Mystic

By Gabi Stevens

HOW CAN A GOOD DEED GO SO WRONG

Trask Sinclair is a reasonable man. Skeptical, sure, a little removed, but he's a writer, and he enjoys being a popular novelist and living comfortably. When he saves Allys Joel from a bully in a hotel lobby, Trask doesn't expect to lose control of his life to a reluctant and beautiful psychic, a mind-controlling bad-guy, a cross-country chase and a talking cat. Truth is stranger than fiction.

Allys Joel sees the future when she touches someone. That's why a Wall Street firm held her prisoner for sixteen months. Her escape embroils the sexy, somewhat aloof, Trask Sinclair in her world of people with powers. And her search to discover the secrets that can save or destroy them leads to Mystic, Wyoming, where they just might find their forever - together.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boroughs Publishing Group
• Release date: Dec 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781948029032

Gabi Stevens

Gabi Stevens was born in SoCal to Hungarian parents. After spending time in boarding school, college, grad school, and studying abroad, she spent seven years in the classroom trying to teach eighth graders the joys of literature. An award winning author, Gabi writes in New Mexico where she lives with her robotics engineer husband, three daughters, and two dogs. She loves to play games (She’s appeared on Family Feud and Jeopardy!), has a wicked addiction to reading, forgets her age on the volleyball court, avoids housework and cooking whenever possible, and doesn’t travel nearly as much as she would like to

Book preview

PRAISE FOR GABI STEVENS

I know I’m in for a fantastic time when Gabi’s name is on the cover!

—Darynda Jones, author of the Charlie Davidson series

Gabi Stevens has created a vibrant and accessible world full of magic that is found not only in a physical way, but also in the bond that is created when you find the people in your life, be they friends, lovers or mentors, that make you shine as an individual.

—Lindsey Seddon, The Romance Reader

An incredible story filled with romance, suspense, and some utterly delightful magical beings.

Detra Fitch, Huntress reviews

Gabi Stevens tackles the question of loyalty versus love and where to draw that line. Thankfully she doesn’t allow her books to become too serious. I love her sense of humor which shows through in so many of the situations her characters find themselves in.

—Fantasy Romance Writers

HOW CAN A GOOD DEED GO SO WRONG

Trask Sinclair is a reasonable man. Skeptical, sure, a little removed, but he’s a writer, and he enjoys being a popular novelist and living comfortably. When he saves Allys Joel from a bully in a hotel lobby, Trask doesn’t expect to lose control of his life to a reluctant and beautiful psychic, a mind-controlling bad-guy, a cross-country chase and a talking cat. Truth is stranger than fiction.

Allys Joel sees the future when she touches someone. That’s why a Wall Street firm held her prisoner for sixteen months. Her escape embroils the sexy, somewhat aloof, Trask Sinclair in her world of people with powers. And her search to discover the secrets that can save or destroy them leads to Mystic, Wyoming, where they just might find their forever - together.

MYSTIC

Gabi Stevens

www.BOROUGHSPUBLISHINGGROUP.com

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Boroughs Publishing Group does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites, blogs or critiques or their content.

MYSTIC

Copyright © 2017 Gabi Stevens

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. Unless specifically noted, no part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Boroughs Publishing Group. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the permission of Boroughs Publishing Group is illegal and punishable by law. Participation in the piracy of copyrighted materials violates the author’s rights.

ISBN 978-1-948029-03-2

Ebook formatting by Maureen Cutajar

www.gopublished.com

To Bob, Korinna, Alessandra, and Stefanie:

For believing. Always.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A book, even one with elements of woo-woo, requires research and truthfulness. I’d like to thank the following people for their help and brains: Debbie Knewitz, for letting me pick her brain about RV travel;

Tim Reid, CM, Director of Aviation Administration and Finance, at the Cheyenne Regional Airport, for answering my questions about private planes and gates; Sheley Wimmer, for putting up with taking pics for me (of me); To the authors of all the research articles I looked up about animal communication, goat rearing, GPS, and rental cars—your articles, blogs and websites do play a role in our lives, probably one not expected, but it’s surprising how wide your reach can be; Google Maps and Google Earth, the authors’ best friend.

All mistakes are mine, although I will claim that any deviation from reality was done on purpose.

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

About the Author

MYSTIC

Chapter One

New York City

Her father had told her of a place high in the mountains where their kind could live in peace and friendship and normalcy. He’d consoled her with the bedtime story on the days when she’d felt particularly lonely. He promised to take her there one day, when she was older, when it was time for her to grow up. Then he’d tickle her until they both laughed. She never really believed in the story, even when he’d extracted her promise to go there after he’d fallen ill.

But she believed now. Because she had to.

###

Trask Sinclair walked through the lobby of the Ritz, a jaunty bounce in his step. The meeting with his editor and agent had been more than successful. The next three books in his suspense series would be lead titles, bringing him enough money to live on for years, if he maintained the same lifestyle. They would probably launch him to the top of the lists, not that he understood the capricious tastes of the public. But big things were about to happen to him. The future thrummed in his bones.

Now he had to figure out a polite way to turn down a request to be the keynote speaker at a well-known writers’ retreat, and then he could get back to his manuscript. He didn’t mind giving talks, but the retreat was in the middle of the Adirondacks at some camp. Wilderness was messy and oddly noisy and lacked civilization. Humans belonged in cities, not in places that didn’t even rate a tiny dot on maps. Distaste shivered along his spine. He liked his nature on PBS. New York was bad enough with its pigeons, rats, and roaches. And those froufrou dogs with bows in their hair that old ladies or young trophies carried around. There was one of the rat dogs now. The thing gazed at him as if asking for rescue from its sweater and the indignity of being carried in a purse.

A buzzing lodged in his head. Trask scrunched his eyes shut and shook his head to dispel the noise. Beside him an elevator dinged.

A young woman plowed into him.

Hey. He grabbed her upper arms to steady her. Pretty. Long brown hair swept from her ponytail over her shoulder. Angular lines defined her jaws and cheeks. Her lips seemed almost too full for the thinness of her face. But what struck him the most were her eyes: overlarge, dark, wide, and they spoke of fear and something else. Isolation. Loneliness broadcasted from her eyes.

Let me go. Please. She pulled back as if he were threatening her.

The desperation in her voice roused all kinds of protective instincts in him. Are you all right? Do you need some help?

I— She glanced back toward the elevator bank. Numbers ticked downward. I have to go.

Can I get you a taxi or something?

No, I-I can’t afford a taxi. Please. Just let me go. She shrank away from him. But those eyes…

Her hands were gloved. Not just her hands; both arms were covered. She had on opera gloves. Jeans and a T-shirt with opera gloves. His attention returned to her face. Her gaze pleaded with him.

His city life had given him the knack to spot a con artist a mile away. She wasn’t one. Come on. He steered her toward the exit. The elevator dinged behind them.

The doorman swung the door open for them. Love your books, Mr. Sinclair.

He read the man’s badge. Thanks, Randy. Always thrilled to meet a fan. Recognition happened more often in these days of social media. And since he’d appeared on that ridiculous TV show about sexy authors. He’d get his agent for that.

The woman nearly whimpered beside him. Her whole body trembled.

Randy asked, Taxi, sir?

Please. Trask nodded at the doorman.

Randy blew the whistle around his neck. A waiting taxi rolled to the entrance. Randy opened the door, and she climbed in.

A hand on Trask’s shoulder prevented him from sliding in next to her. He turned to stare into aviator sunglasses. With a practiced flourish, the man removed them to reveal white eyes. Trask drew back. White, but Trask didn’t get the sense that the man was blind. As if the weird eyes weren’t creepy enough, the guy had short-cropped white hair and wore some sort of long black cloak that reminded him of something out of an old Western. Really? Was this guy trying to be the cliché of creepy?

When the man’s gaze landed on the girl, she gasped. Vargas.

The lines in Vargas’s face relaxed, and his smug expression irritated the crap out of Trask.

Well, well, Allys. You’ve been busy. Vargas let out a condescending laugh. Get out.

Allys was leaning forward and reaching for the handle before she shook her head. No.

Vargas leaned into the taxi. You have a lot to fix. Just be glad my employers want you back.

Uh-uh. This Vargas was not going to terrorize her. Trask placed his hand on Vargas’s shoulder and pulled him away from the car, forcing Vargas to step back. The man was smaller than his swagger indicated, and his bluster would fool a lot of people. Luckily Trask’s research had taught him a thing or two about bullies and bad guys. And battle. He knew all kinds of hand-to-hand. All in the name of authenticity.

Vargas’s eyelids narrowed as his empty gaze sharpened on Trask. Who the hell are you?

Trask didn’t balk under the scrutiny. Someone who doesn’t like men who threaten women.

You need to get away from me and leave us alone. Vargas’s voice dropped in pitch. The words were as crisp and cold and ominous as an icicle hanging over one’s head.

A small black pupil appeared in those odd eyes. Fascinating. The urge to retreat tugged at him, but it was fleeting. Try again, buddy.

Vargas jerked back as if Trask had struck him. Again he spoke in that weird voice. You have no business here. Leave us.

Wrong again. I made her my business, and because she’s my business, I’ll deal with an asshole like you. Trask leaned in closer to Vargas’s face. I won’t let you terrify her again.

Vargas’s eyes widened. For an instant Trask thought Vargas didn’t understand English although he’d just used it. But Vargas fixed his gaze on Trask and said in that same strange, low tone, You will leave the girl to me and forget you ever met me.

A trickle of unease rippled over Trask, but he shrugged it off. "What are you, deaf and stupid? You can’t do anything to me or her. We’ve got dozens of witnesses." He waved his hand around.

Most of the bystanders had backed away. Even the cab driver looked like he wanted to flee.

Vargas’s expression showed distinct confusion now. He shot a glance at Allys, then back at Trask. Leave the girl. Vargas’s voice boomed in Trask’s ears.

Trask nearly took a step from the taxi, but then shook his head. Must have been louder than he thought. Dude, you’re done here. He pushed Vargas aside, climbed into the backseat beside Allys, and knocked on the screen that separated the driver from the passengers. Go. Just drive.

The taxi took off.

And that’s how you deal with bullies. He turned to the girl. That is one strange hombre. So, an ex? Someone you owe money to?

No. Allys stared at him with those overlarge, dark eyes.

Trask waited, but no further information seemed forthcoming. All right. It’s your business.

Her staring continued.

You don’t need to act so surprised. Some men aren’t awful.

She shook herself. No, it’s just that I’ve never seen him back down from anyone before.

Trask shrugged. Yeah, well, I was bigger than him.

She furrowed her brow. No, he can make people do things.

I can see how he’d freak people out with those eyes and that hair. And that black duster. Is he trying to get some sort of comic book villain vibe happening? He rolled his eyes, then focused on her. So, Allys, right?

She nodded.

Okay, Allys, where do you want to go? Do you live here in the city?

She shook her head.

A small tote hung across her shoulder. I assume you don’t have clothes in that thing.

She shook her head again.

And we already know you can’t afford a taxi.

Once again she shook her head.

So where to?

I don’t know. I…I need to make a phone call.

Good. She had someone to call. Not a problem. He pulled out his cell phone, but before he could hand it to her, the taxi driver opened the screen.

Hey, buddy, where to?

Now there was a question. He didn’t want to take her to his apartment, but without money or a destination…. Are you hungry?

Allys shook her head again.

You really should watch how much you talk. People don’t like someone who monopolizes a conversation.

A hint of a smile appeared at those words.

He made an executive decision. Take us to Dan’s, West Eighty-ninth Street.

The taxi turned and headed to the West Side.

Dan’s? Allys asked.

It’s a small coffee shop and bakery. My friend owns it. Trask held out the phone.

Her gloved fingers lifted it as if it were hot. It’s long distance.

That’s okay. He paused and once again examined her outfit. It was early August and sweltering in the city. You cold?

Pardon me?

The gloves. Are you cold?

No.

He waited, but she offered nothing further. His writer’s brain was already coming up with possible scenarios to explain the gloves, each one more fantastic than the last.

Before he could plot out her story, the taxi stopped. Trask climbed out. Dan’s got an office inside where you can have some privacy. He reached his hand toward her to help her out.

She leaned away from him.

He lifted both hands into the air. Sorry. I was just trying to be polite. I won’t touch you.

Those eyes met his again, filled with anxiety and a little gratitude. He could write a novel about those eyes. He leaned in and paid the driver. When he straightened, she stood on the sidewalk and looked at the doors of the coffee shop.

Shall we? He swept his hand forward to indicate the shop.

You don’t think Vargas can find us here?

He can if he tracks down the taxi and asks the driver where he took us.

Which he will, she muttered.

But by the time he does, we’ll be gone. Look, I know you’ve been through something terrible, but I think you’re being a little paranoid.

She chuffed out a mirthless laugh. Paranoid? You have no idea. I appreciate your help, Mr…. My God, I don’t even know your name.

Trask. Trask Sinclair. He held out his hand. And you’re Allys…

She didn’t shake his hand. "Mr. Sinclair, I appreciate your help, but I can’t let you get involved. Vargas will find me again."

Look, Only-Allys, I promise you Vargas won’t find us here, and if he does, Dan and I can handle him. We won’t stay long. You need to make that phone call, then I can take you to a women’s shelter or wherever you want to go.

Why are you being so kind? She eyed him with mistrust.

Let’s call it making a deposit in the karma bank. Not that he believed in such things. She needed help, it was the right thing to do, and, besides, it really hadn’t cost him anything. He lived around the corner and probably would have come here anyway to tell Dan the latest book news. Come on. You make your call, have some coffee and one of Dan’s pastries, and you’ll feel better, you’ll see.

Clutching the phone as if it were a lifeline, she hesitated, then nodded. A stylized bronze tulip served as the handle to the bakery door. Pretty, and cool to the touch. The marble counters and tabletops, the murals of elongated flowers and women, and the iron curlicues and swirls that scrolled around the glasswork gave the bakery a turn-of-the-century feel. The last century. The scent of yeasty and buttery dough greeted him, as well as the hum of the refrigerated cases holding all sorts of decadent tortes and cakes. He held the door for Allys and allowed her to enter first.

Well, if it isn’t New York’s sexiest writer, Dan called out from behind the counter.

Trask grimaced. His agent would pay for that TV appearance. He flipped his friend the bird. Dan chuckled at the gesture while boxing a couple of Viennese cream éclairs for a customer. Trask pointed toward the back room. We’re going to use your office for a minute.

Dan waved them in and continued to speak with his customer.

Trask led her behind the counter through two swinging doors that opened into a kitchen. Familiar with the place, he escorted her around stainless steel tables, sinks, and ovens to a wooden door in the back. The office was small. Receipts and invoices littered the desk, and bits of paper exploded from a filing cabinet as if they were trying to escape. The sight amused Trask. The messy office was an odd quirk for a man who organized his kitchen and baking supplies to a degree an accountant would find too meticulous.

Trask pulled out the chair for her. Here. No one will bother you. Dan’s up front, and no one else is allowed back here. Except me.

She looked up at him, and once again his breath swooshed out of him at the intensity of her eyes. That darkness held secrets and shadows he would love to discover.

Right. In his dreams. He’d help her, and then she’d be gone. He could write her story, but it would be his version of it. He may just have to put it on paper if he wanted to be free of that haunting gaze.

He shook himself. I’ll give you some privacy.

That would be lovely. Thank you. Allys smiled for the first time. Her grip on the phone eased somewhat.

He stepped out, closed the door between them.

Karma had better appreciate this.

###

In the small cluttered office, Allys Joel touched the cell phone’s screen. It bloomed to life. A rush of freedom filled her. She’d done it. Trembling, she pulled out the worn, leather-bound journal from her tote and opened it to a dog-eared page. Neat writing scrolled over the sheet, but in an unintelligible script, a list of some sort, all in symbols or something…and in the corner written at a slant were the words Mystic, Robert Nelson, and a phone number.

Her father’s journal was the only thing she had carried with her out of the hotel, the only thing she had of any value. She supposed that she’d need clean clothes soon enough, but she couldn’t worry about that now. The elation at escaping Vargas had fled. She wasn’t far enough away yet. She punched in the number.

A moment later a warm, friendly voice answered. Hello?

Mr. Robert Nelson?

This is he.

I’m Allys Joel.

The loud gasp at the other end of the line alerted her to his surprise. Allys. My God, child. I’ve been waiting to hear from you.

You know who I am? She couldn’t keep the shock from her voice.

Your father was a good friend. I’ve been searching for you since he died. Where are you?

New York City.

A pause. That can’t be by choice.

He knew. It wasn’t.

Damn. The quiet expletive was filled with compassion and true sorrow.

My father told me to contact you before he died. I found your number in his journal. I never had the chance.

Who…found you?

Kidnapped me, you mean.

Yes. She could almost hear the outrage and indignation on her behalf roll over the connection.

The Hegyes Group. Hot anger set her cheeks ablaze. Sixteen months. The high-profile investment firm owed her sixteen months, a commodity they could never return.

Vargas.

The name snapped her out of her musings. You know him?

Of him, and I wish I didn’t. The voice at the other end sounded suddenly older. Allys, dear, we must bring you to Mystic.

It was real.

You’ll be safe here, have a home. I realize you have no reason to trust me, but I can help. Do you know where they are keeping you? I can send someone to collect you—

I escaped today.

Are you safe?

I believe so. For now. She glanced around the cramped space. Vargas would track her down and soon. A simple visit to the dispatcher would garner him all the information he wanted.

I’ll send someone to pick you up. What’s your location?

Her father had trusted this Robert Nelson. She so wanted to trust him as well, but after sixteen months of captivity, she wasn’t sure of anything. I’d rather come to you.

Silence greeted her statement. I understand. Again the sadness came through the connection. Can you make it to the Fenimore Hotel? West Fifty-sixth Street? Be careful. You might miss the door. It’s an exclusive, private hotel.

Another hotel. She hated hotels. Is it safe?

He chuckled. Absolutely. The proprietors work for me.

Okay. I’ll get there. She paused. I, uh, hate to mention this, but I don’t have anything…

Anything? What do you mean?

Clothes, toothbrush, money.

Another chuckle. Don’t worry. There are some great stores around the Fenimore. I’ll take care of it. You rest well today, and tomorrow—

The door opened, and Trask burst in. He looked flummoxed. He’s out front. Vargas.

Cold seeped into her skin as the blood drained from her face. I told you he would find me. She grabbed her tote and stuffed the thick diary back into it.

Dan won’t tell him you’re here.

He won’t want to, but he will. She glanced around. Good. The bakery had a back door. She started toward it.

Allys? came the tinny voice from the phone. Allys?

I can’t talk now, Mr. Nelson. Vargas is here. Cutting off the connection, she ran to the door.

Trask trailed right behind her. Why don’t we just call the cops?

The cops can’t help. I don’t have time to explain it. She yanked the door open.

Where are you going?

Away from here. Every second was one she couldn’t spare. Although she knew the metal stairs would make a horrible clatter, she dashed down them and took off through the alley.

When she reached the end, she turned around. And nearly screamed. Right behind her was Trask.

He grabbed her hand. This way. I live near here. He pulled her along the street away from the bakery.

She didn’t know why she let him pull her. She was too frightened to think about it. Or the fact that he held her hand.

They turned left at the next corner, then right. Two doors down, Trask pulled out keys and opened a thick opaque glass door. Panting, they stopped in the entryway. Mailboxes lined the wall, and a few pieces of extraneous junk mail littered the tile floor.

Why did you follow me? she asked, when she could talk again.

You have my phone.

She looked at her other hand,