Psychic Detective

Warning:

The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. This story has been rated S-ensuous by a minimum of three independent reviewers.

Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E-rotic), and X (X-treme).

S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.

E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as “fucking”, “cock”, “pussy”, and such within their work of literature.

X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Unlike E-rated titles, stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.

Chapter One

The few tables and all of the window counters in the brightly lit coffee shop were full. People hunched over laptop computers, spread newspapers over tables, and peered intently into books they had just taken out of the city library across the street.

The thought patterns that bombarded Angela Simmons from all directions as she approached the counter echoed the foggy mist forming in the darkening gray sky outside.

“French roast,” she said.

“Grandissimo, Supremero or Ventissimo?” asked the slight dark-haired barista.

“Big.”

The ring in the girl’s nose flashed as she pointed to the middle-sized cup with a questioning eyebrow.

Angela nodded.

She looked again at the tables, wishing someone would get up and leave. Frowning in concentration, the guy in the cardigan sweater leaned more intently over his computer. Angela’s mind was caught in the thick fog of mundane thoughts. The stock market is down, Jenny got her first period this morning, I need to get milk on the way home, the United Nations contemplates action to combat global poverty, the broccoli at the produce counter looked yellowish-brown, how will tornadoes in the Midwest affect insurance rates, was Sean doing his math homework, the car sounded funny, soy bean production is down in Brazil… Thought fog. She tried to tune it out.

“Do you want room for cream?”

“No, thanks.”

“One-sixty-five.”

A highway opened through the murkiness. Angela fumbled the two dollar bills she was taking from her purse when she looked toward the table to the right side of the counter. Five-eight, Angela guessed, mid-thirties, well-coiffed, close-cropped dark brunette. Loose tan cashmere pullover. Well-off, good taste. Oval face, sensuous lips, high cheekbones…

The woman looked up, her eyes fastening on Angela’s for a brief moment before they swept around the room and returned to the book in front of her. In that instant something…

Blue eyes. Lingered on me too long. Maybe because she was in the library when I was and thought she recognized me. But no, something else in that look. Something in the way she looked back to her book. You can never rely on things like that.

“One-sixty-five?” the barista repeated.

Angela handed her the two dollars and took her change.

The miasma of Brazilian soybeans, worries about kids, cars, supper and husbands descended over Angela’s awareness.

And there it was again, as clear as day, a pattern of thought. Different from Soybeans’ concerns with kids, business and domestic stuff. Not just one thought, but a pattern writhing with sensuality, slippery with anticipation, opulent and smooth to the touch, stretching like fingers reaching out of quicksand, hoping against hope for rescue from the insuperable, irresistible downward force. Alluring for its unbridled physical appeal that Angela felt herself responding to, but threatening because of its forceful, earthy-what was it-hesitation? Doubt? Suspicion? That feeling of being trapped, of wanting but lacking? She couldn’t name it.

The fog thinned with each step Angela took toward the brunette. The woman looked up from her book just as Angela approached her table.

“May I join you? It looks like all the other places are taken.”

“Yes, I was trying to read, but I can’t concentrate. Weren’t you just in the library? I think I saw you as I was checking out.”

“Yes, I was doing some research over there.”

“Oh? What kind?” she said, putting down the book.

“Corporate. Checking out who owns what.”

“Oh, are you a business researcher?”

Angela laughed. “Sometimes it feels like it. No, I’m a detective.”

“Police?”

“No, not that kind. I don’t find criminals. I’m a love detective.”

The man at the computer scowled at Angela but quickly turned his gaze to the woman at the window counter speaking into her cell phone. He snapped his computer shut and left. The woman with the cell phone continued chatting as she packed up her belongings in her purse and followed him out.

“A love detective?”

Two other people left the counter and the barista came around the bar and began cleaning the tables and counters next to the windows as the place emptied.

“That’s shorthand. People come to me with their relationship problems.”

“And that gets you into corporate research?”

“Sometimes, yes. That’s where it got me today.”

“Hot on a case?”

“Yes, but I can’t talk about it.”

“Secret stuff?”

“Let’s just say confidential. If I worked for you, you wouldn’t want me telling everyone I ran into at a coffee shop about your life, would you?”

“There’s not much to tell.”

Angela smiled.

“What does that smile mean?” The brunette looked at Angela over the rim of her coffee cup.

“Everyone has something interesting to tell.” Angela sipped the hot, bitter brew in her mug.

“Well, suppose I wanted to hire you.”

“To find out about your husband?”

“You know?”

“Elementary, my dear Watson. I observe the wedding band on your left ring finger. I observe a diamond ring. I see how you dress, your handbag, your hair, your manicure, and I conclude that you are well-off. You are here on a workday afternoon. If you are well-off, you do not freelance. You are here, so you are not working. Ergo, you may be an heiress or a beneficiary of a trust fund or you have a husband with a large income. Or all three, or two of three. But you were in the library to actually check out a book. A book a person of wealth would have purchased to put in the library at the house. Rich people have libraries. There is probably one in your house, but you are not accustomed to buying books. Ergo, you did not grow up with wealth. I conclude that your husband is the source of the wealth. If your husband were available, you’d be with him. Or, because you are a beautiful woman, he’d be with you. He is not. You are not. Ergo, he is not free. I conclude he is working. If that’s so, he’s probably working all the time, in meetings, traveling, and in contact with a lot of powerful and beautiful women. That’s enough to worry any wife. And the ones that are really worried find me and ask me to help them.”

“You’re amazing, Holmes,” she said leaning back in her chair. “My name is Ronda Moore.”

“Glad to meet you, Ronda, I’m Angela Simmons.”

Angela reached into her purse and extracted a card.

“Angela Simmons, Psychic Detective? What’s the psychic part?”

“That’s why I don’t do police work. That depends on proof. I need to know more than who did what with or to whom when and where. I need to know motives. Why they did what they did.”

“Does it matter?”

“It can.”

The barista returned behind the bar to polish her coffee-making machines as the last of the other patrons left.

“You read people’s minds?”

“Sort of…”

“I don’t believe in that kind of stuff. Can you tell me what I’m thinking?”

“You are afraid that at thirty-six your breasts are no longer perky, that you are losing your looks and that you are no longer attractive to your husband because he spends so much time apart from you and hardly touches you anymore. You suspect he may be fucking other women because you think he can have any woman he wants.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to read my mind to know that. You deduced it from my clothes and jewelry, right?”

“Okay, you think that you masturbate way too much, maybe excessively because you do yourself at least once a day and some days two or three times. You were in the library to check out books about women’s fantasies because you’ve become bored with your own. You are afraid of some of your fantasies. You fantasize about being tied up and taken, something you know you’d never want in real life. You fantasize about fucking a stranger in a public place like this coffee shop and people gathering around to watch and applauding when you come. You fantasize and sometimes think about being spanked, and you think it’s dangerous because if you enjoy pain, you might be a masochist and get caught up in the whole S and M thing.”

“Not much of a deduction, is it? Chances are any woman masturbates fairly frequently. At least a few times a week. And most more. Daily. And those are pretty standard fantasies.”

“But it’s not standard to worry about them.”

“Anything else?”

“When your husband is with you, which is much less than you’d like, you fantasize about other men.”