Whispers in the Mist Read Online Free PDF Page B

it wanted to impart its knowledge to her. The moment she’d caught sight of it out on the plaza, she’d known it was a sign. Why, she wasn’t sure, and this was what had frightened her. If she didn’t know why, then her impulse to rip it off the woman’s neck must stem from the bottomless well. That scary place, the place inside Gemma’s head where she had long ago stored the bad stuff that bided its time until her memory decided to start working again.
    “Excuse me,” a woman said, “I’d like my necklace back, please.”
    Gemma turned toward the wall, still fingering the stone. The comforting mass of the pub dog snuffled and adjusted itself against her back. Unfortunately, she’d have to engage with this woman because answers were required. She hated the inevitable necessity of communication with strangers that set her bones to feeling like glass and her skin to feeling like parchment.
    Above and behind her like towering speakers, several voices rose at once. Dermot loudest of all, telling the woman to stand back. Gemma heard the shock in the woman’s voice when she said, “You?”
    “Back off from Gemma, if you’d please,” Dermot said.
    “No,” the woman said, “I won’t. She stole something precious from me, and I want an explanation. From her first, and then from you. How dare you”—she lowered her voice but Gemma’s acute hearing caught her words—“walk up to Liam like that, full of accusations?”
    Another voice, male, softer and with a slight accent, called the dog. “Bijou, come.”
    Bijou . Gemma smiled toward the wall so no one could see. Maybe the dog was a sign. A good sign. She knew enough French from listening to language tapes to know that the dog’s name translated to Gem or Jewel. Someday, she’d open her mouth and speak French; it would come out in a perfect stream. Dermot didn’t understand her need to study a foreign language. She’d never explained that someday it might be easier to talk in a new language. To start fresh.
    She snapped back to the conversation above her—the inevitable pull of the world.
    “Gemma?” Dermot said. “What’s that you’ve got there?”
    She concentrated on the pendant that glimmered in her palm, observing how the scant light played ghost games within it. Here she was, causing Dermot problems once again. She could hear it in his voice—the you’re-my-burden gruffness.
    I wasn’t going to keep it , she signed with her hand. Ask her where she got it .
    Dermot stooped and lowered his voice. He spoke in the careful tone he often used with her. “What’s wrong? You don’t steal.”
    She held the necklace up in an open palm toward Dermot, watching his face. He tried to hide his uneasiness beneath nonchalance, but he couldn’t stop his skin color from fading to ash. He turned over the pendant, examining the silverwork.
    And?
    Nothing, he replied in sign language.
    Ah. Switching to sign language gave him away. He often signed when he wanted privacy or to hide something. And right this second she could tell by the prissy way Dermot pursed his lips that he was hiding his emotions. He was her dear brother, but he was also a smidge on the stodgy side for a thirty-six-year-old man.
    “Oh, okay then,” came the soft male voice again. “Go on back if you must. Good dog.”
    Bijou returned to the pillow. Her tail whapped against the suede, and the scent of cedar rose into the air when her squat body dropped with a huff. Gemma reached back to pet Bijou. The dog’s tawny fur tracked smooth over burly shoulders and lean waist. Gemma felt the ripple of skin over ribs before her hand reached well-muscled thighs. This dog was in excellent condition, and Gemma respected the owner’s diligence to his caretaking duties.
    Dermot stood. “Gemma apologizes. That’s not her usual behavior, believe me, right, Gems?”
    Because she felt guilty about causing Dermot problems, because the other man was a good dog owner, and because, in the end, she was