at the journal, ran his finger over the sixth line she’d added to her plan.
“What’s this?” he whispered, his voice rough.
“It’s the next step in the plan . . . the one that matters the most, I think.”
He caught her in his arms and hauled her against him.
They didn’t make it home for a while.
Wreck this life: My new plan
1. Stop worrying so much about the future
2. Call Roger and tell him off
3. Flip off the next photographer you see
4. Get a tattoo
5. Have a torrid affair with a hot guy
6. Ask that hot guy if he’d maybe like to marry me . . . up in Alaska
Turn the page for a preview of Shiloh Walker’s
THE PROTECTED
Coming in September 2013 from Berkley Sensation!
“You want me where?”
Vaughnne MacMeans stared at the man in front of her and decided she really wished she’d taken more time off.
Granted, she’d already taken three months of personal time. Then two weeks medical leave after the case to end all cases went to hell in Orlando, Florida. Maybe she should have made it three weeks. Her head was still so not in a good place after that last job.
She could handle another week off, she thought. Another week. Two weeks. Three weeks. Three months. Three years.
Because Taylor Jones just had to be shitting her.
“Orlando,” he said again.
“No.” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. She didn’t ever want to see that miserable, forsaken, hellhole of a city again. Just thinking about it was enough to give her nightmares. Thinking about what had happened in that dark, squalid miserable building . . . shit, sometimes she woke still feeling the despair of the women around her. She wasn’t even empathic and it had gotten to her.
Of course, a person didn’t have to be empathic to feel those vibes. That much misery was enough to screw with the head of any psychic, even if it was just to leave that cloying, dark layer of despair. She’d been caught in the middle of it and even though they’d shut that operation down, it wasn’t enough.
They’d shut down one ring. Just one.
Who knows how many more were out there?
“Jones, I don’t know if I can handle going back into that kind of work again,” she said reluctantly. “Not after—”
“It’s not connected to that. It’s not about Daylin, at all.”
Pain gripped her heart at the sound of that name. The wounds were still fresh and the pain was just as hot, just as vivid as it had been months ago. Was it ever going to fade?
Shooting him a narrow look, she took a deep breath and shifted her attention to the wall behind him. “I don’t want to go back there, Taylor,” she said quietly. It hurt to even think about it. It hurt to think about that place, to think about those women. To think about any of it. Most of all, it hurt to think about her sister. The girl she’d failed . . .
“As I said, it’s not about the last case.”
She shoved away from her desk and started to pace. An echo of a headache danced in the back of her mind, letting her know that it might not have been a bad idea to take a little more time to recover. Psychics were prone to odd, undetectable injuries sometimes and she’d wrenched the hell out of something, although it wasn’t anything a doctor could diagnose.
Overuse of their abilities could definitely do damage and these headaches were murder.
Still, she had bills to pay, an empty refrigerator, and sitting at home had been driving her insane.
SAC—Special Agent in Charge—Taylor Jones leaned back in his seat and pinned her with a direct stare. If one was to try and find paper documentation of their unit, they’d be hard-pressed to do it. A lot of the agents knew vaguely of Jones and his odd team, and there were rumors, but if one tried to look up the FBI team of psychics, they weren’t going to have a lot of luck. Technically, they didn’t really exist.
Vaughnne still wasn’t sure just how Jones managed it, but he did.
Just then, he was watching her, his blue eyes cool and unreadable, his face expressionless. That blank look didn’t mean anything. He could be madder than hell, he could be amused. Hell, he could have a scorching case of herpes and she wouldn’t be able to tell from looking at his face—she’d seen him facing down drug runners, child rapists, and