Too Hard To Handle. Rita Rainville

wonder if we could talk for a minute.”

      Tillie turned to face him, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

      Not trusting her aunt’s look of anticipation, Christy felt the chill skitter back down her spine.

      Ben leaned back in his chair, arms crossed on his chest, and nodded.

      “I need a good cook for about three weeks,” Shane said bluntly. “What can I do to interest you in the job?” Listening in dismay while he explained, Christy looked from one face to the next with a sinking feeling. No one jumped up to violently object. No one even looked upset.

      “How many men do you have?” Ben asked.

      “Ten.”

      “What’s your kitchen like?”

      “It was remodeled last year with commercial appliances.”

      Ben shrugged. “I’m listening.”

      Christy groaned at the avid interest in Ben’s brown eyes as he heard the details. The blasted man couldn’t wait to get back in a hot kitchen with twenty pans going at once.

      “I could do it.” Ben’s words were measured as carefully as the ingredients in his sauces. “But we’re all together on this trip. If I stay, we all stay; it has to be a group decision. And I still cook dinner for everyone here.”

      Shane gave a brief nod. “I figured that. Do you want me to leave so you can talk it over?”

      “No need. We’re not shy.” Turning to the others, Ben said, “What do you think?”

      Doomed. Christy slumped in her chair, remembering her cousin’s words as they all gazed at Tillie. But it was only fair they defer to her, she reminded herself. After all, the trip had been Tillie’s idea. She had determined the itinerary, announced it on the Internet and found compatible people. Each of them doted on her, recognized her special ability and would follow her through the gates of hell. It didn’t take a psychic to know what her aunt’s decision would be, Christy thought gloomily.

      “How wonderful!” Tillie beamed a smile at each of them. “We’re exactly where we are meant to be.” Sliding a glance at Shane, she added, “Practically at the door of Area 51.”

      Christy’s groan was lost in the excited conversation. She wondered how she had lived her entire life—before Aunt Tillie—without hearing of the famed Area 51 and the Nellis Air Force Base Bombing and Gunnery Range. While the Air Force had recently, and reluctantly, acknowledged that it had “operations” at Area 51, it still wouldn’t reveal what was happening there.

      Skeptics believed that the government was testing exciting new jets that looked bizarre because they were experimental. UFO buffs believed the government had captured alien spacecraft and had made, and were testing, their own spaceships. There was no doubt which angle these people subscribed to.

      The general area had been designated on their itinerary as the first major “hot spot” to be investigated, with a proposed stay of three weeks.

      Jack grinned at Tillie. “Are you suggesting we use the ranch as a base of operations?”

      “If it’s agreeable with everyone.” Tillie took another peek at Shane’s face and nodded, satisfied.

      “Why not?” Ruth Ann looked at each of them, inviting comments. When there were none, she turned to Ben. “Of course, how much loot you can squeeze out of Shane is strictly your own business.”

      Ben got up, looking across the table at his new boss. “Looks like you might have a deal.”

      “Good. Before we take a walk and settle things, I have one more suggestion.” His quick glance, resting on Christy’s resigned expression for a moment, included them all. “How about moving closer to the house? I have an empty bunkhouse you can park by. You’ll probably want to stay in your RVs, but you can use the tubs and showers in the cabin.”

      Again, all heads swiveled toward Tillie.

      She nodded and touched Ben’s arm. “You go right now. The rest of us will stay here for…a while.”

      Shane frowned. “It’ll be nicer for you near the house.”

      Patting his hand, Tillie said, “Your home is lovely. We’ll be there.” She looked skyward for a moment, then gave a definite nod. “Day after tomorrow, Wednesday morning before the storm gets too bad.”

      “What storm?” Shane turned a puzzled frown on Christy. “We’re not expecting rain.”

      Avoiding his gaze, she muttered, “Don’t look at me. I’m the last one around here to know anything.”

      Five minutes later the two men returned from a short walk, their satisfied expressions clear to the rest of the group.

      Shane tucked a cellular phone back in his shirt pocket. “Hank says he’ll meet you at the gate in an hour and lead you in.”

      Ben nodded, moving toward his motor home.

      Reaching for Christy’s hand, Shane tugged gently, bringing her to her feet. “Let’s go.”

      She scowled and tried to sink back into the chair. “Where?”

      “Out there.” Shane kept her at his side as he gestured toward the surrounding hills. Any damn where at all, as long as they were far away from the voluble alien hunters still clustered around the tables.

      Hesitating, Christy cast a glance at her aunt, who was again chatting with Opal. It wasn’t a smart move to wander away with a man who practically had a large T branded on his forehead. Trouble was something she didn’t need, and caring for a small, elderly aunt was always a good excuse.

      “You go on, dear. Enjoy yourself.” Tillie waved absently in her direction. “I’m just fine.”

      Shane slid his arm around her waist and nudged her toward an opening in the circle of RVs before she could use the deepening darkness as another excuse.

      Stopping by a tall juniper, he looked down at her. “Did you tell Tillie about my house?”

      “Nope. I started scrubbing veggies as soon as I got back.”

      “Then how does she know what it looks like?”

      Christy stopped to look up at him. “Beats me. She just seems to know these things.” So much for trying to deceive him with half-truths, she reflected with resignation. For a couple of days, there might have been a chance. But not for three weeks. And she had a gut feeling that Shane would not be a happy man when he learned that he was not only hosting a troupe of UFO hunters but a genuine, dyed-in-the-wool psychic.

      He tightened his arm and kept her moving over the grass while he considered her aunt. “It doesn’t make sense,” he finally said. “And there’s no storm coming. I checked the weather channel before I rode over here for dinner.”

      Loosening the large hand at her waist with a sigh, Christy stepped away from him. “Look, if you’re going to be around Aunt Tillie for any length of time, you might as well understand something.” It still wasn’t easy to explain, she reflected. Even after a year of practice. “She’s, uh…”

      “She’s what?”

      “You won’t believe it,” she hedged. “No one ever does—at least not at first.”

      Drawing her closer, he casually draped his arm over her shoulder. “I’ll believe it,” he promised.

      “I doubt it.” Get it over with, she told herself. Now. “She’s…psychic.”

      His hand tightened on her shoulder and after a moment she looked up at him. His expression was typical, she reflected. Tolerant and a bit patronizing. The look most men gave her before explaining that only the gullible and weak-minded believed in mediums.

      “I don’t mean just a little, either,” she added for good measure. “She’s