Mind Over Matter

some of that emotion elsewhere.”
    “Clarissa’s all I can afford to be emotional about.”
    “An odd way of phrasing things. Do you ever give any thought to your own needs? Emotional,” he murmured, then ran a hand down her hair. “Physical.”
    “That’s none of your business.” She would have turned away, but he kept his hand on her hair.
    “You can cut a lot of people off.” He felt the first edge of her anger as she stared up at him. Oddly he enjoyed it. “I think you’d be extremely good at picking up the spear and jabbing men out of your way. But it won’t work with me.”
    “I don’t know why I thought I could talk to you.”
    “But you did. That should give you something to consider.”
    “Why are you pushing me?” she demanded. Fire came into her eyes. She remembered the dream too clearly. The dream, the desire, the fears.
    “Because I want you.” He stood close, close enough for her scent to twine around him. Close enough so that the doubts and distrust in her eyes were very clear. “I want to make love with you for a long, long time in a very quiet place. Whenwe’re finished I might find out why I don’t seem to be able to sleep for dreaming of it.”
    Her throat was dry enough to ache and her hands felt like ice. “I told you once I don’t sleep around.”
    “That’s good,” he murmured. “That’s very good, because I don’t think either of us needs a lot of comparisons.” He heard the sound of the front door of the offices opening. “Sounds like you’re open for business, A.J. Just one more personal note. I’m willing to negotiate terms, times and places, but the bottom line is that I’m going to spend more than one night with you. Give it some thought.”
    A.J. conquered the urge to pick up the paperweight and heave it at him as he walked to the door. Instead she reminded herself that she was a professional and it was business hours. “Brady.”
    He turned, and with a hand on the knob smiled at her. “Yeah, Fields?”
    “You never gave me the message for Clarissa.”
    “Didn’t I?” The hell with the gingerbread, he decided. “Give her my best. See you around, lady.”
     
    David didn’t even know what time it was when he unlocked the door of his hotel suite. The two-day shoot had stretched into three. Now all he had to do was figure out which threads to cut and remain in budget. Per instructions, the maid hadn’t touched the stacks and piles of paper on the table in the parlor. They were as he’d left them, a chaotic jumble of balance sheets, schedules and production notes.
    After a twelve-hour day, he’d ordered his crew to hit the sheets. David buzzed room service and ordered a pot of coffee before he sat down and began to work. After two hours, he was satisfied enough with the figures to go back over the two and a half days of taping.
    The Danjason Institute of Parapsychology itself had been impressive, and oddly stuffy, in the way of institutes. It was difficult to imagine that an organization devoted to the study of bending spoons by will and telepathy could be stuffy. The team of parapsychologists they’d worked with had been as dry and precise as any staff of scientists. So dry, in fact, David wondered whether they’d convince the audience or simply put them to sleep. He’d have to supervise the editing carefully.
    The testing had been interesting enough, he decided. The fact that they used not only sensitives but people more or less off the street. The testing and conclusions were done in the strictest scientific manner. How had it been put? The application of math probability theory to massive accumulation of data. It sounded formal and supercilious. To David it was card guessing.
    Still, put sophisticated equipment and intelligent, highly educated scientists together, and it was understood that psychic phenomena were being researched seriously and intensely. It was, as a science, just beginning to be recognized after decades of slow, exhaustive experimentation.
    Then there had been the interview on Wall Street with the thirty-two-year-old stockbroker-psychic. David let out a stream of smoke and watched it float toward the ceiling as he let that particular segment play in his mind. The man had made no secret of the fact that he used his abilities to play the market and become many times a millionaire. It was a skill, he’d explained, much like reading, writing and calculating were skills. He’d also claimed that several top executives in