White Lies by Jayne Ann Krentz Page A

agency. Detecting scam artists and frauds for private foundations and charitable institutions will be one of the services I’ll offer.”
    Jake just looked at her. “Huh.”
    “Thanks for the enthusiastic encouragement.”
    “Huh,” Jake said again. “You want to be a private investigator?”
    “It’s been my dream for a while now. I’ve applied several times to the West Coast office of Jones & Jones but the dumbass who runs the firm won’t hire me.”
    “Dumbass?” Jake repeated neutrally.
    “Fallon Jones.” She made a face. “I know those Jones men are legends in the Society, at least the Joneses who trace their descent back to Sylvester Jones are. But if you ask me, Fallon Jones is a narrow-minded, hidebound, dumbass jerk who can’t see past the myths about my kind of talent long enough to realize that all human lie detectors are not the same.”
    “Huh.”
    “Honestly, you’d think that of all people in the Society, a Jones would be especially open-minded. I mean, it’s not like a lot of the Jones men haven’t been pretty extreme talents, now, is it?”
    “No,” Jake admitted, sounding very cautious. “No, it’s not as if there haven’t been some exotics in that family.”
    “Exactly. A Jones should be able to look beyond the myths and stories and rumors about certain kinds of unusual talents. But Dumbass Fallon Jones obviously can’t do that.”
    “Huh,” he said again.
    She smiled, satisfaction bubbling up inside her. “So, I’m going to start up my own psychic investigation agency and give J&J a little competition.”
    “Should be interesting.”
    “I expect it will be. Getting fired unexpectedly from the trust kind of put a crimp in my business plan. I had intended to work for another year in order to put together enough capital to open my agency. I was also hoping to persuade the trust to become my first big client after I left. But that all went up in smoke when the rumors about my connection to the McAllister murder reached management. So, to make ends meet, I tried to find another position right away.”
    “But that didn’t work out.”
    “No,” she admitted. “And now I think it was for the best. As I said, it has given me the impetus to take the big leap out on my own.” She polished off the rest of a piece of bruschetta. “Speaking of your professional activities, Mr. Salter, I went online and did a little research on you.”
    “Learn anything interesting?”
    She cleared her throat. “Came across your website and some personal stuff. That’s all.”
    “Personal stuff.” He crunched bruschetta. “That would be an oblique reference to my divorce?”
    “As you can see, I have a natural talent for inducing people to give up information.”
    “Probably be useful in the investigation business,” he said. “What do you want to know about my divorce?”
    “It’s not really any of my business.”
    “True. But that doesn’t alter the fact that you’re curious, does it?”
    “Okay, I wondered if your ex was a sensitive,” she said.
    “No.” He turned the wineglass in his hand, studying the contents. “That was a deliberate choice on my part. I thought maybe she wouldn’t notice my little eccentricities.”
    She watched him closely. “They’re not so little, are they?”
    He did not respond immediately. For a few seconds she wondered if he was going to lie.
    He met her eyes. “I’m a level-ten parasensitive.”
    The truth at last. She whistled softly. “Well, that explains a lot.”
    “Such as?”
    “Such as why you let everyone think you’re a mid-range strategy talent. Level tens of any kind tend to make a lot of people nervous.”
    He watched her with an unwavering gaze. “It doesn’t bother you?”
    “I’m a ten, too, remember? What happened to your marriage?”
    “Let’s see.” He stretched out his legs and assumed a reflective air. “As I recall, about three months into the marriage, she started to complain that I was being overprotective and that I was trying to run her life.”
    “Let me guess. Before the marriage your protective streak seemed