Orchid

  From Amaryllis to Obsidian Prey, critics adore the electrifyingly passionate and suspense-charged novels of

  Jayne Castle

  “With her typical offbeat humor and flair, Castle takes a pair of powerful, unmatchable protagonists, sets them down in her innovative, synergistic world of St. Helen’s, and gives them a mystery to solve, villains to outwit, and a passion to explore.”

  —Library Journal

  “A fun, fast frolic on another metaphysical plane! The characters are fun and sexy.… A romance that will link your senses to the primitive side!”

  —The Literary Times

  “Classic sharp wit and unrivaled skill for creating captivating characters.”

  —Booklist

  “A scintillating foray into love in another place and time [with] the heady charm of a great romance.”

  —Romantic Times

  … and they are equally enamored of her irresistible page-turners written under her real name, the beloved New York Times bestselling author

  Jayne Ann Krentz

  “One of the hottest writers in romance today.”

  —USA Today

  Turn the page for more rave reviews!

  Praise for the sparkling contemporary romances of New York Times bestselling author

  Jayne Ann Krentz

  … “nobody does it better!”*

  “Krentz at her best… with the snappy dialogue that has become her trademark and a cast of characters you want to know personally.”

  —Sandra Brown

  “The phenomenal Jayne Ann Krentz once again delivers one of her patented storytelling gems.… Another guaranteed top-notch read.”

  —Romantic Times*

  “Absolutely sizzles.”

  —The State (Columbia, SC)

  “The inimitable Jayne Ann Krentz [is] always a consistent delight.… A winner.”

  —Rave Reviews

  “Krentz deftly mingles chilling danger and simmering sexual tension.”

  —Booklist

  “Fast, steamy, and wildly entertaining.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Psychic thrills and sharp wit.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “Entertaining and delightful.… This is romantic suspense at its most enjoyable, enhanced by Krentz’s trademark humor and quirky characters.”

  —Library Journal

  “Spicy.… Jayne Ann Krentz is one of the most talented authors writing romance fiction today.”

  —The Midwest Book Review

  “[Krentz] scores with a sexy thriller.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “A welcome escape into art-world intrigue.… A surprise ending caps this delightful mystery from a seasoned pro.”

  —People

  “One of the feistiest, most memorable heroines… Jayne Ann Krentz at her very best. Pure entertainment.”

  —Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  “A suspenseful and satisfying story that strikes a deep, human chord.”

  —Patricia Matthews

  Also by Jayne Ann Krentz

  Absolutely, Positively

  Deep Waters

  Eye of the Beholder

  Family Man

  Flash

  The Golden Chance

  Grand Passion

  Hidden Talents

  Perfect Partners

  Sharp Edges

  Silver Linings

  Sweet Fortune

  Trust Me

  Wildest Hearts

  Written under the name Jayne Castle

  Amaryllis

  Orchid

  Zinnia

  The sale of this book without its cover is unauthorized. If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that it was reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed.” Neither the author nor the publisher has received payment for the sale of this “stripped book.”

  Pocket Books

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1998 by Jayne Ann Krentz

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  First Pocket Books paperback edition May 1998

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  Illustration by Craig White.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6

  ISBN 978-0-6715-6902-0

  eISBN 978-1-4516-2403-8

  Prologue

  “Time is running out, Mr. Batt.” Rafe Stonebraker rose slowly from the massive, old-fashioned Later Expansion period chair. He was well aware of the effect his deliberate movement had on the man seated across from him.

  Batt did not exactly flinch but the dapper little man definitely tensed. “Running out?”

  “You’ve had three weeks to find me a wife. To date you have not produced a single possible match from your files. What seems to be the problem?”

  “With all due respect, Mr. Stonebraker, you are not the easiest person to match.” Hobart Batt produced a professional, placating smile but there was a cautious expression in his eyes. “I warned you when you first registered that it might take some time to find a suitable candidate.”

  “Synergistic Connections is supposed to be one of the most efficient matchmaking agencies in New Seattle.” Rafe stood looking down into the flames that flared in the cavernous fireplace. “You advertise that you have a success rate exceeding ninety percent. I expected better service from your firm, Mr. Batt.”

  “Mr. Stonebraker, I assure you, we are doing our best. The thing is—”

  “Yes?” Rafe turned his head to study Hobart’s earnest, anxious features. “Just what is the thing?”

  Hobart shifted uneasily under the scrutiny. He tweaked his pink bow tie and adjusted the sleeves of his expertly tailored pale gray suit jacket. “To be blunt, Mr. Stonebraker, your, shall we say, rather unique situation is proving to be a bit more difficult than I had anticipated. We face a number of serious challenges.”

  “I see. Are you saying that the resources of your matchmaking agency are not up to the task of finding me a wife?”

  Hobart’s neat brows came together in an offended line above the rims of his round, gold-framed glasses. “I assure you that we are doing everything possible to find a good match. But the combination of your rather unusual psychic talent and your somewhat rigid personal requirements constitutes a considerable stumbling block.”

  “When I registered you assured me that Synergistic Connections had established a reputation for its ability to match even unusual and rare high-class talents.” Unusual and rare were among the more polite descriptors for those such as himself whose paranormal abilities did not fit into the normal range, Rafe reflected. Exotic was the popular term. His jaw tightened. As if he was some sort of strange, wild beast from one of the still-unexplored continents of St. Helens, he thought.

  “Quite true, sir.”

>   “You saw my para-talent certification papers. I’m only a class six. Mid-range. I fail to see why I should be a problem for your firm.”

  The certification papers were frauds, of course. He’d had them prepared by an expert forger several years ago. It had cost him a great deal of money, but money had not been a problem. It was never a problem for him.

  Rafe made money the way a baker made cookies—easily, quickly, and efficiently. With his particular type of psychic talent it was no great trick to sit down in front of the computer, analyze the financial markets, and make decisions that produced quite predictable profits.

  He had commissioned the false certification papers because he had no intention of allowing himself to be formally tested in a syn-psych lab. Psychic talents were common in the population. Almost everyone had some degree of paranormal ability. But most people fell well within the conventional, measurable spectrum, which ranged from one to ten.

  The vast majority went to a lab to obtain an exact rating. Such testing was as routine as getting a driver’s license and took place at about the same time in life. The full degree of individual psychic talent did not mature until the late teens.

  Paranormal abilities had appeared early on in the small population of colonists stranded on the planet St. Helens two hundred years ago. Psychic powers took two general forms. The majority of the population fell into the category called talents, meaning that they possessed a specific type of paranormal power that could be actively used. There were illusion-talents, hypno-talents, horticultural-talents, diagnostic-talents, tech-talents, etc.

  The psychic energy that talents produced endowed them with a sixth sense. But unlike the other five senses, it could not be accessed except in brief, unpredictable, erratic bursts without the aid of a prism.

  Prisms comprised the second, smaller category of people with psychic abilities. In them, paranormal energy took a different form. Prisms possessed the ability to focus the powers of a talent for an extended length of time. The economics of the situation being what they were, trained, high-class prisms often made good money selling their focus services to talents who wished to use their paranormal senses in a controlled, predictable manner for a lengthy period.

  Neither talents nor prisms were distributed equally across the para-spectrum. The vast majority in both groups were bunched together in the lower and middle ranges. Very few people, talent or prism, possessed anything higher than a class-six level of psychic power.

  By the time he was fifteen, Rafe had figured out that his talent was not only exotic, but much stronger than the average. His parents, both academics who held tenured professorships at the University of New Seattle, were disappointed that he had not inherited their gifts for teaching and research. Instead he had been born with a full measure and then some of his grandfather’s rare para-sensitive strategic-awareness talent, commonly referred to as strat-talent.

  To further complicate matters, he was obviously more than a class ten, although it was impossible to tell just how much more as the lab instruments could not measure energy levels higher than class ten.

  Knowing the difficulties that lay ahead, his folks had urged him to conceal the full extent of his psychic abilities. Rafe had intuitively understood and complied. He did not need anyone to tell him that the strength of his paranormal powers placed him in the dark, unexplored regions that lay beyond the far end of the official psychic spectrum.

  Like the handful of other people he knew who had a higher than normal degree of para-talent, his instinct was to keep the fact a closely guarded secret.

  There was a name for people whose talent was so far off the charts that it could not be tested and quantified: psychic vampires.

  The experts claimed that there was no such thing as a psychic vampire, of course. Given that true, off-the-chart talents seldom, if ever, volunteered for testing and current lab equipment could not measure anything higher than a class-ten talent, anyway, no one seriously argued the point. The current state of technology had created a classic scientific impasse. As far as the researchers were concerned, what could not be detected or measured did not exist.

  But psychic vampires occupied a unique place in modern fiction and film. They were, after all, the stuff of legend. They fascinated and repelled. Rafe was well aware that books featuring handsome, sexy, super-talents who enslaved lovely, innocent prisms and forced said prisms to focus exclusively for them sold faster than iced coff-tea lattes in July.

  The reality, however, was that even class-ten talents had a difficult time getting a date for Saturday night. People respected high-end talents, some were even a bit awed by them. But almost everyone was a little wary of anyone who possessed an extremely high degree of para-talent, especially when that talent was a particularly rare type. Strong power, in any form, made intelligent people cautious.

  High-class talents were often difficult to match with a high probability of success. Exotic high-class talents were even more of a problem for matchmakers. Any talent who was fool enough to admit to possessing both an exotic talent coupled with an off-the-scale amount of psychic power would very likely have no sex life at all, Rafe reflected.

  His own love life had certainly been nothing to write home about lately and he had a set of phony certification papers to prove he was not a psychic vampire.

  “I must be frank, sir.” Hobart fiddled with his elegant gold cuff links. “It’s not the level of your psychic abilities which is causing the problem. As you say, a class six in most types of talents is well within the normal range.”

  “Then what, exactly, is the problem?”

  “It’s the, um, specific nature of your paranormal abilities which is making things a trifle awkward.”

  Rafe did not move. He gazed without speaking at Hobart until the syn-psych marriage counselor began to shift uneasily in his chair. A worried, vaguely desperate expression appeared in Hobart’s eyes. He glanced around as if expecting to see that someone—or perhaps something—else had entered the room.

  Rafe knew that a hunted feeling had just come over Hobart. A primal kind of wariness and the beginnings of the sort of fearful awareness that made the hair stir on the nape of the neck.

  Rafe sighed and doused the small flash of psychic energy. It was a stupid parlor trick, but it worked every time. He supposed he ought to be ashamed of himself for using it on the hapless Hobart.

  He watched Hobart relax and smiled slightly.

  “I know that there are not a lot of strat-talents around,” Rafe said. “But you assured me that you specialized in matching rare talents, Batt.”

  “Unfortunately,” Hobart said earnestly, “It’s proving to be more of a hurdle than I had anticipated. Perhaps my recent successes with unusual talents made me somewhat overconfident. The problem is that most folks have only a vague notion of what a strat-talent is. I’m afraid that the general impression that most people have of talents such as yourself is not a reassuring one.”

  “Are you saying that my para-profile is scaring off potential wives?”

  “To be blunt, yes. I’m afraid that, although you are well within normal power ranges, you are considered something of an exotic, sir. I’m sorry to use the term, but there it is.”

  Rafe gazed deeply into the fire. “There are worse terms for exotics who happen to be strat-talents.”

  Hobart pursed his lips. “Yes, I know.”

  Primitive was one of them, Rafe thought. Another popular epithet was throwback.

  He did not need Hobart to spell out the details of his problem. Para-sensitive strategic-awareness talent was believed to be a para-heightened version of ancient human hunting instincts. Strat-talents were perceived to be natural hunters who could, in essence, think like the quarry.

  Many people, experts included, privately considered strat-talents to be paranormal throwbacks to the evolutionary past. The psychic energy they possessed was more synergistically linked to the basic senses—sight, smell, hearing, touch—than were other forms of para-tale
nt. At least that was the theory.

  Primitive. Rafe had learned to hate that word.

  There was a commonly held belief that, due to the unsophisticated nature of their paranormal power, strat-talents faced a limited job market. A lot of people assumed that they generally pursued criminal careers.

  The misconception was true as far as it went. But in reality strong strat-talents also tended to do spectacularly well in business. Their unique abilities allowed them to assess markets and the competition the way their primitive, earthbound ancestors had once assessed herds of large woolly beasts. A little nudge here, a small, judicious push there and the first thing you know you’ve got a whole bunch of large woolly beasts floundering helplessly in a swamp or dashing headlong over a cliff. Easy prey.

  Rafe knew that he and his kind had a reputation for being ruthless. He preferred to think of himself as simply single-minded.

  Hobart regarded him with a direct, not unsympathetic gaze. “I’m afraid the process of finding a good match for you is going to take a lot longer than I originally estimated, Mr. Stonebraker.”

  Rafe raised his brows. “Because most of the potential matches assume that I’ve got criminal inclinations?”

  “I have done all of the appropriate background checks on you, sir. I will not hesitate to assure all potential candidates that you display no deviant or antisocial tendencies.”

  “I appreciate that, Batt.”

  Hobart appeared oblivious of the sarcasm. “The commonly held conviction that strat-talents frequently turn to crime is only one of the more unfortunate bits of conventional wisdom we must overcome. There is another popular myth which is equally difficult to dispel.”

  Rafe narrowed his eyes. “Five hells. Are you referring to that old notion about strat-talents being human lie detectors?”

  “Well, yes, since you mention it.”

  “That’s bat-snake shit and you know it.”

  Hobart winced. “Yes, Mr. Stonebraker, I am aware of that. However—”

  “It’s a complete misunderstanding of the nature of strat-talent. Probably left over from the days before the syn-psych experts had perfected their paranormal testing methods.”