The Greystone Bundle (Books 1-4)

by Taylor Longford

  He was magnificent, though. And not only as a work of art. I'd thought the yearbook editor, Josh Saxon, was good looking. But Josh had nothing on this guy. I'd never seen a more beautiful creature in my lifetime. With my finger, I traced a vein that tracked the length of his forearm then reached up to the delicately carved strands of hair that fell across his face. For some reason, I felt compelled to brush them out of his eyes. Satisfied that the strands were indeed stone, and they weren't going to budge in this lifetime, I stepped back with my hands on my hips and raked my gaze over the fabulous sculpture.

  I didn't know how old the statue was but I'd have given anything to travel back to the time when guys looked like he did. "They don't make guys like you anymore," I murmured, and lifted my face to meet his stern gaze.

  It was dark inside the windowless garage, even with the lights on, and I wanted a better look at Greg's stolen treasure, so I put my hip against the crate and tried to angle the opened side toward the sun. The box was heavy and it didn't budge much.

  Hooligan reappeared and took an unexpected interest in the sculpture. He lifted his front paws to its shoulders and looked it in the eye before giving a soft bark. I was surprised. Hooli's usually pretty dignified. He doesn't like to do anything that makes him look silly.

  "Out of the way, boy," I said, ready to start work on the bottom panel. I didn't make much headway this time; the nails seemed determined to hang on, so I headed back to the tool chest for something a little more substantial. I was pretty sure I'd seen a crowbar in one of the drawers before. Naturally, it was in the last drawer I pulled out, which just happened to be the top one.

  Unfortunately, as I reached for the heavy bar of metal, the tool chest tilted toward me. Too late, I realized I shouldn't have pulled out all the drawers; the chest had overbalanced. I tried to back peddle out of harm's way but wasn't fast enough. The chest crashed down on me, taking me to the floor. My head hit the concrete so hard I'm surprised I didn't crack my skull. I was probably only saved from permanent brain damage by the thick wad of hair stuffed into my hat.

  Have you ever tried to get out from under two tons of red tool chest? In case you're wondering, it can't be done. After like a dozen attempts to free myself, I started to panic. All ten of the open drawers had slammed into me as I fell and I hurt in too many places to count. My ribs ached horribly but my main concern was my right ankle. It felt like the bones were going to snap unless I got out from under the weight of the chest. I needed help but I'd left my phone on the hood of my car.

  Hooligan licked my face, his troubled whine telling me that I had his full sympathy, for all the good that would do me. He turned and barked at the crate that held the statue. "Don't bark at the damn statue," I moaned. "Get the phone, Hooligan."

  He looked at me and tilted his head inquiringly.

  "The phone Hooligan! It's on my car."

  He turned and barked at the crate again.

  Clearly, Hooligan didn't have much potential as a rescue dog. I lay there panting, trapped against the chilly concrete, trying to come up with a plan. I figured Mim might eventually wonder why I wasn't answering her calls and text messages, but she didn't have a car so she couldn't just run over to check on me. My mother wouldn't be home for ten days, but she'd probably send somebody to the house when she couldn't reach me on the phone later tonight. I just hoped she'd try Whitney or Mim first, before she called the police because the incident would probably be reported in the local newspaper. And everyone at school reads the "police calls" column when they want a good laugh.

  The prospect was just too horrifying to even think about.

  Although it hurt to breathe, I wasn't going to suffocate before help arrived—but by the time it did, my ankle might be broken. When the sun went down, the temperatures might drop and hypothermia wasn't out of the question despite the fact that we were having a mild October. Of course, I might be able to count on Hooligan to stay close and keep me warm. On the other hand, if he got hungry he might be forced to eat me.

  With another troubled whine, he licked my face and wagged his tail. Okay, I was overreacting. Hooligan wasn't going to eat me.

  Other than the tree-slayer next door, the nearest neighbor was about four acres away and wasn't likely to hear my screams for help. Tree-slayer would probably hear me if I waited for a pause in the chain sawing, but the thought of having to deal with him made my skin crawl.

  Trying for calm, I looked around. The tools had fallen from the chest and were scattered across the concrete floor of the garage, the crowbar just out of reach. It was a fairly long piece of metal. If I could jam it between the floor and the tool chest…

  I strained my hand toward the crowbar and tried to get my fingers around it. No luck. I found the claw foot hammer beside my shoulder and tried to use it to drag the crowbar closer. But I couldn't reach the curved end of the crowbar and all I managed to do was slide the straight end around on the floor.

  With a groan, I stopped struggling and tried to decide what to attempt next. When the distant snarl of the chain saw puttered to a stop, I knew it was my best chance to call for help. Still, I hesitated, tears of pain and frustration wetting my eyelashes.

  Hooligan lifted his huge head and barked again, then gave up his vigil at my side and loped off toward the front of the garage.

  With my hand wrapped around the hammer's red handle, I prayed for help and hesitated a little longer. Eventually, I took a deep breath and got ready to shout.

  "Hang on," growled a young male voice. "I've got you."

  A large hand caught the upper edge of the tool chest. Then the chest was back on its wheels. It bounced a little and traveled a few feet before coming to a halt. Strong hands gripped my waist and lifted me to my feet but I couldn't see my rescuer's face because my knitted hat had slipped forward, blocking my vision. Reaching up, I shoved the hat back…and looked up into astonishingly blue eyes that were filled with concern.

  Chapter Two

  "Are you hurt?" the stranger demanded. Despite the low note in his voice, he didn't appear to be much older than me, his accent an odd mixture I couldn't quite place. He almost sounded like a German from Scandinavia speaking with a British accent.

  His hands slid down the sides of my arms as if he was checking for broken bones. Hooligan stood at his side watching him, his tail wagging in silent approval, his canine expression almost adoring. Which was bizarre, because Hooligan didn't normally take to guys right away.

  A bright, electric blue tattoo stretched up the side of his neck, the design a combination of curved and straight lines—a symbol of some sort, almost like a letter from some ancient alphabet. His wide jaw tapered down to my favorite kind of square chin, his flawless mouth set in a serious expression, his nose a perfect straight line. His thick black hair fell almost to his shoulders and his eyes were intensely blue in his darkly tanned face. They seemed to smolder with emotion as his gaze burned down at me.

  My head hurt. My ribs ached. My arms and legs were bruised and sore and my ankle could barely take my weight. But more significantly, the best looking guy in the entire rocky mountain region had miraculously turned up to answer my prayers. "Who are you?" I breathed. "And where did you come from?"

  My rescuer took a step backward and I got a better look at him.

  A black leather vest wrapped his upper body, ending at his waist in front and dipping a little lower in the back. Ridged spines crossed the front of his vest while, on the back, the ridges formed a pattern that swirled from between his shoulder blades and flared downward.

  On his legs he wore a pair of long, loose shorts made of what looked like heavy wool. Yes, wool. Some of the guys at school still wore long shorts but I'd never seen a pair made of wool. A broad strap of leather held his shorts around his hips and from this rough belt hung two cords. A small pouch dangled from one cord while a sheathed knife hung from the other. But this costume wasn't the most unusual thing about his appearance. What was really bizarre were his bare feet. We were hav
ing a mild October but it wasn't that warm!

  "My name's Valor," he answered. His hair fell over his face as he cut a glance toward the open garage doors. When he lifted a hand to move the dark strands away from his eyes, I noticed that the four knuckles on the back of his hand were exceptionally thick and square. "I'm…from England."

  My gaze fixed first on his feet then on his unusual shorts. "Are you staying with someone around here?"

  "Yes," he answered tentatively. His eyes followed my gaze to his legs and feet. "And they're having a costume party to celebrate…"

  "Halloween?" I suggested. It was the Friday before Halloween so there were sure to be some weekend parties, though I hadn't heard of any. But I was only a sophomore so it's not like I'd have been invited to any of the junior or senior parties.

  "That's right," he confirmed, watching me closely. He was probably afraid I'd think he'd escaped from an insane asylum in that getup.

  "And…what are you supposed to be, exactly?"

  "A Celtic warrior?" he suggested as he lifted his hands away from his sides.

  I tilted my head and gave him an appraising once over. "Don't you need a sword to be a warrior?"

  "A sword would be nice," he agreed. A slight smile lifted the corners of his mouth. "Unfortunately, steel is expensive and I had to settle for a knife. But I do have a fine yew bow to complete my…ensemble."

  I started to laugh. It just bubbled out. It wasn't anything he'd said. I was just so relieved that I'd been rescued without involving the local emergency services…or the next-door neighbor.

  "But you're hurt," he insisted, a troubled frown marring his perfect features as he looked around the garage. "May I take you somewhere to sit down?"

  I stared at him, amazed by his perfect manners, not to mention his perfect grammar. I was gobsmacked, as my British cousins would say. With my free hand, I tugged at my knitted hat and made sure my hair was covered. At that point, I was wishing I'd worn my new chinos and my favorite blue top instead of the baggy jeans and loose brown turtleneck I'd pulled on that morning. But how was I to know I'd run into a hot guy in my garage when I'd dressed?

  "Just let me get my cell phone," I told him and turned toward the front of the garage. But before I could take a wobbly step toward the Jeep, Hooligan cantered off, retrieved my phone and delivered it—covered in a thin coat of wolfhound slobber.

  "Oh, Hooli," I muttered. I breathed a sigh of annoyance as I wiped the flat glass surface on my jeans. "You need to work on your timing, boy."

  With a low laugh, Valor reached out to ruffle the fur on Hooligan's head. As he grinned, I couldn't help notice that there was something about his mouth that was…different. Something slightly savage. It almost looked as if he had more than his fair share of teeth. It wasn't unattractive. In fact, it was quite stunning in a wild and untamed sort of way, like something out of a graphic novel with a good looking mutant hero.

  With my phone back in the pocket of my hoodie, I smiled at Valor and nodded toward the doorway at the far end of the garage. He took my elbow and steered me into the house, which was just as well since my ankle wasn't exactly one hundred percent. I have to admit I was pretty charmed by the caring gesture. I took my time limping to the house, enjoying the warmth of his touch, which seemed to spread from my elbow throughout my entire body.

  The landline was ringing as we stepped into the mudroom and I hobbled into the kitchen to answer it. It was Greg, calling from England and asking about his shipment. When I told him only one crate had arrived, he seemed anxious about the other two until he tracked the packages online and assured himself they'd arrive tomorrow.

  Without incriminating myself, I mentioned that the wooden crate was a little dinged up. Actually, that was a bit of an understatement. It was obvious the box had been opened and Greg would know it whenever he came back home to claim his stolen goods. Keeping that in mind, I asked, "Should I open the crate and check inside?"

  "No," he barked. Then, as if realizing how abrupt he sounded, he said more calmly, "I'll have your mother check the crates when she gets home."

  "Okay," I answered. I figured I could make that work—as long as there was an explanation for why the box had been opened by the time Greg returned to Colorado.

  "In the meantime, don't mention any of this to anyone."

  "Any of what?" I asked just to rile him. As far as Greg knew, I had no idea what was inside the crate.

  "Just…don't talk to anyone," he insisted.

  "Okay," I repeated. I glanced around the kitchen and into the dining room, assuring myself that the place was reasonably neat and wishing we had nicer furniture. We don't have anything fancy. My mother isn't much of a decorator. Her job is relatively demanding and she doesn't have much time for that sort of thing. But she likes tapestry, green upholstery, dark brown leather and pine so it all kinda works in a woodsy sort of way that suits a home in the mountains.

  I shifted my gaze to Valor who had settled on a barstool on the other side of the kitchen counter. He was watching me intently, as if he was trying to memorize my every move. I tugged at my hat self-consciously, and tried to smile again. I couldn't help but feel flustered by the way his gaze followed me. It was strange for someone that attractive to pay any attention to me at all. Not that I'm bad looking. I'm perfectly presentable, really. But I think my hair puts a lot of guys off.

  "That was my stepfather," I told him after I hung up the phone.

  "You don't like him very much," he stated in a quiet voice.

  "Um," I hedged brilliantly. Valor was pretty perceptive and I wasn't expecting that from a guy. I didn't know what to say. I hate to lie. On the other hand, I don't like to say mean things about people. I've been on the other end of that stick often enough so I try not to go there. I rubbed my bruised elbow and made a face, wondering how to explain my lack of enthusiasm for my stepfather.

  "Are you hurt?" he asked. His gaze followed my hand on my elbow. "That…box was heavy."

  That box was heavy, yet he'd lifted it with one hand and thrown it half way across the garage to rescue me. I winced at the memory, thinking I must have looked like an idiot, crushed like a bug beneath the tool chest. Valor must have realized that pulling out all the drawers was not a smart move on my part.

  "I was looking for a tool when the chest fell on me," I explained haltingly. "I needed the crowbar to open the crate in the garage."

  He hesitated before commenting. When he finally spoke, he seemed to choose his words carefully. He didn't mention the tool chest; instead he asked about the crate. "The crate that your stepfather asked about?"

  "That's right," I answered, more than happy to change the subject and not too worried about the promise I'd made to Greg. After all, Valor had overheard my conversation with the step-person. So, technically it was too late to include him in my vow of silence.

  "And he's the one who shipped the crates here, to…America?"

  "Yes."

  "And there are…more crates on the way, then?" he asked. His tone seemed deliberately casual.

  I stopped rubbing my elbow and frowned. It seemed like a strange question. But not as strange as the next one.

  "Are you…married?" he asked. He tilted his head and locked his steady gaze on mine in a way that made my pulse skitter like spilled M&M's.

  "No!" I insisted on a soft burst of laughter. "Exactly how old do you think I am?"

  "Any boyfriends?" he continued without answering my question. One of his dark eyebrows teased upward.

  "Not recently," I muttered evasively. My last boyfriend had been Kyle Bailey in the sixth grade. But Valor didn't need to know that.

  A satisfied smile crept into his mouth and glinted in his eyes.

  "Whereabouts in England are you from?" I asked, flustered by his questions about my love life. "My mother's entire family is from the UK and I've been there several times."

  "York," he replied. He scratched Hooli's head after he padded into the room and thrust his huge skull beneath Valor's han
d.

  "Really? That's where the step-person is right now. It's a beautiful city."

  "It's nice here too," he said without removing his gaze from my face.

  Under the intensity of his look, I felt my cheeks flush with color. I figured he was just flirting—outrageously—but still…

  I cleared my throat self-consciously and said, "Hooligan doesn't usually take to strangers right away. I'm surprised he's made friends with you so quickly."

  "He's just a good judge of character," Valor murmured, rubbing Hooligan's ears through his fingers. "Aren't you, old boy?"

  "Thanks for rescuing me," I continued. I took a deep breath in an attempt to calm myself. "My mother's out of town and I don't know what I'd have done if you hadn't…"

  "You're welcome," he said, like it was no big deal.

  "How long are you here for?"

  "I'm not sure," he answered. I probably looked disappointed with his response because he added, "Quite a while, most like."

  I offered him lunch and he insisted on helping though you'd have thought he'd never seen the inside of a fridge before. He couldn't find the mayonnaise or the lettuce or even the cheese, but I wasn't about to complain when I had a majorly hot guy in my kitchen who was obviously trying to make sure I didn't use my ankle any more than I had to.

  We carried our sandwiches into the living room and watched some BBC America while we ate. He seemed both familiar with the programming and absolutely captivated by it. I offered to loan him my phone if he needed to call his friends and tell them where he was but he said nobody would miss him before nightfall.

  I could have listened to his rough, lilting voice all day. His accent was way cool, although he didn't sound like any of my cousins in England. Unfortunately, he didn't talk much. It almost seemed like he was afraid of saying the wrong thing. And when he did talk, the words he used were an odd combination of modern terms mixed with old words that I'd only ever seen printed in books.