Gypsy Hunted: a psychic paranormal book with a touch of romance (The Gypsy Medium Series 1) Read online

  Gypsy Hunted

  The Hunter knows where you live

  by

  Andrea Drew

  www.andreadrewauthor.com

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

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with.

  Copyright © 2014 Andrea Drew. All rights reserved. Including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author.

  Version 2014.10.02

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  THE ADVENTURE CONTINUES . . .

  DEDICATION

  To my three children, for putting life in perspective and loving me, especially when I least deserved it.

  To Stephen, for giving me the support I needed to write this.

  To my Father Eric, for never giving up on my writing dreams, even when I did.

  To Eve, my writing buddy, for brainstorming with me and helping me give birth to my first Gypsy child.

  And for Pete Godfrey, the wizard of words, for inserting a (metaphorical) rocket up my butt when I really needed it

  “No one can tell, when two people walk closely together, what unconscious communication one mind may have with another”

  ― Robert Barr, AUTHOR

  Authors Note:

  Although the book is set in Melbourne, Australia, it was written with a view to release on amazon.com primarily for the US market.

  For this reason, I have used US spelling.

  I hope my readers from Australia and the UK will enjoy the story enough to forgive me.

  1

  What would you do if you witnessed a kidnapping and found yourself suddenly unable to tell anyone about it? What would you do if the kidnapper was someone that you loved?

  *****

  On the night I met Connor Reardon, I had barely an instinct, just a hunch, a mere fluttering in the stomach and a warm delicious rush in my chest. I had no idea of what was to come. Of course, none of us knows what’s around the corner, not even me, and if I had known, I might have run for the hills. After all, I’m a telepath, not a damn fortuneteller.

  It was pitched to me as a casual get together, but something was off. I saw through Chloe’s forced off-the-cuff description of the night out. They were setting me up with a random guy. Despite my doubts, I was nervous and had been planning the night out since yesterday. My yellow post it notes that were stuck across the refrigerator in an even line, reassured me that nothing would be forgotten. Oven and cupboards reminded me to check the toaster, heater, and iron, which I had done twice.

  I bounced on my toes as I checked my reflection in the mirror. My lipstick didn’t seem to be smudged or bleeding and the eye make-up was staying put. I reconsidered my outfit. I’d gone for the classy look, black slim line jeans, dark tailored waistcoat, and a chiffon shirt underneath, sleeves billowing. Cleavage and legs were covered. No time to change now. My nerves were jangling, but then I’d only gotten five hours sleep the night before. I checked my watch again and realized that if I didn’t get moving, I’d be late. What felt like a minute, was actually half an hour, and if I didn’t get a wiggle on, then my dramatic entrance would be humiliating rather than grand. So, the time had come to get my butt out the door.

  As my feet hit the street, I headed off uncertainly. My heels connected with the footpath and I concentrated on not wrenching an ankle. I took a deep breath of the crisp, chilly air, and glanced up as my breath formed globules of mist in front of my face. I blinked and quickened my steps to make up some lost time.

  I rubbed my hands down my designer jeans as I noticed my car at the curb−as yet virgin and undriven. Other than Chloe, I hadn’t admitted to anyone that I’d spent a fortune on it as motivation to start driving lessons, finally. The driving itself wasn’t the problem, more the idea of some lunatic smashing me to smithereens.

  As the wind bit into my skin and made my eyes water, I braced. I bowed my head in a vain attempt to buffer the impact and pulled my purple jacket tighter. Despite the large amount of hair spray I’d put in it, my brown hair was blowing across my face, so I pulled up the hood to keep it in check.

  Chloe knew I didn’t like going out on cold nights. She told me over and over that I should get out more. Granted, I had a track record of not showing up sometimes, but this was winter. I worked from home and had my little world set up there—laptop, heater, stereo, and TV.

  As I reached a crossroads, I turned right. The neon signs shone from a couple of hundred meters away. Although I lived so close to the iconic restaurant strip, I very rarely dined there. A table setting for one represented the epitome of all that was ultimate loneliness, and I didn’t want to be reminded that I’d split with Mark ten months earlier. I’d mistakenly thought, no, I’d known with a certainty that he was the love of my life. After our break up, I learned from the good old grapevine that he’d replaced me within weeks. Adding to my heartbreak, was the knowledge that I’d been the love of his year, not his life.

  Deep in thought, I heard the clop of shoes ahead. A woman with short brown hair, which flopped across her forehead, came toward me, with head down and hands around her waist. She reminded me of Leah. The lamplight reflected off her cheekbones, which were a slightly different angle than Leah, but her hair was similar, as was the expression on her face; grim tolerance.

  I thought about Renee. Strange as it was, one of my most favorite people in the world was the child of one of my least favorite, my sister, Leah. Leah and I were born eighteen months apart and we grew up as a tight-knit unit, confiding all of our secrets and fears, until puberty set in for me at fourteen. With my hormones rampaging, I was sneaking out bedroom windows to find naughty neighborhood boys and passing quite a bit of alcohol past my lips.

  Leah didn’t get boobs and the hormone factor until around seventeen, so late that I’d more than once heard Mum comment that she was thinking of taking her to the doctor. So of course, we clashed from that point on. Leah was forever sniping to our parents about what a hormone-fuelled excuse for a sister I was, sneaking out and doing the nasty, while she stayed home like a good little girl, doing what mummy said, basking in the adoration that came with being her favorite. Not just sour grapes, Mum had made it painfully obvious, by buying new clothes and items for her with little regard for my feelings in the matter. Plus, they looked and behaved in sync, so much so that their arguments amused us all. Her relentless spying and blabbing to our parents about what she thought I got up to, came between us.

  In my twenties, I moved away from home and I had missed Leah. I decided I’d try a heart to heart to see if I could make up for lost time. I’d grown up and realized I’d acted rashly, but with maturity came thoughts of atoning for the damage, if it was possible. I missed the years as young gi
rls when we had shared everything. However, my attempts to re-discover our lost childhood closeness were too late. We no longer had anything to say to each other.

  I had no problems getting along with my niece, Renee. We were the best of friends, despite the fact that I was in my thirties and she was thirteen.

  Through the window, I saw Chloe in the far corner and pushed Sophia’s Bistro door before realizing the sign said pull. Once inside, I paused to unbutton the top of my blouse. The warmth from an open fire on the far wall mingled with the pungent smell of garlic.

  “Gypsy! Over here!” shouted Chloe.

  She hurried to me, her black bob swaying as she zigzagged between chairs to plant a dry kiss on my cheek.

  I rubbed at it. “Have I got a mark there?”

  She frowned slightly as she came around to check.

  “No, it’s smudge proof lipstick, so it’s fine. You scrubbed up pretty well, by the way.” Before she turned and strode ahead, I saw the ghost of a smile. I stared at her back, admiring the lemon mohair jacket.

  “Come over and grab a glass of wine. I want you to meet a couple of people.”

  Sophia’s was filled nearly to capacity. I glanced at the bar in the corner, admiring the rough-hewn bricks of various shapes and colors, the glasses hanging patiently, and the lights reflecting in the military precision of their shape. A loud hum of voices came from the back room. In a cheesy gesture, signed pictures of Sophia Loren adorned the walls along with Italian flags and a board of photographs. I ran my fingers across my lips and worked on slowing down my breathing, dropping a hand to my stomach. At the table, Chloe led me to faces that I recognized. Rita and Matt from our book club were sitting at the table, and I sat down across from them, acknowledging them with a tight smile and nod, all that I was capable of. My nervousness was peaking, and I could barely concentrate. At last month’s book club, Rita had mentioned she was involved in a sizzling ‘fling’ with a married guy from work, via text only of course, but we’d clashed over it and I wasn’t sure yet if I was speaking to her.

  To my right, I saw a gorgeous man around my age. I couldn’t resist checking, and sure enough, I spotted a white mark where his wedding ring used to be. I decided then and there that I would sit next to him. To his right was a younger guy, I guessed in his twenties, who shared some facial features, but looked more wiry and wrung-out.

  “Gypsy, you know Matt and Rita. This is Connor—” Chloe threw her hand out to my right. “Matt’s neighbor and his nephew, Aaron.”

  Connor nodded politely, a half smile crossing his face as he offered his hand. It felt warm and slightly rough, and I noticed his neatly trimmed nails. He seemed surprisingly tanned for someone of his age. Usually, the tanned folk are in their twenties, or maybe I only noticed my fellow pale-skinned friends.

  “Pleased to meet you, Gypsy. Interesting name, I like it.” He gestured across with a brown hand, with a pianist’s fingers.

  Connor’s wrinkles were laugh lines, his eyes friendly and bright. Striking brown hair, tanned, handsome face, collared shirt without a tie, the top button undone and the second making a bid for freedom. I tried not to stare at the tantalizing glimpse of his smooth chest. He had a rushed and unfinished air, a rush of something forgotten and left behind. I noticed he was lean, maybe a bit too lean. That was much more easily fixed than being overweight. I could feed him up with my perfectly microwaved meals, or at a pinch, I could always run to my special, canned spaghetti on toast. Cooking and I understand each other well enough to have a natural, mutual aversion.

  “Hi,” Aaron said quietly, his eyes, within cavernous dark circles, were darting quickly, barely looking up. His skittish demeanor, like a tightly wound machine ready to spring loose, suggested his uncle had dragged him along.

  “Have a seat, Gypsy. Happy I managed a night out with all the madness at work.” Connor curled his hand around the wine glass and lifted it for another drink. I was mesmerized by his hands, imagining how they would feel if they came close to me.

  “It took a bit of persuading, but I’m glad I got here, too.” I stared into the open fireplace, hypnotized by the flames, as fragments of the log turned volcano red, only to fall gently as ashy coal.

  “Thanks, Chloe.” I took the glass of wine pushed toward me and shakily managed a gulp, hoping the spreading warmth would loosen my ill ease.

  “It’s mesmerizing, isn’t it?” said Connor. I brought my head up sharply, turning to him, wondering how he knew, and then realized he had followed my gaze to the open fireplace.

  “Oh…um, yes,” I said furtively sneaking a glance at him. I prayed that my occasional clumsiness wouldn’t rear its ugly head in the next few seconds. “What do you do, Connor?”

  “I’m a police detective.”

  “A detective? I had you pegged as a professor,” I said, loosening up now. Warmth rose from my feet to my legs and torso. My bag was slung across the back of the chair and I gave it a pat. Shoes and bags could be relied upon to offer comfort in my weaker moments. Connor chuckled quietly, and then his shoulders dropped as he leaned across the table toward me. He had moved so close that his eyebrows, wisps of brown, lowered, and he fussed with his earlobe, tugging and rubbing at it, almost wishing it away.

  “It’s been a big change separating from Jill. I saw you looking at the mark on my finger. A colleague said I reminded him of Robinson Crusoe. I had hoped he meant my rough around the edges look more than anything else, but I think he meant the isolated and being on my own factor. Some days, a desert island sounds appealing, I must admit.”

  He glanced at me before squeezing his knee. He seemed to be holding his breath. I admired his chin, the smoothness of it. There was nothing better than a freshly shaved man, especially one with a whiff of classy cologne about him. I had no patience for beards, and if we were going to get lip to lip at some point, I’d rather not have scratchy facial hair leaving me with nasty gravel rash.

  Aaron seemed awkward and alone, his gaze ping ponging without making eye contact, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to find words, one fair curl stuck to his forehead with glittering sweat.

  “What about you, Aaron?” I asked, wanting to include him in our conversation. “What do you do for a living?”

  His dirty fingernails were curled under his rough hands, so that the dead skin was visible. Noticing my attention, he quickly withdrew them to his lap. “Um…a laborer, you know. It’s not rocket science, but I guess it’s a job.”

  “That’s true, at least you’ve got one.”

  His lips pressed together in a slight grimace and he swallowed, magnifying his discomfort. There was something that I picked up about him, his odd conversation, or something that was not quite right.

  As a telepath, I notice feelings and instinct more than most. Other people like to call me a psychic medium, but I’m not comfortable with that label. Apart from the fact that I do it for love, not money, I’m sure that once someone learns I’m a telepath, they conjure up images of dodgy fraudsters on stage at mass events, feeding grieving families what they desperately need. I’d rather not expose myself to more ridicule than necessary. My abilities happened almost by accident—apparently my grandmother was ‘fey,’ as my mother enjoyed mentioning.

  I was sure the pinging, nagging doubt had something to do with Aaron’s home life. “What about you, Gypsy? What do you do?” Connor relaxed his posture, the glass poised before his mouth. He had taken on a different look, probably from the wine, or even better, from unfulfilled lust.

  “I write business plans. I’ve also been told that I have pretty damn good intuition.”

  That seemed to spark Connor’s interest. He pulled at his other earlobe.

  “Oh yeah? What does your intuition tell you about me, then?”

  “That you seem like a nice enough guy.”

  Connor moistened his lips, which quivered with what I suspected was amusement, as he sat with his legs wide apart.

  “And?”

  “And you’r
e fishing for compliments that I’m not going to give you just yet.”

  Connor threw his head back, indulging in a belly laugh. The rich, throaty sound filled me with pleasure. A smile that I couldn’t suppress burst through.

  “That’s a fair call, Gypsy, fair call.”

  The silence was a comfortable one, our shared joke establishing the early threads of friendship. He looked at me. “What exactly do you mean by intuition? Like common sense? Women’s intuition is usually pretty sharp.”

  He’d found me out. My abilities were stronger as a child, but I’d turned them off after the night that I told my father about the old woman in their bedroom, who was mystified by our presence and asking us to leave her home. They had looked up the records and it turned out that she died there. The expression on his face and the change in his tone of voice reinforced my revelation that talking with the dead was not a good thing. At puberty, the whole psychic telepath deal resurfaced with a vengeance, but it still felt wrong, the subject of ridicule. When my ‘gift’ or ‘feyness’ was proven with soon to be recovered fact, it was never mentioned. My parent’s hushed whispers were intercepted through closed doors. Eventually, I figured out why mum called me Gypsy. My Romany grandmother had the gift, the second sight as well. One day, I’d ask if my name was a tribute or arranged as spite, but I still wasn’t sure if I wanted to hear the answer. She spoke about my grandmother who died young as ‘nervy’ and ‘fey’ in a way that was both contemptuous and filled with longing.

  The scrape of a chair on the floor brought me back to my surroundings. I wondered why I mentioned something like that to an almost stranger, albeit a hot one. I closed my eyes in the hope that a surge of courage and ease would overcome me. He seemed to be, if nothing else, a rare friend, carrying on from where we left off lifetimes ago.