Brown and de Luca Collection, Volume 1

by Maggie Shayne

  We got to the top of the stairs, and I suddenly wondered why the hell we hadn’t turned on the light. There was a switch right there, so I reached for it.

  Like a flash, Mason covered my hand with his, stopping me. He had eyes in the back of his freaking head, I thought. But I left the light off and started wishing I had a better weapon than the baseball bat I’d been keeping in that downstairs closet since the last serial killer started fucking up my life.

  What the hell was that about, anyway? How come I was attracting serial killers like a porch light attracts bugs?

  ’Cause you’ve got a killer’s eyes in your head, dumbass. Technically, you’re part serial killer yourself.

  Mason moved silently down the hall toward my bedroom. The door was open, the night-light I never turned off emitting a soft glow from within. He moved closer, took a quick peek in, ducked back, then took a slower look.

  “Grrrruff!”

  Myrtle. The surge of relief that flooded me almost made my knees weak, and I couldn’t wait any longer. I leaned past him and looked into my bedroom.

  Misty was lying in my bed, curled up in one corner. Myrt was sprawled everywhere else, somehow making her two-foot-long body take up the entire bed. But her head was up and she was facing us in the doorway, sniffing, ears cocked and alert.

  “It’s okay, Myrt, it’s only me.”

  She let out a far happier woof, then scrambled to her feet and down the little stairs I’d bought to give her easy bed access. She was at my feet in a second, so I crouched to love her up thoroughly as Mason backtracked and turned on the hall light, allowing me to verify that Misty was alive and well.

  I stood up and looked at her.

  There was red swelling around her closed eyes that made my heart freeze in my chest.

  “Misty!” I lunged to the bed, gripping her shoulders, turning her onto her back, expecting to see blood-soaked pillows and empty eye sockets.

  She blinked and scrunched up her face, shielded her squinting eyes and said, “What the hell? Oh, hey, Aunt Rache.”

  I frowned and searched her face more closely. Smeared makeup. Red puffy eyes. Tear tracks, not bloodstains. She’d been crying.

  “What’s wrong? What happened, Misty?”

  She swiped her eyes, and I heard footsteps in the hall and glanced back to see Amy in her Goth girl jammies. “Her douchebag boyfriend dumped her. Hi, Mason.”

  “Hello, Amy. Sorry to wake you.”

  “He dumped you?” I was dumbfounded. What sort of eighteen-year-old boy dumped a future runway model like my niece?

  “After I gave up Christmas in paradise for him,” Misty muttered, and wiped at her eyes again.

  “Why, for heaven’s sake?”

  “He wanted a blow job and she wouldn’t cave,” Amy said.

  “Whoa.” Mason was holding up a hand as if to deflect the chick-talk going on in my bedroom.

  “When I’m ready for sex, it’ll be a two-way street, not all for the guy. Just like you told me, Aunt Rache.”

  “That’s my girl. I didn’t like him, anyway. I promise you, we’re going to have such a great time that you won’t miss the Bahamas at all. Now that you don’t have that lead weight holding you back, we can go somewhere fun.”

  She frowned at me, blinking. “We’re going away?”

  “Yeah. As soon as Mason and I can get the arrangements made.”

  “Mason and you?” She craned her neck to see him around the corner. Myrtle stood at the foot of her portable stairs, waiting to see if it would be worth the effort to climb back into bed or not. “Are you two—”

  “No!” Mason and I said simultaneously.

  Amy and Misty locked gazes, eyebrows arched and speaking volumes. Misty looked back at me first. “So where are we going?”

  “We haven’t decided yet. We’ll talk more tomorrow. Get some sleep. I’ll take the guest room.”

  “No way.” Misty flung back the covers and slid out of bed. “You sleep here with the bed-hog dog. I’ll take the guest room.”

  She shuffled out of the room, and she and Amy went back down the hall. “Night, Mason. Night, Aunt Rachel,” she called back over her shoulder.

  “Good night,” Mason said. And then, loudly enough for them to hear, “I’ll just, uh, grab some blankets for the couch, if you’ll tell me where—”

  “Linen closet, third door down,” I said, just as loudly.

  Not that they were buying it.

  Hell, I wouldn’t have, either.

  * * *

  Mason couldn’t sleep. He was glad of it, though. He wasn’t there to sleep, and he certainly wasn’t there to slip up the stairs to Rachel’s bedroom and try to talk her into one more go-round for old times’ sake.

  He couldn’t very well protect her if he was having sex with her. He knew from experience that his mind would be completely immersed in the task at hand.

  Hell, who was he kidding? His mind was already full of her, and he wasn’t even doing anything.

  After an hour he got up, wandered into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee, because there was no point trying to sleep. He debated having a snack to go along with it, standing bathed in the light from the open fridge as he looked unseeingly at all the girl-food inside. Yogurt. More fresh fruit, like there wasn’t enough already in the overflowing ornate basket on the counter. Fresh vegetables. Cukes and celery, green peppers, three kinds of lettuce, baby carrots, baby spinach. Where the hell were the deli meat and mayo?

  “The rabbit food is for the teenage female upstairs. Check all the way in the back, third shelf, plastic container, blue lid.”

  He didn’t jump, just straightened enough to see Rachel over the top of the open fridge door. He’d felt her there about a half a heartbeat before she’d said anything. Or maybe he’d smelled that shampoo she used that always reminded him of a summer beach. Coconut and vanilla bean or something.

  She was wearing a snug-fitting T-shirt with Betty Boop on the front, and panties. And socks, he noticed, which made him realize he had just let his eyes take the scenic route all the way down to her toes.

  Damn. He ducked behind the door again, digging for the promised container, pulled it out, peered through the plastic. “Is it…chicken?”

  “KFC. Extra crispy. And only two days old.”

  “And there’s enough for two.” He swung the fridge door closed and took the container to the microwave, peeled back the lid, popped it in, hit a button.

  “Should be some sides kicking around in there, too,” she said, and when he turned it was to see her in his former position, leaning into the fridge, only way sexier, especially from behind.

  He leaned on the counter and watched as her backside moved in time with her rummaging.

  She stopped what she was doing. “Are you staring at my ass?”

  “Nope. The panties are in the way.”

  “Pig.” She emerged with two more containers. “Potatoes and gravy. And I think there might be some biscuits in the bread box.”

  “It’s a veritable feast.”

  “It is.” She crossed the kitchen to where he stood, set the containers beside the microwave behind him and looked up into his face. “I can’t reach the plates. They’re…” She trailed off, pointing at the cupboard behind his head.

  He clasped her waist in both hands and picked her up. She squeaked, then laughed, then opened the cupboard and took out two plates. When he lowered her again, she slid down the front of him, and he wondered why he was torturing himself like this.

  “I’ve really missed you, Rachel.”

  “I know.”

  He rolled his eyes. Not exactly the reply he’d been hoping for. “We had good reasons for not taking things…where they seemed to be going between us.”

  “Yes, we did.” The micr
owave beeped. She nudged him aside, removed the chicken and put the potatoes and gravy in to heat up next.

  “You wanted to experience life as a sighted, independent adult for the first time before cluttering it up with a relationship.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  She wasn’t contributing much to the conversation, he thought. “And have you done that?”

  She pressed her lips together, then turned away so she could put the now-steaming chicken and the two plates on the table. She went to a drawer for utensils and yanked a couple of paper towels off a roll to serve as napkins.

  “Live as a sighted adult?” she asked. “Kind of hard not to, since I am one.”

  “You know what I mean. Have you been…dating?”

  “Have you?” she asked, turning to spear him with her eyes.

  He didn’t want to answer. The truth was, he had been trying, but the old Mason, the play-the-field guy he’d been before, seemed to have vanished. He couldn’t find him anywhere. Every woman he took out, all he managed to do was spend the night comparing her to Rachel.

  And not entirely unfavorably. Rachel was mouthier, more sarcastic, shorter-tempered, would see right through his bullshit, swore like a sailor….

  And yet he always felt like he would rather be with her. Since he couldn’t very well tell her that, he opted to shrug his answer, then took the potatoes and gravy out of the microwave and set them on the table.

  Rachel grabbed two big spoons, plopped one into each dish of steaming leftovers and sat down, grabbing the biggest piece of chicken.

  “It’s only been a month, Mason.”

  “I know. I know.”

  “You had reasons, too,” she reminded him. “You were nowhere near ready for anything serious, you said. You had enough on your shoulders with your brother’s kids and your sister-in-law and your mother, and coping with your brother’s death, you said. You needed to keep some small vestige of your private life free and easy, you said.”

  “I know.”

  “So how’s that been working out for you?” She bit off a hunk of chicken, closed her eyes in approval and chewed like no one was watching.

  “Fine,” he said, because she’d pretty much told him she was sticking to their original agreement and he had no intention of letting on how not-fine it had been. It was hands off until they were both ready to go where this thing between them seemed likely to lead.

  She blinked, and he thought maybe she’d been surprised by his reply. “Really?”

  He shrugged and started eating.

  It wasn’t an answer. Neither of them was giving much in the way of answers tonight. And as much as he wanted to ask her if she thought they could temporarily suspend their hands-off agreement, he didn’t. Mainly because he didn’t think his ego could take the rejection if she said no.

  He couldn’t afford to have things getting all tense and awkward between them when he had to keep tabs on her, keep her safe.

  “So what are we gonna do?” she asked.

  He almost choked, then met her eyes, his own no doubt hopeful and eager. “Do?”

  “About this phantom who’s apparently going around collecting your brother’s organs?” she clarified.

  “I knew that.” He got up and poured himself a mug of coffee. “Want some?”

  “Why not? I’m not sleeping anyway.”

  He got down another cup and filled it. “There’s a ski resort up north, in the Adirondacks. Pine Haven. New York’s Aspen, they call it. Even has an indoor water park. I checked online from my cell phone earlier, and they aren’t filled up this week yet.”

  He dared to look at her, to see what she might think of his suggestion. She was watching his face, her head tipped to one side, taking it into consideration, not ruling it out before he’d even finished suggesting it, as he’d half expected.

  “It’s in the middle of nowhere,” he went on, encouraged. “You could take Misty along without raising any suspicions. Spend a week, stay through the holiday. No one would know where you’d gone if you kept it ultra-private. I can book it in my name, in case anyone’s looking for you. You’ll be safe for a while.”

  She blinked. “You really think we can keep our hands off each other if we spend the holiday in some winter wonderland together, Mason?”

  “I…wasn’t planning to go with you. I mean, I’ve got Mother and Marie and the boys to think about. I can’t leave them for Christmas. And work is—”

  “Sure. I mean, of course. I wasn’t thinking.”

  Oh, yes, she was. And why did that make him want to grin?

  She shot him a look, like she knew what he was thinking, so he sobered up again. “I need to find this killer. That’s the whole point, to get you out of his reach and give me time to track him down and lock him up where he can’t hurt you or anyone else.”

  “Makes perfect sense.” She’d stopped eating. Her face was pink. She was embarrassed.

  “For the record, though, no. I don’t think we could keep our hands off each other if we were tucked away in some winter wonderland together.”

  She smiled, her ego soothed, he thought. “Then it’s a good thing you’re not going.”

  “So you’ll do it?”

  “One stipulation,” she said. “They have to let me bring Myrt. Otherwise, I’ll take my chances with the fucking organ thief. It’s my first Christmas with Myrtle, and we’re not spending it apart.”

  “I’m way ahead of you. Pine Haven is pet-friendly. That’s what made me think of it.”

  “I can book it myself, you know.” She sipped her coffee, leaning back in her chair, her plate still half full.

  “No, I don’t want you online doing any of this. I don’t want there to be any possible way someone could hack into your computer and see where you’ve been searching. It’s better if I do it.”

  She lifted her brows, sipped her coffee. “All right.”

  “I’ll get it done tomorrow.” He looked up at the clock on the wall. “Today. You can leave before the day is out. Can you be ready?”

  “I haven’t even unpacked from New York yet.” Then she sighed. “Yeah, I can be ready.”

  “Good.”

  * * *

  Damn. He picked up the plates, scraped them into the trash, rinsed them off and headed back to the living room with his coffee like the conversation was over. He didn’t even try to get into my pants. For fuck’s sake, what did he think I came downstairs in my underwear for, anyway? Was he dense?

  I heaved a pissed-off sigh as I stomped past him, up the stairs and back to bed. Dumbass.

  He was already in the shower when I got up a very few very short hours later, and when he came out, all clean-smelling and wet, he turned down my offer of breakfast. Said he had to get to work. And yeah, he probably did, but if I was heading up to Mount Timbuktu tonight, I wasn’t going to get the chance to see him again until after this thing was solved.

  And after this thing was solved, my excuse to see him would be gone.

  So you’ll just have to make a decision, then, won’t you? Decide you want to get with him or decide you don’t.

  Yeah, but what if I do and it doesn’t work?

  He borrowed my favorite travel mug and told me to be careful today. To keep the door locked, to call if anything suspicious happened, not to let any strangers anywhere near the place, not to breathe a word about our trip to anyone who wasn’t coming along and to be ready to leave by 6:00 p.m.

  “Leave for where?” Misty asked. She’d just come down the stairs in her bunny jammies and plush robe, and she looked like she’d been crying most of the night.

  I was at the front door with Mason. He was pulling on his coat. “I’ll let your aunt tell you,” he said. Then to me, “See you tonight.”

  Did he sound eager?

 
Was I pathetic or what?

  Then he was gone and Misty was waiting, arms crossed, foot tapping in a perfect imitation of my sister. “Well? Don’t tell me you’re taking off on me again, Aunt Rache, because I really need you right now.”

  “I know you do, kid. That’s why I’m taking you on a fabulous ski vacation for the holidays.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Really? Where?”

  “Pine…something. Up north in the mountains. It’ll be great, and I would never have been able to get you to come with me if dickwad hadn’t had the bad judgment to dump you.”

  “And that would be what? The bullshit silver lining you always say to look for, the one inside every storm cloud?” she asked, mocking one of my most famous quotations exactly the way I generally did. Did I really sound that cynical? I wondered. Wow, what must Mason think of that?

  Since when do you care what anyone thinks of you, Rachel?

  “Not everything I write is bullshit, Misty.” Oh, yeah? Because if that was the case, Mason would be going north with me and there wouldn’t be a killer after my eyeballs.

  “But we have to be ready before the day’s out, so—”

  “I’ve got to go back to my house! I have brand-new skis I haven’t even used yet. And the cutest ski-bunny outfit you ever saw, and—” She stopped there, looking at me, her head tilting to one side. “You can’t ski, though.”

  “I know. That’s why we’re going. I got my sight back, so there’s no reason why I can’t learn to ski, right? Um, there’s only one thing, Misty.”

  “What?”

  “You can’t tell anyone—and I mean no one—that we’re going.”

  She frowned at me, starting to look worried. “Why?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I know you don’t notice it much, but, uh, I’m kind of a big deal. I can’t have fans and paparazzi drooling all over me if I want to have a nice holiday vacay with my niece.”

  “Paparazzi. Really.” The words dripped sarcasm.

  “What? It could happen.”

  “Fine, don’t tell me the real reason.” But she zipped her lips anyway and headed back upstairs to get ready. We had a busy day ahead of us.