DANGEROUS, Collection #1, Page 2

  Keelin read Gran's words yet again.

  Within thirty-three days after your thirty-third birthday...

  Not even two weeks to go.

  And the reference to dreams reminded her of the one she'd had the night before.

  Act selflessly in another's behalf...

  Keelin swept away a nagging guilt. This was different than the last time, she assured herself. Different from all the others. She didn't know these eyes she saw through. They belonged to a stranger in a strange place. Therefore, she had no control.

  Perhaps this dream had been just that, she thought desperately. A dream rather than one of her dreaded night terrors. Keelin considered. A young woman running away – and her off to America. Of course. That had to be the thing.

  Had to be.

  THE CITY WAS ALWAYS A SCARY PLACE. At night, it was even worse, overflowing with menacing people. Raggedy homeless with blank stares. Uniformed policemen with too sharp gazes. Billed-capped gang members with hot, hungry eyes.

  The stuff nightmares were made of.

  She wasn't very brave, but she forced herself to continue on. Hands stuffed into pockets, head down so she wouldn't have to look at anyone, she rushed east along Monroe Street, taking the bridge over the railroad yard. One foot in front of the other.

  Left. Right. Left. Right.

  Music beckoned her like a Pied Piper.

  Almost there. Almost there.

  She hurried across the edge of the lawn, dodging a hand-holding couple. Skirting a bag woman leaning against her shopping cart of belongings. Losing herself at the back of a crowd of middle-aged people with their fancy fold-up chairs, lit candles and glasses of fine wine.

  In the distance stood Navy Pier with its giant Ferris wheel a lit beacon. She turned. Bandshell and illuminated city skyline before her, she slumped to the grass. Winded.

  Afraid. Always afraid.

  Tears flooded her eyes, but she slashed them away. She'd had no choice. She had to make the best of it.

  How long?

  She tried concentrating on the music, but it was classical stuff like he played. Liszt, she thought. Why that? Anything else would have been better. Anything not a reminder...

  She closed her eyes, covered her mouth and rocked. She could see him – dark hair swept across his brow, pale blue eyes sparkling as he laughed with her, hugged her tight.

  Lies. All lies.

  The enormity of what she'd done hit her suddenly and she began to shake inside. It took all her willpower not to scream. Not to get up in front of all these people and beg for help. They would only make her go back.

  Blindly, she reached for her bracelet. Fingers twined through the leather strands. Traced one charm, then another. Their familiar touch calmed her. With great effort, she settled herself down. Took deep breaths. Told herself everything was going to be all right.

  Then the voice behind her saying, "There you are!" made her jerk, setting the charms to tinkling and her whirling around so fast something flew from her fingers and her head spun...

  HEAD SPINNING, KEELIN SAT STRAIGHT UP IN HER SEAT, her body covered in a light sweat. For a moment, she was dazed. Disoriented. Until Liszt faded into the drone of jet engines and she realized she was on the plane to Chicago.

  Another dream. The same eyes. The same fear.

  Fear that she could taste as if it were her own.

  She trembled inside at haunting memories. At old guilt. At her inability to act when it counted. Now it was happening again...but this time she didn't know who.

  Dear God, no. Not again.

  Surely she couldn't be held responsible for yet another life.

  Chicago

  "I'M IMPRESSED. YOU REALLY CAME all the way from Ireland for the sole purpose of talking my father and Aunt Rose into visiting the old sod for a reunion?"

  Keelin stared across a slick black lacquered desk scattered with folders and videotapes. Her cousin Skelly McKenna, oldest child of Raymond, leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. She searched his expression for any trace of mockery, but he seemed genuinely impressed.

  "Da almost died, and in his sickbed admitted he wished to see his brother and sister again. I'm certain if the situations were reversed, you would do the same for your father."

  Skelly laughed, the sound tinged with bitterness. "My father would never say such a thing to me. He and I are not exactly what you would call close."

  Not exactly what Keelin wanted to hear. "Are you telling me you won't help?"

  "Not at all. But I am telling you that I don't have a lot of influence with Dad." Skelly rose and paced the spacious office, outfitted with more black lacquered furniture and a couple of overstuffed black love seats. The only color in the room came from the Oriental carpet and a few well-placed pieces of art work on the walls. "My sister Aileen, on the other hand, continues to charm the socks off the old man, and I'm sure we can enlist her aid when Dad gets back from Washington."

  Raymond McKenna being a U.S. Congressman from Chicago.

  Relief swept through Keelin. "I dreaded doing this alone."

  "Hey, cous, I'll do whatever I can for the cause," Skelly said with a wicked smile that dimpled one cheek.

  Keelin started. "Grandad."

  "What?"

  "Your smile...you reminded me of him just then."

  "That's right. You knew old Seamus."

  "That I did."

  And with his black hair, blue eyes, that smile, dimple and all...Skelly looked exactly like a young Seamus McKenna.

  "You knew Moira pretty well, too, right?" Skelly asked, settling a hip on the edge of his desk.

  "Of course."

  "Was she...okay just before she died? I mean here." He tapped his forehead.

  Putting Keelin on edge. The spacious office suddenly seemed to close in on her. "Gran was the wisest woman I ever had the privilege to know," she informed him stiffly. "And that, until the day she died."

  "Well, after she died, I got this strange letter..."

  "Ah, the legacy." She relaxed.

  "You know about it, then?"

  "I received the letter, as well, as did my brother and sister. I believe she wrote what was in her heart for each of her nine grandchildren because her own children had acted so unwisely."

  "Nicely put," he said, a cynical note in his tone.

  And why shouldn't he be a bit cynical? Keelin thought. An anchor for The Whole Story, a televised tabloid news show, Skelly reported stories that often laid open people's terrible secrets for all to dissect. Though she didn't care for tabloid journalism herself, neither televised nor print, Keelin was not about to judge this cousin she'd just met. Who knew what road had brought him to his place in life?

  "You'll have to tell me more about Moira later," Skelly said, rising. "But at the moment, I need to get to make-up. I'm taping this afternoon's show in a quarter of an hour."

  "Well, then." Keelin stood. "I'm at the Hotel Clareton–"

  "Hey, I'm not chasing you out. Stay and watch the telecast. We'll do lunch."

  Do lunch? Realizing Skelly meant they should eat together, Keelin thought Americans certainly had some unusual ways of expressing themselves.

  "You're certain I wouldn't be in the way?"

  "You're too polite to get in anyone's way."

  So, a short while later, Keelin found herself sitting in a back corner of the busy control room. Having lived a simple life mostly close to the land, she was a bit intimidated by all the technology and the fast pace that was part of Skelly's world. Looking through the plate glass window to the studio, she could see technicians adjusting lighting and sound equipment. In the control room, others talked over headphones, while images flashed across the monitors, some at double speed.

  One particular image caught her interest. A man's face filled the screen. His features were handsome, strong, magnetic, his expression intense. From the pale eyes looking out at her as he spoke – the sound was down, so she couldn't hear his words – Keelin sensed both strength
and heartbreaking emotion. She couldn't tear her gaze from the monitor, and so when the next image flashed across the small screen, she felt as if she were suddenly sucked inside.

  A young girl, barely a teenager, her light brown hair flying around her pretty face.

  Something about the girl... Keelin felt a strong connection.

  Then the monitor went blank.

  And Keelin sat staring, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the raucous voices in the booth.

  She didn't know how long she sat there in stunned silence, mind spinning away. It couldn't be. She was in denial as the show began. Teasers introduced the day's stories, but the words didn't mean anything to Keelin until the girl's image multiplied on several monitors.

  "... and then we have a story we see every day," Skelly intoned in an authoritative voice. "Teenagers vanishing from their homes. But did Cheryl Leighton run away as the police report indicates, or was she the victim of foul play as her father, real estate magnate Tyler Leighton, wants us to believe?"

  Sitting through the first two stories and myriad commercials of the half-hour program was the most difficult twenty minutes Keelin ever spent. She kept telling herself she was mistaken. There could be no connection. She'd imagined it.

  But Cheryl Leighton had disappeared...and her dream had been of a runaway, the setting some unknown American city.

  On edge, she watched footage of the girl and her father at some kind of building christening ceremony, as Skelly explained, "Two nights ago, fourteen year old Cheryl Leighton disappeared from the North Bluff home she shared with her widowed father. So far in the investigation, the police have turned up no evidence of foul play."

  Then, before that same home, a mansion on a bluff overlooking the lake, her father spoke to the camera. "Cheryl wouldn't have run away," Tyler Leighton insisted. "She had no reason. She was a happy kid. A normal kid. She wasn't involved in gangs or drugs. We had a great relationship. We never even fought."

  But a flash of something unsettling in his pale blue eyes put a lie to those words, Keelin thought. Something he wasn't saying.

  Why did he do it? Why? Now that I know, everything is ruined...

  Fragments of the dreams whirled through Keelin's head. She replayed them to the best of her ability. In her mind, the girl was fiddling with her bracelet, taking succor from the familiar sound of the tinkling charms, when Keelin caught sight of the very same bracelet on the monitor. Her eyes widened as the proof transfixed her.

  Then his image returned to the screen. The father. The reason the girl had run.

  "All I want is my daughter back," he was saying grimly. "Home and safe. I'll do anything to make that happen."

  And Keelin realized she would do anything, as well. This couldn't turn out like the last time. Dear God, she would never be able to live with herself if something desperate happened to Cheryl Leighton.

  But how to go about finding her?

  Putting her trust in a cousin who had no idea of what he was dealing with, she cornered Skelly directly after the taping, insisted they return to the privacy of his office where they could talk without being overheard.

  The moment the door was closed behind them, she said, "I know you'll find this hard to believe, but I have a connection to the Leighton girl."

  "What kind of a connection?"

  "The kind I sometimes get through a dream."

  "A dream," he echoed, settling a hip on the edge of his desk.

  She'd seen that look before. Mocking disbelief. Not that she could blame him. Pacing to assuage her nerves, she told Skelly what she had to. Only the minimum. Not the details of her worst night terrors. She focused on the current situation, briefly capsulizing both incidents.

  "In the past, the dreams have always been connected to someone I knew or at least met," Keelin then told him. "This was different. I thought maybe it was just a simple dream because I had no idea of who the girl was. Or where she was, for that matter. Now I know the big American-looking city in the second dream obviously is Chicago, because Cheryl Leighton is the girl." She indicated her wrist. "That unusual bracelet she was wearing in the news footage...I saw it twice before."

  Unable to discern if Skelly believed her or not, she tensely waited for his reaction.

  That he said "You know this sounds absurd" didn't thrill her.

  "The dreams are not something I asked for or want, Skelly...no more than Gran did. It's part of her inheritance...at least for me."

  He scowled. "Dad did say something about his mother being considered a bit fey."

  "You don't have to believe, Skelly. Just help me. Help Cheryl Leighton."

  "If you really know something that'll help find her, you should go to the police."

  "No authorities." Once was enough. She shuddered, remembering the consequences. "I've had a bad experience with that," was all she would say, though.

  "What, then?"

  "First, help me get to Tyler Leighton."

  Skelly was thoughtful. "That's do-able. He runs L&O Realty." Then his expression grew shrewd. "I tell you what. I'll make you a deal. I help you get whatever information you need...then you help me. We find the Leighton girl and I get the exclusive. We can do a whole program on this case and your abilities–"

  "No!"

  "No?"

  "Absolutely not!" Keelin could hardly believe what he was suggesting. "I won't be paraded before your countrymen like some kind of freak."

  "Not a freak. A sensation. Talk-show hosts will be clamoring for you–"

  "No," Keelin repeated, more calmly this time. "I won't let you exploit something that even I don't fully understand." Intending to leave, she moved toward the door. "I'll find Tyler Leighton on my own."

  Skelly put an arm out to stop her. "All right. I didn't mean to upset you." He sounded sincere when he said, "I'll help you in any way I can. No strings. If you change your mind, though–"

  "I won't."

  He nodded. "We'll see."

  Making Keelin think her American cousin was possibly the most cynical man on earth.

  Chapter Two

  TYLER LEIGHTON WAS ABOUT TO ENTER HIS BUILDING on north Clark Street after a late lunch that he'd barely touched, when he heard the rumble of his name. He glanced over his shoulder to see Nate Feldman, his chief business competitor, having exited a chauffeured limousine at the corner, rush in his direction. In contrast to his exclusive designer suit, manicured nails and styled hair – or what he had left of it, for the man was balding fast – the ever-present stinking cigar stuck between his thin lips reflected Feldman's true nature as far as Tyler was concerned.

  "Slumming?" he asked, for at a recent social event, Tyler had heard Feldman disparage his location to potential customers. Feldman's office was in the Gold Coast, a real estate mini-step-up from Lincoln Park West.

  Without removing the cigar, the man slurred, "Hey, what sort of greeting is that for an old friend."

  Never, in any stretch of the imagination, would Tyler consider them friends. And he didn't need this aggravation on top of the worry eating him. The only reason he was working at all was because couldn't figure out a damn thing he could do personally to get his daughter back. He was working so that he wouldn't go crazy. Not that he was doing a great job of it. He swore every minute Cheryl was missing took a day off his life.

  "What's on your mind, Feldman?"

  "I wanted to congratulate you on getting the Uptown job."

  Tyler's company had recently been awarded the management of a classic movie theater of the thirties that had been boarded up for decades. During its coming renovation, the building would retain its architectural integrity while being transformed into a multi-usage arts space. Feldman had bid for the management, as well, but had lost out to L&O Realty because of Tyler's personal vision for the place. Again. And Nate Feldman hated to lose at anything, Tyler knew.

  He said, "That's big of you," and waited for the man's real motivation in seeking him out.

  With a show of exaggeration,
Feldman finally removed the cigar and issued a warning. "You won't be so lucky with the North Michigan Avenue project."

  Ah, there it was. And some said he was a cynical devil. Tyler merely considered himself realistic. "Do you know something I don't? Or is it someone?"

  "Maybe I do, and maybe I don't," his competitor said with a feral grin. "What I have doesn't matter so much, though, when you're tied up in that nasty lawsuit over the Wicker Park incident. That changes the balance of things, doesn't it? Let's just say I have the upper hand on this one."

  Tightening his jaw – how could Feldman call the death of a kid an incident? – Tyler said, "I'm forewarned then."

  "That's the idea."

  "But, if you don't mind, I'll hold my congratulations until it's a done deal."

  "Hold anything you want, for all I care. How about your breath?" Laughing at his own crude humor, Feldman stuck the cigar back in his mouth and signaled the limousine driver. "No holds barred on this one, Leighton. Don't say I didn't warn you."

  Tyler didn't wait until the man crept back into his extravagant lair. He immediately entered the first floor offices of L&O, from which prime real estate was sold and luxury apartments and townhouses were rented. He felt all eyes on him as he made his way to the stairs. Worried eyes. Eyes filled with pity.

  Cheryl, baby, where are you?

  The agonizing question followed him to the second floor that held his private office as well as that of his partner Brock Olander and their administrative assistants. Brock oversaw the sales and rental part of the business, while Tyler headed the building management end. Alma, their receptionist, was nowhere to be seen, and Tyler figured she must be running an errand. He stopped to scan her desk for any messages...anything about his daughter. Nothing. Maybe on his desk...

  Hopeful, he was on his way to check when he noticed a woman rising from a chair in the waiting area. "Mr. Leighton?"

  The soft voice stopped him cold. He gave her a quick once-over – a cloud of shoulder-length dark auburn hair, clear gray eyes, delicate if ordinary features – all unfamiliar to him. All appealing. Something about her spelled fresh. Innocent. Maybe the loose flower-print dress that skimmed her slim body, topping ankle boots and bright green cuffed socks. Definitely not professional apparel.