Dangerous Attraction Romantic Suspense Boxed Set (9 Novels from Bestselling Authors, plus Bonus Christmas Novella from NY Times Bestselling Author Rebecca York)

by Kaylea Cross

  He pushed to his feet. Then Captain Bing appeared at the door of his office, stared at Jack, and Jack sat back down with dark thunder on his face.

  Ashley took advantage of the reprieve and hurried out, but came to a screeching halt in the parking lot. Agent Hunter had brought her in. She didn’t have her car.

  He appeared in the doorway behind her before she could turn back in. “I’ll have one of the uniformed officers drive you home, Miss Price. Just give me a minute.”

  But before she could thank the man, Sullivan came hurrying around the building. He must have come out somewhere in the back.

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “I need to talk to you,” the agent told him with a scowl of disapproval.

  He didn’t look too concerned. “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

  “See that you are.” Agent Hunter went back inside as Sullivan strode up to her.

  “I’m not up for another interrogation, Detective. I’d just as soon call a cab.” Ashley steeled herself for more accusations, but none came.

  Instead, he said, “Call me Jack. No more interrogation today. Just a ride, I promise.”

  She flashed him a doubtful look.

  “I could recommend a couple of decent lawyers,” he said. He looked tired around the eyes. Maybe he had as much trouble with sleep as she did. “You shouldn’t be alone when they question you.”

  She found the sudden concern suspicious. “You came to my house and badgered me when you had questions. I don’t remember you recommending a lawyer then.”

  He didn’t have a comeback for that.

  “I have an attorney. I had to get one after the accident,” she informed him as he walked to his black Crown Victoria and opened the passenger door.

  She thought for a couple of seconds before she got in. Only because spending some time with Sullivan, Jack, now, might make bringing back the vision later easier.

  “What did the FBI want?” he asked once he’d gone around and folded his lean frame behind the wheel.

  “Same thing as you do, to prove me guilty.” She closed her eyes for a second. “It’d be easiest for everyone.”

  “Yes.”

  “Except for me.”

  “Except for you,” he agreed and drove out of the parking lot, pulling into traffic.

  Since the town was old, the streets at the center of it were pretty narrow, made narrower yet by the cars parked on either side. Just as they crossed the first intersection, a truck stopped in front of them to make a delivery. Horns beeped as Jack maneuvered around it.

  She grabbed the sides of her seat and held on tight. On the way to the police station, she’d sat in the back and closed her eyes for most of the trip. In the front seat, it was more difficult to ignore that she was out and about in town, away from her safe place. Sweat slicked her palms.

  Jack glanced at her.

  “So, weird thing the other day,” he said conversationally as he turned his attention back to the traffic, none of his usual intensity in evidence for the time being. “Call comes in about an accident. Thirty-two-year-old guy fell out of the window of his pickup on Route 30 with his pants down.”

  That caught her attention. “How do you fall out of the window of your car while driving?”

  He shook his head, one corner of his mouth tilting up into an almost smile. “Turns out one of his buddies was driving. Our genius was mooning the passing cars out the passenger-side window, squatting on the seat. His buddy swerved, and the idiot fell right out. Broke his shoulder and a leg, on top of some pretty nasty lacerations.”

  She stared at him, trying to picture the scene. “Nobody can be that dumb, can they?”

  “Not the stupidest thing I’ve seen on the job, by far,” he said and started into another outlandish tale.

  He fell silent when they stopped at a red light, looking at the mushroom factory on the corner.

  She followed his gaze. “What is it?”

  “The boss’s car is up front. I’ve been trying to catch him. I’ll do it on the way back. After I drop you off.”

  “You can talk to him right now, if you want.” If this had to do with Blackwell, the sooner they caught him and cleared her, the happier she was.

  “Are you sure?”

  She nodded, and when the light turned green, he pulled up in front of the place.

  She went into the main office area with him, waited while he talked to the secretary, then while he went back to talk to the owner. More than a dozen paintings of various mushrooms hung on the walls. She walked around and checked those out. They were pretty good, actually.

  “These weren’t here last time I was here,” Jack commented when he came back out.

  “Greg Shatzkin,” she said. “Local artist.”

  “He spent days here, taking hundreds of photos for those,” the secretary put in proudly.

  Jack went still. “When?”

  “Oh, that’d be over a year ago now, I think.” The woman smiled at him.

  Oddly enough, Jack seemed to find the information captivating. “How would I reach him?”

  “I’m not sure. We worked with him through the Lanius Gallery. Graham arranged everything.”

  “What was that about?” Ashley asked as they walked out. Maybe he had a thing for fungi.

  He shook his head, lost in thought for a second before he answered. “Something that might or might not lead to something.” Then he went right back to entertaining her with various cop stories as they drove away.

  They were in her driveway before she knew it. She’d even forgotten to be scared to death. And as she watched his stark, masculine profile, she suddenly realized that had been his intention.

  The sudden kindness unsettled her. She didn’t know what to make of it. For the first time, she didn’t find him threatening. And she didn’t want to find him attractive. Which part of her did already. God, of all the stupid things she’d ever done…

  “Thank you, Detective,” she said, eager to see him driving away.

  “Jack,” he reminded her.

  “So how does it work? The agoraphobia?” he asked, plunging straight into her most private business.

  “It’s not really agoraphobia.” She jumped to defend herself. “I go to the store. I go to places. I just don’t like to leave the house.”

  “It started after the accident?”

  She hesitated for a moment, but then she nodded. All her craziness did. “I’m dealing with it.”

  “Hey, you drove out to save me. I’m grateful for that.” This time, he sounded more sincere than the first time he’d thanked her. “It couldn’t have been easy.”

  “Nothing’s easy.”

  He held her gaze. His usual intensity was tempered with something softer today, something that made it hard for her to look away as he said, “No, nothing is, is it?”

  She filled her lungs. “I’m going to get better.”

  “I have no doubt you will.”

  The way he said it, with full confidence, unsettled her. The support felt good, and for a moment, she almost liked him for giving her that. So she made a joke of it.

  “Are you all right?”

  He arched an eyebrow.

  “We’ve been together for at least half an hour, and you haven’t accused me of anything yet. Has crime stopped in Broslin?”

  His lips curved into a half smile. “I was just getting to it.”

  He looked dangerously handsome when he smiled.

  “So his name is Burt Johnson,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “The guy in the closet you painted.”

  And just like that, the relaxed moment was gone from between them.

  He went on to tell her about the old man and his nephew, the neighbors who called in that he’d been missing.

  The stark reality of the story shook her. Always did.

  The thought of another vision frightened her. The idea that she should try to force one on purpose made her question her own sanity. She
needed to be alone. She needed to think. She needed to get away from him, even if talking like this wasn’t too bad. Or maybe especially because of that. She refused to like him.

  “I have to go. Thanks for the ride.” She bolted from the car and practically ran for her front door.

  She locked up behind her, slipped out of her boots and coat, listened to the sounds of his car driving away while pushing the images of that last body from her mind.

  She would think about it, whether or not she could do what she needed to do, but later. Right now, she had to take care of something else first. She strode to the kitchen and poured a glass of water, looked at Maddie’s drawings on her refrigerator.

  When she regained some equilibrium, she pulled her cell phone and dialed her father.

  A moment passed as Bertha answered the phone and passed it on to Mr. Price.

  “Something came up. I can’t come today,” Ashley told him. “I’m really sorry.”

  Silence stretched on the other end before her father said, “She’s been waiting by the window for the past half hour.”

  Her eyes burned. “It’s not something I can help. Could you come out?”

  “No, we can’t. I called together a small dinner party with your old friends to celebrate your visit. If you’re not here, at least I ought to be.” Her father hung up on her before she had a chance to ask for Maddie.

  She stood there, in the middle of the room, her jaw clenched. Moisture filled her eyes. She blinked hard. No. She was done with crying. She let the anger come, set her jaw, and marched up the stairs. She would do whatever she had to do. And do it as soon as possible.

  She’d wanted to think more about the idea she’d had at the station, but suddenly she knew that if she thought too much, she might lose her nerve. She needed to be brave for once. She needed to leap.

  She needed to force a vision.

  She grabbed her stained palette and squeezed crimson red in the middle, half a tube, then black, then brown, mixed a sick gray, mixed all the colors of decay. There.

  “I want to see,” she said to the empty room. Then shouted, “I want to see!”

  She visualized Jack’s face, the way he’d been wrapped into that shower curtain, the way he’d looked in the dark and cold grave. She wished she still had the original painting. It might have helped to remember the exact details.

  She stared at the canvas so hard, all her muscles bunched, that she was giving herself a headache. She was so focused, when her doorbell rang, she nearly jumped out of her skin at the sharp ring.

  She set the palette down and went to the door, expecting it’d be Pete with some mail, or maybe Eddie, just letting her know he’d be out back. Either way, the interruption wouldn’t take more than a minute.

  But instead, Graham Lanius leered at her.

  “I was in the neighborhood. I thought I’d pop in and see what you have for me.”

  The art dealer wore a crisp suit with a Van Gogh Starry Night tie. He’d come in an Audi, pristine despite the slush on the roads, quite a trick. He stood at the same height as Ashley, freshly cut hair, meticulously clean-shaven face that he stretched into a smile. “May I come in?”

  She stepped back. Graham was the last person she wanted to see right now, but sending him away would have been inexcusably rude. The way her career was going, she probably couldn’t afford to alienate anyone in the business.

  “I don’t really have the series ready.”

  He waved that off. “Even a small glimpse would make me happy. You know I’ve been an admirer of your art for a long time. I can’t believe we keep missing connecting.”

  They didn’t so much miss as were kept apart by Isabelle, who’d worked hard to get Ashley’s work into the top New York galleries and refused to go backward by booking shows at smaller venues.

  Small venues usually went hand in hand with small prices, and a lot of patrons collected art as an investment. When they bought something from you for a certain price, they didn’t want to see that a year later, your paintings were going for half that money somewhere. Made them question their judgment of your talent, which made them look for someone else who might be the next big thing.

  Graham’s gaze clamped on a canvas visible up in the loft, and he strode toward the staircase, then up before Ashley could stop him. “Oh, is that it?”

  He made her uneasy, which probably had less to do with his overly exuberant behavior than the fact that she’d become a virtual shut-in lately, unused to too much company.

  She followed him up and waited patiently as he examined her paintings.

  “You have an excellent start.” He rubbed his chin. “A few minor fixes, some lines adjusted…” He stepped from one picture to the next.

  Annoyance bubbled up inside her. Her lines were exactly where she’d meant them to be.

  “You do have amazing talent.” He turned to her with a calculating look. “I’d be happy to mentor you. As busy as I am, I like finding time to help up-and-coming artists.”

  Okay, he definitely was pompous.

  “That’s a very generous offer. I wouldn’t want to take up your valuable time.”

  He kept the smarmy smile on his face. “When do you think I could pick these up?”

  “My agent schedules my shows,” she told him, then started down the stairs, hoping he would take the hint.

  He did follow her. “Of course. Your very young agent. How good of you to give her a start.”

  Which was a laugh. Isabelle might have been young, but she was absolutely brilliant and knew everyone in the business. She regularly put together shows that attracted celebrities and were covered by the New York Times. Ashley was lucky to have her.

  “I should leave you to your work. The sooner you’re done, the sooner we can talk dates.” He stopped at the front door. “Terrible business with that cop on your property. I hope you’re all right.”

  The absolute last thing she wanted to talk about. “It’s over.”

  “Is it? So they’re not coming around anymore?” His look turned apologetic. “Mystery buff. Have you read the latest Konrath?”

  She shook her head. She painted enough dead bodies; she didn’t want to read about more.

  “I wonder if the FBI made any progress in the case?”

  “They don’t really keep me updated,” she said as she opened the door for him.

  “Of course. I shouldn’t have brought it up. It’s just…well, fascinating. Not as if we have too much excitement in Broslin.” He gave a quick laugh. “I should leave you to your creating. We’ll talk again soon.”

  She was relieved to be able to close the door behind him.

  But she didn’t give herself much of a break. She marched right back upstairs, to the blank canvas that waited for her on the easel. If somehow she could figure out how to force open that dark door to hell, she was determined, no matter what it cost her, to take the trip.

  Chapter Seven

  The Broslin flea market flourished every Sunday in an old airplane hangar that had been once part of the county airport. The utilitarian space was now divided into about a hundred “shops” that vendors rented on a permanent basis. In the middle, several rows of folding tables lined up neatly. Those could be rented by anyone just for the day.

  Jack stalked around for half an hour, observing the sellers, the buyers, the gawkers, the complete lack of security, before finally heading back to the last row of stalls to the man he’d come to see. He weaved in and out of the crowd. The place was packed, the usual Sunday crowd of gleaners.

  As colorful as a gypsy caravan, he thought, and wondered if Ashley Price had ever painted it. He had Ashley on his mind entirely too much lately. She was a puzzle, and he was a cop. Cops liked puzzles. And yet, deep down, he knew there was more to it. Another time, another place…if he wasn’t what he was. He forced his focus back on his surroundings.

  He couldn’t imagine the place brought much money to its owners, but then again, the upkeep too looked minimal. Conveniences we
re slim to none, save the two single-stall bathrooms at the end. A questionable-looking hot-dog cart that stood right by the entrance provided the only place to eat.

  He stopped at the stall he’d come for, neat in comparison with some of the others, offering an impressive array of unrelated goods, anything from corn medication to old TVs and even a few used kitchen sinks, right next to a dozen brand-new, in-factory-packaging, luxury, touch-activated faucets.

  “Cold enough out there for you?” the old guy behind the counter, Lenny, according to the beaten-up sign behind him asked with a friendly smile. He wore a KISS ME, I’M POLISH T-shirt that had seen better days. “You know what they say, in like a lamb, out like a lion.”

  Jack rifled through a selection of bootlegged DVDs.

  “Looking for anything particular?”

  He didn’t want to bust the guy for the handful of movies. For the moment, he needed to keep the good will between them going. “Actually”—he looked up—“I’m looking for a good shovel.”

  The smile slid off the old man’s face. “No more shovels.”

  “You sold them all?”

  “No sell, no more shovels.” When the smile came back, it has become decidedly artificial. “I got very good socks.”

  He didn’t have time for socks. Jack flashed his badge. “I’d like to know how many of those shovels you sold before you ran out.

  The man gave up pretending to smile. “I talk to other police officer already.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “I don’t like poor man was buried with one of my shovels. I think he wouldn’t want me sell more.”

  Okay, so Mike had told the guy when he’d picked up his own shovel and questioned him. The trouble with rookies was they talked too much. They screwed up a couple of times, that was how they learned, Jack thought without heat. He’d done the same, more than once, before he’d learned better.

  He put on his friendliest face. “I’m the poor man. All I want is talk.”

  Lenny’s eyes widened. “Is he you? The one came back from the grave?” He made the sign of the cross as he glanced back at a faded poster of the Pope among a hodgepodge of signs on the pegboard behind him. Then he looked Jack over with a mix of horror, fascination, and respect. “Is he really you?”