The Unwanted (A Novella of the FBI Psychics) Read Online Free PDF Page A

of her little pep-talk mantra when a hand closed over her wrist. She recognized his touch, his scent, his presence even as her body started to jerk away in instinctive reaction. She slowed to a stop and waited.
    Caleb faced her, studying her from under a golden fringe of lashes. When he touched her cheek, his fingers soft and gentle on the scar tissue, she held still. She couldn’t react, couldn’t lean into him, no matter how much she wanted to. She hadn’t ever gotten over him, nor had she tried to fool herself into thinking otherwise. But she’d be damned if she let him see that.
    “Was it after this happened?”
    “What?”
    “This.” He pushed his hand through her hair, then curled it over the back of her head.
    She could feel his heat, remembered the way his touch had always made her feel—it was like a drug, heady and euphoric. She’d been addicted, then he left and she came crashing back down to earth. Not going there again. Nuh-uh. She made herself pull away, but managed to resist the cowardly move of backing away. “Yes. I did it the day after I left the hospital.”
    She went to go around him, but he wasn’t done. He rubbed the pad of his finger over one eyebrow, feathered it down her nose and then outlined her mouth. “No makeup. No jewelry. Did that happen then too?”
    Whoa. Should have backed away. Her lips buzzed under his touch and her heart had settled somewhere in the vicinity of her throat, banging away merrily and making breathing suddenly seem a lot more complicated. “Yeah. Why?”
    “Just wondering.”
    “Well, your questions are now answered.” This time, she made sure to put several feet between them and she circled around him, giving him a very, very wide berth.
    She could still feel his touch, though. And the memory of it, of their time together, was now living large in her mind. All of those memories that she’d fought so hard to suppress, to forget, and now here they were, tormenting her again.
    Setting her jaw, she stomped into the diner. Damn you, Oz. Why did you have to do this to me?
     
    “That went well,” he muttered, shaking his head.
    He followed her into the restaurant and caught a glimpse of her sweetly curved ass as she slipped into the women’s room. He knew why. She was hiding from him. Sighing, he shoved his hands into his pockets and approached the counter.
    It took her ten minutes to come out. The server had already been by twice, but he’d held off ordering because if she didn’t want to eat here, then he wasn’t going to do anything more than grab some coffee. And it was good coffee. Strong enough to wake the dead, but not bitter.
    As the caffeine sang its way through his blood, he kept his eyes on the door until it opened and then he pretended to be completely absorbed in the plastic-covered menu. Not that there was anything earth shattering on it.
    Simple, home-cooked food. The artery clogging kind, but he had to die sooner or later anyway and as long as he didn’t do it too often, all was good, right?
    “Are we eating or what?” Destin asked, dropping into the chair across from him.
    “If you’re hungry. The food looks like a heart attack waiting to happen, but it will taste pretty damn good,” he said, pushing his menu over to her.
    She hummed under her breath. “Fried chicken. Nobody can do fried chicken the way a place like this can. We’re eating here.”
    Twenty minutes later, he had to admit, it was a fact. He’d forget the name of this place once they were out of the little village, but they had a serious way with fried chicken. Chain restaurants just couldn’t even touch this.
    “Are you happy working with Oz?” he asked, scooping one last bite of potatoes into his mouth. He could have licked the plate clean, but he figured he’d done enough damage.
    “Happy…” She dropped a napkin on the table and leaned back, studying him the way she might have eyed something that had crawled out from under the plate. With acute disgust.