Blind Instinct. Fiona Brand

      First fact: she was seven years old and she could speak French and German—two languages in which she had received no formal instruction. Ben knew a smattering of both of those languages from his time in the Navy, enough to conduct some basic conversation. But even allowing for the fact that Sara could have picked up a little of either language from other kids at school, she shouldn’t be capable of the sophisticated syntax she had used while sleepwalking. And if she could speak a small amount of French and German, why hadn’t they ever heard her doing so while she was awake?

      Secondly, any normal American kid mentioning Germany’s historic secret police would have used the popular term Gestapo, if they had known about it at all, not the full name, Geheime Staats Polizei.

      Thirdly, when Sara was sleepwalking, Ben had the distinct impression that she was not a child. Her actions were smooth, controlled and precise, the expression on her face chillingly adult.

      In his mind, those three facts added up to the kind of proof no one would believe—certainly not Dolinski.

      Ben was convinced his seven-year-old daughter wasn’t mentally unstable and that she hadn’t witnessed a shocking event either at home or at school. However, he did believe she was suffering from posttraumatic stress syndrome— but from another place, and another time.

      Specifically, occupied France in the Second World War.

      Her eyes flipped open, disconcerting him. “I don’t want to be like this, Daddy.”

      He let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding. Her voice was normal, her expression that of a child. The sharp, incipient Sara who had lifted all the hairs at his nape and upset Mae wasn’t in evidence. “Then don’t be, honey. Just tell yourself, ‘I’m Sara Fischer, I’m seven years old, and the only place I have ever lived is Shreveport, Louisiana.’ Repeat it after me, then when you go back to sleep it’ll be true.”

      “What if it isn’t?”

      “You have to make it happen—inside your head. Remember what Dr. Dolinski said? Whenever you’re frightened, just tell yourself not to have the dreams.”

      “I like the way you say it better. I’ll do that.”

      The crispness of her decision was disconcertingly close to her sleepwalking voice. “Do you ever remember any of the dreams?”

      She turned her head on the pillow, and he realized she was checking to make sure Mae wasn’t in the room or lurking at the door. “Sometimes.”

      His chest tightened. This was the first time she had admitted that she remembered anything, and the reason was obvious. Mae’s reaction, and probably the visits to Dolinski, had frightened her. “What are you doing when you kneel down and reach into the cupboard?”

      “Getting the book. I have to get words, but only one word at a time.”

      “Can you remember what the book is?”

      She shook her head.

      So, okay, not too detailed. He didn’t know whether that was a blessing or not. But like it or not, the “memories,” if that was what they were, had already changed Sara, and he was very much afraid that they were here to stay.

      Abruptly his mind was clear. He had tried Dolinski’s method for long enough and it wasn’t easing the situation. In fact, he was certain the “bridging” tactic was making the dreams more acute. From now on he was going to do this his way. He would teach her a technique he had learned during his years of active service in the Gulf. The technique was straight-down-the-line-simple. He was going to teach Sara how to forget.

      Two

       Shreveport, eleven years later

      Sara Fischer hooked her handbag over her shoulder, dried her hands and paused at the nightclub’s washroom counter to check her makeup and her hair.

      She frowned at a face that was faintly exotic and sophisticated, and subtly not her, courtesy of the makeover her mother had given her as an eighteenth birthday gift.

      Mae Fischer adored shopping, lunching and parties. The fact that Sara would rather take long solitary walks or bury her head in a book was incomprehensible to her mother. The harder Mae worked to break Sara out of what she called “her shell,” the more Sara resisted. They were mother and daughter and they loved one another, but they were like chalk and cheese. Sara was far more comfortable with her father’s company and his quiet acceptance of the way she was.

      She made her way back to the table she occupied with her cousin Steve, his latest girlfriend, Cherie and Marc Bayard, Steve’s best friend, who was back from Baton Rouge for the weekend. Steve and Cherie were absent from the table, which meant they were part of the raucous, gyrating crowd on the dance floor, leaving her alone with Bayard—alone as anyone could be in a nightclub packed to capacity.

      Bayard got to his feet, towering over her as he pulled out her chair. A familiar tension locked her jaw as she sat down. She had known Bayard for years, although they didn’t often cross paths now. He was two years older, from an old and extremely wealthy “cotton” family.

      A law student at LSU, and on the college football team, by definition, he was popular. The fact that he was also tall and dark, with the signature Bayard good looks—dark eyes, chiseled cheekbones and tough jaw—and that she’d had a crush on him since he had moved next door when she was seven, didn’t make him any easier to be with. Steve’s idea of a blind date as a birthday gift couldn’t have gone more horribly wrong.

      “Would you like to dance?”

      Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. She was certain Bayard had a steady girlfriend and that he should be with her rather than here on a mercy date. “To be honest, I’d like to go home.”

      “Stay here a minute, I’ll tell Steve we’re leaving.”

      “No, wait. I can get a cab.”

      But he had already gone. Seconds later he was back. Looping the strap of her bag over her shoulder, she rose to her feet. His fingers slid through hers, the contact unexpected and faintly shocking as he pulled her through the crowd. When they stepped outside, he didn’t relinquish his hold. Instead of heading for the parking garage, he pulled her in the direction of the river. “Let’s walk for a few minutes. I need to clear my head.”

      A cold breeze straight off the water sifted through her hair and sent a damp chill sliding over her skin. Mist swirled, curling up and over the bank to lie in drifts across the road, muting the syncopated flash of casino lights.

      “Cold?” Seconds later, his leather jacket dropped around her shoulders.

      A small shudder at the transition from cold to blazing warmth went through her. The old saying, Someone is walking over my grave, ran through her mind.

      She pulled the lapels of the jacket together, both relieved and irrationally disappointed that Bayard was no longer holding her hand. That presupposed that she had wanted him to hold her hand, and there was no way she was going there. She wasn’t big on setting herself up for a fall.

      She’d had boyfriends, although no one she had wanted to get too up-close-and-personal with. Her mother worried that she was emotionally cold. Sara had another theory. When it came to men and relationships, she was naturally reserved, but she wasn’t without feelings. She liked the men she dated; she just didn’t love them. The people she did love—the members of her family—she loved fiercely and without reserve. One day she would fall in love and that would be it; she would have chosen her mate. Until that moment happened, if she couldn’t drum up any enthusiasm for her dates, she wasn’t going to worry about it.

      Bayard slowed, then came to a halt on a small footbridge that led into a picnic area. When she stopped beside him, his long fingers curled into the lapels of the jacket. His dark eyes fastened on hers as he pulled her loosely against him. “If you don’t want this, just say so.”

      As