The same basic response when he tried to speak to her . . . she didn’t hear a word. Okay, so Jillian’s gifts weren’t that mind-numbingly powerful, although damn, it sure as hell would have made this easier.
He’d have to rely on good old investigative shit for now. He searched for details, clues, committing everything he could find to memory. There wasn’t much, though. As he swam through the morass of Jillian’s memories and visions, he searched for the one thing he really needed.
The man Jillian had seen. He needed to see him again—without Jillian’s fear to color what he saw.
He searched, he waited, he trolled through all the images and thoughts and dreams she’d pushed into his mind . . . but never did he catch another glimpse of that man.
Her thoughts grew vague, indistinct, and he knew he wouldn’t find the answers he needed there. So he gave up. Stopped trying to control the dreams, and even as he let them slide away, the dream shifted, re-formed.
And he was elsewhere.
The stink of body waste and filth melted away, replaced by the soft, delicate scent of woman. He saw her back, narrow and slim. Standing at a balcony, rigid, her shoulders a taut line while her hands rested on the railing. He scowled as he looked around, trying to process what he was seeing.
A hotel. Okay. The woman . . . okay. His gaze lowered and he found himself eyeing her ass for a moment before he forced himself back to the matter at hand—although he couldn’t help noticing it was a very, very nice ass. Fancy room. Lights off. Plenty of sun shining in.
And the woman was standing outside, hands on the railing as she stared toward . . . what the hell . . . was that . . . Focus, Joss.
“Hello?”
But just as before, she didn’t hear him.
Great. Unsure just what he’d dreamed himself into, Joss moved forward, looking around and trying to connect this place to the nightmares he’d picked up from Jillian. Trying to understand who the woman was. Why he was here.
Rich. That’s what this was. The place practically bled money. Even the smells were pricey.
The woman lifted a hand—her left hand—tucked her hair back behind her ear, and then paused, lowered it to stare at the ring sparkling there.
Something about her called to him . . . He wanted her to turn around. Look at him. Talk to him.
But she remained blissfully unaware of him, even when he said, “Nice rock.”
Of course, he hadn’t really expected her to hear him . . . nobody else had.
He scowled when she abruptly started to claw at her hand, tearing the ring off with something too close to desperation. Once she had it off, she whirled around and hurled it. He flinched, but it passed right through him.
And then he staggered, went to his knees.
Her face . . .
Her eyes . . . so grim, so sad.
And her face . . .
Like a knife, the sight of her ripped something open inside him and he felt himself falling. Desperately, trying to get himself back on balance, he reached for the strands of the dream and tried to weave them back together.
But it was too late.
The dream was gone.
He jackknifed upright in bed, staring around in the dim room.
Scrubbing his hand over his face, he groaned.
“What the fuck . . .” he muttered. “What the fuck . . .”
* * *
FOR three days, Patrick ignored her.
If he thought that would bother her, then he didn’t know her very well. Well, actually, he didn’t know her, and that was a good thing.
A tray of food had been sent to her three times a day, and Dru was okay with that. The food was decent, and as long as Patrick wasn’t there, she could actually manage to eat. She’d kind of been dreading Friday. Fridays and Saturdays usually entailed elaborate, fancy dinner dates where she had to dress up and pretend to be his little Barbie doll. This Friday, though, there was a tray delivered at dinnertime.
Along with a note:
Ella
You should stay in and eat, rest for a few more days. Relax.
Patrick
Simple. To the point. Anybody who didn’t know him would think he was just concerned for her welfare.
After all, there was nothing overly threatening about the note. Or even obliquely threatening about it.
When she touched it, though, her belly cramped with fear.
She could all but taste the need to hurt on him—it was imprinted on the note.