A Gift of Thought by Sarah Wynde Page A

emotions that Lucas had recovered, that he was over his grief. That feeling had only made her angrier. But was Lucas in denial instead?
    She swallowed, mouth suddenly dry, and kept looking. Lucas must be close by, but she couldn’t see him.
    ‘Look up,’ he answered her unspoken question.
    A curved staircase led down into the lobby. He was standing on the platform, wearing a dark suit.
    ‘Holy—’ It was Sylvie’s turn to bite back a thought. But she’d never seen him in a suit before. He looked . . . debonair. Dangerous. Not that he hadn’t always been dangerous to her, but she hadn’t ever seen him looking so formal. She couldn’t help the amused appreciation that slipped through to him.
    ‘What? You object to the suit?’ His thought radiated amusement back at her.
    ‘Not in the least,’ she assured him, not looking away as he made his way down the stairs to her. And then she sobered. Damn it, this was so typical. One sight of him and she forgot all her reservations.
    Three times.
    She’d seen him three times in the past twenty years. And every time, they fell into bed together as if it was as easy as breathing. But it never was, not really.
    “Dinner?” he asked, when he reached her. “I’m told the Juniper has an excellent mushroom casserole.”
    She quirked an eyebrow at him, skepticism clear.
    “Ah,” he answered the expression. “Still a meat and potatoes girl? Woman?”
    “Mushrooms are fungus. Athlete’s foot is fungus. Would you eat athlete’s foot?” she asked. “Yeah, didn’t think so,” she added, answering his wince.
    “I’m sure they have something that would suit your tastes,” he said. ‘Probably no MREs, though.’
    ‘Hey, that beef stew’s not bad,’ Sylvie answered the thought, unable to hold back her smile. But then she sobered. “We need to talk, Lucas.”
    “Garden?” he asked her, gesturing toward the French doors. The loggia was entirely walled in glass but opened onto an enclosed courtyard garden with a stone fountain and carefully tended plants. Even at the end of November, it was verdant and beautiful.
    Sylvie nodded and preceded him through the door. It was cold outside, and she shivered instinctively. She was wearing a dark suit of her own with a sleek silk top underneath the jacket. It wasn’t really appropriate for this weather. But the hotel had space heaters positioned around the courtyard to encourage guests to take advantage of the outdoor tables, and she headed straight to one of them.
    Under the light of the heater, she turned to face him. “Dillon first,” she said. “When was it?” She pressed her lips together and swallowed hard.
    “Five years.”
    Five years. She would have been in Iraq. Zane couldn’t have found her from that far away. But five years? And Lucas hadn’t yet accepted his death?
    “What happened?”
    “He wanted to be psychic.”
    “Ha.” Sylvie couldn’t contain her instinctive objection. Sure, her sixth sense came in handy sometimes, but it caused a lot more problems than it solved. Her life would have been easier—if possibly shorter—without her ability.
    “I know,” Lucas said. “He didn’t understand. I think he only saw the positive side. But he found a website that claimed hallucinations could start psychic powers so he took some medication of my mom’s. The prescription said that hallucinations could be a possible side effect.”
    Sylvie closed her eyes and took a deep breath. That was almost worse than she’d imagined. She’d pictured car accident or long slow illness. At least Lucas hadn’t known that time was short and not tried to find her. One of her fears was wrong. It would have been quick.
    “But that’s not . . .” Lucas started and then paused again. “Let’s talk about Chesney first.”
    Sylvie frowned. She didn’t want to talk about Chesney. But she did need to know why Lucas had broken into Chesney’s office and she also knew that talking about Dillon was likely to end the same