LITMIR.BIZ

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catch her breath, felt herself getting light-headed. She visualized the men in the cage—the blood—the idea of death making her feel so alive.

      She felt her head yanked back by a fistful of her hair.

      Zag stared at her, his eyes almost colorless now. Catching his breath, he said, “Be careful, Evie.”

      She smiled, breathing just as hard as Zag. He kept his grip on her hair, but she didn’t care.

      She brushed her thumb over his swollen bottom lip where she’d bitten him earlier. “Fuck that.”

      Evie locked her legs around his hips and bit his lip again, this time drawing blood.

      The next thing she knew, he rolled them both off the bed. He pinned her to the carpeted floor, straddling her.

      “I said, be careful!” This time, he meant it.

      That was another thing she enjoyed about Zag. He was one of only two men who could best her physically.

      She turned her head and looked at the Cristal bottle and the champagne soaking into the confetti design of the carpet next to her face.

      “Oops,” she said, smiling coyly.

      “Gracious, was that almost an apology?” he asked, nibbling her earlobe, his anger easily forgotten.

      He stood and held out his hand. Pulling her to her feet, he clucked his tongue at the empty ice bucket.

      “Cristal.” He made a soft sound of disappointment deep in his throat. “What a waste.”

      But Evie was already heading out of the bedroom toward the wet bar in the living room. The marble floor, in a deep shade of cocoa, felt deliciously cold under her bare feet. She passed the room’s most touted feature: a fifty-inch plasma screen set dead center against the wall of curtained windows. Anyone watching the high-def television would have the Vegas strip as background courtesy of the floor-to-ceiling windows.

      The furnishings were chic and contemporary, the color scheme soothing. The russet grasscloth wallpaper served as the perfect foil for the cherry-toned furnishings. Two sofas bracketed the marble-topped coffee table and Andy Warhol prints graced the walls. Steve Wynn had spent two-point-seven billion on his namesake casino hotel. The opening had featured an exclusive with Vanity Fair magazine and a commercial during the Super Bowl. Zag prided himself in knowing all the right people, people like Steve Wynn.

      In the living room, she took in the flotsam and jetsam of Zag’s other life. A curious array of scientific papers, business journals and scholarly tomes covered most every surface. Tucked among such lofty subjects as “string theory” and “dark matter” were the pseudosciences that so fascinated him—several copies of the Journal of Parapsychology, printed articles examining sundry paranormal phenomenon, a report on remote perception put out by PEAR, the Princeton Engineering Anomalies Research program. One title in particular caught her eye: The Atlantis Generation.

      She almost laughed. Apparently, Zag wouldn’t be satisfied until he reached his goal of becoming both man and myth. Evie knew she was an important part of his quest for the latter.

      She picked up a bound copy of proceedings from the coffee table and weighed the heavy tome in her hand. She’d turned down his offer of the company jet, choosing to drive into Vegas the day before, presumably so they might spend some time together. But Zag had been in town for days attending one of his precious paranormal conferences.

      She turned back toward the bedroom where Zag now stood in the doorway, his hands braced against the doorjamb. She took a moment to appreciate his naked body. The combination of alabaster skin and lack of body hair made him look like a Greek statue: his muscles were as clearly defined as sculpted marble. Even the broken nose served to give the refined, almost feminine features more gravitas.

      She dropped the proceedings back on the coffee table, where it landed with a heavy thud. “Always mixing work with pleasure.”

      “Always mixing pain with pleasure,” he countered.

      “True. But my mix is ever so more fascinating, don’t you think?”

      “Have I ever told you what a goddess you are?” he asked.

      She preened in her naked glory, completely aware of her beauty. Despite her waist-length red hair, she didn’t have a freckle on her body. Any mark came from grueling practice fights in one of several martial-art disciplines she’d mastered.

      As she turned away, Zag came up behind her. He cupped her breasts in his hands and kissed the nape of her neck. She reached back and dug her fingers into the hard muscles of his thighs, pressing back against his awaking erection.

      “Not to mention all those boring charity events,” she continued. She pretended to snore loudly as she turned in his arms. “I forget. What was it this time?” She bit her lip in mock concentration. “The fur and diamond deprived of Beverly Hills?”

      “Autism,” he answered. “And it was a fabulous success—which you’d know firsthand if you’d bothered to show.”

      She gave him a quick kiss, then danced out of his reach when he tried to spank her. She headed for the bar where she did indeed find another bottle of Cristal in the refrigerator.

      “And have my picture splashed all over the tabloids as your new mystery woman?”

      She turned the champagne’s wire cage handle the requisite six half turns. The cork flew across the room with a satisfying pop. Champagne foamed over her hand, spilling to the marble floor.

      “I can think of worse things,” he said.

      “Pass,” she said, drinking from the bottle.

      Innovator, playboy, bazillionaire philanthropist, Zag, Evie knew, liked the headlines, and not just on the ho-hum pages in Barron’s. Playing guitar onstage at Mandalay Bay was the sort of thing that guaranteed Zag a mention in People, a magazine that had already proclaimed him one of the sexiest men of the year, dubbing him the Mad Magician.

      She took another drink from the bottle, letting the tiny bubbles fill her mouth. She walked back to Zag and pressed the bottle to his lips.

      As far as Evie was concerned, Zag, the self-proclaimed Bill Gates of the psychic community, didn’t have anything to worry about when it came to making good press. His company, Halo Industries, provided paranormal services in sundry forms—employee evaluations, intuitive counseling to Fortune 500 companies, forecasting future trends for Wall Street firms. It was even said he’d been hired by certain sectors of the government, though Zag always pleaded “no comment” when asked.

      Then there were those pesky rumors about his strange lineage—rumors he denied and cultivated with equal effort.

      While the man could be a jack-of-all-trades, Evie knew his true passion. The bound proceedings she’d dropped back on the coffee table were as thick as the yellow pages. Playfully, she pretended to pour champagne on Indigo Children and the Evolving Brain. Zag grabbed the bottle away, shaking a scolding finger.

      Indigo Children referred to a rare breed of kids singled out in the last ten years. Presumably, they were more highly evolved than the general population, many possessing psychic abilities. Some claimed they even used a higher percentage of their brain. The term had been published by Lee Carroll and his wife. Carroll channeled the entity, Kryon, who sent information through Carroll to help mankind ascend to a higher level of consciousness. But there were other theories about the origins of the Indigo phenomenon.

      Synesthesia was a neurological condition that could cause a person to experience two physical senses simultaneously. A synesthetic might hear with their eyes or get a specific taste in their mouth whenever they heard a particular sound. A psychic by the name of Nancy Ann Tappe, who had the condition, had claimed to see auras—a New Age concept that argued the body was surrounded by a luminous field of color.

      This same psychic began seeing an indigo aura surrounding these more highly evolved children. Eventually, the term became linked with certain conditions such as ADHD and autism.

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