubbing it against Naugahyde would relieve her distress.

Danny James replaced the tape recorder with a notebook and a Third Virginia Bank pen. ‘You don’t like talking about your parents?’

She looked around for that Martini, suddenly grateful the Greasy Fork had sold out. ‘What are you researching?’

Smooth, Dee. Very smooth.

He didn’t seem in the least disconcerted. ‘A book for Mark Delaney.’

She scowled. ‘Yes, I got that part. What could my parents have to do with alternative history?’ Except the alternative history she used to imagine for herself. Clair and Cliff Huxtable as her parents and a house in the suburbs where the silverware stayed silverware and stress caused nothing more than headaches.

‘Mark wants to do a non-fiction work on psychics,’ he said. ‘Since your parents were the most famous ones, he thought we should start there. I’m sure you know that they were sometimes referred to as-’

‘The Jim and Tammy Faye of psychics. Yes, Mr James, I know all the pejoratives.’ Like ‘charlatan.’ She wondered when that one would come up. And keep it down, please. I’m happier if no one in Salem’s Fork thinks I know anybody famous.’

‘I was sure you’d rather I got my information from the source, which would be you.’

‘Not really,’ Dee said, seeing Maxine set a full Martini glass on a tray and salivating. ‘There’s plenty of video on them. I doubt I could add anything.’

‘I’ve seen the video,’ he said. ‘No offense, but it all struck me as a cross between Ed Sullivan and Elmer Gantry.’

‘With just a soupçon of the Partridge Family. They did know how to put on a show.’

I’m sure that accounts for some of it,’ he said. ‘Their rise to fame was pretty meteoric. From neighborhood psychics to international stars in a matter of three years.’

Dee tried to see where Maxine was with that Martini. ‘The neighborhood they worked was West Hollywood,’ she said. ‘They numbered quite a few producers and agents among their clients.’

It had been Xan who’d spotted the opportunity. The producers had never known it wasn’t their idea.

Danny James consulted something in his notebook. ‘Well, it certainly was a winning formula. Especially when they added you girls to the show. You were naturals for the bright lights, all ruffled and sweet and singing those cute songs. You did a hell of an “I’m a Little Teapot.”‘