Sex & Sensibility by Shannon Hollis

I can contr—”
    “In the meantime, I’ll take you to Christina’s cottage because he’s expecting it, not because I think you’ll get anything more from the crime scene than I—”
    She shot off the bed. “Would you stop interrupting me!”
    Thankfully, he said nothing, just leveled another granite glare at her.
    “First of all,” she said clearly, before he opened his mouth again, “the thought of you anywhere near me at night gives me the creeps. Second of all, I’ve explained twice now that I need a safe, nurturing environment to open myself up in, and I am not getting it in this room or in present company. I need to be somewhere connected with Christina. Third, if there was some kind of scam going on at that festival, I was not involved in it and you have noright to convict me on no evidence, thank you very much. So if I can put aside the way you manhandled me and falsely accused me, then you can put aside your suspicions and just get over it, okay?”
    “I do not convict people on no evidence,” he said through his teeth.
    Blood raced through her veins, powered by her pounding heart. Her breath was short, hot color came and went in her cheeks—classic “fight or flight” symptoms. She was dancing with danger here, and it was giving her an endorphin high.
    Or something was. Something was driving her to challenge him, some reckless impulse that made her push him to see if she could get a bolt of lightning out of the thundercloud.
    “If we are going to be stuck with each other until we find Christina, you will keep your opinions to yourself and do your job as recording secretary while I do mine.” She stepped into his personal space and felt a ripple of satisfaction when he moved one window’s width away. He pretended it was to open it, but she knew better. No problem. He could let the universe in if he wanted. It was on her side.
    “Recording secretary.” His voice was muffled with disgust. “My job is to find evidence, not babysit a fake psychic.”
    “I’m not a psychic, fake or otherwise. I’m a sensitive.” He shrugged, clearly not interested in the distinction, but she plowed on anyway. “I see things sometimes, like when I saw Christina tied up with the scarves, but mostly I get impressions from people’s possessions or photographs.”
    “Impressions about their possessions.” He smiled, another humorless facial movement. “And how to get your hands on them, right?”
    She didn’t bite. “I don’t have telekinetic powers or a big suitcase, so you can get that out of your head. I don’t read minds, I don’t bend spoons, and I don’t see dead people. I don’t deal well with sarcasm—and authority figures make me twitch.”
    “That’s a lot of don’ts. So what do you do?”
    “I connect,” she told him simply. “That’s why it’s important that I go to Christina’s room. I’m probably going to need to sleep there, too, because there is nothing in here—” she glanced from the ceiling to him to the floor “—that’s going to help.”
    “Not gonna happen.” He registered the subtle insult and his body radiated resistance, as though he were personally going to guard the place before she burgled it.
    “It has to happen if I’m going to do my job.” She got off the bed and rolled her suitcase to the door. “I’ll ask Lucia to show me the way.”
    He had to hustle to beat her to it, and they both reached for the door handle at the same time. His hand covered hers and pressed it into the antique china ball, and a zing! of sensation whipped up her arm. He jerked back as if he’d been burned and she took the opportunity to slip past him and out the door.
    The sound of her suitcase’s wheels on the Mexican slate brought Lucia out of one of the rooms, and in the end it was Griffin who brought up the rear as Tessa explained what she needed and they trooped down the stairs.
    Which would have made her feel triumphant except for the fact that, once again, he was staring