“It feels like we’ve been here forever,” said Lucinda. She sighed contentedly and sat next to him.
His gaze dipped into the cleavage of her tiny bikini top. The water had already dried, leaving only acres of pale, perfect skin. Was she really this beautiful? Or had he created her dream body to satisfy his desires? He hadn’t been able to resist giving her a sexy bikini—and she hadn’t protested. And, thank the Goddess, she’d ditched the robe.
“They don’t talk.”
Gray blinked and looked at Lucinda.
“What?” he asked.
She cupped her breasts, which of course made him look—and want—again. “They don’t talk. You looked as if you were hoping to have a conversation with them.”
Just a dream. He dragged his gaze from her boobs to her face. “I do,” he said.
The humor in her gaze faded. He saw the wariness first and, underneath, the desire. She wanted him. He knew it from the first time she entered his dream. He could hear her thoughts . . . and oh, he could feel the way lust burned through her when she looked at him.
“It wouldn’t mean anything,” she said. Her tone was uncertain, as if she couldn’t decide whether she wanted it to mean something or not.
“I’m conflicted,” he admitted. He should drop it. Toss her in the water again, but . . . Shit. He wasn’t a stand-up guy. “Nice” wasn’t an adjective that had been used to describe him in a long while.
He cupped her heart-shaped face and looked into her eyes. “Eventually we’ll wake up, and it won’t be same. We won’t be the same. I can’t be with you. I can’t give you anything.”
She studied him, her expression softening. He wondered what she’d seen in his face that could merit such a look of compassion. What secrets had she discerned? What pain had he not hidden?
He dropped his hands, but she wouldn’t let him move away. One of her small hands grasped his knee and stopped him from getting to his feet. He wanted to run away from whatever was unfolding. He wasn’t in control of it. And it pissed him off that she made him feel this way.
Her fingertips danced over his jaw. The light touches held him hostage, as did the intention that glittered in her green eyes.
She leaned in, and then she kissed him.
That small, intimate brush of her lips sent fire racing through his veins. She was so gentle, so careful, he felt humbled by her. How could she give him even this small part of herself? She treated him like she could care about him. Like . . . maybe she already did.
He leaned back, his heart thundering. It couldn’t be like this. Not so fucking sweet. Hard and mean, yes. Lust burning and bruising . . . tangle of limbs . . . sweat and moans . . . oh, hell yeah.
Then he wouldn’t have to listen to his conscience.
He didn’t resist when she kissed him again. She held his face carefully, as though he were fragile glass. Her mouth was a butterfly, flitting, flirting, landing oh, so briefly before moving away. She flicked her tongue against the corners of his lips.
“Let me in,” she whispered.
He opened his mouth, and accepted the slow sweep of her tongue. He felt undone by her tender regard. He’d wanted to tumble her, to take her . . . and she was giving something to him. Something he didn’t even realize he needed.
No. He wouldn’t let her do this. He wouldn’t feel this way again. Gods-be-damned! Betrayed by his own body . . . manipulated by another Rackmore witch.
Disgusted with himself, he pulled away and stared at her. He saw nothing calculating in her eyes, only warmth and need. A need he could fulfill. Her berry mouth was swollen and ripe. He wanted those lips on him, everywhere. She still cupped his face, and he liked how she held him. He liked how she treated him—he just didn’t deserve it. Worse, he couldn’t trust her actions were genuine, and not designed to elicit a particular response.
However, he knew one thing right down to his soul.
She wanted him. And he wanted her.
He wouldn’t pretend it was anything but sex.
“What are you doing?” he asked sharply.
Her eyes widened, and he felt like a jerk when she let go of him. Her gaze shuttered. “I thought I was kissing you.”
“Well, don’t.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “I want you. But I want you hard and fast. I want to be inside you, driving you wild, making you scream. I want us tearing each other apart.”
I’d like that, too. Her thought drifted through his mind. Triumph flashed through him, and he leaned forward, ready to pounce. If he cared, even a little. But I’ve been used enough.
Gray stopped cold. He felt like she’d punched a hole through his chest. “Lucy.”
“I’d like to take another swim.” She rose to her feet, and offered him a small, trembling smile. “This dream will be over soon.”
Translation: It was over now.
He watched her walk into the waves until she was hip-deep, and then she dove under the purple water and swam away.
Way to go, prick. Why didn’t he just give her what she wanted? Was she so different from any woman who wanted a little romance, a little tenderness? It wouldn’t have been real, but she understood the rules here. . . . Didn’t she?
He was scarred and bitter and distrustful. He couldn’t drop his guard long enough to make love to a beautiful woman. He’d told her there were no secrets here, no need to protect their hearts.
He’d been wrong.
He owed the witch his thanks.
Her pathetic attempt to save Marcy had been an unexpected boon. The Guardian was thoroughly distracted now, and that was good. He needed time—to find the object, to create the spell, to fix his mistakes.
Ah, but the witch had given him another gift, as well. She was on the run from Bernard Franco. He could easily trade her location for the Raven’s help should he need it. However, Franco’s gratitude might turn to treachery, and he couldn’t risk having anything else out of his control.
Even so, he was so pleased by this new development that he’d decided Lucinda’s death would be quick. Yes, she deserved his mercy.
And his pity.
He stood next to the table and stared down at the magical items. Only one, the most important, of course, was missing. Marcy had stolen it. He’d underestimated his timid little lover. When he found out she’d been in the basement of the café spying on him, he’d lost his temper. He thought her sufficiently cowed, but instead he’d made her bold.
Too bad Lennie had been fended off by the witch and hadn’t retrieved the eye. Oh, how he’d whined about getting scalded. The man had no tolerance for pain at all. On the upside, all it took to shut him up was a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.
While his friend nursed his wounds, he’d managed to get into the old clinic long enough to search the body and the items the sheriff had bagged as evidence.
The eye wasn’t there.
The good news was if Marcy didn’t have it, that meant Lucinda Rackmore did. The bad news was that she was in the Guardian’s house, and not even he could break through the protections there. He had to plan for multiple scenarios. If the witch trusted Gray with the eye, the man’s ingrained sense of duty would surely make him give it to the sheriff. But if the witch kept the eye a secret . . . well, that was another issue altogether.
Despite his confident prediction, the portal had not opened. He’d sensed the frailness of the barrier and he’d been so sure it would peel away and allow him to call forth Kahl. Gray Calhoun was like all the others in Nevermore. Everything just fell into his lap—he wasn’t Guardian because he deserved it. He’d been born a Calhoun, been raised a Dragon, and simply waltzed into town to take his rightful place.
I have a birthright, too. No one had known the truth, and those with an inkling—like those old-bat librarians—buried it. Everything had been taken from him. His parents. His magic. His identity.
Fury lashed at him.
It was too bad the portal hadn’t opened. It probably would have if he’d gotten all the objects in place an
d the spellwork finished. Instead, the barrier had solidified, and now he would have to start over.
He beat back his anger, tamped it down flat until every wisp of it was gone. Nothing worked smoothly the first time. Or even the second. There was more work to be done—which included getting his little treasure back from the Guardian.
But first, he had to do some cleanup.
Taylor wished his head would just explode already. The pain pulsing in between his eyes went up a notch every time Cathleen spoke. She sat in his office across from his desk, lolling in one of the leather wingback chairs that creaked every time she moved. And she moved a lot.
“He didn’t show up for the inspection, no sir. Says right on the town books that I got rights. If the Guardian don’t keep his word, his word is no longer law. Says it right there.” She leaned forward and tapped the page with her sharp, pink nail.
Taylor squinted down at the old ledger with its yellowed pages. It was one of the books written by the first sheriff, a series of laws enacted by the original Guardian to ensure the protection of the town and its people. How Cathleen had known about the tome when he hadn’t stuck in his craw. She didn’t read anything that might have truth in it, and she sure as hell wouldn’t have the attention span or interest to dig through arcane law books.
Still, she’d marched right to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that lined the left side of his office and pulled it out from the first column, third shelf. It was among a bunch of oversized, thick law books Taylor had thought of as fancy dressing for his office rather than contributions to his work.
“You see, Sheriff?” She lifted her chin and sniffed, thoroughly playing the offended party. “I made sure everything was right and proper. And he didn’t even bother to show up. What kind of Guardian is he?”
“Would you like to ask him?” Taylor leaned back in his chair and pinned her with a hard stare. “I’m sure Gray would be happy to give you a demonstration—just so you’re real clear on the kind of Guardian he is.”
Cathleen’s face mottled, but she took the hint and shut her mouth. Taylor might have his own issues with the way Gray handled his Guardian’s duties, but that didn’t mean he deserved anything less than Taylor’s loyalty and public support.
Taylor read the ledger again. Law was law. Gray would be pissed, but it was his fault. He should’ve remembered the damned inspection. Taylor had no choice. He had to let Cathleen reopen the café.
“Hey, Taylor. There’s a—”
Deputy Ren Banton stopped in the doorway, and took in the scene. His dark gaze moved from Cathleen to Taylor. He quirked an eyebrow at Taylor, and then he had the nerve to grin, just a little.
“You need something, Ren?”
“Accident off Brujo Boulevard, up near the fork to Old Creek.”
Taylor’s gaze went to the phone on his desk, and then to the bowl of water he kept for communication spells. He couldn’t enact one, but he could receive them. Ren saw the direction of his gaze, and shrugged. “That’s up near our farm. Dad called me when he found the wreck.”
Ren’s dad was Harley Banton—a widower who’d had to raise his son alone. It was a sad fact that Ren’s mama, Lara, had committed suicide. Ren had been only a few months old, about the same age as Ant when it happened. His wife’s suicide had nearly broken Harley, and he became something of a recluse. A note had never been found, either, which Taylor had always thought odd. Lara was quite a bit younger than her husband, the niece of the Wilson twins who came to live with her aunts. The Wilson twins ran the library, Tuesday through Friday, eight a.m. to four p.m. They were both in their seventies and as persnickety as ever. Goddess help you if you kept a book past its turn-in date. They’d loved their niece dearly, and they’d been devastated when she’d taken her life by overdosing on Valium.
It had been a double blow to the town. First, to see one of their own abandon his kin to chase a skirt, and second, to see a vibrant young woman take her own life. The two events had been only a couple weeks apart—and both had fed the gossip mills for months.
So, yeah, Ren was young, barely twenty, but solid. He’d graduated from high school with Ant and he was one of the few kids who’d stuck around. Most of Nevermore’s children left. Some stayed and some came back, but most wanted to pursue lives outside of small-town living and backbreaking farmwork. He and Ant had once been close, but as their interests diversified, they’d drifted apart. Seemed to Taylor that his little brother cared a lot more about plants than he did people.
“Taylor?”
Taylor blinked and found both Ren and Cathleen staring at him. Shit. He’d been drifting again, losing his focus.
“All right, then,” he said wearily. “Let’s go.”
“What about me?” asked Cathleen in a high-pitched voice. “What about my rights?”
“You can reopen the café.” He needed coffee, and aspirin. Ren saluted him, and walked out, probably to go start up their only law enforcement vehicle, an SUV that had seen better days.
Taylor watched Cathleen pop up from the chair. She looked like a vicious little bird hopping from tree branch to tree branch, hoping for the opportunity to peck out someone’s eyes. He was sick that she hadn’t asked about her stepdaughter. Not once. When he’d told her about Marcy two days ago, all Cathleen could do was lament about not being able to find good help. Who’s gonna be my waitress now? she’d wailed. She acted like Marcy had gotten murdered just to inconvenience her.
“Will the wake be tomorrow?” asked Taylor pleasantly.
Cathleen stopped in the doorway and turned toward him, her eyes narrowed. “What wake?”
“For Marcy,” said Taylor. “The autopsy’s done. Her body’s ready to be released. I assume you’ve made arrangements for her burial?”
Cathleen said nothing for a moment, and he knew she was calculating all the money she’d lose giving out free food to mourners. Anger pulsed through him. He wanted to take out his gun and shoot her.
“Wakes are tradition in Nevermore,” said Taylor, as if she needed reminding. She’d outlived her father-in-law and her husband, both of whom had wakes at the café. He’d be damned if he let her wiggle out of giving Marcy one. “Everyone will want a chance to say their good-byes.”
Apparently Cathleen decided she’d won enough battles today. She grudgingly nodded. “Of course, I’m having a wake. She was my kin.” She regarded him, her lips curled. “I can open the café right now, though, right?”
“I can’t stop you.”
That pleased her. She offered a tepid smile, and then she spun and marched out.
“Goddess, forgive me, but I hate that woman.” Taylor checked his weapons belt and made sure all was in order. Then he plucked his hat from his desk and put it on.
Arlene was coming in as he was going out.
“What in the world did Cathleen Munch want?” she asked. Then she took one look at his expression, opened her big red bag, and out came a thermos of coffee and a bottle of aspirin, which she pressed into his hands.
Taylor leaned down and kissed her cheek. “I think I’d like to marry you, Arlene.”
“Already taken,” she said. “But if things don’t work out, I’ll let you know.”
Since she’d been happily married for thirty-five years, he doubted he still had a shot. “Jimmy’s damned lucky.”
“He sure is.”
Taylor left, feeling a smidge better.
Arlene stood in the lobby and looked around. “I really need to come in earlier,” she said to the empty office. “I always miss the good stuff.”
Gray sat on the shore and watched Lucy swim. She seemed to never tire of the water, or maybe it was just that she was tired of him. Okay. She hadn’t exactly been avoiding him. She still had an easy enough manner, even when she asked him to create a one-piece bathing suit, which he reluctantly did. Unfortunately, having more of her covered up did nothing to soothe his raging libido.
Guardian.
Startled, he glanced up at the pink sky.
“Ember?”
Oh, dere you are. Time to come home now. We got work to do.
“What about Lucy?”
Her suffering over, now she got to recover. Her body weak from all dat pain.
“Maybe it would be better to stay here until she’s fully healed.”
Or maybe it better for you.
Gray sighed. “I’ll send her back first.” He paused. “Are you in my bedroom?”
Me an’ the sheriff. Sorry ’bout the door.
“The door?”
But Ember’s voice was gone. Once again he was awed by her power, and he wondered just what kind of magical she was.
How long had he and Lucy been dreaming?
Suddenly worried, he called Lucy to the shore.
It was time to go back to reality.
Where his regrets lived.
When Gray woke up, his eyes felt like sandpaper and his throat was as dry as a Texan’s sense of humor. His hand clutched the pillow next to him, right where Lucy’s head should be. He shot up, panicked.
“Whoa, pardner,” drawled Taylor. He stood next to the bed holding a glass of water. “Ember took Lucinda into the bathroom to clean her. She was a mess.” He handed Gray the water, and wrinkled his nose. “You could use a good dunking, too.”
Gray gulped down the cool liquid. “How long have we been out?”
“Three days. Grit’s been worried about you.”
“It wasn’t like that,” he said. Taylor had known about Gray’s dream forays—and that Grit’s sudden, awful decline had ended those journeys. He’d barely gotten his grandfather into his mother’s care before he’d crashed. “I swear it.”
“I believe you.”
Gray’s limbs felt achy and numb. And he had to piss bad.
Taylor seemed to read his mind. “It’s a wonder you both didn’t pee the bed.”
“I was dream walking with her. The body practically shuts down when you go that deep.”
Taylor jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Ember took her to the hallway bathroom because the tub’s bigger.”
Never Again Page 11