Santa Reads Romance (10 page)

“They never last to the middle of the night here.” Mills sighed as she took another cookie. “So what's the seminar on?”

“Psychic development,” she mumbled around a chocolate chip.

“I didn't know you were interested in stuff like that.”

“I'm not— I want to do a piece on this guy who's been going around telling people he's a psychic healer. I've heard some disturbing things about him, but I haven't been able to substantiate anything yet. I thought if I went to a legitimate class on the subject, I could pick up some background information.”

“The paper sent you on this story? They're finally letting you do some investigative reporting?”

“Not exactly. I'm doing this on my own.”

“Is that wise?”

“I need to do this, Mills. I have to get off garden party assignments. All the Chief ever gives me to cover is fluff. How am I going to get at the good stories unless I take the initiative on my own?”

“Maybe he doesn't want you getting hurt. Stuff like that can be dangerous, Zanita. We both know Hank is a nice old relic from a prior century, but he's been around the block. Maybe he's looking out for you.”

“Cripes, Mills, I'm twenty-seven years old! I don't need a curmudgeon of a boss who acts like my grandfather.”

“The curmudgeon
is
your grandfather.”

“That's beside the point. He used to be a great reporter. In his heyday, he exposed racketeers and gangsters. And a lot of political corruption. I cut my teeth on his stories.”

“That was a long time ago. I think Hank is quite content with his small-town newspaper. And every now and then he does keep the selectmen on their toes.”

Zanita drank the last of her coffee. “True, but I'm not content. If I can get a
story
, I can go to a major market.”

“You mean you'll have a legitimate excuse for abandoning Hank. He's put blood, sweat, and tears into that paper. Sure, it doesn't have a large circulation, but the people around here like it. What's more, they buy it. And you know why.”

Zanita closed her eyes. “Because they trust what they read in the
Patriot Sun.
“ She regarded Mills. “All the more reason for me to get this story. Old Mrs. Haverhill gave this man lots of money because he told her he could cure her stomach cancer with a healing. She died this morning.”

“I don't mean this to sound cold, Zani, but the woman had an incurable illness. She would've died anyway.”

“True, but she didn't deserve to be bilked and lied to. He took terrible advantage of her when she was in an extremely vulnerable position. It was contemptible.”

“I agree. But not all psychic healing is bunk. I've read that many medical practitioners are incorporating the technique into their practices.”

“Yes, which makes it even more important to expose the frauds. There are some people who could genuinely benefit from it. If these people end up with a charlatan, it's a tragedy.”

“A double tragedy in most cases, I'm sure.”

Zanita glanced at her watch. “I've got to run. Thanks for the tea and sympathy.”

“You mean coffee and sympathy. Let me know how the class went.”

Zanita nodded as she slung her enormous purse over her shoulder and headed out the door.

About an hour's drive west of the city of Boston, the picturesque town of Stockboro, Massachusetts, was surrounded by lovely rolling hills and green pastures. This peaceful, verdant land had once hosted a small but significant skirmish during the Revolutionary War, and the historical setting was the perfect backdrop for an Ivy League campus. In the mid-eighteen hundreds, the town leaders had planted the seed, and Hampshire University was duly harvested.

The community itself was an eclectic blend of intellectuals, jazz musicians, artists, a smattering of bluebloods, surviving sixties drop-outs, and farmers. All dyed-in-the-wool Yankees.

It was an interesting community, where locals tolerated all viewpoints, but were extremely vocal about their own. Everyone was always up in arms over something— a hold-over from Revolutionary days, no doubt.

Zanita loved Stockboro. It was a place where things always seemed to be happening. Alive, moving, and vibrant, its citizens were active in the community and cared about the town they lived in. In short, it was a perfect town for a newspaper.

Despite what Zanita had said to Mills, she did not want to leave the
Patriot Sun
; her greener pastures were right here at home. What she did want was for the Chief to give her some meatier assignments. She knew all too well that she was going to have to show the Chief she was ready in black-and-white.

The course she hoped to take tonight would provide good background information for her story. Zanita planned to do a series of articles on the subject of psychic healing. Knowing the opinionated citizens of Stockboro, she was pretty sure she could stir up a real hornet's nest with the piece.

Swinging her car into the lot by the student union, Zanita got directions from a young coed to the sign-up desk. There, she approached a middle-aged woman, who handed her a listing of the extension classes and special seminars being offered.

Quickly scanning the list, she checked off her choice and handed it back to the woman behind the desk, who was in the process of hanging up the phone.

“This is your lucky day.”

Zanita looked up from a circular a student had just handed her. “What do you mean?”

“The class you marked has been filled up since the moment it was announced. I just hung up the phone on a last-minute cancellation.”

“You're kidding!” She had no idea psychic healing classes were so popular. And if the classes were popular, her articles would really hit the—

The woman interrupted Zanita's thoughts. “Oh-oh.”

“What 'oh-oh'?”

“I'm sorry, I should've guessed— there's a huge waiting list for this class.”

She saw her article flying out the window. “Oh, but you can't!” The woman looked at her strangely. “I mean, I have to take this class. It's really important to me. Please?”

The woman seemed uncomfortable to be put in this position. Zanita decided to press her momentary advantage.

“You might not even be able to get in touch with any of those people on that list at this late time. The class is going to start in an hour. Here I am, ready and willing to attend. How will it look with an empty seat? Besides, you yourself said it was fate.”

The woman threw up her hands in surrender. “Okay, okay! You're in. Just don't tell anyone what I did.” She stamped the form.

“My lips are sealed. Thanks a lot— I really appreciate this.”

“You should— I've dealt with some of these people on the waiting list, and they can get weird when they don't get what they want.”

Zanita's violet eyes opened wide. Perhaps she could get a tip-off here? She leaned toward the woman, whispering, “Weird how?”

“Oh, the usual. They throw an academic tantrum of some kind, and somebody gets rearranged. No one would dare mess with that department.”

“Why not?” Zanita took out her pen and pad.

The woman said seriously, “Because they know how to make your house glow in the dark.” Then she winked. “Lecture hall 223. Have a nice day.”

Zanita was still gaping at the woman in horror as she turned away to help another student.

Do these psychics intimidate people with their so-called abilities!
Was that how Xavier LaLeche was able to convince poor Mrs. Haverhill to hand over her bank books? She made a mental note to investigate this angle.

She had just enough time to get a hamburger at the cafeteria. By the time she got to the lecture hall, it was fairly filled. Spotting an empty chair in the third row, she made her way down the stairs, quickly taking the seat. It was strange, but she seemed to be the only woman there.

Her eyes flicked over the chairs in the hall. All men!

And a scruffy lot they were, too.

She briefly felt like tugging on the hem of her short skirt, only none of them seemed to be paying the slightest bit of attention to her legs.

Why not!

She purposely crossed them. Still no response. Very curious.

There was a buzz of excitement racing through the hall which had nothing to do with the shape of her legs. An odd little man sitting next to her confided to her how happy he was to be attending this seminar. His owlish eyes peered at her from behind Coke-bottle glasses as he extended a pudgy hand to her in greeting.

“Stan Mazurski.”

She shook his hand. “Zanita Masterson.”

“I can't wait to hear him, you know.” The little man shook with enthusiasm. “He's quite a maverick— radical in a lot of his viewpoints, but so very brilliant. One of the greatest minds of our times.”

So the lecturer had all the earmarks of a cult leader. She was supposed to be impressed with this? “I wouldn't know.”

“You've never seen him before? I have— once when I was at Cern, I flew to The Hague to hear him give a talk.”

Typical groupie. Poor man. She'd seen his type before. “I hope it was worth it.” Her response was dry.

“Oh, yes! He was inspiring, I'll tell you. Turned my thinking around completely.”

Damn! Here she thought she was attending a legitimate lecture— not about to hear some cult leader pontificate to his adoring masses. Well, she'd give the guy a chance; there was no sense judging him by one crazed fan. But if his talk even smacked of hoodoo chicanery, she was out of there.

“I hear they offered him a permanent chair at the Institute for Advanced Studies.”

This was encouraging, although she had never heard of a psychic research center bearing that name. There was only one university she knew of that had done psychic research, and she had heard they closed the department down. Perhaps she had heard wrong. “Duke University?”

The round eyes blinked twice behind the thick lenses. “N-no, Princeton.”

Well! More encouraging still. She would reserve judgment.

“He turned it down.”

Zanita was about to ask him why, when the double doors to the front of the lecture pit opened, and five men entered the room. Four of the men surrounded one man in the center, eagerly seeking his opinion on various subjects. Even though he was surrounded, Zanita had no trouble seeing him, for he stood head and shoulders above the other men.

He was sinfully handsome.

The second thing she noticed about him was his build. The man worked out— no question about it. It was the best body she had seen in years— maybe ever. He was wearing washed-out denims that hugged sleek thighs. His white tailored shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled back to the elbow, revealing muscular forearms.

He had very long chestnut hair, which was streaked golden. It was smoothed back from his face and hung down his back in a ponytail. His skin was a rich golden tan; it complemented his tawny hair color, evoking images of sultry tropical heat …

Someone said something to him which made him smile, causing him to reveal engaging, almost mischievous dimples. Then another person garnered his attention, probably not very interesting, because as this person continued to talk to him, he raised his sights and glanced around the lecture hall.

For a moment, his sharp gaze lit on Zanita before moving on.

She noticed that his eyes were clear, ice blue in contrast to his warm coloring, and seemed to spark with a keen intelligence. In his mid-thirties, his persona conveyed a man possessed of alluring, esoteric knowledge.

The man was captivating.

Zanita swallowed, reassessing her original impression. He wasn't just sinfully handsome; he was outrageously
sexy.

“Who is he?” she whispered to Stan.

Stan looked up from a manual he was reading. “Who?”

Who?
As if she would be asking about anyone else in the room! “The tall guy in the center!”

Stan pushed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. “That's him!”

“Who?” Zanita gritted out.

“Tyberius Augustus Evans.”

The name tickled the back of her mind, but she couldn't quite place it.

“Wait till you hear him speak!”

Zanita was surprised. So this was the psychic guru Stan had been gushing about. Her mouth parted slightly. Of course, charisma was an important part of his profession, so Zanita shouldn't have been so affected by his appearance. But she was. She hadn't been expecting someone that looked like …
him.

This was going much better than she could have hoped for. Even if his talk was boring, she could wile away the time just staring at him. She relaxed in her chair.

Wait until she told Mills about this!

“So, who wants to define Chaos?” Appreciative laughter echoed across the room. Tyberius Augustus Evans rested against the desk in a casual pose, arms crossed over his chest.

His question was the first thing Zanita had understood in the fifteen minutes the man had been talking. He had begun giving her strange looks when he drew something on the board to illustrate a point he was making, and she crossed her eyes. Since then, his glance had strayed her way every now and then, his expression not unlike Mills' earlier in the day. The mysterious face of Mars look.

She had never realized that psychic healing was so …
obtuse.
At last something she could understand. Who would have thought the man would ask a trivia question? She tentatively raised her hand.

Tyber's eyebrows rose as the small hand went up. It had been a rhetorical question. He did not expect anyone to try an answer. More to the point, phrased that way, no one
could
answer it. He looked warily at the young woman with the remarkable violet eyes in the third row. “Yes?”

“KAOS were the bad guys who went against CONTROL on the TV show
Get Smart.
“

Dead silence followed her comment.

A rich, deep laugh broke through the silence, echoing in a room which had gone as still as a tomb.

Tyber, still laughing, grinned up at her. “You're right, Ms.— ?”

“Masterson, Zanita.”

“Named after the manzanita tree, no doubt.”

Zanita's mouth dropped open. “How did you— ”