Visions Read online

  I didn't look back.

  CHAPTER NINE

  If my car had been closer, I think I'd have climbed in and driven away with a distracted "I'll call you later" for James. Fortunately, by the time we reached the VW, I'd recovered enough not to do anything so rude.

  James suggested we go for coffee, and he insisted on driving. I was too shell-shocked to argue--with the coffee or handing over my keys. He drove me to a fancy shop tucked into a nearby pocket of gentrification. It was the kind of place I'd normally love--quiet and intimate. Today, though, I wished he'd just pulled into the nearest Starbucks.

  I felt exposed here. A half-dozen people turned to watch me walk in. They knew who I was, from my picture in the papers. In the three weeks since the news broke, I'd been into the city almost daily. I'd probably been recognized every time, but after the first week I hadn't given a shit. Why? Because Gabriel had been at my side, and his don't-give-a-fuck-what-you-think-of-me attitude had rubbed off.

  With James, it felt completely different.

  I'd been in the paper before this debacle. When you come from money, you attend events that get coverage. The only noteworthy thing I'd ever done, though, was getting engaged to James Morgan. CEO of Chicago's fastest-growing tech firm. Son of a former Illinois senator. Fixture on the city's most-eligible-bachelor lists. Now here he was telling me he hadn't abandoned me. He'd only done what I asked and given me space.

  "I know . . ." He exhaled and rubbed his thumb on his chin, a nervous gesture I knew well. ". . . what I did was wrong. Stupid. Hell, the only reason you're sitting here right now is because you're waiting for an explanation. Waiting for me to tell you how I can justify paying a guy to protect you."

  True, though I had an idea what that explanation would be.

  He rubbed his chin harder, thumb pressing in. "This is embarrassing as hell, Liv. If I didn't need to explain . . ."

  "You do."

  His thumbnail absently nicked his lip, and he straightened abruptly. "He talked me into it. Which sounds like a lame excuse, but I wouldn't say it if it wasn't true, because it's damn humiliating. I walked into Walsh's office knowing exactly what I wanted--to talk to you, apologize to you, be the man I hadn't been when you needed me most. I walked in with a clear purpose . . . and an hour later I walked out having hired Gabriel Walsh to do that job for me. He made it seem . . ." James shoved back, chair legs squeaking. "Damn it, Liv. I feel like I was conned. I know that's ridiculous. He's an attorney, not a two-bit hustler."

  Actually, Gabriel was both. An attorney from a long line of hustlers. Earlier, when James said that Gabriel "convinced" him not to talk to me, I'd had a good idea how this had played out. Gabriel had seen the opportunity for profit and pounced. He'd made his case, and James had fallen for it, like so many before him. Like me.

  James continued explaining. I didn't need it, but like a sinner at confession, he had to spill all the details of his mistake. Yes, it had been a mistake. Clearly, I did not appreciate my former fiance hiring someone to take care of me and win me back, but James knew he'd been wrong, and I knew he'd been manipulated by a master. Could I forgive him for that? Yes. I could.

  There was more, too, a mistake I didn't need to forgive him for, because apparently it never happened. Last week, I'd seen a gossip-page piece on a reunion between James and his former girlfriend, getting back together. Now, over coffee, he explained that the encounter had been arranged by his mother, in collaboration with his all-too-willing ex. It had indeed only been an encounter--a few minutes at an event where he'd spoken to Eva, unaware the photo had been snapped, and then he'd left the event, alone. After the article came out, James had contacted Gabriel in a panic and been assured the matter would be set straight. Gabriel had never said a word to me.

  "I was an idiot to trust him," James said. "I knew his reputation. Hell, I spoke to one of my firm's lawyers and I got an earful--about the cases he's represented, the criminals he's set free, the allegations against him. Assault, blackmail, intimidation . . . There's even a rumor he has a sealed juvenile record."

  He did. For pickpocketing. Which was, I'm sure, only one of many juvenile offenses. As for the rest? I'd seen him deck a reporter. I'd seen him arrange for drugs to be given to a reluctant witness. I'd helped him move a body to delay its discovery. I suspected that any rumors short of murder were true. And I hadn't cared.

  For James, though, I acted as if this was all a huge revelation to me.

  He continued, "But when I dug deep enough, all the information I received said that Walsh could, in his way, be trusted. Hire him and he'd do what he was paid for. Apparently not."

  Except he had. He protected me, staying by my side throughout our investigation. As for playing matchmaker? The thought of Gabriel saying, "Hey, maybe you should call your ex. He seems like a nice guy," was ludicrous. I suppose he figured warning me off Ricky Gallagher was enough.

  "So . . ." James said. "I screwed up, and I know you're upset--"

  "Not with you."

  "Then . . ."

  He laid his closed fist on the table and opened it. In his palm was a ring. My engagement ring.

  My heart seized, and I stared as if he were holding out a vial of poison.

  My God, how could I even think that?

  I'd planned to marry this man. To spend my life with him. And now it was like he belonged in some half-remembered dream. I had loved him. I still felt something that could be love. He was the same guy he'd been when I'd taken that ring a year ago. James had not changed. But I had.

  "Liv?"

  I looked up and saw his panic, his confusion. If any part of me wasn't already consumed with self-loathing, that look devoured it in a single chomp.

  "I . . . need time," I said. "So much has happened, and I'm still confused and . . ." I swallowed. "I know that's what I said last week, but after that article on you and Eva, I was sure it was over. Absolutely sure. That's not your fault. It's not my fault. But I need . . ."

  "Forty-eight hours before I ask you to recommit?" James tried for a smile.

  "I--"

  He closed his hand over the ring. "No, you're right. I'm moving too fast. I'll walk you back to your car, and when you're ready--to talk, to have dinner, anything--just call."

  KING OF PENTACLES

  Thursday morning, Rose watched the girl head off to work at the diner. She looked fine, perfectly groomed in that casual, understated way that made it seem as if she rolled out of bed with her hair brushed and makeup on. Poised, that was the best word to describe Olivia Taylor-Jones, the girl Rose preferred to call Eden, at least in the privacy of her own mind. Today, though, that poise was a facade, one she couldn't quite pull off, her head bowed, gait lagging, as if she'd really rather go back to bed and huddle under the sheets.

  Yesterday, Rose had been at the door, seeing a client off, when Eden returned home mere hours after leaving for her first day of work with Gabriel. Eden had gone into her apartment and pulled the blind on her bedroom window, though it was still morning. That's when Rose knew the cards were right.

  During her client reading, the damned King of Pentacles had kept coming up. That was Gabriel's card--lord of self-discipline, power, and security. Except it had been reversed, which emphasized the negative aspects of those traits. Authoritative, manipulative, and controlling. When Eden came home early, Rose knew what the card meant. Gabriel had screwed up. Again.

  It was almost noon on Thursday when he finally phoned, ostensibly to check in on her. It was tempting to tell him she was fine and then say, "Well, I have to go now." See what he'd do. Teach him a lesson. Only she knew what he'd do--sign off and continue dwelling on the problem alone.

  Rose had learned long ago that there was no "teaching" Gabriel anything. Part of that was stubbornness, but part of it was skittishness, too. Perhaps "skittish" wasn't the right word. It implied nervousness, like a colt snatching food from your hand before dancing off. Gabriel was more like a stray cat. He always had been, even before Seanna left.
r />   When Seanna became pregnant, she'd refused Rose's help and ran from Cainsville. Rose didn't find her until Gabriel was a toddler. She'd been allowed to take him on weekends, leaving Seanna to her men. Once, during that first year, Rose hadn't taken him back to Chicago. When Seanna came around--two days later--Rose informed her that she was keeping the boy until her niece got her act together. Seanna snatched Gabriel, and it had been two years before Rose saw him again. Rose herself was quite capable of learning lessons, and she'd learned that one, restricting her efforts to what she could do for Gabriel on their weekends together.

  As for socializing him, it had been too late. By the time they first met, Gabriel was already that stray cat, cautiously allowing only the most modest degree of attention, ready to run if he got even the slightest hint that he wasn't wanted. That's what having a mother like Seanna did to a child. There was no undoing it. All Rose could do was understand and work around his limitations.

  "What happened with Olivia?" she asked finally.

  A pause. "You've spoken to her?"

  "No, but I've seen her, and it's obvious she's upset about something. It's also obvious she didn't work a full shift for you yesterday, which suggests the problem originated there."

  A long pause, requiring a prodding "Gabriel?" Then he told her what had happened, and as he did, she sank into the chair and sighed silently.

  For such a brilliant man, he really did seem incapable of learning. He'd betrayed Eden's trust once, and she'd soundly smacked him down for it. He'd worked his way back from that, winning her trust again . . . only to commit nearly the same offense, multiplied by ten.

  "You know, if you really didn't want to see her again, I'm sure a simple 'get lost' would have sufficed. Olivia doesn't strike me as a young woman who lingers where she's not wanted."

  "I was not trying to get rid of her."

  "Are you sure? Because you're doing an excellent job of it, though your technique seems overcomplicated."

  "Working together on a dangerous case meant I'd naturally watch out for her. So there was no harm--"

  "--in taking payment for it. Just as there was no harm in taking money from a reporter for setting up that interview a couple of weeks ago. As for the fact that she didn't want the interview, clearly she wasn't the best judge of that, and you were only acting in her best interests."

  A faint noise that was probably meant to be a snort but sounded more like a growl.

  "Did you really think you'd get away with it, Gabriel?"

  "I miscalculated the timetable."

  Rose closed her eyes and shook her head. She didn't have any problem with him taking money from James Morgan. Walshes had been taking advantage of gullibility and stupidity ever since they conned their fellow cavemen out of their spears. Highwaymen, pirates, swindlers, and card sharks . . . their family history was both colorful and dark. Rose might have the second sight, but it wasn't reliable enough to provide her with a steady income. For that, she needed a Walsh's true powers--the ability to lie, con, and cheat anyone out of anything.

  "I should have told her," he said.

  "Yes, you should have."

  Silence, long enough for Rose to wonder if he'd hung up. Then, "I was trying to give the money back."

  "What?"

  "I called Morgan on Sunday to say that I was ending our agreement and returning his retainer. I wanted to wire it to him, but he wouldn't provide banking information. That's what I was waiting on, before I told Olivia."

  When it came to money, Gabriel had . . . issues. Deep-rooted issues. Yet he'd planned to give back income he'd already earned? Rose sat there, stunned, before finding her voice.

  "And you told Olivia this?" she asked.

  "Of course not. He hadn't taken it back."

  "But you told her you ended the agreement and you were trying to return his money?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I have no proof."

  Rose argued the point, but Gabriel wouldn't budge. He had delayed telling Eden until he had proof, and, having no proof, he would not mention it. Nor would he further discuss the matter with Rose, let alone accept advice on how to mend the rift. He would not even admit he wished to mend it.

  "I have an appointment," he said when she pushed too hard. "I should go."

  "All right," she said, stifling a sigh. "But if you need anything . . ."

  "I do."

  The response was so unexpected, she hesitated.

  Gabriel continued, "Or I should say, Olivia needs something. A security system. There was a threat."

  "What kind?"

  "I'm not at liberty to explain. I can simply say that I take the threat seriously, and I was getting a system installed for her. I would like that done as soon as possible. Perhaps you could suggest you see the need for it."

  "Tell her I saw danger in the cards?"

  "Precisely. Tell her that you can get one installed without involving me in the matter."

  "But shouldn't you be involved in the matter? If I tell her that you asked me to make sure she got this system, when you are no longer being paid to protect her--"

  "No."

  "It would show her that--"

  "No. Leave me out of it. Please. I'd only like you to suggest she requires it and provide the appropriate contact information. I'm sorry to ask--"

  "You never need to be sorry, Gabriel."

  "Well, I am. But it's for Olivia, not me. I know you're fond of her."

  She was. The question, though, was what Gabriel felt for Eden. Rose didn't need the sight to know her nephew had lost more than a mere client.

  Damn it, Gabriel. You knew better, and yet you went ahead and messed this up anyway. Why?

  She knew why. Partly because he couldn't help himself when it came to money, but partly, too, because it kept Eden firmly on the other side of the barrier. A Walsh never conned the people he cared about. Ergo, by conning Eden, Gabriel said, "I don't care," which would be perfectly fine . . . if it were true.

  "Rose?"

  "Yes."

  "If you could do this for her . . ."

  "I will," she said. But not for her.

  CHAPTER TEN

  It'd been a quiet two days. Too quiet. There were moments when I almost wished I'd spot a giant black dog or stumble over a bed of poppies, just to give my brain something else to obsess over. Then I'd realize what I was asking for and feel even worse, as if I'd wished for someone's death to distract me.

  I hated letting Gabriel's betrayal bother me so much. I wanted to slough it off and bounce back. I had the last time. But now I hadn't just lost my lawyer. I'd lost a job I'd wanted. I'd lost a person I could confide in. And yes, damn it, I'd lost a friend, which was only made worse by knowing he hadn't been a friend at all, only a paid companion.

  Maybe the friendship part bothered me more than it ought, but I . . . well, don't make friends easily. Or I make them too easily. My calendar used to overflow with lunches and coffees and get-togethers, my in-box brimming with messages from high school friends, college friends, friends I met through my volunteerism. Then my world went to hell, and I found myself alone. Sure, when I retrieved messages, there were friends checking up on me. How was I doing? Did I need anything? When I sent back reassuring notes, they went quiet. Not abandoning me, but presuming I had it under control. I was Olivia Taylor-Jones--I always had everything under control. As for the thought that I might need a shoulder to sob on? Olivia Taylor-Jones didn't sob. So they went their own way, presuming I'd be in touch when I was ready for lunches and coffees again. And that stung, just a little, but it wasn't their fault.

  If there's a ten-point scale of friendship, I don't think I've had anyone rate above a six since high school. There are dozens of fours and fives, but that's where they stay and that's how I like it. So when things had gone so horribly wrong, there'd been no one there to say, "Call me, damn it. We're going for a drink, whether you like it or not." Even James had backed off after we'd argued.

  I
nto that void came Gabriel. The furthest thing from a potential friend I could imagine. And yet, in the last month, closer to me than any actual friend had been in years. He was the guy who came running when I called. Who stuck by me no matter how bad--or dangerous--things got. The guy who might not say, "We're going for a drink, damn it," but took me driving instead and bought me mochas to raise my spirits. Like a puppy starving for attention, I'd eagerly lapped it up.

  James had been played by Gabriel, but it was nothing compared with the way I'd been played. And despite it all, I missed him. Missed him and hated myself for it.

  After Wednesday morning, Gabriel had sent several "call me" texts. By evening, they'd escalated to complete messages, asking to talk, telling me he wanted to explain the situation, could we meet and discuss it? There were moments when I thought he sincerely wanted to do that. Then came a text on Friday--need to talk re: Pamela's case--and I understood exactly why he was so eager to smooth things over.

  I called him back at lunch.

  Before he could speak, I said, "You're worried that I'm going to convince Pamela to fire you. I wouldn't do that. I want her to have the best legal representation possible, and that's still you."

  Silence, broken only by the hiss of a less-than-perfect connection. Then he said slowly, "I appreciate your support. And in return . . ."

  "In return?"

  "What would you like in return?"

  Anger sizzled through me. "I'm not bargaining, Gabriel. I'm saying I won't jeopardize her defense out of spite. This is a clean break."

  "Break?" he said.

  "Yes. As we agreed, I'll pay your bill in full as soon as my trust fund comes due, and I won't interfere with you and Pamela, so there is no need to call again trying to mend this--"

  "Is that what you want?"

  "What?"

  "In return for supporting me as Pamela's lawyer, you want me to promise not to contact you?"

  "Did I say I'm not bargaining here, Gabriel?" I snapped. "You have got the case, and you'll get your bill paid. There are no strings attached. No expectations. I'm telling you so you don't need to call, pretending you want to smooth this over, because you're worried about losing Pamela's case. You won't."

  "Meaning that if I attempt further contact, you will rescind your support?"