"See what?" she challenged.

"That you want to tell me something about my mother. Well, I don't want to hear it. I'll let you know if I change my mind. Until then, keep your visions to yourself and your mouth shut. Got it?" He didn't wait for her answer. He jogged down the stairs, as if he couldn't get away fast enough, but Catherine knew that she wasn't the one he was running from.

Chapter 9.

While he ate dinner Dylan tried to get his parents' wedding photograph out of his mind, but no matter what he'd told Catherine he couldn't stop thinking about it or his mother. Seeing his parents together, in love at the beginning of their lives, had rattled him. He couldn't remember those days. That past wasn't in his memory. And he wasn't sure he wanted it there now.

Why had Catherine been drawn to that particular photo? She'd flipped the pages as if she were seeking exactly that one. A very cynical part of him wondered if she was just part of the setup. Someone could have bought her off as well as Erica.

That plan could have been to have Erica disappear and Catherine torture him with secret visions about his past. Maybe she'd taken him to the Palace of Fine Arts because she knew that was where Erica would leave the cross. She could be working for his enemy while pretending to be his friend.

He picked up his beer and took a large gulp, studying her face in the soft light of the kitchen, and knew that while he didn't want to believe in her or her crazy visions, he did-against all reason, all logic, everything he knew about life and the world. There was something inside of him that told him to accept the fact that Catherine was tuned in to the world in a very special and unique way.

"Just eat," Catherine said. "Stop thinking so much."

"You're making me crazy," he told her. "I really wish you hadn't found that photo. My parents are not a part of this, especially my mother, who has been gone forever."

Catherine set down her fork as she finished her plate of pasta and vegetables. "You don't know who's a part of it. You should keep an open mind. Follow the trail wherever it goes."

"And your sixth sense is supposed to be my conductor?"

"You could say that," she told him with a smile.

"I need to rely on my own eyes, my own instincts," he protested.

"I get that, Dylan. But you might as well use me. I'm here."

She didn't want to know how badly he wanted to use her.

"I didn't mean it that way," she said quickly.

He frowned at how easily she'd read his expression, but then again, it was becoming more and more difficult to keep her out of his mind. "Stop getting into my head," he ordered.

"If you want me to do that, stop thinking all the time about you and me having sex. You're not that good at hiding your thoughts."

"I was before I met you," he complained. "I used to be the best poker player in the neighborhood. When I was sixteen I'd clean up with Jake's friends. No one had a better bluff than me."

"We're not playing cards." She put up a hand. "And if you're thinking about suggesting a quick game of strip poker to test your poker face, think again."

He laughed. "Okay, you are good. Have you ever played strip poker?"

"No, but I'm fairly sure I'd win."

"Why is that?"

"Because I can read people's expressions. And everyone has a tell, something that reveals what they're thinking. My friend Andy, he was a great con artist. He taught me how to look for signs that show someone is nervous or confident or extremely happy about the cards they were dealt. You, for instance, get a little spark in your eyes when you're turned on."

"Really? I must be shooting out fireworks right about now, then," he drawled, enjoying the flush that reddened her cheeks. "And your tell is that your face turns red every time you get excited or scared. Which is it now?"

"You're not turning the tables on me."

"I think I am." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "You try to be blunt, in my face, but then you back off, as if it's not really your true nature to be so direct. But it is mine."

"It's also your nature to redirect the conversation away from yourself to whoever is sitting across from you."

"Touche."

"And the only reason you're flirting with me is so you won't have to think about that photo that's in the drawer upstairs."

"That's not the only reason. And you know it."

She met his gaze and gave a reluctant nod. "I do know it, but I don't want to get hurt again."

"Again?" he queried, realizing it was the first time she'd volunteered anything about her past romantic life.

"There you go, trying to get into my life when yours is the one we're supposed to be figuring out."

"I wouldn't hurt you, Catherine." Even as he said the words, he wondered if they were true.

"I'm not talking about a physical hurt, Dylan. But I like you, and if I have sex with you I might fall in love with you, and you wouldn't want that. You'd leave. And I've been left many times in my life. I don't want it to happen again. How's that for direct?"

His gut clenched at the image of them together. Catherine wasn't the only one who could envision them in bed together. But he could also see himself leaving, because he didn't do love. He didn't do commitment. He couldn't afford to give up any of his power to another person, especially not a woman who claimed to be able to see into his head.

"So, back to Erica," Catherine said.

He wasn't quite ready to move on, but he could see by the resolve in her eyes that she was. "Back to Erica," he echoed. But his mind wasn't really on the missing brunette. It was still on Catherine, on what she hadn't told him, and what he knew he needed to ask, even though his every instinct said not to go there. "When you touched the photo album before, you jerked as if you'd seen something."

"I thought you didn't want to talk about your mother."

"Just tell me before I change my mind."

"She was sitting on a porch swing looking out at the ocean. She was crying. She felt tremendous regret, but also a weary resignation that she couldn't change what had happened."

His chest squeezed so tight he could barely catch his breath. "Are you sure it was my mother?" he asked, struggling to get the words out.

"Yes."

He looked away from Catherine's penetrating gaze, trying to absorb what she'd just told him. He couldn't compute what she'd said and what he knew about the past. And a part of him didn't want to let go of the anger he held toward his mother. He didn't want to soften his attitude. He didn't want to think of her as being sad. Maybe she deserved to be unhappy, to have regrets. She'd left her children behind.

"She probably should be crying," he said harshly. "She wasn't exactly mother of the year."

"But you don't really know her story, do you?" Catherine asked, compassion in her eyes.

He wished he could say that he did, but he remembered little about his mother or his life before she left. "I know enough. The facts speak for themselves."

"The facts don't always tell the whole story."

"Why are you defending her? I thought you, of all people, would understand what it's like to grow up without a mother, although you haven't told me what happened to yours. Did she leave you? Did she die? What's her story? What about your father? What happened to him? How did you end up in foster care without anyone?"

Catherine shrank back in her seat with each pounding question. Her face paled under the attack. "Dylan, stop."

"You want to dig into my life, then I'll dig into yours." He felt a twinge of regret as pain fluttered through her eyes. He knew he was taking out his frustration and fear on her, but he couldn't stop himself. She'd brought him to a place he didn't want to be, and he didn't know how to get out.

After a moment Catherine straightened in her chair. She lifted her chin, her eyes refocusing on his. "Nice try. You do know how to go for the jugular, don't you? But I'm not going to stand in as a punching bag for your mother. So stop attacking me. I didn't hurt you. She did."

He let out a sigh. "I'm sorry."

"You should be." She stood up and took her empty food container to the counter. "Do you know where the trash bags are?"

It was such a mundane question and an abrupt change of subject, it took him a moment to catch up. "Under the sink, if there are any."

She pulled out a white plastic bag and opened it, then dumped her container. Crossing the room, she cleared off the rest of the table and set the bag on the floor. "We should remember to take this out before we leave, since no one may come here for a while."

"Good idea." He paused. "I am sorry. You're right. I jumped on you, and I shouldn't have, but that doesn't change the fact that I'm very curious about your background."

Something wavered in her eyes. "I never talk about my past, not with anyone."

"I'm not just anyone," he told her.

"I know," she admitted. "But right now we have to think about Erica and how to find her." Catherine sat down at the table. "What about Erica's friends? She might have told one of them something."

"I've been thinking about that. One of the other Metro Club hostesses, Joanna, lived next door to Erica. She was probably the closest to her. Although I'm not sure what happened to their relationship after Erica ratted out Ravino. I know the club kicked Erica out. She may have lost her girlfriends there as well. No one likes a snitch."

"Erica risked a lot to talk to you," Catherine commented.

"Because she feared for her life. She thought Ravino could come after her, but in the end I guess she did give up a lot." He was surprised he'd never considered that before. He'd been so intent on getting the story he hadn't really thought about Erica's involvement beyond what she could do for him. He'd used her to get to the truth, and the realization left him with a bad taste in his mouth. Maybe there was more of his father in him than he'd realized. That disturbing revelation made him pick up his beer and drain it to the last drop.

"You didn't make her talk," Catherine said.

"Trying to let me off the hook?" he drawled. "Why don't you say I'm a ruthless, selfish bastard?"

Catherine smiled. "I don't have to, because you just did. But whatever the reason, Erica did the right thing by telling the truth. If Senator Ravino killed his wife, then he deserves to pay. And you should be glad you got involved. I'm just wondering if the fallout affected Erica in such a way that she had to go along with this plan to set you up. Someone has to know what she's been up to the last two months. I think we should talk to Joanna."

"I agree. We'll go to Erica's apartment and kill two birds with one stone."

Catherine frowned. "It's a risk, don't you think? What if the police are watching her place?"

"Doubtful. Even if they did a drive-by to check on her, they wouldn't have cause to break in, especially since she's been gone less than twenty-four hours. I think we have some time. But if you want to stay here, I understand."

"Are you kidding me? I'm not staying behind. Where you go, I go. Besides, if you're thinking of knocking on Erica's neighbor's door, I might get farther than you. If Erica suffered repercussions from her snitching, I can't imagine that you would receive a warm reception from anyone who worked for the Metro Club."

"Good point."

"Thank you," she said with a smile. "And I have another idea. I think you should wear a disguise. You're on television. You're very recognizable, and right now that's the last thing we want. Do you think your grand-mother's husband left any clothes behind?"

"I can certainly check," he said, smiling back at her. Catherine was definitely pulling her weight as a partner. He was beginning to wonder why he'd ever liked working alone. "I'll look in the hall closet. You might want to put a hat over that gorgeous hair of yours. It's not exactly forgettable." He saw the glitter of surprise in her eyes. "You don't know how beautiful you are, do you?"

"I'm not . . . not beautiful," she said, stumbling over the words. "I have freckles and pale skin."

"And beautiful breasts and gorgeous eyes and a very nice pair of hips." As he'd expected and hoped, a delicious flush spread across her cheeks. He wondered if the rest of her body would show such heat.

"Stop that," she told him. "You are very bad, Dylan."

"I'd like to be." He laughed at her expression, a mix of curiosity and dismay.

"You're good with the lines, aren't you?"

"I'm good with a lot of things."

She rolled her eyes. "And quite full of yourself-not your most attractive quality. I'm going to look for a disguise. We'll need to find a big hat to fit that enormous head of yours." She got up from her chair and headed into the hallway. She was already rifling through the clothes when he got there.

Dylan wasn't surprised to see that his grandmother had kept not one but a half dozen of her deceased hus-band's jackets, as well as some baseball caps and fishing hats. She'd always been a pack rat.

Catherine handed him a tan fishing cap and a bulky brown corduroy jacket. She put on one of his grand-mother's black peacoats and covered her hair with a blue floral scarf.

"Sexy," he said with a sarcastic grin, as her outfit added twenty pounds to her frame and twenty years to her age. "You're going to look hot when you're old."

"Stop flirting with me, Gramps," she chided.

He laughed, and for a moment the weight he'd been carrying for the past twenty-four hours eased. "At least with these outfits we'll look right at home in my grand-mother's fifteen-year-old Ford Taurus."

"Just don't speed. It will ruin the illusion," she told him as they left the house.

"Hey, when I'm old I still plan to be driving in the fast lane," he said as they got into the car. "I'm not going to let anything slow me down." Catherine gave him a thoughtful look. "What did I say now?" he asked, wishing he could read her mind as well as she seemed to read his.

"I was just thinking how I slowed myself down years ago, and how I've been living like a hermit for way too long," she said.

He was surprised by her revelation, and by the fact that she'd actually given him the opening to ask a per sonal question. "Why have you been doing that?"

She shrugged. "I don't know."

"Yes, you do. Come on; tell me."

"I guess I thought that if I hid myself away, the dreams wouldn't be able to find me, but they always do. And I'm tired of living in the shadows, afraid to go into the light, afraid to be myself. I haven't been in the fast lane for a very long time. I want to get back there, I think. Well, maybe not all the way to the fast lane, but the second to the slow lane would be a start," she amended.

He smiled and impulsively leaned over and kissed her mouth. He was tempted to linger, to bring her fully awake, but he would need a lot more time to do it right. "I suppose you want to drive now," he said.

"Would you let me?" she asked with a gleam in her eye. "Or would it kill you to be in the passenger seat?"

"It would kill me, but for you I'd do it."