The Acceptance

When Gaby didn’t answer, he shrugged. “If you don’t like it, you should have said something. Where would you prefer to eat?”

Her mouth constricted.

“The silent treatment?” An interesting twist for Gaby. “I see you’re like other women after all.”

She came out of her seat and up over the table in a fluid rush. Palms flattened on the tabletop, fury palpable, she hissed low, “I am nothing like other women and you damn well know it.”

He carefully caught her wrists. “Then what’s the problem?”

“I feel on display here, you jerk. I’m an aberration who doesn’t fit in. Are you a glutton for punishment? Is that why you always drag me to these places?”

Wow. So much sizzling energy and emotion.

It turned him on. She turned him on—even when giving him hell.

Yes, he was definitely a glutton for punishment. “Please sit down, Gaby. People are starting to stare.”

Her eyes flared comically. In a whisper, she said, “You dick.”

Her insults, on occasion, bordered on amusing. “You’re the one causing a scene, not me.”

On a heartfelt groan, she melted back into her seat. Face in her hands, she said, “I’m going to strangle you for this.”

“How about you just relax and enjoy the food instead. You never eat enough.”

Her fingers opened so she could peek at him. “You saying I’m too skinny?”

“Whatever you are, I like it.”

She rolled her eyes.

“It’s true. I know you’re . . . unschooled in some things, but you’re smart all the same. You have to have figured it out by now that I have a very serious thing for you.”

“A thing?”

Cavalier, Luther smiled at her. “Yeah. I’ve never had it before, so I can’t really pinpoint what it is. But I want you. I like being with you. And even though I can’t always understand you, I very much admire you.”

Gaby could trade insults with ease, but a compliment always made her defensive.

“Poor Luther,” she remarked with a good dose of sympathetic scorn. “I keep telling you—that makes you as much a freak as I am.”

“Maybe.” Luther reached over and trailed his fingertips up and down her arm. “For a soft woman, you sure do pack a lot of bravery.”

She snorted—but didn’t pull away.

“Because I care, you scared me half to death today. But at the same time, I was so proud of you.”

She flinched as if insulted. “Proud?”

“Shocking, huh?” Had no one ever been proud of her? Probably not. Gaby hadn’t ingratiated herself to many people. According to her tales of Father Mullond, the priest had cared for her, but he’d been a strict guide, not a doting friend given to praise. “You don’t even realize how heroic you are, do you, Gaby?”

“Oh gawd. I’ve already spewed food on you. Do you want to make me puke, too?”

“What you did was amazing. Very brave.” Luther began tickling her forearm again. “Maybe a little foolhardy, too, but you kept kids alive, Gaby. Did you see how those little faces looked at you?”

Uneasiness rounded her usually proud shoulders. “They’re just dumb, desperate kids who don’t know any better.”

“They watched you with starstruck awe. You swept in and did what their own parents seldom do—you put their well-being first.”

“Go ahead, break out the violins, why don’t you?”

Each caustic word hid a hurt so deep, Luther felt her pain. “If I had a violin nearby, I’d give it a try.”

She grunted. “Fine, but then don’t blame me if you end up with vomit on you.”

Slipping his fingers around her wrist, and then down to twine with her own fingers, Luther held her hand. “You were scared, weren’t you?”

“Well, duh. If that bomb had exploded, it would have blown off my moneymaker. That’d scare anyone.”

Luther sputtered over that descriptive prediction. “Your moneymaker?”

She shrugged. “That’s what Bliss calls it. The other hookers call it a hoo-haw, or a—”

“I know what they call it.” Trying to stifle a laugh, Luther carried her hand to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. “I’m glad you’re in one piece, moneymaker and all.”

“Well, yeah, me, too.”

“If you’re not going to eat, then we need to clear the air.”

“We could do that better outside.”

Luther shook his head. “Here is fine.” She could more easily avoid him outside. “Explain to me how I interfere with your perception of things.”

To his surprise, she plunked her head down on the table and locked her hands behind her neck. So much visible struggle unnerved him. Whatever Gaby’s issues, she believed them, which meant he had to give them credence, too.

After a moment, she propped her chin on her crossed arms. “Before I bother—do you believe me that I know when stuff is about to happen?”

“I’ve seen it, so yes.” Soon as he got a chance, he’d do some research on extrasensory perception. As a cop, believing in such far-fetched things went against the grain. He liked proof that he could touch, motives he could dissect.

But in an effort to understand Gaby . . . he’d bite the bullet and try a little faith.

Wary, she squirmed in her seat, but it wasn’t in Gaby’s nature to be demure—in anything. “You’ll have to accept that when I feel the evil, it hurts me.”

He’d seen the pain contorting her, and the fact that she’d finally explain, encouraged him. “Hurts you how?”

“I can’t describe it really. It’s an awful twisting agony that pervades me. Everywhere.”

“The way your features . . . alter . . .”

“Yeah, that’s a new one for me. Until you told me, I didn’t know I looked different. Can’t say I’m happy about that either. I thought it was only the—” Her gaze clapped on his, and she swallowed the rest of her words.

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Luther rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration. “You thought it was only . . . someone else who changed?” She frowned at him, but didn’t acknowledge his guess one way or the other. “You may as well fess up, because I’m not letting it go.”

“Nosy bastard.”

“I’m a detective,” he told her, losing some of his calm. “I’m supposed to be nosy.”

She struggled with herself, and it fascinated Luther to watch her, to see her weighing the consequences of trusting him.

She looked at him again, and he saw the expectation in her eyes. She wanted him to mock her, because that would free her.

“I figured it was only the evil that looked different.”

Around Gaby, he had to choose his words with care. Playing along seemed his safest bet to keep her talking. “For me, evil people don’t look any different. That’s the problem. If they did, solving murders would be a piece of cake.”

“You’re not me.”

Her scorn nudged him that much closer to anger. “No, I’m not.”

She watched for signs of ridicule, but Luther held himself phlegmatic.

Her gaze sharpened. “For me, the truly immoral people look different.”

A possibility struck Luther, and with the thought that he might finally catch on to her, he asked, “Their auras?”

Her fingers toyed with the fork. “That’s part of it.”

“What else?”

She withdrew. He saw it, felt it.