Psychic Reunion

By Harley M Cranston

Shaking off vague memories of a nightmare, Naomi steps outside her door and finds Ben Thornton, those startling green eyes so reminiscent of the man in her nightmare she faints in terror. Ben catches and carries her inside, surprised at this close proximity of the the woman who stars in his erotic dreams. After Naomi wakes, they discover an inexplicable sense of recognition, a familiarity out of place for two people who have never met. That connection fuels an intense physical attraction, an instant blinding lust making it difficult to keep their hands to themselves.

The appearance of strange men wielding tranquilizer guns throws them into sudden danger and the mysteries of their pasts. There's more going on than meets the eye. Naomi rediscovers buried telepathic abilities as the connection with Ben intensifies into a mental link that only gets stronger over time. Empathic, with flashes of telepathy, Ben needs as much information as he can get, especially after Naomi's nightmare vision of a brutal murder on the other side of the country a month earlier.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harley M Cranston
• Release date: Oct 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370639571

Harley M Cranston

Born in Texas, Harley Cranston now lives in Southern California with her boyfriend of nearly 10 years, Frank, and enjoys writing fiction of all kinds. In her spare time she enjoys watching drag races, football, and working on cars herself, especially hotrods.

Book preview

PSYCHIC REUNION

Paranormal Sci-fi Romance

by: Harley M Cranston

Dedication

To Frank, for encouragement and support throughout the whole process, but mostly for believing that I really can do this!

Prologue

She rose out of the gentle, lapping waves of the lake, wet T-shirt clinging to every luscious curve of her body. Her nipples peaked against the cotton shirt, from wet or cold he couldn’t tell. The fabric molded to her full breasts, slender waist, and gently rounded hips and buttocks. That skimpy T-shirt showed off long muscular legs to distinct advantage.

She walked out of the water and stopped, her gaze riveted to him. He stood still, trapped in that hungry stare. Long dark hair, gleaming wet in the moonlight, fell around her shoulders and down her back to her hips. His heart skipped a beat and then lurched into a faster rhythm. His body hardened to a painful familiar ache as she continued to watch him, staring as though at her favorite dessert and she was eager to bite.

They chose you for me. Her voice, a low husky invitation, stroked his senses, rippling through him. But I give you the choice. She faltered and uncertainty flickered in her eyes. Don’t take me unless you want me—forever.

His body yearned. Every fantasy he ever had rolled into one glorious woman, one moment in time, and she offered herself to him—forever. His brain, his intellect, balked at that word-- Forever. The word, her tone, the fantasy—he looked away from her before he lost his sanity. As though a cage closed around him, he backed up a step.

Unable to stop himself, he looked at her again. He needed to look at her. It was too dark, even in moonlight, to know the color of her eyes, but he could not mistake the hunger, the need, which mirrored his own. Water slid off her gleaming body like a temptation. His fingers ached to touch, his hands to slide over bare wet flesh. His mouth suddenly dry, he swallowed hard and barely grasped logical thought.

What do you want? What is going on here? he demanded, his voice rough with desire. What happens next?

The stunning apparition shook her head. I don’t know.

He stared at her. He had no choice. His rapt gaze roamed over her luscious body and stopped, trapped, by her eyes. In the harsh moonlight they gleamed, stark and direct, as she continued to stare at him. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. Every instinct he possessed urged him to either run from the trap or grab her and spring it. He stood, frozen in place, his gaze never leaving her.

Benjamin Thornton woke with a start, his breathing harsh and ragged in his ears. His heart pounded. Blood rushed through his veins. The sweat of desire glistened and cooled on his skin as though from a broken fever. His cock, hard and throbbing, strained against the sheet twisted around his waist and legs.

Jesus, he groaned in the aftermath of the vivid erotic dream he'd experienced on and off for the past ten years. Scowling, he sat up in the bed and glared at his reflection in the large mirror on the wall across the room. Different locations, different clothes, little or no conversation, the dream always focused on the same woman—sexy, alluring, blatantly inviting.

He long ago dismissed them as harmless fantasy. He never met the woman and certainly never bedded her, he would remember that, but the intense sense of familiarity nagged at him.

Deliberately, he shoved the woman and the erotic dreams from his mind and, naked, left the bed. He forced himself to forget her, as usual, as he prepared for the workday ahead of him. In his work as an electrical construction foreman, Ben had plenty to keep his mind busy and his body exhausted.

Heat scorched her back as she ran, panicked, through shadowy metal corridors. Locked doors taunted her from both sides in the large wavering shadows that flowed along the walls, chasing her. Fire roared behind her from around the corner she had just blindly turned. Thick smoke choked her nose, mouth, and lungs as she rushed toward the door at the end of the hall. Nearly blinded, she barely made out the fixtures along the walls of the corridor. A huge menacing shadow, a silhouette of a man with a gun held at the ready, appeared from the intersection just ahead of her.

Despair settled over her like a wet blanket. The others had already escaped. Would she, one of those who masterminded and led the escape, be able to join them? Her eyes burned from the thickening smoke as she focused on the doors ahead of her.

The heat at her back increased as the fire drew closer. Alarms screeched and clanged amid human screams and shouted commands. The shadow coming at her grew larger, infinitely more menacing, and he stepped directly into her path. Heart pounding erratically, she skidded to a halt. On a spurt of panic, she reached for the nearest door knob and twisted it. Locked, it didn't budge. Trapped between the roaring fire and her nemesis, she deliberately looked up into his glittering eyes—eyes so cold they might freeze the oceans.

Don’t, she whispered, her throat sore and raw from smoke inhalation. Please.

Her gaze slid to the gun pointed at her and then back to his harsh expression. Without a word, he reached out with his free hand and took her upper arm in a bruising grip. It was useless to struggle. He had her. She closed her eyes and waited to die. Instead he jerked her along with him, the gun barrel at the side of her ribs, prodding her along.

What are you going to do with me? she demanded in a hoarse croak.

Shut up, he ordered as he forced her around the corner, further from the fire blazing like an inferno through the building.

Heavy smoke and blistering heat followed them, overtook them. She coughed, twisted in vain against his iron grip, and finally screamed.

That furious, terrified scream rang in her ears and jerked her out of sleep. Disoriented, she panicked in the dark room until her mind insisted the dream had ended. Chest heaving, heart pounding, she shoved off the blankets, sat up, and switched on the bedside lamp.

Naomi Carter met the wide-eyed frightened stare of her reflection in the mirror across the small room and blinked. It took concentrated effort, but her breathing slowed to normal. Her heart and pulse rates might take a little longer. As she drew in slow, deep breaths, the horrifying images of fire and a man deadlier than any creature on earth began to fade until the nightmare seemed no worse than any other bad dream.

By the time the coffee finished brewing and she had showered and dressed, the nightmare’s details had blurred in her mind, leaving her drained and worn out. She’d had the nightmare before, off and on, for the past ten years. It terrified her, left her gasping for breath, bathed in the sweat of fear. The details, though fuzzy, indicated a terrified flight from something—or someone.

Chapter One

With her hair bundled in haphazard fashion at the back of her head by a long silver barrette, Naomi Carter stepped out onto the second floor walkway of the motel. She rented a small kitchenette at the Amazon Motel by the week. Though she could afford better, the anonymity of living in a motel appealed to her. She could pick up and leave whenever the urge struck her.

As she sipped coffee from a blue ceramic mug, her gaze wandered over the parking lot. Parking slots lined the front of the freshly painted yellow rectangular building, other slots marked along the opposite side of the asphalt. The in-ground pool sat near the street, Miracle Mile, directly across the parking lot from the office in the street end of the motel. Visible over the ten foot yellow wall and through the bars of the wrought iron gate, the rippling water enticed her, teasing her with the promise of a cool respite from the rising heat.

Several mobile homes in the Circle Mobile Home Park next door formed a rough semi-circle around the back and across the dirt and weed vacant lot on the other side of the parking lot. It wasn’t exactly a high-end place to live and, in some cases, looked run down. Across the busy street, the offices of Kelly Construction looked pink in the morning sun. Further down the street, another vacant lot, fenced in, gave passersby a peak at various mobile homes in the residential area. She lifted her gaze, peered further between electrical lines and poles, and over rooftops. The bar, Nevada Smiths, stood on the other side of the entrance to the mobile home park. Just off interstate 10, Miracle Mile was an often busy street. Occasionally prostitutes, vagabonds, and other criminal elements walked the street after dark.

A glance at her watch drew a sigh. In less than an hour, she had to get to work. She rarely deviated from her self-imposed schedule. She started writing promptly at six in the morning, every morning except Saturday, and stopped no earlier than two in the afternoon. If things went well, she might continue longer, but she never stopped before eight hours passed.

Coffee mug in one hand, cigarette in the other, she leaned on the black iron railing to enjoy the brightening summer morning. The pleasant warmth would be blistering humid heat by noon and only the monsoon rains might cool things. Naomi lifted her gaze to the blazing blue sky, empty of any clouds. Any hope of much needed rain in Arizona that morning died a hard death. She grinned. That might change in a few hours, but for now she basked in the pleasant warmth of a mid-July morning.

A door opened nearby and she shot a casual glance in that direction as she flicked her cigarette butt over the railing. A man stepped out of the room next to hers, his gaze scanning the sky and the general area. At this early hour, traffic on Miracle Mile had not yet built to morning rush hour levels. He was tall, the light blue polo shirt clinging to broad shoulders, muscular arms, and a flat stomach, disappeared into faded jeans that fit him like a glove. Her casual glance took in dark collar-length hair under a dark blue baseball cap with a logo she couldn't read from her angle.

He turned his head slightly and looked in her direction. Riveting emerald green eyes widened in startled recognition as his stare fixed on her. Sheer terror shot through her. Her heart pounded frantically as blood jolted through her veins.

You! The coffee mug slipped from her suddenly nerveless fingers, shattering as the world went dark.

Ben Thornton moved fast. The blue mug hit the concrete, coffee splattered, and he caught her as her knees buckled. One arm across her back and the other under her thighs, he lifted her off her feet and carried her through the open door behind him, the one next to his room. He looked her over as he lowered her to the rumpled bed, surprised that she looked vaguely familiar.

He frowned. He had no memory of meeting this woman, but she tugged at his mind. At that first glance after he stepped outside, recognition flooded him. He blinked and the sensation faded but did not disappear. That same recognition flickered in her sapphire blue eyes before they widened in pure terror.

Looking for a sign of a physical problem that might have caused her to pass out, he found nothing. She wore snug jeans and a large, navy blue T-shirt that did little to hide generous curves. Fingers unadorned, she wore no jewelry unless a digital wristwatch with a plain black band counted. Dark brown hair had been piled at the back of her head. Stray uneven strands and bangs framed her face. Her eyelashes were dark sooty crescents on her cheeks.

He narrowed his eyes and stared harder. The sense that he should recognize her increased. He skimmed his gaze over her again and his body reacted with unaccustomed urgency, a desire he knew only in dreams that faded when he awoke.

A low moan escaped her parted lips, her lashes fluttered, and she squirmed. He sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand, noting the fine tremors in her fingers. Is she afraid or dreaming? She shifted again, her thigh rubbing against his. Ignoring his body’s urgent reaction to her presence, he tightened his grip and patted her cheek with his other hand.

Wake up, he coaxed. You’re all right.

Her lashes fluttered again and she tried to turn her head from him. His hand followed her movements, his fingers stroking her cheek.

No--. She moaned in weak defiance. No. I don’t want--.

Shh. Open your eyes. Ben tapped her cheek again. You only fainted.

She blinked and glanced around the room as though trying to focus. What? Her eyes widened and then darkened in confusion. You--. Who are you? What are you doing in here?

She sat up and Ben dropped his hand to the bed. She was skittish and appeared disoriented. He didn't want to frighten her further and drew his arm slowly back to his side, his hand resting on his thigh.

I’m Ben Thornton, he said gently. I moved in next door yesterday. You fainted and I brought you in here.

He glanced around the room, surprised. She had been here for a while. The room was basically the same as his, containing the bed, table and two chairs, a long desk with three drawers, two rather stark and ugly lights on each inside wall, and a bathroom next to the galley-style kitchen that consisted of sink, stove, small refrigerator, and two cabinets.

She had added a tall five-drawer dresser and a large television that probably weighed more than she did. A ton of books occupied milk crates arranged as bookshelves along the walls and on top of the desk and a beige four-drawer filing cabinet. A red two-drawer file cabinet stood in a spot between the heating/cooling unit and the door. A jumble of wires connected a VCR and a DVD player to the TV. The table held a printer and a laptop computer. A rolling office chair was pushed up to the table. She used the large mirror over the desk as a bulletin board. It wasn’t cluttered and he clearly saw his reflection and hers.

Is this your room?

She nodded, but her eyes narrowed, suspicion glittering in the sapphire depths. Do I know you?

She jerked her hand from his. He had forgotten he held it. The quick brush of her fingers left sizzling trails along his palm and the insides of his fingers.

He hesitated; it seemed they knew each other, but he had no memory of her besides half-formed dream images. No, I don’t believe so, he admitted with a slow shake of his head.

A frown curved her lips down as she cocked her head and peered quizzically at him. Ben Thornton, you said?

He nodded. She shook her head. Nope. It doesn’t ring a bell. But--? She stopped, confusion again darkening her eyes.

What’s your name? He kept his voice soft so as not to spook her. This—connection, for lack of a better word—between them spooked him a little. How could a woman he never met before twenty minutes earlier be so familiar?

Naomi, she replied, wariness in her eyes. Naomi Carter.

He frowned at the unfamiliar name. The woman seemed to haunt his dreams and he suspected he was just as familiar to her. In that split second before she fainted, Naomi had said ‘you’ in a hoarse whisper and looked at him in pure terror. That bothered him. I never hurt a woman, not intentionally and not physically. Why does she look at me like that?

I don’t recognize the name, he admitted. But you--. He stopped, unsure how to explain an inexplicable perception of recognition that had no logical basis. Looking at her now, there was no way he could have met this woman and forgotten her. Yet I dream of her. He shook his head.

Naomi studied him through narrowed eyes. Ben Thornton. Benjamin Thornton. It was the name of a stranger. Yet the man sitting on the edge of the bed seemed as familiar to her as her brother might if she had one. He had taken off his cap and a thick lock of jet black hair fell across his forehead. He had a thick but neatly trimmed mustache over full sculpted lips. She wondered, shockingly, how those lips would feel on hers. Her cheeks warmed with embarrassment and she deliberately yanked her gaze from his sensuous mouth. Those startling green eyes snared hers with an intensity that stunned her. She blinked, but could not look away.

I need to get to work.

She blinked again and nodded. Go on. I’m fine.

He cocked his head. What?

You said you need to get to work. I’m fine. Thanks for not letting me crack my head on the concrete. Go on to work.

To her surprise, and sudden discomfort, he made no move to leave. He regarded her through narrowed green eyes with such sharp intensity she wanted to squirm as he took both her hands in his, his grip firm and unyielding.

Naomi, he said quietly. I didn’t say anything.

Confused yet wary, she tilted her head and tried to tug her hands free. He tightened his grip and refused to release her.

Yes, you did, she insisted. I heard you.

Oh, I have no doubt you heard me, he conceded, but not with your ears. I was thinking that I needed to get to work. But I didn’t say it. He paused, drew a deep breath, and again speared her with his stark emerald stare. You’re telepathic.

It wasn’t a question though he clearly expected a response. His eyes didn’t widen in astonishment, perplexity, confusion, or horror. He simply gazed at her. His eyes never lost their intensity, but his expression mirrored only mild curiosity and patience. He didn’t look in the least disturbed that she might read his thoughts. The very idea was an anathema to her, twisted and bizarre.

No, she countered, panicked and horrified. No. I am not a freak!

A shiver ran up her spine and the blood chilled in her veins. No, she insisted mentally in no uncertain terms, no, not again. Now Ben’s eyes did widen in surprise.

Jesus, he exclaimed with just a hint of admiration. You can transmit as well as receive.

She glared at him. I’m not a god damn radio. And I’m not doing this—I’m not having this ridiculous conversation. I am not telepathic.

You are, he whispered in her mind, and you’re afraid of it. Why?

Talk out loud, she snapped and jerked her hands from his grasp. Better yet, don’t bother. Just go to work and leave me alone. I don’t want anything to do with this paranormal bullshit. She rolled to the other side of the bed and bounded off, coming to her feet as she turned to face him. He merely sat where she left him, his implacable stare on her as she continued to glare at him.

What are you afraid of?

I don’t believe in that mumbo jumbo, new wave crap, she stated vehemently.

Oh, you believe it, he argued. You don’t want to admit it. Something about telepathy scares you.

She curled her hands into fists against her sides. Fury bubbled in her blood, covering a strong wave of fear. I suppose you’re an expert in the paranormal? Each word oozed sarcasm.

I’m not exactly an expert, he replied, his eyes dark and stern. But I have some experience with paranormal ability.

You’re psychic, right? she scoffed and put up a hand to ward off a response. Never mind. I’m not interested. Just get going. I have a lot of work to do. She stalked into the small galley-style kitchen, poured coffee into a red ceramic mug, and returned to the bedroom. As she sat in her rolling chair, she touched the mouse pad on her laptop and brought the computer out of stand-by mode.

Naomi.

Ben’s hand settled on her shoulder and she flinched. She whirled the chair around as he stepped aside to avoid the collision of her knees with his legs. Tightening his grip on her shoulder, he said nothing until she lifted her gaze to meet his.

Think about it, Naomi. You’re telepathic. I’m empathic, with a touch of telepathy, and there is an unmistakable sense of familiarity, between us. Strange, isn’t it?

She hesitated and then said, Maybe, but I don’t see any reason for you to lose a day’s pay sitting around here trying to figure out some bizarre coincidence—and that’s all it is. Her breath hitched and her stomach lurched. Please, go. Leave me alone.

She turned the chair and focused resolutely on her computer.

All right, I’ll talk to you later.

Not if I have anything to say about it, Naomi thought, glad to be rid of him.

I imagine you’ll have a lot to say, Ben stated as he opened the door, stepped out, and closed it behind him.

Chapter Two

Donald Sutton stood in the charred rubble of a once unique and thriving complex. The breeze touched his face with the clean, cool fingers of early morning, but he smelled only the ash and smoke, tasted the grit and soot that had consumed of his dreams. It had been ten years since multiple explosions set off a fiery conflagration that threatened his life’s work—but deep in his heart, rage still smoldered.

He didn’t have to close his eyes to see the research facility as it had once been—the single story administration building to his left and, just beyond, the huge five-story rectangular building that housed everything he worked for. As the decade passed, that rage consumed him until it had a face and form. Naomi Carter would pay with her sanity and then, when he was certain he had stripped her of the last bit of hope, she would pay with her life. Her time would come. Soon.

His lips twisted in dark satisfaction as he walked slowly among the ruins toward the nearby trees. He raged against the brilliant eastern sun that put the rubble into stark relief, a vivid reminder of all that had gone wrong. He should have maintained stricter control, kept them isolated at all times. That rebellion had cost him dearly and put progress back years.

At the edge of the clearing, he stepped into the heavy shadows cast by the forest and turned back to look at the blackened remains. He snorted in derision. Naomi believed the complex destroyed, if she even remembered Psychorp. His induced-amnesia program should have worked, but he had no way of knowing. He, and his complex, had risen from the ashes like the proverbial phoenix. .

He closed his eyes and felt the searing heat igniting pain in every nerve, burning his flesh as he ran through smoke-filled corridors. The memories always lay just under the surface of his mind. His back was a twisted mass of scar tissue and deadened nerves. Medical experts considered him lucky to be able to walk. The flames that destroyed skin and charred muscle had not damaged his spine.

Some whispered that the horror and loss had certainly warped his mind. Donald Sutton, PhD did not consider his hatred of Naomi Carter and her cohorts, his need for justice, to be warped. It burned in his heart and in his gut.

As his gaze swept over the dead ruins, a triumphant grin split his lips. Beneath the destruction, his rebuilt complex of subjects and researchers thrived like a deadly slithering snake bent on survival. His work, his research, continued, progressing exponentially with this second generation of subjects. He also knew where Naomi Carter lived. Justice would soon be his.

In an unconscious gesture, he lifted his hand and stroked his fingers over the jagged scar that slashed his face from his cheekbone, just under his lower eyelid, down along his jaw line to end under his chin. The raw, tight, dead tissue served as another monstrous reminder of the woman who almost destroyed him.

With a low guttural growl, he turned and stalked a short distance into the thick forest. Surrounded by large evergreens, hidden from the clearing, and from the rest of the world, he approached a small log cabin, unoccupied but immaculate. It was, ostensibly, a fishing/hunting cabin. He heard the gurgle of the rushing stream a few yards behind the cabin but he had no interest in West Virginia’s natural enticements.

To all appearances, the cabin’s basic interior was just that—basic and rustic. It contained a single bed scrunched into the far right corner between the wall of the fireplace and the wall of the cabin. Along that wall, a low short sofa could be pulled into a bed that would accommodate two adults. Along the wall adjacent to the door was a wooden counter with sink, hand pump, and a small propane stove—minus the propane. Sutton walked around the large wooden table and three chairs that occupied the rough wooden floor. He stopped in front of the rock-walled fireplace and focused on the row of rocks that created the mantelpiece.

From the end of the mantle, he counted five stones and placed his hand on the one just under and to the side of his hand. He counted two more rocks and put his other hand on the stone next to it. He pushed hard, held his hands in place as the seconds counted to thirty on his wristwatch, and then took a single step back.

As a single unit, the fireplace slid to the left, revealing a three-foot by three-foot metal square embedded in the floor. He stepped onto it and slid his hands into the pockets of his black trousers so his suit jacket fell over his wrists. Amid the hum of machinery and the slight rasp of metal on metal, the square lowered him, like an elevator, and the fireplace slid back into position over his head.

Small red lights came on as the elevator moved slowly down into the earth. A few minutes later, it stopped and a set of metal doors slid open. He stepped into a short but brightly