Guarding Grayson Read Online Free Page A

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