Daddy Warlock Read online

  At his approach, colored floodlights bathed the front of the house. The stucco had been painted last year, an earthy tan, and the trim redone in chocolate.

  As his financial consulting firm prospered, Chance should have redecorated long ago, but something had stopped him. The ugly marks left by the castle facade had served as a reminder of the Halloween that had been the turning point in his life.

  Everything that had happened since had come from the lessons he learned that night. Even when the paint deteriorated into an eyesore, it had been hard to give up the last tangible reminder of that night.

  Every once in a while, over the past seven years, Chance had felt the urge to track the lady down. But even now, he wasn’t sure he might not somehow harm her if they met again.

  He had struggled to gain control over his abilities, but there were no classes in how to keep from invading other people’s minds. So he had found his own way, beginning with meditation and proceeding to a study of Eastern and Native American beliefs.

  Gradually he had schooled himself to erect an imaginary glass wall between himself and others whenever temptation beckoned. It worked, but it made him feel shut off, as if he were wearing gloves when he yearned to touch the surface of the world.

  His father still believed Chance’s success as an investment adviser and stockbroker must come from trickery. Sadly, the man couldn’t understand his son’s attachment to ethics.

  Some things, Chance supposed as he mounted the front porch, never changed. He loved his father, but he doubted he and Ray would ever be on the same wavelength.

  To the computer, he said, “Today’s password is…ketchup.”

  “Wrong,” it said in a dry, nasal tone.

  “Oh, shoot. That was yesterday.” Chance wished he could make the thing recognize his voice. He supposed he could carry a remote control, but then he had to worry about losing the dam thing. “It’s mustard.” He was working his way through the condiments this week.

  As the lock released its grip, a deep sigh arose from the house. “You’re late again. I don’t suppose you’ve eaten dinner, have you?” Its whiny voice lay in the hightenor range.

  “No. What’ve we got?”

  After an almost infinitesimal pause, the computer said, “Tuna salad. Curried rice. Yogurt, assorted flavors. You ought to eat the rest of that fried chicken you brought home yesterday. As you know, Rajeev’s a vegetarian.”

  “Thank you for your concern.” Shouldering his way through the door, Chance wondered what perverse impulse had led him to design a computer program that nagged.

  As he entered the living room, wall sconces bloomed with light. The voluptuousness of the velour couches, lacquered chests and Persian carpets struck him as gaudy, but he never spent time in this room anyway. His housekeeper had to clean the darn things, so Chance had allowed Rajeev and his sister, who also lived on the premises, to pick the furnishings.

  Turning to his right, he wandered down a hall to the kitchen. Shining butcher-block counters, freshly waxed linoleum and gleaming stainless-steel sinks testified to Rajeev’s efficiency. Prompted by the computer, the toaster oven was preheating.

  Chance peered into the refrigerator. Using his mind, he shifted a few items until he could retrieve the chicken. Levitating objects might be a mere parlor trick, but it was good for mental discipline.

  After putting the chicken in the oven, he ambled down the hall to his bedroom suite. He’d always slept in the tower until that night with his lady, but since then it had brought back too many vivid memories.

  He needed to forget the woman and move on. Chance aroused plenty of feminine interest in the course of his work. Why couldn’t he bring himself to return any of it?

  As he unknotted his tie, the sudden blare of recorded music stunned him into nearly strangling himself. After the initial startled moment, his senses identified a sultry tango.

  Slipping into jeans and a polo shirt, Chance adjourned to the courtyard. There, beneath spotlights, two exotic figures tormented each other across the flagstones. A man’s shiny shoe stamped out a beat, a multicolored skirt snapped and a lithe female body twirled as two pairs of black eyes met and defied each other.

  “Extension!”

  “Hand position!”

  “Tilt your head!”

  “Too slow, too slow!”

  The words rasped in time to the music. Sweat beaded on dark skin. Faster, faster they pounded, until the dancers flung themselves into a back-bending, arm-bracing finale.

  “Well?” said Rajeev, pushing his sister unceremoniously to her feet. “What do you think, eh?”

  “Better,” Chance decided. “You’re definitely getting the hang of it.”

  “But do you think we have any hope of a trophy?” asked Vareena, smoothing her skirt. Although five inches shorter than her brother, she had the same dramatic coloring and erect posture.

  Three years ago—a year after Rajeev came to work for Chance—the pair had fallen in love with dancing while watching the movie Strictly Ballroom. A clerk at a convenience store, Vareena practiced with her brother whenever possible. Now the waltz, the paso doble, the tango and the samba echoed through Chance’s dreams.

  “As much hope as anyone,” he said. “Great costumes, except…” He changed the color of Vareena’s hair ribbon from green to a shimmering rainbow. “Think you could find a fabric like that?”

  “Truly wonderful,” said Rajeev.

  Vareena removed the ribbon and studied it. “Yes, yes, very nice. I will look for it.”

  Chance relaxed his concentration, and the green color returned. The brother and sister applauded. They never lost their appreciation of his antics.

  On the way back to the kitchen, he wondered why he had ever thought hiring a housekeeper of Indian descent would complement his interest in meditation. Anything even faintly mystical bored Rajeev to tears.

  The tantalizing scent of fried chicken made his stomach rumble as he fixed a plate of food. Grabbing a can of soda, Chance moved down the hall to his master suite, where he had equipped the front den with a laserdisc player, a big-screen TV and a Pentium computer with CD-ROM and a huge selection of games.

  Dropping onto the couch, he flicked the TV to the local news. What followed was the usual jumble of car chases, picketers, politics and weather. He was about to switch it off and retreat to his home office when the announcer’s words arrested him.

  “Now for a tale of black magic, or white magic, in a most unlikely setting! Find out where, when we come back.”

  It was probably a story about a psychic fair, Chance supposed, but he needed to find out. The Powers family was unusual in its gifts, but not unique. If someone with real ability was giving a demonstration, he wanted to know about it.

  Most people, of course, would do almost .anything to keep such talents secret. If you didn’t, people dismissed you as a kook. Chance’s cousin Merton had nearly derailed his accounting career by getting drunk at a party and literally juggling some books—hands-free.

  If one person had been born with the ability to read minds, it could happen again. The next recipient might not be so honest, either.

  The commercials ended and a microphone-wielding reporter posed in front of a low building. “Two first graders were suspended from Palm Mesa Elementary School earlier today after one of them allegedly threw a fork at the other. School officials claim the intended target mentally flipped the fork in midair and made it strike the first child.”

  A beefy woman appeared on camera, holding a boy who looked large for a first grader. His forehead sported a purple bruise.

  “Suspending my son is unfair, and that’s why I called the press!” bellowed the mother. “How dare they say Johnny threw the fork, when he’s obviously the victim! Nobody with any brains believes in magic! What are they teaching our children, anyway?”

  “A teacher claims she saw the fork change course in the air, but did she?” the reporter asked the camera. “The teacher refused to speak on camera, but l
et’s talk to the other mom.”

  The picture cut to a tall, slender woman trying to steer a boy down the front steps. Chance’s breath caught in his throat

  It was his lady. There was no mistaking the short, willful brown hair or those wide-set olive eyes.

  “Mrs. Blayne?” asked the announcer, and Chance’s heart sank. Apparently she was married. But then, wasn’t that obvious, since she had a child?

  “Yes?” Her troubled gaze met the camera.

  “What do you think of the claim that your son has mental powers?”

  “Harry’s a normal kid,” she snapped, shielding the small, dark-haired figure from the camera. “He probably stuck his hand up and batted the fork back.”

  “Do you think he should have been suspended?”

  Maternal fury flashed from the TV screen. “For defending himself? Absolutely not! Now, please excuse us. I think everyone is making too much of this.”

  As she led the little boy away, he glanced back, and for the first time Chance saw the child’s face. It was small and impish, not unlike the mother’s, except for his eyes.

  They had a slight, exotic tilt. As the TV lights reflected into them, they appeared for an instant to turn silver.

  Chance sat bolt upright. Impossible. Unthinkable. Without weighing the consequences, he forced the camera filming the episode to rewind and play again in slow motion.

  This time, the effect was unmistakable. The child looked up, the lights glimmered, the eyes turned silver. There was no mistaking the resemblance to Chance.

  From the TV, an offscreen voice said, “I’m sorry, we seem to be experiencing some technical difficulties.”

  With a start, he released the camera, and watched the lady of his dreams hurry down the steps with his son. There was still a slightly coltish air to her, an appealing youthfulness despite what she must have gone through these past several years.

  She’d borne him a son. Regret and guilt lumped inside Chance’s stomach. It had never occurred to him that his lady might be pregnant.

  Had she tried to find him? He doubted it, knowing that her memories of that evening must be blurred. Besides, Chance was hardly a reclusive figure in Los Angeles, even guesting on local talk shows to provide expert commentary about changes in the stock market. It was possible the lady had seen him and not even recognized the father of her son.

  Mrs. Blayne. Or Ms. Blayne, more likely. At least he knew her name, or part of it. Not that he needed to. Now that he had learned of the existence of a son, Chance would have no trouble finding either of them.

  And find them he must. The boy was headed for trouble if he didn’t learn to harness his abilities. Heaven knew what the future held, if he was already showing talent so early. Usually it didn’t develop until adolescence.

  There was an even greater danger: that Raymond Powers, or someone like him, would see this newscast and recognize the boy’s potential. Chance doubted that Ms. Blayne, despite her maternal fierceness, would be able to protect her son against such sophisticated exploiters.

  Anxiously, he flipped from channel to channel, but if any other newscast aired a similar segment, he didn’t see it. This time, the boy might have escaped Ray’s notice, although Chance’s unthinking trick of replaying the tape had certainly pointed a finger.

  For one soul-searching moment, he forced himself to consider whether his motives might be selfish. The sight of Ms. Blayne had aroused a pervasive sensual awareness and a deep-rooted yearning to see her again. Furthermore, in Chance’s family, the greatest powers were inherited by the firstborn. Any subsequent children might be gifted, but none so much as—as—Harry, wasn’t that his son’s name?

  This was going to be a tricky business. Ethics required Chance to tell the woman the truth, but he doubted she would believe him. If he put matters too bluntly, she was likely to flee in alarm, perhaps even get a court order keeping him away.

  He would have to be subtle. He would have to guide Ms. Blayne until she reached the point where she could absorb the truth.

  Chapter Two

  “Something’s got to turn up soon” Denise transferred a third slice of pepperoni pizza onto Harry’s plate. They were sitting on Tara’s living room floor on a blanket, having an impromptu substitute for the picnic that had just been rained out.

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Tara hated to give in to negative feelings, especially in front of her son. But the rent was due soon and her two weeks of job searching had led nowhere.

  Her son, newly reinstated in school, began regaling Denise with stories of his rivalry with the class bully. A couple of times he stopped himself in midsentence, and Tara suspected the boy was hiding something.

  She had a good idea what it must be. She’d forbidden Harry to use his tricks, but he was probably doing it when he didn’t think any adults could see. In a way, she was glad it was spring vacation so she could keep a closer eye on him.

  Surely he wasn’t really doing magic. He had to be faking it in some clever way. If she weren’t so stressedout about unemployment, she would have gotten to the bottom of this by now.

  Outside, rain pelted the window. The downpour suited her mood.

  Government economists kept announcing that new jobs were being created by the bushel. Maybe so, but job seekers must be springing up even faster, because everywhere Tara applied, she found herself in a long line of applicants.

  There had been two offers, but one involved a beginner’s salary too low to support her son, and the other required working weekends and nights. If she had a family to help her, maybe she could have managed such a difficult schedule, but Tara was alone.

  On Saturday, she’d broken down and called her father in Louisville to ask if he would help her find a job there. A bank executive, he might know of openings for which Tara was qualified. All she asked was information and a place to stay while she sought work.

  Through some cousins, she knew that her father had remarried a woman with a teenage daughter. They owned a large house with guest quarters.

  He had coldly informed Tara that he considered her and her illegitimate child a bad example for his stepdaughter. As far as he was concerned, her problems were her own fault.

  This icy rejection, after her attempt to patch years of estrangement, was the final straw. Tara would never turn to him again.

  For one brief moment, she measured what her life might have been had she not become pregnant. She would have earned a business degree, perhaps qualified for an executive position and put in the long hours necessary for advancement. By now, at age twenty-nine, she ought to be earning a healthy salary.

  Then her gaze alit on Harry, his face gleeful as he told Denise how he’d won the first-grade spelling bee last week and earned an ice-cream party for his class. Even the bully had been grateful.

  What was the point in trying to imagine life without him? From the moment she’d learned she was pregnant, Tara had known her life would revolve around her child.

  But being a responsible parent meant providing for him. This afternoon, while he played, she would answer the ads she’d circled in the newspaper this morning. Denise had been a great sport, offering to take Harry to the beauty shop with her whenever Tara landed an interview.

  The ringing of the phone startled her. Whenever she heard it, Tara couldn’t help leaping to her feet and running to answer, hoping it might be a job offer.

  “Hello?” She hoped she didn’t sound out of breath. “I mean, this is Tara Blayne.”

  “Ms. Blayne? Chance Powers here.” The caller had a rich baritone voice, commanding but gentle as it vibrated across the phone lines. “President of Powers Financial Corporation. You responded to my ad for a personal assistant. Are you still available?”

  “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  She didn’t remember applying to Powers Financial Corporation, but she had sent several résumés in response to “blind” ads that simply listed post office boxes. She did recognize the name of his company, which was known for its
expertise in investments.

  With her experience managing an office, she would have preferred a higher position than that of personal assistant. However, if it paid decently and offered benefits, she’d be glad to get it.

  Also, she’d heard Chance Powers referred to as the “Wall Street Wizard of the West.” It would be intriguing to work for someone so dynamic.

  “I was wondering if you were free this afternoon for an interview. Unless the rain poses a problem, of course” He sounded almost nervous, but then, some people hated conducting interviews.

  Actually, the timing was perfect, since Denise had Mondays off and could stay with Harry. “Today would be fine. Is there any further information you need about me?”

  “If you could bring another copy of your résumé, that would help,” the man said. “My secretary seems to have misplaced the one you sent.”

  They set the time at 3:00 p.m. and he gave her directions. After she hung up, Tara had the inexplicable sense that more had transpired between them than a phone conversation about employment. But that must be a result of her anxiety.

  CHANCE STARED at the clock on the wall. Slowly the hands edged toward 3:00. Annoyed, he returned them to the 2:45 position.

  There were definite disadvantages to being able to move objects, particularly when you didn’t intend to. It was too bad his abilities didn’t extend to speeding time itself.

  After seeing Tara on television, he’d tracked her easily through the computer. His impulse was to contact her at once, but when he learned of her layoff, he realized it offered a perfect opportunity.

  Eager as he was to get close to Harry, Chance needed to proceed slowly enough to win Tara’s trust. Only then would she allow him to help guide the boy’s future.

  Besides, what would he say? Hi, I’m the man who seduced and abandoned you. Sorry I didn’t know about the kid, but here I am, so let’s share custody. Yeah, right.