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“You’re right,” Pallas said. “We knew it even if we didn’t want to admit it to ourselves or anyone else.”
“After our lost nights, that vibe was enhanced,” Amelia said. “It’s as if whoever is behind this was able to identify us as candidates for a research experiment designed to enhance paranormal talents.”
“We were selected because we already possessed some psychicability,” Talia said. “Ambrose is right; there must be a list. The question is, how did we get on it?”
“We have another problem,” Amelia said, her eyes very grim. “I just found out that the Lucent Springs Hotel is scheduled for demolition. The new owners have given up the idea of renovating it. They say the earthquake and the fire did too much damage. They are going to use explosives to take down what’s left.”
Pallas stilled. “Explosives will destroy whatever evidence is in those ruins.”
“I know there is something there,” Amelia said. “Something important. I’m sure I sensed it the morning we escaped. I need to find it before the hotel is destroyed. Time is running out.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Thank goodness fordelivery,” Pallas said.
She set the pizza on the coffee table and dropped onto the sofa. Five days had passed since they left Carnelian. They were in her tiny one-bedroom apartment in Keeley Point because after one brief visit she had concluded that rebalancing Ambrose’s wine country house would require a lot of energy. She did not feel like tackling the project just yet. They both needed time to unwind and process the events in Carnelian. Her place was decidedly smaller, but the energy was more harmonious.
Ambrose emerged from the kitchen with the bottle of red wine he had just opened. “Smells good.”
She gave him her best innocently inquiring look. “Did Iona Bryant handle the pizza ordering when she was working for you?”
Ambrose shot her a suspicious glare and set the bottle of red on the coffee table. “Why do you feel it necessary to remind me yet again that Iona Bryant was not the perfect virtual assistant?”
Pallas smiled her sunniest smile and patted the sofa. “It’s for your own good. We don’t want you to make any more mistakes when it comes to hiring a personal assistant.”
“Thank you,” Ambrose said. He poured two glasses of wine. “I understand and appreciate your concern. I feel the same way about you.”
“Me?” she asked, wary now.
“Nice little talent for interior design you’ve got there.” Ambrose gave her a beatific smile. “Be a real shame if you risked a potentially brilliant career by going into partnership with Collier again. Sadly, we both know you’re a little naive when it comes to business.”
“No worries,” she shot back. “I’ve learned a lot lately. I know how partnerships work. If I decide to accept Theo’s offer I’ll insist on being a consultant this time, with the final say on which commissions I want to handle.”
“That won’t matter. The clients won’t read your contract. They’ll read the one they sign with Theodore Collier. It will be his name on that contract. As far as everyone involved is concerned, you’ll be a member of his firm.”
“At least I’ll make a lot of money,” she said.
“Maybe, but you won’t be your own boss. You’ll be working on the projects that Collier wants you to work on. Shopping malls. Fast-food restaurants. I can see your future now, and it includes a lot of laughing chickens and happy cows and cute pigs, all looking delighted by the prospect of being slaughtered and made into a deep-fried sandwich.”
“Don’t you dare lecture me on how to build my design business,” Pallas yelped. “You’re the one who hasn’t been able to write a third book. Talk about pissing away a career.”
“I thought I told you I’m over my case of writer’s block.”
“This argument is ridiculous,” she said through clenched teeth.
She shot to her feet with so much fierce energy that her knee collided with the coffee table. The glass of red wine that Ambrose had just poured for her wobbled precariously. So did the bottle. She got anightmarish visual of red wine spilling across the table and dripping onto the abstract carpet. What had she been thinking? She never drank red wine in the living room. Talk about inviting disaster.
But Ambrose was already in motion. Somehow he was able to set his own glass aside and deftly pluck her glass and the bottle off the table and out of harm’s way without even bothering to get up off the sofa.
It was just so unfair. She wanted to scream but she managed, barely, to regain some composure.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice shaking a little with the effort required not to burst into tears. “You can put the bottle and the glass back on the table.”
He set them down and looked around the space. “Is there some bad energy in the vicinity?”
“No, that was on me.” She sank down onto the sofa and took a fortifying swallow of wine. “I’ve been under a lot of stress lately. Got a little emotional. Overreacted. Don’t worry, I’m fine, blah, blah, blah.”
He watched her, his eyes burning. There was a lot of energy heating the atmosphere. She could feel herself responding to it, so she gulped down some more wine as an antidote.
