Guarding Grayson (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Magic, New Mexico

Gray was finally painting again. Swiftly, with the slashing strokes of a seasoned artist, pausing only to lift more oil paint onto his paintbrush from the palette in his left hand.

This was not one of his paintings which spawned the hatred of convicted high-profile criminals, captured the interest of wealthy art connoisseurs and sold for mid-five figures.

This was different—one of a series he painted just for himself. This was his third, the first two he’d sold to the developer of a wildly popular sci fi video game. Truthfully, he’d been shocked to find a buyer at all. He wasn't compelled to keep the paintings … just to produce them.

The scene he painted was futuristic. A man stood in front of a long, graceful, silver ship—a space-going ship, the likes of which had never been seen on Earth.

But Gray knew exactly what the ship looked like ... because he'd seen her in his dreams. Over and over, until he finally put charcoal to canvas and sketched out the layout of this painting.

Only then was he able to rest without dreaming of the ship and the tall, lean man who stood before her, his legs apart, arms crossed, gray eyes challenging the viewer to try and take what was his.

Behind the ship stretched an expanse of landing pad, a series of hangars huge enough to house this ship and others like her, and a cityscape that was beautiful from a distance—a series of gravity-defying buildings, tall and thin, brightly lit against a dark, threatening sky.

The looming clouds were wet with rain, not a cleansing rain, but one laced with pollutants and dangerous to all but the sturdiest of living things, like the rats that ran in the alleys of the city, and the ravens that patrolled the rooftops. And close-up, the buildings would be grimy and streaked with that dirty rain, the flaws visible in their futuristic facade.

At this stage, Gray was filling in large blocks of color. Later would come the meticulous work of adding details—flecks of light reflecting on the ship, the fine lines of the man's features, his clothing, and of his expression—fiercely intelligent, implacable, dynastic.

Gray tossed his paintbrush onto the littered cart at his elbow and reached for one of the tubes of oil paint. He needed a certain hue of cerulean blue. He had it, he was certain. He'd used it in his last painting.

"Hell." With a curse of sheer frustration, he tipped his head back and glared at the ceiling. He'd
had
that color—in his studio at home in North Idaho. Before it was trashed two weeks ago.

Gray set down his palette with care on the cart, and grabbed a linseed oil-soaked rag to wipe his fingers. He rolled his head from side to side. His neck and shoulders ached from holding his position. How long had he been painting, anyway?

He straightened, and pulled his phone from the hip pocket of his jeans. Nine pm, time to stop for the night. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since breakfast, which had been a burrito made with a tortilla wrapped around the remains of a Mexican casserole brought over by one of his neighbors—his grandmother's neighbors, that is.

A sweet, eccentric, older woman named Topper. She was one helluva cook, and he was lucky she remembered him from his childhood visits here, even if he didn't remember her.

Pulling off the old dress shirt he wore as a painting smock, he tossed it onto the single chair in the room and walked over to pull the shades down over the south-facing picture window.

This room was the piece of his current life helping him hang onto what was left of the old. The room had been his grand-father's studio, which for some reason his gran had left as it was the day he last walked out.

Well, Gray knew the reason—because she'd hoped her son, his father would use it too. But art had skipped a generation. Gray's dad had no interest in attempting the New Mexico landscapes Gray's grandpa painted—some of which hung in this house, some in businesses around town.

The room sat empty until Gray himself, a curious boy, wandered in one day and found a sketchpad and charcoal pencil. His parents had been astonished at his skill in portraying Gran's old cat, dozing in a pool of sunlight. Gran had just smiled at him as if they had a secret, and told him the studio would be waiting whenever he came to visit.

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 ... since 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.