Gift of Fire by Jayne Ann Krentz

Jonas’s arm and guided him toward the small group.
    Verity made a face behind her lover’s back and limped bravely forward on her own. A young, thin, bearded man wearing round, wire-rimmed glasses rose and came toward her. He had very dark, serious eyes.
    “Hello,” he said in a low voice as he took her arm. “I’m Oliver Crump. Let me give you a hand.”
    “Thank you.” Verity beamed at him, aware that Jonas had glanced back just in time to catch her dazzling smile. His disapproving look encouraged her to turn up the smile a few more watts. He deserved it for letting himself be swept off by Elyssa. “Verity Ames. I’m Jonas’s business manager.”
    “Oliver is a healer,” Elyssa explained brightly. “Aren’t you, Oliver?”
    “I work a little with herbs and crystals, that’s about all,” Oliver Crump said quietly. His brows came together in a fierce line as he looked down at Verity’s injured foot. “What did you do to your ankle?”
    “Slipped on an icy deck.”
    “How many days ago?”
    “A couple.” She looked down. “The swelling has started to go down but it’s still sore.”
    Crump helped her into a heavy wooden chair with a threadbare green velvet cushion. The thick arms and legs of the chair were ornately carved. Verity leaned back experimentally, wondering how old it was. Late nineteenth century, she guessed—certainly not Renaissance.
    “Let me introduce the people with whom I share the paths to enlightenment,” Elyssa said. She stood gripping Jonas’s arm as she waved at the small circle of faces. “Oliver Crump, as I just mentioned, is a psychic healer. And that’s Preston Yarwood over there by the liquor cabinet. Preston is the leader of our little group. He’s a marvelous teacher, so inspirational. He’s been interested in psychic studies for years, long before it became so popular. He studied with Ilhela Yonanda, you know.”
    “Is that right?” Verity said, wondering who Ilhela Yonanda was.
    “How do you do?” Yarwood spoke from the dark corner near the fireplace, where he was pouring drinks. “Understand your plane was a little late.” He sounded vaguely satisfied about that.
    When Yarwood stepped forward to nod at Verity and shake Jonas’s hand, the firelight gleamed on the scalp showing through his thinning hair. He appeared to be in his midforties, a short, dynamic-looking man with a rather florid face and a slight paunch. His gaze was intelligent and observant. He had the serene, blissful smile Verity was coming to think of as the New Age look.
    Yarwood wore a tastefully expensive plum-colored sweater. His well-cut wool trousers had pleats, and Verity was willing to bet that his loafers were Italian. There was a heavy gold watch on his wrist, the face of which was solid black. Verity was impressed. Running psychic-development seminars was obviously lucrative, as Doug had remarked.
    “What can I get you, Verity?” Yarwood asked politely.
    “Fruit juice would be fine.”
    “I had a feeling you would drink juice,” Preston murmured softly, as if another prediction had just been verified. “And you, Jonas?”
    “Scotch if you’ve got it.” Jonas took the seat next to Elyssa.
    “And this,” Elyssa went on smoothly, indicating another young man slouched in a corner of the sofa, “is Slade Spencer. Slade is a new member of our circle, although he’s been studying various paths on his own for years, haven’t you, Slade?”
    “Yeah, that’s me. Always on the road to enlightenment.” Slade Spencer concentrated for a moment on packing a fragrant-smelling pipe. His hands appeared to tremble slightly.
    The small task accomplished, he stretched out his long, jean-covered legs. Slade seemed to be in his late twenties or early thirties, but Verity couldn’t tell for sure.
    He ignored Jonas and smiled slowly at Verity as he reached for a glass on the table beside him. Spencer’s face had a pinched, ascetic look, and his eyes were feverishly bright beneath his