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Mind Over Matter: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down
Nora Roberts
THE INTERNATIONAL BESTSELLING AUTHOR‘The most successful novelist on Planet Earth’ Washington PostTheatrical agent Aurora Fields has always kept her personal life separate from her professional one, but that changes the moment she meets David Brady.David can tell that Aurora’s icy exterior is just a front, and he’s determined to discover what secrets she’s hiding. Men like David have never been an issue for Aurora before; she’s usually immune to their charms. So what is it about David that leaves her heart reeling?Nora Roberts is a publishing phenomenon; this New York Times bestselling author of over 200 novels has more than 450 million of her books in print worldwide.Praise for Nora Roberts‘A storyteller of immeasurable diversity and talent’ Publisher’s Weekly‘You can’t bottle wish fulfilment, but Nora Roberts certainly knows how to put it on the page.’ New York Times‘Everything Nora Roberts writes turns to gold.’Romantic Times.‘Roberts’ bestselling novels are… thoughtfully plotted, well-written stories featuring fascinating characters.’ USA Today
Mind Over Matter
Nora Roberts
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Theatrical agent Aurora Fields kept her personal life strictly separate from her professional one, but lines were crossed the moment she met David Brady. He had asked her client to participate in his documentary on paranormal phenomena. Aurora agreed, but she stayed on hand to protect the woman from exploitation as fiercely as a mother tigress.
Somehow David saw that Aurora's tough self-image was a little soft around the edges, and he was determined to discover what she was trying to hide. He'd always considered himself a good judge of people, so why did each moment he spent with Aurora leave her as enigmatic—and enticing—as before?
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
1
He’d expected a crystal ball, pentagrams and a few tea leaves. Burning candles and incense wouldn’t have surprised him. Though he wouldn’t admit it to anyone, he’d actually looked forward to it. As a producer of documentaries for public television, David Brady dealt in hard facts and meticulous research. Anything and everything that went into one of his productions was checked and rechecked, most often personally. The truth was, he’d thought an afternoon with a fortune teller would bring him a refreshing, even comic, relief from the daily pressure of scripts, storyboards and budgets. She didn’t even wear a turban.
The woman who opened the door of the comfortable suburban home in Newport Beach looked as though she would more likely be found at a bridge table than a séance. She smelled of lilacs and dusting powder, not musk and mystery. David’s impression that she was housekeeper or companion to the renowned psychic was immediately disabused.
“Hello.” She offered a small, attractive hand and a smile. “I’m Clarissa DeBasse. Please come in, Mr. Brady. You’re right on time.”
“Miss DeBasse.” David adjusted his thinking and accepted her hand. He’d done enough research so far to be prepared for the normalcy of people involved in the paranormal. “I appreciate your seeing me. Should I wonder how you know who I am?”
As their hands linked, she let impressions of him come and go, to be sorted out later. Intuitively she felt he was a man she could trust and rely on. It was enough for the moment. “I could claim precognition, but I’m afraid it’s simple logic. You were expected at one-thirty.” Her agent had called to remind her, or Clarissa would still be knee-deep in her vegetable garden. “I suppose it’s possible you’re carrying brushes and samples in that briefcase, but I have the feeling it’s papers and contracts. Now I’m sure you’d like some coffee after your drive down from L.A.”
“Right again.” He stepped into a cozy living room with pretty blue curtains and a wide couch that sagged noticeably in the middle.
“Sit down, Mr. Brady. I just brought the tray out, so the coffee’s hot.”
Deciding the couch was unreliable, David chose a chair and waited while Clarissa sat across from him and poured coffee into two mismatched cups and saucers. It took him only a moment to study and analyze. He was a man who leaned heavily on first impressions. She looked, as she offered cream and sugar, like anyone’s favorite aunt—rounded without being really plump, neat without being stiff. Her face was soft and pretty and had lined little in fifty-odd years. Her pale blond hair was cut stylishly and showed no gray, which David attributed to her hairdresser. She was entitled to her vanity, he thought. When she offered the cup, he noted the symphony of rings on her hands. That, at least, was in keeping with the image he had projected.
“Thank you. Miss DeBasse, I have to tell you, you’re not at all what I expected.”
Comfortable with herself, she settled back. “You were expecting me to greet you at the door with a crystal ball in my hands and a raven on my shoulder.”
The amusement in her eyes would have had some men shifting in their chairs. David only lifted a brow. “Something like that.” He sipped his coffee. The fact that it was hot was the only thing going for it. “I’ve read quite a bit about you in the past few weeks. I also saw a tape of your appearance on The Barrow Show.” He probed gently for the right phrasing. “You have a different image on camera.”
“That’s showbiz,” she said so casually he wondered if she was being sarcastic. Her eyes remained clear and friendly. “I don’t generally discuss business, particularly at home, but since it seemed important that you see me, I thought we’d be more comfortable this way.” She smiled again, showing the faintest of dimples in her cheeks. “I’ve disappointed you.”
“No.” And he meant it. “No, you haven’t.” Because his manners went only so far, he put the coffee down. “Miss DeBasse—”
“Clarissa.” She beamed such a bright smile at him he had no trouble returning it.
“Clarissa, I want to be honest with you.”
“Oh, that’s always best.” Her voice was soft and sincere as she folded her hands on her lap.
“Yeah.” The childlike trust in her eyes threw him for a moment. If she was a hard-edged, money-oriented con, she was doing a good job disguising it. “I’m a very practical man. Psychic phenomena, clairvoyance, telepathy and that sort of thing, don’t fit into my day-to-day life.”
She only smiled at him, understanding. Whatever thoughts came into her head remained there. This time David did shift in his chair.
“I decided to do this series on parapsychology mainly for its entertainment value.”
“You don’t have to apologize.” She lifted her hand just as a large black cat leaped into her lap. Without looking at it, Clarissa stroked it from head to tail. “You see, David, someone in my position understands perfectly the doubts and the fascination people have for…such things. I’m not a radical.” As the cat curled up in her lap, she continued to pet it, looking calm and content. “I’m simply a person who’s been given a gift, and a certain responsibility.”
“A responsibility?” He started to reach in his pocket for his cigarettes, then noticed there were no ashtrays.
“Oh, yes.” As she spoke, Clarissa opened the drawer of the coffee table and took out a small blue dish. “You can use this,” she said in passing, then settled back again. “A young boy might receive a toolbox for his birthday. It’s a gift. He has choices to make. He can use his new tools to learn, to build, to repair. He can also use them to saw the legs off tables. He could also put the toolbox in his closet and forget about it. A great many of us do the last, because the tools are too complicated or simply too overwhelming. Have you ever had a psychic experience, David?”
He lit a cigarette. “No.”
“No?” There weren’t many people who would give such a definitive no. “Never a sense of déjà vu, perhaps?”
He paused a moment, interested. “I suppose everyone’s had a sense of doing something before, being somewhere before. A feeling of mixed signals.”
“Perhaps. Intuition, then.”
“You consider intuition a psychic gift?”
“Oh, yes.” Enthusiasm lit her face and made her eyes young. “Of course it depends entirely on how it’s developed, how it’s channeled, how it’s used. Most of us use only a fraction of what we have because our minds are so crowded with other things.”
“Was it impulse that led you to Matthew Van Camp?”
A shutter seemed to come down over her eyes. “No.”
Again he found her puzzling. The Van Camp case was the one that had brought her prominently into the public eye. He would have thought she would have been anxious to speak of it, elaborate, yet she seemed to close down at the mention of the name. David blew out smoke and noticed that the cat was watching him with bored but steady eyes. “Clarissa, the Van Camp case is ten years old, but it’s still one of the most celebrated and controversial of your successes.”
“That’s true. Matthew is twenty now. A very handsome young man.”
“There are some who believe he’d be dead if Mrs. Van Camp hadn’t fought both her husband and the police to have you brought in on the kidnapping.”
“And there are some who believe the entire thing was staged for publicity,” she said so calmly as she sipped from her cup. “Alice Van Camp’s next movie was quite a box-office success. Did you see the film? It was wonderful.”
He wasn’t a man to be eased off-track when he’d already decided on a destination. “Clarissa, if you agree to be part of this documentary, I’d like you to talk about the Van Camp case.”
She frowned a bit, pouted almost, as she petted her cat. “I don’t know if I can help you there, David. It was a very traumatic experience for the Van Camps, very traumatic. Bringing it all up again could be painful for them.”
He hadn’t reached his level of success without knowing how and when to negotiate. “If the Van Camps agreed?”
“Oh, then that’s entirely different.” While she considered, the cat stirred in her lap, then began to purr loudly. “Yes, entirely different. You know, David, I admire your work. I saw your documentary on child abuse. It was gripping and very upsetting.”
“It was meant to be.”
“Yes, exactly.” She could have told him a great deal of the world was upsetting, but didn’t think he was ready to understand how she knew, and how she dealt with it. “What is it you’re looking for with this?”
“A good show.” When she smiled he was sure he’d been right not to try to con her. “One that’ll make people think and question.”
“Will you?”
He tapped out his cigarette. “I produce. How much I question I suppose depends on you.”
It seemed like not only the proper answer, but the truest one. “I like you, David. I think I’d like to help you.”
“I’m glad to hear that. You’ll want to look over the contract and—”
“No.” She cut him off as he reached for his briefcase. “Details.” She explained them away with a gesture of her hand. “I let my agent bother with those things.”
“Fine.” He’d feel more comfortable discussing terms with an agent. “I’ll send them over if you give me a name.”
“The Fields Agency in Los Angeles.”
She’d surprised him again. The comfortable auntlike lady had one of the most influential and prestigious agencies on the Coast. “I’ll have them sent over this afternoon. I’d enjoy working with you, Clarissa.”
“May I see your palm?”
Every time he thought he had her cataloged, she shifted on him. Still, humoring her was easy. David offered his hand. “Am I going to take an ocean voyage?”
She was neither amused nor offended. Though she took his hand, palm up, she barely glanced at it. Instead she studied him with eyes that seemed abruptly cool. She saw a man in his early thirties, attractive in a dark, almost brooding way despite the well-styled black hair and casually elegant clothes. The bones in his face were strong, angular enough to warrant a second glance. His brows were thick, as black as his hair, and dominated surprisingly quiet eyes. Or their cool, pale green appeared quiet at first glance. She saw a mouth that was firm, full enough to gain a woman’s attention. The hand in hers was wide, long fingered, artistic. It vied with a rangy, athletic build. But she saw beyond that.
“You’re a very strong man, physically, emotionally, intellectually.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh, I don’t flatter, David.” It was a gentle, almost maternal reproof. “You haven’t yet learned how to temper this strength with tenderness in your relationships. I suppose that’s why you’ve never married.”
She had his attention now, reluctantly. But he wasn’t wearing a ring, he reminded himself. And anyone who cared to find out about his marital status had only to make a few inquiries. “The standard response is I’ve never met the right woman.”
“In this case it’s perfectly true. You need to find someone every bit as strong as you are. You will, sooner than you think. It won’t be easy, of course, and it will only work between you if you both remember the tenderness I just spoke of.”
“So I’m going to meet the right woman, marry and live happily ever after?”
“I don’t tell the future, ever.” Her expression changed again, becoming placid. “And I only read palms of people who interest me. Shall I tell you what my intuition tells me, David?”
“Please.”
“That you and I are going to have an interesting and long-term relationship.” She patted his hand before she released it. “I’m going to enjoy that.”
“So am I.” He rose. “I’ll see you again, Clarissa.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” She rose and nudged the cat onto the floor. “Run along now, Mordred.”
“Mordred?” David repeated as the cat jumped up to settle himself on the sagging sofa cushion.
“Such a sad figure in folklore,” Clarissa explained. “I always felt he got a bad deal. After all, we can’t escape our destiny, can we?”
For the second time David felt her cool, oddly intimate gaze on him. “I suppose not,” he murmured, and let her lead him to the door.
“I’ve so enjoyed our chat, David. Please come back again.”
David stepped out into the warm spring air and wondered why he felt certain he would.
“Of course he’s an excellent producer, Abe. I’m just not sure he’s right for Clarissa.”
A. J. Fields paced around her office in the long, fluid gait that always masked an overflow of nervous energy. She stopped to straighten a picture that was slightly tilted before she turned back to her associate. Abe Ebbitt was sitting with his hands folded on his round belly, as was his habit. He didn’t bother to push back the glasses that had fallen down his nose. He watched A.J. patiently before he reached up to scratch one of the two clumps of hair on either side of his head.
“A.J., the offer is very generous.”
“She doesn’t need the money.”
His agent’s blood shivered at the phrase, but he continued to speak calmly. “The exposure.”
“Is it the right kind of exposure?”
“You’re too protective of Clarissa, A.J.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” she countered. Abruptly she stopped, and sat on the corner of her desk. When Abe saw her brows draw together, he fell silent. He might speak to her when she was in this mood, but she wouldn’t answer. He respected and admired her. Those were the reasons he, a veteran Hollywood agent, was working for the Fields Agency, instead of carving up the town on his own. He was old enough to be her father, and realized that a decade before their roles would have been reversed. The fact that he worked for her didn’t bother him in the least. The best, he was fond of saying, never minded answering to the best. A minute passed, then two.
“She’s made up her mind to do it,” A.J. muttered, but again Abe remained silent. “I just—” Have a feeling, she thought. She hated to use that phrase. “I just hope it isn’t a mistake. The wrong director, the wrong format, and she could be made to look like a fool. I won’t have that, Abe.”
“You’re not giving Clarissa enough credit. You know better than to let your emotions color a business deal, A.J.”
“Yeah, I know better.” That’s why she was the best. A.J. folded her arms and reminded herself of it. She’d learned at a very young age how to channel emotion. It had been more than necessary; it had been vital. When you grew up in a house where your widowed mother often forgot little details like the mortgage payment, you learned how to deal with business in a businesslike way or you went under. She was an agent because she enjoyed the wheeling and dealing. And because she was damn good at it. Her Century City office with its lofty view of Los Angeles was proof of just how good. Still, she hadn’t gotten there by making deals blindly.
