Lowcountry Mysteries (Boxed Set #1)

by Lyla Payne

  The song ends, and he puts down the guitar. “Hey, Gracie. Marcella wants to know when you’re coming back to the library.”

  “I don’t know. Mr. Freedman keeps asking. Soon, I think.” It’s weird to think about going back after what happened with Mrs. LaBadie, but I need a job, and there isn’t anywhere else in town that would give me any semblance of satisfaction.

  Unless I want to hang out my shingle as GRACIE HARPER, GHOST WHISPERER.

  Definitely not.

  As much as I admit to—on the rare occasion—missing Anne, not having to deal with her insistent presence is a relief. It had been a lot of pressure, not letting her down.

  “Where are you headed?”

  “I’m meeting Beau, then we’re popping over to the hospital to celebrate Will’s release.”

  “Oh.” His eyes narrow, and he sucks in a breath, as though there’s something he wants to say. In the end, the air blows out with no words.

  My head tells me to ignore it, but letting go has never been my specialty. “I know you don’t like Mayor Drayton, Leo, because of what happened with your sister.”

  He rubs his hand through his long hair and does the inhale-exhale thing again without talking. Then his eyes meet mine, hesitant but also determined. “There’s more than just that, you know, that makes me wish you’d stay away from him.”

  “Hey, Gracie!” Beau strides up behind Leo, his eyes glued to the back of my old nemesis’s head. He kisses me on the cheek and nods to Leo, then asks if I’m ready to go.

  “Yeah.” I smile up at him, glimpsing nothing hidden in his expression, nothing unsure about his interest in me. Because of his injuries, mine, and the fact that a ton of my time has been spent taking care of Amelia, the two of us haven’t had much time to explore what’s happening between us.

  But we will. And, I’m consistently surprised to find out, I want to.

  The bad blood between him and Leo has nothing to do with me, and there’s no reason to ignore my instincts, which promise he’s a good man. He’s not Jake, he’s not David. I don’t know if he’s as good as Gramps, or even Will, but I’m willing to find out. If he has secrets, they’re his to tell, when and if he’s ready to trust me with them.

  No matter how truly I believe that, I can’t help but glance over my shoulder as we bid Leo farewell and head toward the hospital. He watches us, fists clenched, but gives me a small smile when he catches my look.

  “Good day?” Beau asks.

  “Good day. Amelia might be able to get out of bed next week, the baby is doing great. Will’s going home. What more can a girl ask for?”

  “I can think of a few things,” he murmurs my direction, sending all kinds of tingles down my spine.

  “I’m sure you can. And I’m dying to hear about them tomorrow night when you take me to dinner.”

  He squeezes me tight with one arm as we stride into the hospital, then take the elevator to Will’s room. Grant runs up to give me a sweet little hug before announcing—loudly—that his daddy gets to go home. My eyes meet Mel’s, and we share a moment of happiness between two women who have loved the same man and who, in the end, love each other at least as much. The room grows chaotic as more people show up. Mel cuts the cake, handing over the first piece to Grant, which he promptly drops on the floor, icing first.

  “I’ll go grab some towels,” I tell Mel, urging her to stay in the room. “I could use a minute of quiet, anyway.”

  Beau doesn’t notice me slip into the hallway, and as much as I love my friends and makeshift family, after weeks of near solitude that room is a lot to handle. I wander down the hall to the nurses’ station and ask where I can find the janitor, then walk a few more doors to his storage closet.

  Inside, there’s a yellow bucket holding a gray-tinged mop, shelves full of cleaners and stacks of towels. I grab a couple towels, snag a spray bottle of floor cleaner, then turn to go, and drop all of the gathered supplies onto the floor. They clatter and roll, but the noise hardly registers.

  There’s a figure between the exit and me. He’s wearing men’s clothing, some kind of period dress, though the fact that he’s mostly see-through makes the era hard to pin down. His face is drawn, angry, and when he sees that I’ve noticed him, he extends one long finger straight toward my chest.

  Oh. Hell. No.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Novels may be written by a single person, but everything else—from the idea, to the cover, to the finishing touches—can’t be done alone. This particular book was written years ago, during a National Novel Writing Month, so my first thanks go to that program, which inspired me to get the first draft out of my head and onto a computer. Past that, my critique partner Denise Grover Swank read the (seriously lacking) old draft and encouraged me to revise, somehow seeing the potential for something greater inside the mess of early writing mistakes. She’s not just my critique partner but one of my closet friends, my confidante, a pioneer, the person who tugs me back from the brink of madness, an inspiration, and a woman who always, always has a bottle of pink champagne in her cabinets. May we all strive to be more like her.

  I’d be remiss without thanking the other early readers of this book—Cait Greer, Leigh Ann Kopans (another person without whom I might not be sane), and Diana Paz. They all have amazingly brilliant books for sale that I recommend without hesitation, so please look them up.

  My agent, Kathleen Rushall, is such a support and source of motivation, even for the books she’s less involved in—knowing she’s on my side gives me mountains of confidence. My editor Lauren Hougen; my proofreader Cynthia L. Moyer; my cover designer Eisley Jacobs; the wonderful photographer who staged the cover image, Iona Nicole; and my formatter, Lucinda Campbell—this book would be nothing, really, without the combination of your immense talents, creative and otherwise.

  My family, who has put up with me for years—including my own beloved grandfather, who inspired much of the character of Gramps in this novel. It seems like he’s been gone forever, but everything he was and all of the moments we shared, the knowledge passed on, is never far from my heart. To my boyfriend, Paul, for putting up with my deadlines, the not-too-often showers, and the nights he falls asleep to the sound of the clicking keyboard—I appreciate the way you make it okay to be myself and to still be with you, too.

  To Anne Bonny, a woman who knew her mind, thank you. I’m not saying that murdering and stealing is the way to go, but you’re a lady who showed the rest of us that it’s okay to be who you are, no matter what the world is going to think.

  Rock on, ladies.

  A Lowcountry Mystery

  by:

  USAToday Bestselling Author

  LYLA PAYNE

  Copyright 2014 by Lyla Payne

  Cover Photography by Iona Nicole Photography

  Cover by Eisley Jacobs at Complete Pixels

  Developmental and Line Editing: Daniella Poiesz

  Copyediting: Lauren Hougen

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used factiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  A Lowcountry Mystery

  For Denise Grover Swank and her Rose Gardner, who went ahead of me and lit the path in a way that not only made me brave enough to follow, but continues to inspire me to reach for more.

  Chapter One

  “So, I just realized this is our third date. Are you expecting anything special, Mr. Mayor?” Despite my teasing tone, the nerves in my stomach engage in an energetic rumba.

  Beau’s green-gold eyes sparkle as they slide from my face, over my throat, and linger on my carefully plotted cleavage before sweeping all the way to my sandals. Flames lick my body from head to toe by the time his gaze finds its way back to mine.

  He raises an eyebrow. “I want to know
how you’re calculating these so-called dates. Because we’ve been alone together more than three times.”

  I tuck my legs underneath me, the chocolate leather of his den sofa doing its best to cool my overheated skin. His reply sends my mind back over all the time we’ve spent together, and how much has been eaten up dealing with my crazy in one form or another. A quick perusal of the past two months reveals only two actual dates, like I thought. And one of those is marginal at best.

  Making out in order to assuage the pain of losing Gramps probably shouldn’t count.

  I’m surprised to find a smile on my lips at the memory of my grandfather, as opposed to a lump in my throat. It’s a good thing, remembering his life and not his death, but almost two months later, the latter still aches.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I fake apologize with a sugary voice and wide eyes. “Should we count you getting shot as a date? Or us hanging out at the hospital after a crazy voodoo witch kicked my ass on the riverbank? I don’t think so, Mr. Mayor. If you’re not cooking or paying, it’s not a date.”

  “Is that right?” He purses his lips. “I never took you for a traditional woman, Graciela Harper. You keep surprising me.”

  “I guess that’s a good thing.” It’s hard to be sure. My life is a series of land mines and half-decomposed skeletons lurking in cluttered closets—and some of them aren’t just in my head.

  “I consider it a pleasing addition to the rest of the picture, yes,” Beau murmurs, his voice husky.

  Our eyes meet, and the heat swirls lower, pooling between my thighs. There’s no doubt my desires are written in my gaze, probably something like, Dear Lord take my clothes off and show me what you’ve got because I’m about to leave a wet spot on your fine leather.

  Hopefully my insecurities over not having had sex with anyone new in five years aren’t lurking anywhere visible.

  My past dissolves like smoke in a gust of wind, one strong and scented with aftershave and sweetness and man, as his hands close on my biceps and pull me onto his lap. Third date or fourth or first, I have wanted to taste Beauregard Drayton even while chanting the reasons I shouldn’t.

  He’s hard under my thighs, shifting and throbbing, leaving no doubt that he’s hungry for me too. I twist until I’m straddling him and bite back a groan at the feel of him against me. His hair runs thick and silky between my fingers, and I resist the urge to tug on it.

  “So we’re clear: Tonight counts as date number three,” I murmur, my voice breathless and foreign in my ears.

  “Well, I did pay for dinner at the Wreck, and we strolled along the river afterward. I’d say your reputation as a lady can remain intact.”

  “What if I don’t want it to?”

  Hunger darkens his eyes as they flick to my mouth. He licks his lips and I’m lost, tired of the talking and flirting and drama and ghosts and injuries and death that have kept us from exploring the flame that’s been burning hotter and hotter for weeks.

  I dive in, grabbing his lips with mine. His hands push my skirt up to my hips, then trail over my bare thighs until I sigh and open my mouth. Our tongues connect and spark, sizzling warmth drips down my throat and into my belly like liquid gold. Beau tips his head back, as though he’s drinking me in as fast as I’m offering. His fingertips brush my legs as his tongue strokes mine, leaving me desperate for him to touch other parts of me—every part of me—the same way. We need to get out of these damned clothes.

  My breasts ache under my tank top and cotton bra, desperate for his touch. I shift purposefully on his lap, comfortable enough to tease him but also frustrated by the need to be even closer. Beau’s fingers travel upward to the small of my back, then sweep my shirt up and over my head. Our lips break contact for a split second before he’s devouring me again, before I’m sliding my tongue over his bottom lip, trying to figure out why he tastes sweet all the time.

  He dips his head and his tongue grazes my neck, hands lifting me against him. My collarbone explodes in flames, then a shudder rolls through me as the brush of his breath flows lower. I arch into him, letting him tease me into a writhing desire so potent it’s capable of driving every thought out of my head—almost.

  “Beau,” I pant as I stumble back from the tipping point.

  He pauses, then raises his head. The throbbing need in his gaze makes me forget why I said his name, but a shake or two of my head parts the fog, allowing through the thinnest sliver of sense.

  I nod toward his giant bay windows. “You don’t have curtains in here.”

  “So, you’re saying exhibitionism is not something you’re into. Noted.” Dimples deepen in his cheeks, combining with his mussed hair and bedroom eyes to make me rethink taking the time to head to a more private area.

  I climb off him and stand up, sliding my underwear over my heels and tossing them onto the floor. They’re uncomfortable, for one thing, and the look on his face is more than enough payoff for my little show. “I’m sure you could talk me into just about anything right now.”

  He growls, pushing off the sofa and gathering me close. I can’t resist getting my fingers under the hem of his polo. It whispers over his face, leaving the bare skin of our stomachs and chests pressed together. Goose bumps prickle across my flesh, giving me shivers that have nothing to do with his ridiculously low air-conditioning setting.

  “How about I talk you into coming to bed with me?” He presses a trail of kisses down my neck and shoulder, one hand coming between us to cup my breast, fingers toying, doing their best to separate me from my higher brain function.

  “I suppose you could talk me into that. I mean, it is our third date.”

  Beau’s eyes are serious now as they study my face. “Tell me you want me, Graciela.”

  The words land in the pit of my stomach. They’re a command, one full of confidence and desire, spoken by a man who gets what he wants. At the moment, they turn me on as much as anything that’s happened since we got home from dinner. It’s also more than a simple statement—it’s a request for more. A commitment, at least it sounds that way to my emotionally wacked mind.

  I swallow, trying not to let him know what an effect he has on me because, damn, that’s going to bite me in the ass later. There may be no way to hide my body’s reaction, but there are always ways to distract him from getting too big of a head, and maybe make him forget he wants more from me than what I’m ready to give.

  “I want you, Mayor Drayton,” I whisper, brushing my hand over his hard chest, down his defined abs, and resting it on the stiffness between his legs. “I want you to show me your room, toss me on the bed, and have your way with me like you’ve been dreaming about it for months.”

  The catch in his breath delights me, as does the chuckle when he finally exhales. “This is going to be fun.”

  “I’m going to grab my purse from the hall.” It’s probably dumb, seeing that we’ve been kissing, but it has mints and I’m paranoid my breath is terrible.

  “Okay.”

  Beau swats my ass, earning a squeal as I turn away. I make for the entryway where I dropped my bag when we got to his house an hour ago. The anticipation had been killing me for weeks. Now that we’ve both healed from the various injuries we sustained during our recent standoff with a voodoo witch and a battle to the death with my cousin’s abusive husband, respectively, and life in Heron Creek has returned at least somewhat to normal, I think we both knew tonight would either end up with us naked in bed or we’d call the whole thing off.

  The entryway is dark and I whack my hand on the corner. “Dagnabbit.”

  I suck on my injured fingers and grope for the switch with the other hand, then shriek when light floods the front hall.

  Glinda, the owner of Heron Creek’s only beauty salon, cowers by the front door. My first thought is that I’m half naked and my second is to wonder why on earth she’s wandering around town in her red-spotted nightgown. My third is shock that she’s got a key to Beau’s front door.

  “Glinda, my heavenly Jesus
, what are you doing in the mayor’s house?”

  There’s no reply, which is when the red splotches on her gown start to look like blood to me, and I rush forward. “Are you okay? What happened?”

  It’s then—the moment my hand goes through her and frosts clean to the bone, the same moment Beau slides into the foyer—that I have my fourth thought on the matter. One that, given my unwanted new career as a personal assistant to the dead, maybe should have been my first: Glinda’s a ghost.

  “Gracie? What’s wrong?”

  The solid mass of Beau’s body at my back and his hands on my arms don’t have the effect they did five minutes ago. They’re still a comfort, but now, in the face of the reminder that these dratted ghosts aren’t going to leave me alone, do nothing but warm me up, especially not in the way we both want.

  The male ghost, the one that’s been lurking about since the night my childhood sweetheart, Will, was discharged from the hospital after getting involved in the clusterfuck of my first haunting, I can handle. He’s old, like Anne Bonny. Long dead like her, too. That doesn’t scare me.

  This? This scares me.

  I wrench away from Beau and hurry back down the hall, biting my lower lip to stop from sobbing. His footsteps echo the pounding of my heart as he dogs my too-fast gait into the den. I yank my tank top back over my head, locate my underwear, and turn to run somewhere—anywhere that would shield Beau from my issues—but he’s blocking the door. The look on his face says there’s no escape without an explanation.

  This is it. The part where he realizes dating a crazy person isn’t as charming as it might seem.

  I suck in a deep breath and blink back tears. “I don’t suppose you saw anyone else in the foyer just now?”

  His brow furrows, and he crosses to me, guiding me down onto the soft leather cushions on the couch before putting his own shirt back on and settling next to me. “No.”