Guarding Grayson (4 page)

"What?" he jerked away from her. "Why not? You won't help an innocent girl who's mentally ill?" Jesus, he'd always known this woman was eccentric, but he'd never taken her for cold-hearted. "Never mind," he said, his lip curling. "I'll go find someone who doesn't mind getting involved."

And he had to hurry, he couldn't leave Brynne alone too long. She might hurt herself.

"Grayson," Topper snapped, frowning up at him. "That is not it. I will gladly do all I can to help the two of you. And so will others here, including the sheriff—although he does get rather heated about bringing trouble here. Not that you could know about this particular trouble, of course."

He turned back to her, shaking his head. "What the hell are you talking about? Are you gonna help or not?"

She lifted her hands, and he blinked. Were those little sparkles wafting from her fingers? No, of course not. And her hair must’ve had that orange streak in it already—it couldn’t have appeared just now.

"I mean, dear man, that you must keep your Brynne very close. Or more correctly, let her keep you close. I'm not sure why—the three fates didn't divulge that much—but I do know it's the only way you'll be safe."

“Brynne’s in danger?” Gray was already moving back down the steps, alarm prickling through him. Had someone followed Brynne here? Someone who wanted to harm her? Hell, maybe they'd even had her imprisoned somewhere, and she'd gotten loose.

He scanned the night beyond their back yards, but saw nothing but the faint line of the mountains against the starry skies, and the lights of a few vehicles out on the state highway through the valley.

"You think someone followed her here? Have you seen a strange vehicle, or strangers in the street?"

"No, dear. Not yet, but you are still in danger." Topper waved her hands impatiently at him. "You've come here to hide, but this kind of trouble cannot be shaken so easily. Now hurry back home. She will no doubt explain everything."

Gray shook his head. "Topper, would you just call the sheriff?" Meanwhile, he'd go home all right—and get his pistol. No one could've followed him, surely, but they could've followed Brynne. Later, he'd worry about how this woman knew he was here to hide out.

"Yes, dear," Topper smiled at him, suddenly agreeable. "If necessary. Hurry home."

Gray vaulted the fence again, and strode back across his Gran's small lawn. By the light of the porch, he pulled out his phone, opened the back to remove the battery, slid it back in and tried to power up his phone. Nothing. Just figured it would die now—it was that kind of night.

Hell, it'd been that kind of month.

When he walked in, he stopped short.

Brynne stood in the middle of his kitchen. She was scrubbed clean, her hair still in a tangle with some strange bits in it, but at least it was shoved back out of her face. She looked wan, but lovely, her eyes bigger than ever in her pale face.

She was also very naked.

CHAPTER FOUR

"I do not have appropriate garments," Brynne said in that weird voice.

"Come with me," he said, yanking his gaze with a mighty effort from her bared curves. "I'll find you something to cover up."

Because he couldn't think when all of her was on display, or when his body was reacting to the sight of her pretty breasts, and the sweet little triangle of light brown curls between her thighs.

He groaned, turning his back and adjusting himself in his jeans.
Down boy
. Just keep her talking and get a handle on whatever the hell was going on. Made it little tough to guard against danger when he had no idea where it would come from.

In his bedroom, he grabbed one of his old tees from a drawer of the old oak bureau. A faded blue, it bore a Seahawks logo on the front. He turned and stopped short. She stood close behind him, all of her within reach.

He looked away, gritting his teeth, and held out the tee. He didn’t turn back until out of the corner of his eye he saw it fall around her slim thighs. Next, he handed her a soft corduroy shirt in gray. "Here, put this on, too. You, uh, need to stay warm. I'll grab a pair of socks for you."

The corduroy shirt hanging around her like a robe, she took the pair of wool socks from him, and then gave him a blank look. "What do I do with these?"

"Put them on your feet," Gray said, fighting to keep his voice low and calm, even as his heart cracked open another notch at this further evidence she was not all here. "You always go barefoot, and then complain your feet are cold, remember?"

She said nothing, but perched on the side of his bed and pulled the socks on. She got the first one wrong with the heel up, and Gray pushed her hands aside and straightened the sock on her slender foot and ankle, then took the other sock and motioned for her to lift that foot. She did, and he pulled the sock up for her. Her skin was silky, cool and clammy. His socks were much too big, the heels riding up her ankle, but they stayed up around her calves.

"Socks," she recited, peering at her raised foot. "Also known as stockings. Worn with shoes."

He straightened, not sure if he wanted laugh or cry—maybe both. "Right."

A low grumble of sound emanated from her middle. She peered down at herself, her chin back, hands flying out. "What is that? It feels very ... strange."

She looked up at him again. "This body is experiencing discomfort. Inform me of what it needs."

Gray shoved both hands into his hair and held onto his head, pressing on it as if he could wrest some sense from this situation. He couldn't.

She sounded like a character from a that TV show of hers—one of the stranger characters. Like that episode with aliens. And maybe that explained a lot—she was suffering from some mental breakdown, so she fell back on a favorite fantasy. He just hoped she wasn't waiting for the brothers to join them.

Her stomach growled again, louder, and Brynne swayed, her face going paler than ever.

Gray gazed at his girlfriend. His freakishly strong, tech-destroying, dead-looking girlfriend.

She was here now, and whatever the hell she'd been up to, she obviously had not been taking care of herself. Since Topper refused to help him for her own reasons, until he could get to another phone, or alert another neighbor to call the sheriff and ask him to bring the EMTs with a strong sedative, he couldn't let Brynne faint on his carpet.

"You're hungry, at a guess," he said. "You never did eat enough to keep a chihuahua alive—from the looks of you, that hasn't changed. C'mon, there's food in the kitchen."

He held out his hand, but instead of waiting for him to lead the way to the kitchen, she gestured sharply for him to wait. "I will go first."

She was consistent, at least. She walked past him, pausing for a moment at the hallway leading to the bathroom, bedrooms and his studio, doing that weird head-tipping thing again. God, he hoped she wasn't about to stop the refrigerator, or blow up the microwave. He snorted at his own imaginings. She hadn’t done those other things—his phone dying was just a coincidence.

She was mentally ill, that was it. He looked from her to the front door, and calculated his chances of getting out and away to wait for the sheriff on the front porch. Then he looked at her thin frame in his enveloping shirts and sighed. No, he'd feed her first, then he'd go.

But he did open the drawer of his nightstand, pull his Ruger and slide it into the back of his jeans, then pull his tee over it. Nice thing about flying FBI Air, he'd been able to bring it in his duffel, with some ammo and neither of the agents had said a word.

Brynne stepped into the lighted kitchen, and surveyed it. "It is safe," she pronounced.

Gray rolled his eyes as he moved past her. "Yeah, could've told you that. Listen, whatever game you're playing, just drop it. Sarah Conner, you're not."

“I do not know this Say-ra Con-ner. Is she a friend of yours?”

Gray ignored the question. This was not the time to explain one of his favorite old movies. He opened the fridge, pulled out the supper from the cafe and set it on the little Formica table under the window, then grabbed a couple of plates and forks from the cupboards, and set them out as well.

As he opened the containers, the fragrance of good Mexican cooking wafted out. The plump enchiladas were swimming in red sauce, a mound of rice and chicken to one side. He shoved the container toward Brynne and opened the salad, which looked fresh and green. "Here, eat."

She looked from him to the supper, and swallowed, her throat working above his shirt. "Okay, Gray-son."

She leaned over the enchiladas and opened her mouth. Gray moved in instinctive protest, only for the words to freeze in his throat ... as a big bite of enchilada floated up out of the container and through her parted lips.

She closed her mouth, chewed, and her eyes widened. "Mm-mm," she said in approval. Another, even bigger bite floated up toward her mouth.

Gray sat frozen, watching, as she steadily consumed half the contents of the container. Definitely peyote in his beer—had to be. Because otherwise, he was the crazy one here. This kind of stuff
did not happen
.

She eyed the second half of the supper, licked a stray bit of sauce from her lower lip and looked up at him. "This is very ... satisfying. Why do you not share it? You have already consumed your daily ration?"

"Ahh ..." he managed, any coherent speech frozen in his brain. "N-wha  ..."

Brynne looked from his face to the container, to the table with plates and utensils. "This is not how you consume nutrition," she said, her voice quieter. "Oh. Pardon me for startling you, Gray-son. I will study your human nutritive habits and learn an alternate practice."

She closed her eyes, and Gray eased his chair away from the table, ready to move for the back door. Only to see Brynne's eyes open, her blue gaze fixing him in place.

"I comprehend now," she said in her flat, growly voice. "You humans utilize your prehensile digits and utensils. I will do so from now on, Gray-son."

Gray stood so fast the table rocked. "Enough!" he roared. "Brynne—that's enough of this—this whatever the hell you're into. Just stop."

"Sit down, please," she said. "I will ... explain."

Gray raked a hand through his hair and gestured. "Explain what? What the hell is going on with you? You're ... acting really weird. Doing all this strange stuff. Where the hell have you been—magic school or something? Vegas? Been hanging out with some gamblers and loan sharks, who dumped you in a—a reservoir or something?"

* * *

E'ea held up one of Brynne's slender hands, palm out, and projected calm.

Grayson Stark's mouth closed and his face relaxed, the furrow smoothing out between his dark, masculine brows.

He was considered an attractive, virile male by humans, particularly Brynne. His rejection earlier had hurt the human female deeply, and bewildered her. This was E'ea's fault—she should not have attempted to bring Brynne out of her stasis so soon.

It had seemed worth it to connect with Grayson's empathy and male protectiveness, but that had failed, as had her attempt to withhold information from him. He was stubborn, intelligent and hostile.

To gain his cooperation, E'ea must reveal the truth.

"Please," she said again. "Listen. First of all ... I am not Brynne. I am merely inhabiting her body for a time."

Grayson Stark opened his mouth, scowling again. Well, on to the next stage of revelation. E'ea projected her energy, sending a pulse strong enough to emanate visible evidence of her essence from her host's eyes and even her facial pores.

This worked well. Grayson backed away, his eyes widening, mouth dropping open. He stopped only when he was forced to by the kitchen workspace.

"Y-you—" He swiped his mouth with a shaking hand. "You're
glowing
.”

“Yes.”

He swallowed, his throat working. “You say you’re ... inhabiting Brynne?" he croaked, his voice nearly matching hers. "What are you ... a—a ghost of some kind? That’s it, right? She did die, and you grabbed her body."

"You are partially correct," she said. "I am not a ghost, or spirit of a dead human. I am E'ea. I am from a world so far away your scientists only suspect that it supports life forms. I am a Galactic Guardian." And new enough in the role that the announcement filled her with an extra glow of pride.

"Oh, my God, you really are an alien. So you're here to ... what—kill someone?" His gaze flickered toward the nearest aperture in the walls. “Or suck brains, or something?”

Hmm.
E'ea recalled from her research that females on this planet occasionally killed males for ending a relationship with them, although it was more commonly the rejected males who killed. Perhaps he believed that Brynne had returned to end his life. As for ‘sucking brains’, that she did not get at all. Was that a thing here? She had not come across it in her research on modern humans.

"No, I come in peace." She snickered. "I've always wanted to say that. But I digress. I am here as a guardian, Grayson. I am here to guard
you
."

He shook his head, the furrow back between his brows. "No, forget me for now. Talk about Brynne. Where has she—have you been?"

E'ea sent energy swirling across the table to Gray's chair. It slid across the floor toward him, and he winced as it struck the back of his calves. "Perhaps you should sit down for this part, Grayson."

Gray sat. "Wait. Are you ... are you gonna take her with you somewhere? Like in that old movie … Cocoon, that was the name. You can leave, but you have to leave her here.”

E'ea emanated humor again, but stopped herself before it manifested as a laugh from her hostess. That would be most inappropriate at this time.

"No," she said. "I will not take your Brynne away. This I swear to you. I have brought her back to you, and I will keep her safe until the danger passes." Or she would perish trying.

"What danger?" He shook his head, pale under his tan. “You—Topper—everyone’s warning me of danger. But there can’t be any danger to me
here
—I’m safe here. Brynne’s the one who died.”

E'ea focused on him, and monitored. Heartbeat heavy, respiration ragged, skin clammy, body temperature lowered. Now was not the time to tell him Brynne had died because of him. Not because of their argument, but because of something much darker.

She floated the container of enchiladas toward him. As he lifted his hands automatically to catch it in one hand, she attempted to send him an eating utensil. He caught the fork just before it whacked him on the cheek, and glowered at her.

She really must practice more—Earth's gravity was so different from her home.

"Consume a portion of nutrition," she ordered. "Your biological system is reacting similarly to Brynne's. Therefore, you must be low on nutrients and thus energy, as well."

He shrugged and shoveled up a bite. While he ate, she eyed the other container. "What is this substance?"

"Salad," Grayson mumbled around a mouthful of enchilada. "You live on the stuff."

Ah, Brynne enjoyed salad. E'ea opened her mouth to levitate a small bite. Then she caught sight of Grayson staring at her, his face tight. "Sorry. I will consume as you do."

Gray shook his head, but he took another large bite and chewed. She had been correct about that, he was hungry.

She ate more salad, using her fork the way he did. "This cold vegetation is surprisingly tasty," she said. "Your planet holds many surprises."

Gray reached for the half-empty container of yeasty-smelling beverage on the table, and took a drink. "What do you usually, ah, consume?"

He was humoring her. The look in his eyes said he did not believe her story.

"My race does not consume nutrition in solid form as you do. We absorb it from our atmosphere." She frowned at the salad. "Have I consumed enough nutrition to sustain Brynne through your rest cycle? Her digestive system feels quite full, yet I am ... unsatisfied."

"Oh, you’re—or she’s—probably thirsty," Gray said. He rose and grabbed a tall glass cylinder from the cupboard, held it under a metal tube to fill it with clear water and handed it to her. "Here. Drink up."