Guarding Grayson Page 7

  He was already stepping back, in a hurry to get away. “Okay, well good. So, make yourself at home—anything you need, food, drinks, television, anything. I need to finish some work, and then we’ll … talk. Okay?”

  She nodded. “Okay. Um … bye.” This last was said to an empty doorway. She sighed. She’d been gone, dead really, and he had to work before they could talk? She had vague memories of him laughing and talking with her guardian light. Why wouldn’t he talk to her when she was herself?

  Her eyes filled with tears again, and she hurried into the kitchen, sat down at the kitchen table and wept as silently as she could into a paper towel.

  She wished she was back home in Coeur d’Alene. She missed her tiny apartment on 4th St, she missed her best friends Sasha and Gilly, and she missed her mom. She even missed her job as a law clerk, spending hours and hours chasing information on computers for her attorney bosses.

  And she missed her beautiful little Camry. Now it was at the bottom of the lake, where it would stay. And somehow that was the last straw. She bawled like a baby—although a quiet one.

  After a while, she felt a little better. She got up and padded down the hall, past Gray’s studio where he stood painting—not that he would notice if she stomped past, when he was working he concentrated like crazy.

  She washed her face at the bathroom sink. The bathroom was sweet in an old-fashioned way, with mauve tub, toilet and sink, and lacy curtains at the window. When she opened the medicine cabinet, it still smelled of lady’s face powder and perfume, the kind her great-aunt Tilly used to wear.

  Gray’s black leather shave kit sat on the back of the toilet, his toothbrush, toothpaste and shaving gear strewn across the small counter around the sink.

  She wished she had her cosmetics, and some hair product. She wrinkled her nose at her reflection, flushed with swollen eyes and a pink nose, and as for her hair—she couldn’t stand to look at it.

  Brynne rubbed her fingers up and down her crossed arms. She needed something to do. Stay busy, that was it.

  Then she wouldn’t have time to be scared of what was going to happen next, or how to get Gray to love her again, or how long E’ea was going to expect to borrow her body—and God knew that alone was enough to send a girl whimpering into a fetal position in the nearest corner—or how she was supposed to walk back into her life and explain to everyone that she wasn’t dead after all.

  That is, if she got to stay here this time.

  “I don’t have to go back there again, do I?” she asked, rubbing harder. But there was no answer, and ouch! Her own touch was too rough. Her skin felt fragile, as if she was getting over the flu.

  She drew a shaky breath, nearly a sob again. Yeah, she was getting over being dead.

  Don’t think about that, don’t remember the weird headlights that had blinded her, or the car lurching over the rocks and then falling like a rock only to slam into the water, and sink down, down into the cold blackness, until the windshield cracked and water began to stream in around the airbag …

  Brynne sucked in a huge, desperate breath, hanging onto the sink. It was okay, she was okay. She was here, in Gray’s house, and he was in the other room, and there was no water anywhere except the tap dripping slowly into the sink … which was gross, now that she looked at it. Gray wasn’t much good at cleaning up after himself.

  She dove under the sink and pulled out the cleaning supplies, relief buoyant in her chest. Okay, something to do that she understood. She’d clean this bathroom, and then move onto the rest of the house. She’d make Gray happy that she was here to take care of him again.

  * * *

  Gray set his brush in the jar of turps, and then turned back to survey his painting, moving his shoulders to ease their stiffness. He was tired, but it was a good tired—he’d been painting for a couple, no three hours by the clock on the wall. The painting was coming along—he’d painted in more details of the ship and the man, his face recognizable now. And damn if this Logan Stark didn’t look a little like Gray.

  He wasn’t painting himself into the picture, was he? He examined the painting and then shook his head. No, the man’s face felt right—the harsh angle of his cheeks, the determination in his jaw, the curve of his wide mouth, as if it could turn sensual or adamant, and the glint in his gray eyes, gazing out at his world with an arrogance that said he’d take it on and tame it to his specifications—already had in fact.

  “You’re a selfish bastard, aren’t you?” Gray muttered to him, grinning wryly. “You got that from me. Although, the empire building … Don’t know where the hell that comes from.” Some other future family member, maybe.

  Gray wiped his hands on a cleaning rag. It would be good to finish the painting, then maybe the dreams would let go of him.

  Time for a cold drink, and then … he smelled something good cooking. E’ea couldn’t cook. That meant Brynne was still around. Guilt roiled in his gut. Brynne—she’d awakened, and been upset, and he’d meant to keep an ear tuned to her. Be there if she got too upset. Not hang with her, exactly, because he didn’t want to be sending the wrong signals, like he wanted them back together so he could watch over her and make sure she stayed safe, until time erased that lost look in her beautiful brown eyes.

  But she’d been quiet, and he’d gotten engrossed in his work. It was nearly six o’clock, time to see what she was up to, and check out that savory scent too.

  Then he walked into his bathroom, and found it sparkling, smelling of cleaner, all his untidiness cleared away. Hell, she’d even straightened his shaving kit. She was doing it again—pampering him. Next she'd be sitting near him, watching him with that look that said she was ready to figure out what he needed before he did.

  He washed his hands with the brusqueness of irritation, and then strode along the hall.

  The sitting room was in perfect order as well, the old oak furniture polished, the magazines on the coffee table arrayed as if for a photo shoot. His shoulders tightened. He could feel Brynne’s anxiety, her eagerness to please rising up around him like warm, scented water, so pleasant but if he didn’t watch out it would rise right over his head and drown him in her neediness.

  He stalked into the kitchen and stopped short. It was spotless too, something simmered on the stove in one of his Gran’s big cooking pots, and Brynne stood at the counter, arranging a centerpiece out of flowers he recognized from the neighbors’ gardens and stems of sage and other brush. It looked unique and pretty, and he wanted to stand and just admire her with it like a study for a painting … no, no! He wanted to grab the arrangement and throw it out the open back door. This was his space.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, keeping his voice level with an effort.

  She started, and then looked over at him, her brown eyes going wide, her lower lip sucking in under her teeth. Did she have to do that right now? It always made him want to do his own nibbling on that lip.

  She rubbed her hands up and down her shorts, another move he recognized. “Oh, hi. I’m … um, I’m just fixing a nice supper and I thought these flowers would look pretty on the table.”

  “You didn’t have to do all this,” he said. “Shouldn’t you be … napping, or something?” Anything but straightening up his world and messing up his libido?

  “I wanted to do it,” she said quickly, her words tripping over themselves. “You know I like to do things for you, Gray. Are you ready for a cold beer? I’ll make the salad, and we can—"

  “No,” he interrupted, because he had to stop this before it before she went any further. “Brynne … just, no. I’m going out. I’ll eat later.”

  And then, even though his stomach was growling at the smell of good food, and his mouth was watering not just for the food, but for the damp, sweet curve of her lips and his palms itching to fondle other curves, he turned and walked away from temptation.

  It would only make it worse if he stayed. He was going to hurt her sooner or later—better to make it clear now that this was on
ly temporary. And damn him for a fool that as he walked away, he felt the weight of her soft gaze pulling him to go back, to stay with her, to go under without a murmur of protest.

  * * *

  E’ea woke with the sure knowledge that all was not well in Brynne’s world. She unfurled carefully, staying in the background of Brynne’s mind, watching, listening, sensing. Brynne was crying again. This meant she was deeply upset, even hurt.

  “Brynne?” she asked. “What is wrong?”

  “Nothing. Just … same old, same old. Gray’s never going to love me,” Brynne said brokenly. “No matter what I do. I thought … this was my second chance to have him as mine. But he—he doesn’t want me here. I want to go home.”

  “Not yet,” E’ea said briskly. “Brynne, I think it is time I shared some of the knowledge I have gleaned from studying your human race—and your Grayson Stark.”

  Brynne started. “You’ve been studying him? Stop it—he’s mine. Except he’s not, is he? I guess you can take him if you want to … he won’t mind.”

  E’ea sighed. “I do not wish to take him from you, Brynne. I am here to keep both of you alive. But since I am here, I will counsel you.”

  “What, like Oprah?” E’ea felt Brynne’s astonishment.

  “Hmm, yes,” E’ea replied. “And also Chuck Norris.”

  Brynne snorted. “Chuck Norris? He's some old MMA fighter. What on earth would he know about relationships?”

  “I have no idea. But he knows a great deal about self-defense. And you, my Earth friend, need both. Come into the sitting room and we will get started. Then we will enjoy some of the delicious supper you have prepared.”

  “Without Gray?”

  “I believe the correct expression here is ‘Phooey on Gray-son. Who needs him?’”

  Brynne snickered and swiped her damp face. “Good point. Who needs him? We can eat supper without him … and a whole lot more.”

  She did not say the words with much conviction, but E’ea had faith—by the end of her counseling session, Brynne would experience a change of heart. E’ea had not reached over one hundred years of age without learning a thing or two about love.

  “Except, aren’t you supposed to be protecting him?” Brynne asked, her heart-rate and respiration accelerating, human signs of anxiety. “What if that ugly light comes back?”

  E'ea paused, surprised and then saddened. "You remember the light. I had hoped … but we will discuss that later. Grayson will be fine for a few hours. Our opponent prefers to work in darkness, as your human senses are at such a disadvantage then.”

  However, if he was not back by dusk, they would definitely go looking for him. Grayson might be a big boy, but he was not allowed out after dark by himself—not with a deadly assassin on this planet.

  One who might be even now on Gray’s trail again.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Gray went for a long walk in the southern New Mexico afternoon. The clouds to the south were closer and heavier. They’d have a thunderstorm by dark, but it hadn’t cooled off yet.

  By the time he got back, he was hot, thirsty and hungry enough to eat most of whatever Brynne had prepared. And he was no closer to sorting out his feelings about Brynne, her companion, and the chaos that was his life now.

  First, he had to deal with Brynne. Had to show her that they couldn’t go back to their old … co-dependence or whatever it had been. It wasn’t healthy for either of them.

  He worked on a short speech, and had it straight by the time he jogged up onto his Gran’s front porch.

  Brynne was lounging on the sofa when he walked in. He waited for her to give him a sad, accusing look, but she merely continued to read her Southwest Travel magazine. Well, okay. That was better than her sitting dejectedly at the kitchen table with her dinner preparations spread around her.

  “Hello,” he said, eyeing her.

  “Hello.” Her voice was calm, but she didn’t look up from her magazine.

  Gray blinked. He raked back his hair, damp with sweat, and left his hand on top of his head.

  “Listen, Brynne, we need to talk.”

  “Yes, we do,” she agreed, finally looking up. “I’m not sure how much longer we’ll be stuck here together, so we should get a few things straight.”

  “Just what I was gonna say.” And what the heck was she doing, switching gears on him? The look in her brown eyes did not say, ‘Oh, Gray, stay with me, hold me.’ It said something else entirely. Something he didn’t like, and yeah, that made him a perverse a-hole and he didn't care.

  She waited and he held out a hand in elaborate politeness. “Oh, no, you go first.”

  “Fine.” She sat up and crossed her legs, giving him a sweet view of the back of her thigh and the curve of her ass in her tight shorts. “First, I’m not having sex with you, so don’t ask. Secondly, I don’t mind cooking one meal a day, but only if you clean up after. And thirdly—"

  Gray’s brain was still stuck on number one. He held up his hand. “Wait. Wait a darn minute. Who said anything about me wanting to have sex with you? Wasn’t me. I think I would’ve remembered that.” Probably.

  She gave him a pitying look. “Gray, I know you. You always want to have sex.”

  “So? I’m a guy—it’s in our makeup. Doesn’t mean I wanna have it with you.”

  Whoa, he hadn’t meant to sound that harsh, and anyway, it was a lie. He did want to have sex with her, he just didn’t want to want to.

  She sat up very straight and glared at him. “Fine. Because I don’t want to have it with you, either. You’re mean, and you live like a—a pig.”

  His brows flew up and his head went back. A pig? Just because he left the lid off the toothpaste, and didn’t wipe out the sink every single time he shaved, or put away every single dish he used? He wasn’t any messier here than he’d ever been.

  Then she swept him with a look and wrinkled her nose, and his cheeks burned as he realized belatedly that he was probably a little ripe from his hot trek.

  “Well excuse me, your highness,” he drawled. “I’ll just take my offensive male self out of your way.”

  He reached back and rucked his shirt up and off over his head.

  Her eyes widened, and then fell to follow his hands as he reached for the fastening of his jeans. Color bloomed in her cheeks. “Wh-what are you doing?”

  Gray smiled to himself. She sounded a little breathless there. “Who, me? I’m just gonna go take a shower and head out, maybe find some friendly companionship.”

  Her gaze snapped to his, and she gave him a look like he’d suggested sex in church, or something. “You mean you’re going out to look for—for a hookup?”

  He shrugged. “You said it, not me. But you know me, always ready for sex.”

  He sauntered toward the bathroom, enjoying having had the last word. Until she spoke again.

  “Good idea,” she called after him. “I think I’ll do the same.”

  Gray froze in the bathroom doorway, his eyes narrowing, jaw clenching.

  Oh, no she would not. Not in his lifetime.

  There were plenty of women who were cut out for quick, meaningless sex, but Brynne was not one of them. She should have ‘commitment’ inked right above the sweet curls on her mons.

  He had to make it a cold shower to quell the arousal brought on by that image.

  Then he toweled off and eyed himself in the bathroom mirror. He could do with a shave, too. Ten minutes later he was dressed in a fitted, gray-blue shirt and jeans, and his favorite low boots of palomino leather. He combed his hair and slapped on some shaving cologne, shoved his wallet in his back pocket, slid on his heavy silver cuff and ring, and was ready to go.

  As he walked down the hall, Brynne brushed past him, headed the other way. He smiled at the sidelong look she gave him. She’d given him the cologne—and the shirt too, come to think of it.

  “May as well ride down to the Kokopelli with me,” he told her generously, pausing in the sitting room doorway to roll his shirt slee
ves up partway to his elbows. “Gonna be a storm later, you don’t wanna get wet.”

  She stopped in the doorway of the bathroom. “Hmm, I guess so. I can always get a ride home with someone else.”

  Then she shut the door behind her, and what was left of his good humor evaporated with the snap of the latch.

  “Yeah, as long as it’s with another chick, or a guy over seventy,” he muttered.

  He stalked into the kitchen to assuage his growling stomach. He ended up eating out of the refrigerator container. Brynne had made tamale casserole, his Gran’s recipe. It was delicious, even cold.

  It would taste even better with a beer, but he’d wait until he got to the bar to start drinking. The sheriff looked like he’d hand out DUI’s with pleasure, and if there really was a mysterious assassin after him out there somewhere, Gray would rather have the sheriff on his side, not to mention be sober enough to fight.

  Not that Gray really thought anyone could find him here … except E’ea had, hadn’t she?

  Gray dumped his last bite of casserole back in the container and put the food back in the fridge, his appetite gone. Maybe he and Brynne should stay home this evening, with his loaded gun close by.

  Except that staying home meant they’d be in the same rooms together, which would test his resolve not to touch her.

  And–he peered out the windows–it was gloomy outside, but that was the approaching thunder-storm, not nightfall. He straightened with a snap and scowled. Anyway, what the hell? Was he a strong, savvy guy in his prime, or a frail, old geezer with impaired faculties and paranoia?

  He was going out to a bar if he felt like it. This was Magic, not a big city—hell, not even a small city. Safe as could be, even if nearly everyone in it was weird.

  He felt better … until Brynne walked into the sitting room wearing a little dress that looked like a few gauzy white scarves sewn together to flutter around her, the points teasing her elbows and thighs, and baring way too much of the inside curves of her breasts. Hell, it was cut down to where the high waistband gathered just below her breasts.