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She undid the buttons on his shirt, her hand skimming the hot flesh at his neck. The temperature had to be low sixties in here. Why was he burning up?
His eyelids flickered and she caught the gleam from his dark eyes. “Are you coming around? I’m going to get that water.”
She grabbed a pillow from the sofa and tucked it beneath his head.
She took off for the kitchen and filled another glass full of water, ignoring the broken glass in the sink. When she returned to Jim, his breathing was less shallow, his color less pale.
She punched up the pillow behind his head, and held the glass to his dry lips. “Can you take some water? Should I call 911?”
He turned his head, and she put the glass down on the fireplace. As he held up one hand, she grabbed it with her own. Immediately a flow of energy coursed through her body and she jerked back without releasing Jim’s hand.
Dread soaked into her skin and it felt as if something was waiting for her just around the corner. Holding her breath, she braced for the terror. She squeezed Jim’s hand harder. Her heart thudded in her chest.
Jim ripped his hand from hers and struggled to sit up. “I’m all right.”
While she blinked her eyes, Jim grabbed the water and downed it. “I’m fine. It’s nothing. Come back.”
Her hand snaked up the column of her throat. How had he known? What had he seen in her face?
“I’m here, of course. What just happened?”
“You tell me.” He sat up fully, his back against the fireplace, his flannel shirt gaping open, exposing the black T-shirt beneath that clung to the muscles of his broad chest.
“Y-you fell to the floor. You were unresponsive, with shallow breathing and clammy skin. What was that, Jim? You don’t seem exactly panicked about it.”
“That’s because it’s happened before. The...attacks or seizures stopped for a while but have started up again since I’ve been in Timberline.”
“Seizures? What causes them? I assume you’ve been to see a doctor.” She crossed her legs beneath her, folding her hands in her lap.
“It’s post-traumatic stress. It’s been treated. I was on medication for a while—didn’t like it.”
“Did it help?”
“It reduced the attacks, but I’d rather feel my feelings, not stuff them away.”
“You said they stopped?”
“Until I came here.” He cradled the glass in his hands, running his thumb along the rim.
“Why? What is it about this place? Is it the stuff you went through with your father?”
“Some of it.” He hunched forward. “I’d rather hear about what you feel when you touch me.”
Heat washed into her cheeks. “Wh-what do you mean?”
“I’m not talking about the sexual chemistry, although who are we kidding?” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I mean the other stuff—the way you act like I’ve given you an electric shock when you grab my hand. I’ve affected different women in different ways, but I’ve never encountered that response before. What’s going on, Scarlett?”
She took a shaky breath and rose to her feet. “I need the rest of my wine for this conversation.”
“Let me get it for you.” He pushed to his feet and swayed before grabbing the edge of the mantel. He held out his hand as she leaned toward him. “I’m okay. I need to move.”
He swept up the empty water glass and walked into the kitchen, his limp more pronounced than usual. “You have broken glass in your sink.”
“Yeah, I dropped it when you collapsed in my living room.”
“Sorry I scared you.” He returned with her wine and more water for himself. “I should’ve realized I was susceptible after the arrest.”
She took the wineglass from his hand and their fingers brushed. She felt nothing but desire this time.
She sank to a chair and he took the chair across from her, resting his forearms on his knees, holding his glass with two hands.
Closing her eyes, she took a sip of wine. “You know about my heritage.”
“You’re Quileute.”
“Yes, but our tribe has shamans, like many others. I’m convinced we don’t have greater numbers of people with these sensitivities than the general population, but it’s something we identify and foster within our tribe. And I do believe extrasensory perceptions run in families—and it runs in ours.”
