He held up the keys. "Let me take a look, and I'll be back in a while."
"Take your time. I'm not going anywhere." After he left, she opened the top drawer on the file cabinet. The labels on the files were blurry, reminding her she needed her reading glasses.
"You'd forget your nose if it weren't attached to the middle of your face," she muttered to herself. She left the office, making her way through the maze of hallways back to her room, waving at Mary as she passed the kitchen.
When Audrey opened the door to her room, she was surprised to find the bed had been made and the room straightened. That was service she hadn't expected, and she made a mental note to thank Mary—or at least find out whom she should thank.
The ever present draft shifted through the room, making Audrey shiver. She rubbed her hands up and down on her arms, remembering and envying the warm shirts that Gray wore. Opening one of the drawers of the dresser, she found her purse and took out her glasses.
The draft's whispered sounds seemed to take on the form of wards again, reminding Audrey she had awakened during the night sure someone … something … had been calling her name. She paused at the door to listen. The sounds shifted around her, beckoning, making her scalp crawl. Closing her eyes, she tried to pinpoint what bothered her so much. Nothing within the sounds was unusual … and yet…
Abruptly, she left the room and shut the door firmly behind her, making sure it was locked. "Get a grip," she said to herself. "It's just the wind in this drafty old building." And her vivid imagination, now anticipating a ghost in every corner. She gave herself another mental shake. She didn't believe in ghosts. She wasn't sure what she had seen last night, or even what Gray had seen, but that wasn't it. Facts. Figures. Tangible things. Those were real. Ghosts and whispered drafts calling her name weren't. Simple as that.
Back in the office, she tried hard to keep her attention on the books. Everything was in order, with nothing to account for her boss's suspicion that things weren't quite right. Not for the first time, she suspected she had been sent on a wild-goose chase.
A storm squall moved through, beating rain against the window, but without the dramatic lightning from last night's storm. The draft she had noticed earlier intensified, bringing not just cold air swirling around her, but more slithering, whispering sounds that made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.
The kerosene lamp flickered. Just as she had in her room, she could have sworn she heard her own name.
She forced herself to focus on invoices for repairs to the ranch. But within seconds, the hushed sounds of the draft returned, breaking her concentration.
"This is ridiculous," she said, throwing her pencil down on the desk. She didn't want to believe it, but she couldn't dislodge the notion that the sounds were aimed at her. It was yet another of the strange things here at Puma's Lair. First there were threats made in the middle of the night. Then talk of ghosts. Why, those two things alone would give anyone the willies. Now this…
She pushed her chair away from the desk and turned to face the window. A brief ray of sunshine broke through the clouds and sent a stream of light through the window, across her desk. Cheerful as the day looked, the whispers swirled around her, casting a spell of dismal gloom. And within them was a summons, soft, nearly imperceptible, persistent. Audrey. Come to me.
What she needed, she decided, was someone to tell her this was her imagination. Someone she could believe. Someone she could trust. Gray was the one she wanted to go to, and not just because she wanted reassurance. Richard, Hawk, Mary—any one of them would probably tell her she was about to be possessed and her only hope was to leave.
She glanced through the window to her car. Gray was nowhere in sight. Which made sense, Audrey decided, since it had been raining again. The man wouldn't be standing around in the rain trying to figure out why her car didn't run.
Audrey left the office and went to the kitchen, hoping Mary could tell her where she could find Gray. Mary wasn't anywhere to be seen, and Audrey tried to remember if Gray had said where he was spending the day. Last night, he'd said something about renting one of the cabins, so maybe that's where she'd find him.
She headed outside, where the rain had slowed to intermittent sprinkles. The air was crisp, but the temperature wasn't as chilly as she had expected. Normally, she loved the scent of the rain in the air. Today, it reminded her she was unprepared for the weather and that she wasn't welcome here. Even so, she lifted her face and inhaled deeply, then lingered over a flower bed filled with old-fashioned grape hyacinths, crocuses and daffodils.
Audrey turned around to look at the lodge. The building almost seemed suspended in time. She found it impossible to determine which part of the compound was the original structure. From here, it looked almost as though it had once been a fort, few windows facing the outside. From the inside, she knew the glass-faced hallways led to interior courtyards. Old-style shutters framed all the windows, most closed over the glass as they had been in her room last night.
She found yet another stone pathway. It followed a line of cottonwood trees that stretched their bare limbs toward the sky, the leaf buds swollen with a promise of spring. At the end of the path, a half-dozen adobe cabins were scattered on a shallow slope.
Drawn by a longing within herself, she followed the path. Yes, she wanted answers to the sounds within the draft, and Gray was the logical person to turn to. She admitted to herself that was merely the surface reason. This man, somehow, felt … right. She had wondered if a love like the one she remembered between her parents would ever be hers. Gray Murdoch most probably wasn't the man, but he still drew her as no other ever had.
A grove of piñon trees hid a big four-wheel-drive Blazer, her only indication she was still in the twentieth century. Beyond the piñons, she saw a shed. Light shone through the window, and the sound of classical music spilled from the building.
She headed toward the building, hoping she had found Gray. If so, the music surprised her. She would have thought country and western would be more his preference than Beethoven or Mozart.
A mangy-looking tiger-striped cat sat on the stoop, giving itself a bath. At Audrey's approach, the cat watched her with unblinking amber eyes. Its expression was made more intent from one eye being slightly more dilated than the other and the ragged edge of an ear that flopped over. The blue door behind the cat was slightly ajar. Audrey stepped onto the stoop and knocked lightly. No one answered.
The cat nudged the door farther open with its nose and let itself in, its tail waving in the air like a regal flag.
"Hello," Audrey called.
The cat meowed, as if in summons.
Audrey pushed the door open farther and let herself into the shed. The pungent aroma of freshly cut wood assailed her. A wall directly in front of the door was divided into irregular shelves that were filled with an assortment of tools, blocks of wood, cans of stain and finish. She trailed her hand over the items on one of the shelves, stopping when she reached an intricate carving of the cat that had led her into the building.
The paw was curved toward the cat's face as though in another moment it would brush across the cheek where the hair was ruffled from the last swipe. She picked up the small figure, found it surprisingly heavy for a piece of wood and traced the lines with her fingertips.
"Curiosity killed the cat, you know," Gray said from behind her.
* * *
Chapter 4
« ^ »
Audrey's heart leaped, and she dropped the sculpture.
With deceptive quickness, Gray snatched it from midair. She met his gaze and swallowed. "You've just scared another year off my life."
"A whole year, hmm?" He put the figurine back on the shelf.
"Maybe you should wear a bell."
"Like Horace here?"
"Horace?"
"The cat."
She glanced down, but the cat was nowhere to be seen. "Funny name for a cat."
"He's a funny cat. Not to ment
ion a little hoarse."
She grinned. "Ah. Horace. As in 'He has a sore throat' or as in 'He's not really a cat, but a horse'?"
"After you hear his purr, you'll understand." He reached for her hand. "I gather you're here for the tour."
"Which tour is that?" she asked, allowing herself to be led. For the moment, she had what she had wanted—another chance to be with him.
The entry hall opened onto a large space. Floor-to-ceiling windows filled the north side of the room. Light, bright, despite the overcast day. A captivating life-size figure of a mountain lion leaping toward the sky dominated the room. Piles of wood shavings surrounded a base that kept the cat grounded. Even there, its toes were flexed as though in the next instant it would jump.
Shivers chased down her spine, making Gray's hand around hers feel all the more warm.
"The tour of a world-famous sculptor's studio, I gather," she said.
"Famous? Not even close." He turned down the volume on the stereo as they passed it.
He let go of her hand as she approached the sculpture. She touched one of the extended paws, feeling the cat's strength and grace, expecting its warmth. "Puma," she breathed.
Beneath her hands, the wood felt almost alive. The cat's face was even with her own, its expression as intense as the man who carved it. She traced the outline of its eyes, down to its nose, the feel of the wood against her fingers smooth, vibrant. She glanced up and found Gray watching her, his arms folded over his broad chest, his expression unreadable.
"There is no point in telling you this is wonderful," she said. "You already know."
"Yes."
The tiger-striped cat—Horace—brushed against his legs.
"Why do you do this?" she asked. She hadn't anticipated this aspect of him, another facet of the man that fascinated her as much as his isolation and his self-confidence did. "And why wood?"
He picked up the cat. "It makes great kindling if I don't like the results."
"I can't imagine that happening," she murmured. "So this is the whittling that Francie asked you about."
He shrugged without answering, continuing to scratch the cat's ears. The cat closed his eyes and kneaded Gray's shirtsleeve, his purr loud and satisfied. And hoarse, just as Gray had said. Gray's eyes met hers, and the memory of being in his arms washed over her. Unable to bear the intensity of his gaze, she glanced away, returning her attention to the life-size sculpture in the middle of the room. Last night, she would have never guessed he was a sculptor. She didn't know what she thought, but she hadn't expected this.
"What led you to sculpting?" she asked.
He crossed the room and picked up a chisel with a deadly-looking blade. "I've always whittled."
She gave the puma another long look. "I think you're being too modest."
"It's merely a way of spending time until…"
The music reached a crescendo.
"Until?" she prompted when the music settled to a softer volume.
He shook his head. "It's not important."
It was very important, she thought, wishing she knew what he had been about to say. He circled around the figure, and she wondered if he saw the perfection she did or the flaws of creation.
"Were you always a sculptor?"
"Were you always an accountant?"
"Financial analyst," she corrected. "And no, I wasn't. What does that have to do with your being a sculptor?"
"Nothing," he admitted. "I just wanted to know how you saw yourself." He stopped circling the puma and moved toward her.
She swallowed as he touched her jawline with his finger and tipped it up. His gaze lingered over her face with the same expression he had when he circled the mountain lion. Again, she wondered what he saw and didn't realize she had asked the question out loud until his eyes met hers.
"A lovely, desirable woman," he said simply. "With fine, soft skin. Luminous clear eyes shades darker than brandy." He traced the line of her eyebrows. "You make me wish I were a painter."
She had always thought she was ordinary, average. She wanted to tell him so. In this instant, though, beneath his scrutiny, she felt the way he described her. Desirable and desired. Beautiful.
Most of the time, she felt confident, together—an extension of her persona at work. Just now, she was reminded of how sheltered her life had been these past years and how inexperienced she really was. And she wished she wasn't. Oh, what she would give to have the confidence to ask this man to show her how it really was between a man and a woman.
As though he had all the time in the world, he brushed his fingertips over the contours of her face. Chills feathered over her scalp. Her breath hitched, and she held it. His tactile exploration of her face was intimate, more so than any other caress she had ever experienced.
"I'm glad you're not," she murmured.
"Not what?" His breath whispered over her face.
"A painter." She swallowed again, tearing her gaze from his intense scrutiny. "Painters are visual."
"Ah." He traced the sides of her face and her jawline, then the shell of her ears. He stepped closer, heat radiating from his body. "Audrey, look at me," he whispered.
She glanced up, found his face mere inches from hers, so close that the colors of life reflected in his hazel eyes were distinct. He bent closer, brushed his cheek against hers, then waited for her to tilt her head up.
She lifted her face, and his lips skimmed hers with no more pressure than his whisper. Like the rest of him, his lips were warm. She relaxed against him. His hands slid into her hair, cupping her head, holding her still as his gaze fastened on her mouth.
The refrain telling her this man was the right one echoed through her heart. She leaned into him.
His lips brushed hers again, then claimed them completely, surrounding her with his heat. He kissed her as though he sensed she didn't want it to end. She wrapped her arms around his waist and gave in to the sensations that she had kept bottled inside forever. On a sigh, she touched his lips with the tip of her tongue, her caress far more shy than she intended. His own breath caught, and his arms came around her in a rush.
He returned her tentative touch in kind, then trapped her in a storm of sensation when his tongue swept over hers, claiming what she had already given.
If she had ever dared dream of a perfect kiss, this would have been it. Longing poured through her and ignited passion beyond anything she had ever experienced. The texture of his mouth, the aroma of his skin, the blazing heat of his hard body—nothing had ever felt so … right.
When the kiss ended, Gray rested his jaw against her temple and stared through the window toward the approaching storm.
She clung to him, and her quick breath kept pace with his. Gray's arms tightened around her even more. Her body felt soft against him in all the ways a woman was supposed to be. He had wanted to hug her like this last night. He had gone to bed thinking about her, sure he would never be able to hold her.
Gray sure as hell hadn't expected this.
One moment she had been shy, and he had been ready to end the kiss. Then she had leaned into him and became fire in his arms. If a woman had ever responded more, he couldn't remember it.
He tipped his head to the side, trying to see her expression. When she finally lifted her head and looked at him, her cheeks were pink. A trace of uncertainty flitted across her face.
"I just met you," she said, her tone bewildered.
He wondered what that had to do with anything.
She loosened her arms from around his waist and stepped away from him. Her fingertips trailed across the statue of the puma, and she glanced at Gray over her shoulder. "I wasn't sure…"
"Of what?"
She became even more pink. "If I was the only one who felt—"
"You're not the only one," he confirmed. Her obvious embarrassment suggested that she didn't normally feel a pull this intensely. Or if she did, she didn't normally act on it. And yet, she had been on fire for him.
He hadn't intend
ed to do a thing about the attraction he felt for her. She'd given him none of the usual come-on signs, and he had been positive what he felt was one-sided. His eyes narrowed as he watched her gather herself. She hadn't struck him as the kind of woman who would be interested in a short fling.
Maybe he was wrong.
He hoped so.
His cardinal rule with women was to keep it short and keep it simple. No long-term relationships. Ever. Maybe that was part of her allure—she would be here for a day or two, then gone. That thought gave him an unexpected pang of remorse.
She cleared her throat. "Actually, I came to ask another favor."
"What?" he asked.
She glanced at him and became, if anything, even more pink.
He crossed the room and tipped her face toward him. Without touching her otherwise, he gave her another lingering kiss. "Whatever you want," he murmured against her mouth, "consider it done." He kissed her again, savoring the softness of her mouth.
She dropped her forehead against his chest. "When you do that, I can't even think."
"Good." He touched her hair. "What do you need, Audrey?"
"Hmm?"
"That favor…"
"Oh … that." She stepped away from him. "I think I'm hearing things," she said, trailing her fingertips over one of the puma's outstretched paws.
Gray wished she would look at him. "What things?"
"Strange … tones … in the draft." She glanced at him. "I know it sounds stupid, but I keep thinking I'm hearing my name in the currents of air. It woke me up last night, and I heard it again this morning. In my room, and in the office."
"I hear moans in the hallways all the time," Gray responded, shaving off a curl of wood on the puma's haunch. He smoothed his fingers over the wood, and pulled another thin slice off the sculpture.
"I could almost swear that I heard my name." She ducked her head and wrapped her hands around her waist. "I can't believe how stupid…"
Slipping the butt of the chisel in his back pocket, he closed the distance between them. "You thought if someone else listened they could either tell you they didn't hear anything unusual or confirm that you're hearing … things. Right?"
HIS TENDER TOUCH Page 5