Guarding Grayson Read online

  Which he'd done regularly, and then later not so regularly. Guilt jabbed at him, and he raked an impatient hand through his hair. Nothing he could do now about his haphazard communication in her last years of life.

  He cast a last look back at his painting. Gray did not know for certain, but he felt the man in the painting was connected to him in some way. Or would be ... someday in the man’s far-off future.

  Not that Gray would ever admit this to a living soul--then they'd truly think he was off his rocker, and probably liable for the destruction of his own studio, as well. And his belief was far-fetched … but the dreams were so vivid, so real.

  And so much more pleasant than the nightmares he’d had after Brynne died.

  He walked down the short hallway, still lined with old family photos, and turned right into the kitchen. Four strides brought him to the refrigerator. Yanking it open, he grabbed one of the micro-brews he'd purchased with other staples at a big grocery store in Roswell.

  There the FBI agents had left him, with a rental car and credit cards under an assumed name. They'd assured him he could use the cards to funnel money from his own savings through a dummy account, and thus not give away his location. Gray had thanked them and driven his rental SUV away. By the time he'd turned out of the rental car lot, the pair had disappeared from the sidewalk. A weird, but efficient pair.

  Now Gray took a long pull on his ale, enjoying the cold, prickling maltiness.

  On the way into town last week, he'd noted that Magic now had a decent-sized grocery store of its own. When he'd been a kid, there was only a tiny, corner store, The Magic Mart, that sold milk and bread, along with candy, Popsicles and comics. He was sure there'd been other things on the cramped shelves, but that's all he remembered.

  While his parents and Gran had chatted in her little back yard, he'd walked barefoot along the dusty street, allowance jingling in his pocket, to buy a treat to enjoy while he read the adventures of his favorite super-heroes.

  A Springsteen guitar riff broke the silence, and Gray pulled out his phone again. "'Lo?"

  "Y'ello," said a familiar voice. "Is this G.A. Smith?"

  Gray relaxed, his mouth tipping up in a crooked grin. "It sure is. But you can call me by my middle name. A for Amazing."

  Harvey Walden, owner of the Northern Art Quest gallery in downtown Coeur d'Alene ID and Gray's good friend since high school, snorted. "I'm gonna call you A for something, smart ass."

  "That works too. Any news?"

  Harvey sighed heavily. "Sorry, no. No fingerprints, no tire tracks, nothing--"

  "Yeah, I know that part," Gray interrupted him. "I meant, any new leads on who did it?"

  "--and I'm telling you, the Feebs have been up there all week," Harvey went on, as if Gray hadn't spoken. "You better hope they're not still there when you get back, considering the seven-inch-deep mud in your pathetic excuse for a driveway. I damn near got stuck in my Hummer. Hasn't quit raining since you left."

  Gray didn't bother to answer that complaint. He left his winding drive unpaved on purpose—it cut way down on visitors. If he wanted to see people or do business, he drove down the mountain in his SUV, or in the nicer months, rode his vintage Harley.

  "So no new leads," he said, scowling at the slice of evening sky he could see through the small window on Gran's back door. "The perp must've dropped out the sky."

  "You already suggested that, remember?"

  "Maybe the perp had his own wings—it's as likely as any other theory I've come up with." Gray sighed. "And that still doesn't explain why there were no footprints." And he hadn't gone back outside while he waited for the sheriff, either. Fueled with more rage than brains, he'd searched the house, pistol in hand, ready to blow a huge hole through whoever had walked into his home, his studio, and destroyed the contents beyond use or repair.

  "Thank God we'd just shipped your latest paintings to Seattle," Harvey said, not for the first time. In fact, he'd repeated it like a chorus each time they spoke, since he'd seen firsthand what was left of Gray's studio. "Canvas and paints, supplies—those you can replace. One of your paintings ... no."

  "At least the cops no longer think I did it myself," Gray muttered, taking another pull on his beer.

  Harvey snorted. "That was unbe-frickin-lievable! The idea that an artist of your caliber would destroy your tools and your studio."

  Yes, it had been. Gray would never forget having the sheriff and his deputy eye him, clearly wondering if his temper was bad enough for him to go berserk like that. He'd damn sure been angry enough afterward to shoot whoever had done so.

  "Thank God you had a clear record of having been in Seattle." Harvey made a slurping sound, which told Gray he was enjoying a libation of his own. "And that the paints on your walls and floor were dry enough to show it had been done while you were gone."

  It was Gray's turn to snort. "Yeah, can't argue with science and the TSA's records."

  After Harvey and his assistant helped Gray crate the paintings for the show, the works themselves had been flown to Seattle on a FedEx plane, while Gray followed on a commercial flight. There he'd been picked up by a chauffeur service and driven to the gallery to advise on hanging the paintings for the show. He’d stayed to schmooze with those who attended the showing. He'd arrived home two days later, driven up to his house and walked in on chaos and destruction.

  "Are you painting wherever the hell you are?" Harvey asked, hope clear in his voice. He very much enjoyed his commission for being Gray's go-between agent with the galleries in Seattle, Portland and L.A. as well as profiting from the sale of Gray's smaller paintings in his own gallery.

  "Yup," Gray said and drained his beer. “And no, I’m not allowed to tell you where, buddy. So don’t ask.”

  “Hey, I can keep a secret.”

  Gray snorted. “Maybe from a toddler. You can’t pretend worth a damn.”

  Which probably explained why he and Gray still got along so well after all these years. Gray's tolerance for bullshit was nil, from friends, business associates and especially women. Which also explained why he was still single. Harv was right—Gray had no tact, and sometimes he was a real asshole.

  His stomach growled, reminding him that beer, even good beer, did not a meal make. "Listen, thanks for calling. I gotta go get some supper." And then some sleep. He hadn't had a restful night since he arrived, what with being pissed off and having the blasted dreams every night. He was even grouchier than usual.

  "Right. Call me as soon as you have something to show me, okay? And keep painting."

  "I will." Not like he had anything else to do here. Gray tossed his empty bottle in the trash, and grabbed his wallet and keys, ready to head to the Magic Cafe, down on Main Street.

  The Magic Cafe was empty, except for a waitress wiping down tables and a cook rattling around in the kitchen.

  Gray slid onto a stool and smiled. The waitress was cute with her red hair and flirty eyes.

  "Hey, can I get some supper? I'll even take it to go so you can get me out of here quicker."

  She smiled back and tossed her hair. "Sure, if Gordy's is still cooking."

  She sauntered into the kitchen and came back shortly with two large Styrofoam containers in a plastic bag.

  "Enchiladas rojas and arroz con pollo in the bottom container, and green salad in the top one. Will there be anything else?" The look she gave him under her lashes promised something more fun than food.

  Gray grinned at her, waiting for his body's predictable response. And ... nothing. No tightening in his groin, no thrill of pleasurable anticipation.

  It had been months since Brynne died, and she seemed to have taken his libido with her off that cliff, and clear to the cold bottom of Coeur d'Alene Lake. It was just like her to cling even after she was dead.

  He held his grin with an effort, shaking his head to the waitress. "Nothing else, thanks. Just the bill."

  The redhead shrugged. "Okay, seven ninety-nine, then. Plus, two dollars for my tip ... s
ince you don't have anything better to offer."

  Gray slapped a ten on the counter, giving her a wink. "Maybe next time I will."

  She handed him the containers and he raised his brows in surprise at their weight. "Uh, tell your cook thanks." There was enough food here to feed a family of four.

  "Just gonna toss it," called a voice from the kitchen.

  He loved small towns. Plenty of places would've tossed the food, rather than practically giving it away. Gray turned to go. He was just walking out into the cool night when he heard the cook's voice again, quiet as if he wasn't meant to hear. "Besides, you're going to need the extra."

  Gray stopped on the sidewalk, half-turned to frown back into the cafe, but the door snicked shut behind him and one by one the lights inside went off. Shaking his head, he strode off along the street. Weird, but par for the course in this burg. Magic seemed to attract eccentrics like a vacuum. His neighbor ... and the twins across the street ... and others. Lots of others.

  The Kokopelli Brewpub and Bar was still busy, light spilling out the open doors along with voices and music. But other than that, the streets of Magic were, as his dad would say, 'rolled up at sundown'. That was all right with him. In general, he liked small town life.

  In north Idaho, if he wanted night life he could drive to Spokane just across the state line, or down into Coeur d'Alene itself, which was growing quickly, adding new brewpubs and such. Maybe by the time he got back home to Coeur d'Alene, he'd be ready to take advantage of the opportunities. He was just stressed right now, that was all. He didn't have some 'male dysfunction' or anything like that. Darn Brynne.

  As he walked, he swore he could feel her ghost, hanging onto his arm and looking up into his face as they walked, her blue eyes wide as if trying to parse what he wanted, and do that, be that before he could even form the thought. A Stepford Girlfriend, that had been Brynne. Slender, blonde, gorgeous and hot—and suffocating as a down comforter on a summer night.

  At first she'd been the perfect woman, a little shy in bed but ready to try anything he wanted, a good cook, always dressed to the nines in sexy outfits with her long blonde hair as perfect as if she'd just walked out of a salon, with sexy eyeshadow and 'do-me-big-boy' cherry gloss on her soft lips ... and she meant that part too.

  Turning the corner to his Gran's street, Gray realized with a groan that he was becoming aroused just thinking about her. He had a woody for a dead woman—how twisted was that?

  And dear God, why now, on top of all his other problems? A few months ago he'd been fine—okay, he'd been full of guilt and regret over her death, but at least that was within the bounds of normal—but now his life had morphed into an episode of Brynne's favorite TV show, about the pair of brothers who hunted destructive demons and the like.

  Her favorite as in she really liked that show—the only time she ever got pissed at Gray and showed it was when he'd called one of the heroes stupid for walking into a dark alley when the guy knew bad shit was about to go down. Brynne had given Gray a glare like he'd stepped on her puppy, and shushed him. Gray had kept his mouth shut for the rest of the program, which was actually enjoyable, although he hadn't admitted that to her.

  Maybe he should've watched every episode with her, and run his mouth the whole time. Maybe that would've broken through to her, shown her he was just a selfish a-hole, not someone for whom she should bother to try and be so ... perfect.

  He'd never been able to convince her that she was her prettiest first thing in the morning, when she woke up beside him with her face free of makeup and her hair all mussed, wearing nothing but one of his too-big tees.

  Or that conversely, he’d hated it when she sat beside him in public like a beautiful doll and agreed with everything he said. That had embarrassed the hell out of him, like he was the kind of stuffed shirt who needed a 'Yes, Daddy' kind of woman to feel like a real man.

  Or that the night of their final fight, when she screamed at him that she hated him, that she'd done everything for him and it still wasn't enough, and she was done trying—that had been the truest emotion he'd ever seen from her.

  For the first time, he'd respected her, for standing up to him and showing a backbone.

  And then she'd gone and died … and now he had to live the rest of his life knowing it was his fault.

  By the time he carried the bag of supper up onto Gran's porch, Gray had lost his appetite. He walked into the house, not bothering to turn the lights on, shoved the bag and containers into the fridge, and grabbed another beer. He had the cap twisted off and the first mouthful down before he realized maybe this wasn't his best idea, drinking more on an empty stomach. He hesitated, and then took another swig. The hell with it.

  He'd drained half the bottle when a knock sounded on his front door.

  He stood there in the little kitchen. The lights inside the house were off, so maybe whoever it was would go away. He was not in the mood for the neighbors, nice as they were.

  The knock sounded again, this time hard enough to rattle the door. With a muttered curse, Gray strode back through the living room, hitting the wall switch for the porch light as he got there.

  He yanked the front door open, ready to get rid of whoever it was.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Gray opened his mouth, but instead of saying 'It's late, I'm tired, come back tomorrow', he took one look at his visitor and froze, mouth open, eyes wide, breath frozen in his chest.

  Then she moved, and he stumbled backward with a hoarse, wordless shout of horror.

  It was Brynne!

  Only not the Brynne he remembered—fashionably dressed, hair perfect, makeup dewy.

  This Brynne looked like she'd been at the bottom of a lake—stone cold dead.

  Her hair hung down, half-over her face, the fine strands knotted with dried bits of water-weeds still green and slimy looking. Through the filthy skein, her skin was pale, with a grayish cast. Her clothes were bedraggled, stuck to her with mud and stained with water.

  And her eyes, staring at him through the tangle, were wide and fixed on him like eerie blue spotlights.

  "Gray ... son," she intoned, in a flat, monotone rasp. "I am here." As she stepped toward him, dried muck or something worse fell from her hair and landed on the doorstep.

  Gray moved backward again, his heart pounding, all of him shaking with terror and adrenaline, shaking his head to try and clear it.

  Hell, he wasn't this drunk ... was he? He must be, because he was hallucinating—had to be. There must've been something extra in the beer—peyote, or something. Yeah, that was common down here in the southwest. Wouldn't put it past some joker to spike a six-pack and then sit back to watch what happened.

  Had to be that. Because for Brynne to be actually here, she'd have to be a zombie ... or he was dreaming again.

  Except that he was halfway back into his Gran's sitting room, the carpet soft under his shoes, and he could feel his heart racing, taste the beer in his mouth and he could smell his unwanted guest—not a dead smell, just a kind of dank, sour smell.

  She stopped a foot away, and realization hit him like a blow to the chest. He could see her, he could smell her, she was molting mud and crap on the carpet.

  She was really here—in the flesh.

  He held up one hand, fury racing through him, a welcome heat against the chill of horror.

  "Wait a minute," he snarled. "This is some kind of sick joke, right? Who are you? You can't be her—you're some actress or something. Who put you up to this? Did someone pay you?"

  Was this perpetrated by the same criminal sleaze who trashed his studio?

  Except how could they have found someone with a body exactly like Brynne's—slender to the point of thin, with high, small breasts? And why was she wearing the exact kind of little sweater and lacy camisole Brynne had favored, and the same tight jeans.

  His stomach dropped as he saw that her toenails were painted pale blue, what was visible through the dried muck, and she had a ring on one toe. He knew
that toe ring—hell, he knew those toes.

  He jerked his gaze up to meet hers again, horror overtaking the anger again. And her face—even half hidden with her filthy hair, he knew that delicate chin, and those blue eyes, those full, soft lips.

  "Gray-son," she said, still in that weird, flat voice. "I do not understand. Are you not pleased to see me?"

  "No," he managed, forcing his voice past the huge lump in his throat. "No—you can't be here. You're—you're dead. Your car went off the cliff and into the deepest part of the lake. Too deep to get your car or you out, but everyone knows you're there, because you'd never just ... disappear like that. And they found the place where you went off the road—the tire marks and your back bumper was still there, on a big rock."

  He repeated the words like a litany, trying to convince himself and her.

  She stared at him, her unblinking gaze sending a steady stream of shivers through him. And then anger blazed again--because she was here. She was alive. And that meant only one thing—someone else may be behind this, but she had helped set the whole thing up.

  "You … you vindictive little bitch!" he gritted through his teeth, his fist clenching at his sides. "You let me think you were dead. You let your friends—your mom—all of us think you died. They had a church service for you. And tears were shed—did you think of that? Huh, did you?"

  And some of them had been his own, not that he'd ever admit that.

  He swept her with a searing look and his lip curled in disgust. Then he walked past her, opened the front door and gestured to the night outside. "Get out. You've had your fun, scared the shit out of me. Now you're done—and I for one never wanna see you again."

  She turned on one bare foot to follow him with her gaze. Then her head cocked to the side, and she blinked.

  The door jerked out of his grasp and flew shut with a slam that shook the wall and rattled the frame. The lock snapped into place.

  Gray gaped at the closed door, and while his head was turned, a slender hand pressed against his chest, cold as ice through his tee.

  "Sit," she ordered. Gray found himself shoved down onto the sofa with a force that sent it rocking back against the wall.