The runaway marriage had been a disaster, just as every- one had predicted. It took Lucas less than six weeks to realize that he had been married for his money. Family law being what it was, divorce was not a possibility, so Lucas spent the next eighteen months hoping that his beautiful, sexy, vivacious wife would learn to be happy with him. There were times when he thought he was making progress.
But one day, in a low moment, he had made the mistake of telling Dora about his talent. Whatever affection she might have had for him evaporated in an instant.
"Five hells," Dora whispered, horrified. "You're some kind of psychic vampire."
"It's not like that," Lucas said desperately. "It's harmless."
"You're a freak, that's what you are. A damned freak. You should have told me before I agreed to marry you."
Lucas looked into her eyes and knew that he had just destroyed any hope of having the relationship he had yearned for. He should have listened to Icy Claxby.
"You can skip the outraged horror act." Lucas smiled humorlessly. "We both know you would never have turned down the chance to be the wife of the owner of Lodestar Exploration, even if you had known that he was a freak."
"You aren't the only owner of Lodestar," she reminded him.
In the end Lucas had learned the true meaning of being alone when he found himself sharing a home with a woman who wanted another man.
He pushed aside the old memories with the same ruthless control that he used to conceal his talent. He focused on the Synergistic Connections questionnaire.
Hair color. Did he really give a damn about hair color? What did it matter, anyway. A woman could dye her hair any color she chose.
A rich shade of amber brown would be nice, though.
He frowned when he noticed that the word amber did not appear on the list of hair colors. Light brown, dark brown, and reddish brown were offered, but not amber. Lucas picked up a pen and wrote in his selection.
Then he realized what he'd done.
"Damn." Lucas flipped the questionnaire closed and shoved it back in the drawer. He reached for the phone and dialed swiftly, before he could give himself time to reconsider.
A plumy masculine voice answered. "Psynergy, Inc. We make it happen. How can I help you?"
"I'd like to speak to Amaryllis Lark, please."
"One moment."
There was a pause and then Amaryllis came on the line. "This is Amaryllis Lark."
Lucas frowned at the tension in her voice. "Something wrong?" He thought he heard her breath catch. He didn't know if that was a good sign or a bad one. Life was complicated for the intuitionally impaired.
"Is that you, Mr. Trent?"
"I'm not a client any longer. You can call me Lucas."
"Is there a problem with your bill?"
"I haven't seen it yet." Lucas lounged back in his chair. "It's probably sitting in my secretary's In basket." For some reason he began to feel a little more in control of the situation. "I'm calling to ask if you'd like to go out with me."
"Out?"
"Yes, out. You know, like on a date."
"A date?"
She was floundering badly. He could tell that much. Lucas wondered if it was an indication that she was trying to think of a way to turn him down or if she was so excited by the prospect of seeing him again that she could hardly speak. He suspected it was the former, not the latter.
"As I just pointed out," he said, "I'm no longer a client. That being the case, I wondered if maybe your professional code of ethics would allow you to see me socially. Now that you've sent the bill and all."
"You're registered at a marriage agency."
"So are you. What has that got to do with anything? There's nothing in the agency contract that says we can't date whoever we want while we're waiting for them to find Mr. and Mrs. Right for us."
"You're serious, aren't you?"
"Do I sound like a stand-up comedian?"
"No."
"Good. Would you like to go out to dinner tonight?" He realized he was holding his breath.
"As it happens, I have plans for this evening," she said slowly.
"I see." He exhaled deeply. It was probably better this way. No point getting involved in an affair that was limited by its very nature. He would go back to saving himself for his future wife.
Amaryllis hesitated. "You're welcome to join me."
On the other hand, his future wife was highly unlikely to be saving herself for him, Lucas thought. He straightened in the chair. "Yeah, sure. I'll join you. Where are we going?"
"It's sort of a business matter, not a social thing," she said hesitantly. "I have to see someone at a club down in Founders Square. Someplace called SynCity."
Lucas opened his mouth. Nothing coherent emerged. Just something that sounded like "Hub?"
"SynCity. Have you heard of it?"
"Uh--"
"Lucas, is something wrong?"
"Uh--"
"Look, if this is a problem for you, feel free to decline," Amaryllis said crisply. "I realize it's probably not what you had in mind for the evening."
"No," Lucas managed. "No, it's not, but it's not a problem." Fortunately he was sitting down, he thought. Otherwise he would very likely have hurt himself. "Can I ask what sort of business you have with someone at the SynCity Club?"
"I don't have time to explain it now. I've got an appointment in a minute. I'll tell you all about it this evening. I'll pick you up around eight."
"That's not necessary," he managed. "I'll pick you up."
"That's very nice of you. And, Lucas?"
"Yes?"
"Thanks," Amaryllis said in a soft, urgent rush. "I've never been to any of the clubs in Founders Square. I appreciate the company."
"Sure. My pleasure. I think. See you at eight." Lucas very carefully replaced the phone.
He sat staring blankly out the window for a long while. He tried hard, but he could not think of a single reason why prim, straitlaced Amaryllis Lark would want to spend the evening at one of the raunchiest syn-sex strip clubs in town.
Dillon Rye sauntered into Lucas's office shortly before five o'clock. He was dressed in some designer's razzle-dazzle version of traditional Western Islands gear. Lucas hid a grin. The tough, no-nonsense denizens of the islands would have laughed themselves silly at the sight of the multitude of shiny snaps, zippered pockets, useless epaulets, and innumerable flaps that decorated Dillon's khaki shirt and trousers.
"Hi, Lucas." Dillon threw himself down into the nearest chair. "Saw your picture in the paper. How're things going with Miss Lark? Did the agency date work out?"
Lucas folded his arms on the desk. He saw no reason to correct the impression that he had met Amaryllis through an agency. "We're going out again tonight, as a matter of fact."
"Struck lucky on the first match, hub? Totally synergistic, man. I hear it often happens that way. Those agency syn- shrinks know what they're doing. Do I hear wedding bells?"
"No," Lucas said. "You do not. Amaryllis and I are still in the initial stage of getting to know each other."
"Oh. Well, it sounds hopeful, at least. The time has come, as they say. You're at that age where responsible men are supposed to get married. You can't put it off much longer, can you?" Dillon spoke with the serene complacency of a young man who would not have to concern himself with society's expectations for several more years.
Lucas decided to change the subject. "What did you want to talk about?"
Dillon sobered instantly. His blue eyes, so reminiscent of Jackson, turned uncharacteristically serious. "I need a loan. A big one."
Lucas eyed him thoughtfully. "Why?"
"For the investment opportunity of a lifetime."
"Ah. One of those."
"Lucas, I'm serious about this. It's my big chance. If I get in on the ground floor, I'll be worth a fortune in three years."