Mind Over Matter

some of the most powerful companies in the world had used psychic powers to get there and to stay there. He’d described ESP as a tool, as important in the business world as a computer system or a slide rule.
    A science, a business and a performance.
    It made David think of Clarissa. She hadn’t tossed aroundconfusing technology or littered her speech with mathematical probabilities. She hadn’t discussed market trends or the Dow Jones Average. She’d simply talked, person to person. Whatever powers she had…
    With a shake of his head, David cut himself off. Listen to this, he thought as he ran his hands over his face. He was beginning to buy the whole business himself, though he knew from his own research that for every lab-contained experiment there were dozens of card-wielding, bell-ringing charlatans bilking a gullible audience. He drew smoke down an already raw throat before he crushed out the cigarette. If he didn’t continue to look at the documentary objectively, he’d have a biased mess on his hands.
    But even looking objectively, he could see Clarissa as the center of the work. She could be the hinge on which everything else hung. With his eyes half-closed, David could picture it—the interview with the somber-eyed, white-coated parapsychologists, with their no-nonsense laboratory conditions. Then a cut to Clarissa talking with Alex, covering more or less the same ground in her simpler style. Then there’d be the clip of the stockbroker in his sky-high Wall Street office, then back to Clarissa again, seated on the homey sofa. He’d have the tuxedoed mentalist they’d lined up in Vegas doing his flashy, fast-paced demonstration. Then Clarissa again, calmly identifying cards without looking at them. Contrasts, angles, information, but everything would lead back to Clarissa DeBasse. She was the hook—instinct, intuition or paranormal powers, she was the hook. He could all but see the finished product unfolding.
    Still, he wanted the big pull, something with punch and drama. This brought him right back to Clarissa. He needed that interview with Alice Van Camp, and another with someonewho’d been directly involved in the Ridehour case. A.J. might try to block his way. He’d just have to roll over her.
    How many times had he thought of her in the past three days? Too many. How often did he catch his mind drifting back to those few moments on the beach? Too often. And how much did he want to hold her like that again, close and hard? Too much.
    Aurora. He knew it was dangerous to think of her as Aurora. Aurora was soft and accessible. Aurora was passionate and giving and just a little unsure of herself. He’d be smarter to remember A. J. Fields, tough, uncompromising and prickly around the edges. But it was late and his rooms were quiet. It was Aurora he thought of. It was Aurora he wanted.
    On impulse, David picked up the phone. He punched buttons quickly, without giving himself a chance to think the action through. The phone rang four times before she answered.
    “Fields.”
    “Good morning.”
    “David?” A.J. reached up to grab the towel before it slipped from her dripping hair.
    “Yeah. How are you?”
    “Wet.” She switched the phone from hand to hand as she struggled into a robe. “I just stepped out of the shower. Is there a problem?”
    The problem was, he mused, that he was three thousand miles away and was wondering what her skin would look like gleaming with water. He reached for another cigarette and found the pack empty. “No, should there be?”
    “I don’t usually get calls at this hour unless there is. When did you get back?”
    “I didn’t.”
    “You didn’t? You mean you’re still in New York?”
    He stretched back in his chair and closed his eyes. Funny, he hadn’t realized just how much he’d wanted to hear her voice. “Last time I looked.”
    “It’s only ten your time. What are you doing up so early?”
    “Haven’t been to bed yet.”
    This time she wasn’t quick enough to snatch the towel before it landed on her bare feet. A.J. ignored it as she dragged her fingers through the tangle of wet hair. “I see. The night life in Manhattan’s very demanding, isn’t it?”
    He opened his eyes to glance at his piles of papers, overflowing ashtrays and empty coffee cups. “Yeah, it’s all dancing till dawn.”
    “I’m sure.” Scowling, she bent down to pick up her towel. “Well, you must have something important on your mind to break off the partying and