I hope you enjoyed Cara’s story. Keep reading for a sneak peek of Psychic Charm, Harper’s story available on Amazon by clicking HERE.
Harper gazedout her office window, the warmth of the sun heating her face. The trees below swayed in a late afternoon breeze. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine the smell of the salty air as it drifted from the ocean.
The headset pressed against her ear hummed as the caller spoke. She’d know the caller’s voice anywhere; silky, sexy, and dangerous. It vibrated, the voice of the kind of man her momma warned her about and one her Aunt Betty would have tied up in her bed. She was promiscuous like that. A thrill seeker just like Harper.
You don’t walk away from his kind. You walk backward and pull him by his tie straight to the bed. It was the reason goose bumps covered her arms, and why she locked her doors at night. For all she knew, the body attached to the voice was short, bald, and would think the big O belonged on the music scale. His voice was probably more than his body could ever deliver. That would be her luck, not that she’d ever invite this guy out for coffee to test her theory. Even she had boundaries, not many, but some.
He hadn’t told her exactly what he did, and she’d never asked for fear she’d wind up dead. She was too young to die.
“Harper, are you still there?” His voice oozed sex and wrapped around her body, making her all warm and tingly inside. Whatever his profession, he’d make a killing as a phone sex operator. If she closed her eyes, he could be anyone, anywhere. A stranger on the street, a dark, mysterious man from a bar, her gynecologist. She’d never know until she heard him speak.
The truth was he was just a man on the phone asking her to tap into the energy of a location.
Harper adjusted the headset and moved away from the window. Her gut churned, and yet she couldn’t pinpoint why. “I’m still here. Just trying to tap into the energy and get an idea. Where did you say this business trip was taking place?”
“Mexico.”
Mexico? Who takes business meetings in Mexico? Drug lords, America’s Top 10 Most Wanted hiding from the law, that’s who. Not that it was any of her business. She didn’t get paid to have an opinion on how this guy ran his life. He paid her for something entirely different; use of her ability to guide him away from danger and uneasy situations. He’d branded her the intuition he’d been born without.
“Mexico,” she whispered to herself and closed her eyes. Her gut clenched tight, and her heart pounded frantically. A feeling of unease skittered down her spine. The location wasn’t a place she’d soon be visiting. “It doesn’t feel right. If I were you, I’d either move it somewhere else or cancel it altogether.”
“How about Los Angeles?” He was quick to ask.
Her shoulders immediately relaxed. Her ass cheeks no longer could crack a nut from its shell. That was the place. She felt it in her gut. “That feels a lot better. Relaxing even. Maybe you should extend your stay after the meeting and have a vacation.”
His deep laughter filled the line. “You’re cute. How much time do we have left?”
His words put a smile on her lips.
“Ten minutes.” She ignored the time on the clock. He’d paid for a fifteen-minute psychic call. That was twenty minutes ago. She just couldn’t make herself hang up. He was like a drug. A sexy, addictive, in-need-of-rehab drug, and she needed a fix.
“What are you wearing?”
Typical. She’d give him the same answer as last week. He’d asked so many times the question no longer made her blush. “This isn’t 1-800-Talk-Dirty-To-Me. I’m wearing clothes.”
“You stay dressed a lot.”
“People tend to do that when at work.”
“Let’s play a game. You tell me what you’re wearing, and I’ll answer one question honestly. Anything you want to know.”
“How do I know you’re telling your truth?”
“You’re psychic.”
Harper pressed her lips together. If her sisters knew she was getting personal with a client, well, they’d probably pat her on the back or give her high-fives. They were good like that.
“Fine. I’m wearing a black pencil skirt, a white silk blouse, and three-inch heels.”
She totally lied, trying to make herself a more attractive package. Harper ran her sweaty palms down her boyfriend cut jeans she liked to wear loose in case she splurged at lunch and needed the extra room. Jeans that cut into her stomach ranked right up there with an enema.
She glanced down at the coffee stain smack-dab on the lead singer’s nose on her favorite concert tee-shirt. She was hopeless.
“Sophisticated, refined, and I bet wearing the heels makes you the perfect height to kiss.”
A shrill of excitement traveled down her spine. Down, girl.
“Your turn.”
