Dangerous Attraction Romantic Suspense Boxed Set (68 page)

He walked away from Ashley. “Who?”

“Some kids out looking for trouble, no doubt, or a quiet place to smoke weed.”

“Anybody dispatched yet?” He stepped into his boots and grabbed his coat.

“Bing is going out.”

But he was closer.

He looked back at Ashley, standing alone in the middle of her kitchen, her arms wrapped around her, her haunted green eyes watching him. The twinge of reluctance to leave her was something new and unexpected. It surprised him more than a little.

Something else drew him in the opposite direction, something darker. He gave in to that, leaving her with a brief nod as he walked out the door. And then everything else fell away, his mind focused on Blackwell.

Anticipation hummed through him as he jumped into his car and slammed his foot on the gas. He wanted to be first on the scene.

He reached the spot in five minutes, saw the snowmobiles’ tracks, pulled over by the side of the road, and followed the tracks in. His boots crunched on the snow, his flashlight illuminating the path ahead. The trees stood silent, their barren branches scraping against him now and then. In a minute or two, he could see the bright headlights of the snowmobiles up ahead.

“Who are you?” One of the four teenagers standing around challenged him.

“Broslin PD.” Jack turned his flashlight on the kids.

Four boys squinted at him, one familiar, the one he’d caught on Ashley’s land. The kid recognized him too and hunched down in his jacket.

They were all around high school age, red-cheeked and wide-eyed, half scared, half excited.

“What are you doing here?”

“Just hanging out,” the one who’d challenged him a second ago answered, sounding defensive, probably the gang leader. “The bones are over there.” He pointed to a stand of bushes.

Jack panned the bleached bundle of bones scattered over the frozen ground. They’d been there for a while, probably since the summer. Predators had gotten at them. He didn’t even have to bend over to make ID. The remains belonged to an unfortunate calf that had somehow wandered away from a nearby farm and gotten tangled in the bushes.

He kicked at the bones and swore under his breath as they scattered, all the tension and anticipation leaking out of him, leaving nothing but stark disappointment.

Through the leafless trees, in the silent night, he could hear Bing’s car coming up the road, slowing.

“You stay right here,” he snapped at the kids, then walked out to the road to meet his captain.

Bing was shaking his head as he got out of his cruiser and spotted Jack. “If I thought it would work, I’d come up with some trumped-up charge and put you under house arrest. I thought putting you back on admin duty would keep you out of my hair.” He got his industrial-size flashlight from the trunk.

“I haven’t started admin duty yet.” He had to pass a physical and get a psych approval first, which he planned on doing first thing in the morning. He’d already scheduled his appointments.

“Smart-ass. What’s going on here?”

“Some old bones from a stray calf. Couple of teenagers where they shouldn’t be.”

Bing gave a resigned groan as he headed for the bushes, Jack following. The captain panned the kids with his flashlight when they reached them, settling on the tallest. “Your father know you’re out here, Bobby?”

“No, sir.”

“You know them?” Jack asked.

Bing turned away from the boys. “One of them is the son of the high school principal; the other one’s father is Jim Foster, a local councilman,” he said under his breath as he shook his head. “Might as well have them turn out their pockets. Read them the riot act. They probably already tossed whatever weed they brought to smoke out here, but it won’t hurt to put the fear of God in them a little.”

It didn’t happen that way. A call came in before he took two steps.

“Officer down,” Mike said on the other end and rattled off an address.

“Harper.” Bing ran for his car. “He went out on a domestic-violence call earlier.”

Jack was right behind him, the boys already forgotten.

Chapter Eight

“I booked you at Maximilian’s for the end of May,” Isabelle said on the other end of the line as Ashley pulled her dinner from the microwave, General Tso’s chicken.

At five o’clock Monday afternoon, this was probably the last call her agent would make for the day. Which meant there was more coming. Isabelle hated giving bad news to her artists. Good calls went out first thing in the morning. Rejections were left until the last minute, as she usually would work throughout the day to make another booking, secure a review in a top newspaper, or otherwise soften the blow.

So Ashley asked, “But?” and waited for her agent to tell her the rest.

A long moment of silence passed.

Ashley brushed her hair back from her face. “I’m a big girl. I can handle it.”

“If it’s not a sell-out show, I’m not sure if I can book you again. And you need to be here,” Isabelle told her. “I’m sorry. With the economy… Galleries are losing money. I can’t book shows like I used to. They want a sure thing. They want the big names, the heavy hitters.”

She understood. The last two shows, not only had she not been able to send as many paintings as she’d promised, but she hadn’t been able to force herself into making the trip. Her anxieties had turned her into a prisoner. Which would change. She would have to go this time. Too much was riding on the line.

She had to conquer her fears, as simple as that. And she had to get the FBI off her back. But forcing a vision hadn’t worked. She had tried again after Jack had left after his brief but bewildering visit, tried until she’d nearly been in tears from frustration. Nothing happened.

The first time she’d seen him in the grave, he’d been on the brink of death. Did he reach out to her? His theory—as crazy as it sounded—made more sense than anything she’d come up with so far.

Maybe the reason why she hadn’t been able to bring back that connection was because currently the man was very much alive. And messing with her head.

He knew her darkest secret. He believed her. He’d held her in his arms, and it’d felt so good she’d wanted to stay there forever. She needed to snap out of that foolishness.

Even if his strong arms around her felt better than anything in a long time. Even if he made her feel alive, whether with anger or awareness or need, but always alive. Even if part of her was beginning to wish for things that could never be.

She closed her eyes for a moment.
Forget Jack.
He was trouble with a capital T, at a time when she couldn’t afford complications.

“Graham Lanius stopped by,” she said to channel her thoughts into another direction. “I told him he needs to talk to you.”

“Good. We’re a little concerned but not desperate yet. You need to be in better galleries than his. He might think he’s some hotshot dealer, but he doesn’t have the best of reputations at the art shows.” She hesitated. “Maybe it’s more about the money for him than the art. I’ll deal with him if he calls.” The sound of a keyboard clicking came from the other end. “Now the most important thing. About the pictures you sent this morning.”

Ashley held her breath as she waited for the verdict. Even after all these years, this part never got easier.

“The raw pain is gone.” Isabelle paused. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. The accident wasn’t your fault. You almost died trying to save that boy.”

Isabelle could read artists from their paintings like Freud could read people from their dreams. And she could read clients from their clothes, the cars they drove, how they wore their makeup, how they spoke. She knew the perfect art for every gallery, for every client. She was amazing at what she did.

“There’s something else going on here,” she said now. “Some new tension. Want to talk about it?”

Ashley hesitated, not sure what to say.
The FBI thinks I’m aiding and abetting a serial killer,
didn’t sound like something that would advance her career.

“All right. We’ll talk when we meet,” Isabelle said on the other end. “So about the paintings—the work is good, which is the most important thing. Very moody. I like it. Fantastic colors. Good negative space. Good everything. The rhythm of the brushstrokes is mesmerizing. I really like the new energy.”

Ashley let out the breath she’d been holding.

“Maximilian will want titles. I don’t suppose you changed your mind about that.”

She didn’t title her work, as a rule. She felt like it would be too much of an imposition on the viewer, getting in the way of letting the painting say whatever it wanted to say, which would be different from person to person.

“I want dialogue. Art shouldn’t be a one-way conversation. Let the viewer decide what the painting means to them.” A piece either spoke to you or it didn’t. If it had to be explained, it wasn’t worth bupkis.

“And you know I agree.”

“You think it will be an issue?”

“You’re the artist. They’ll ask, but ultimately they’ll respect your artistic vision.” Another pause on Isabelle’s end. “So about the last photo you sent this afternoon, the one with the unfinished work. Is this a new direction? That one has a different tone than the others. There’s hope in it. And some kind of masculine energy. Is there a hot guy in the picture you neglected to mention?”

Ashley looked at the painting on the easel. Soaring swirls of blue dominated the canvas. She’d started it that morning. She had no idea where the image had come from, what it meant. Hope? No, she didn’t think so. This one time, Isabelle had to be mistaken.

Her ruling emotion when it came to Jack Sullivan was definitely confusion. “Staying away from men until I have other things straightened out.”

So what if there was a certain attraction? So what if the blue in her painting matched his cerulean eyes exactly? She itched to paint those eyes, the shadows and pain at their depth, the planes of his face that often turned sharp and hard. A portrait of Jack Sullivan.

Except, for a good portrait, the artist had to know the subject, know him truly and well, know what lived behind the eyes. And she knew precious little of Jack Sullivan. He had as many secrets as she did, or more, she was sure of that.

Did he really believe her? Or was it a ploy to get through her defenses, get her to let her guard down so he could find some dirt on her?

He’d
said
he believed her.

Did she dare believe that?

She wanted to. It would have been nice to have someone in her corner who knew the worst about her and accepted her regardless.

He’d brought her a shovel, whatever that meant. At least, she was pretty sure he’d been the one to bring it. The man was a puzzle.

“So, what’s new with you?” she asked.

“I’ll come down the last week of March. We’ll catch up,” Isabelle said. “If you could have a few more works finished by then, it would be great.”

“I will.” Unless something unforeseen came up, like the FBI arresting her. She didn’t like the way Agent Hunter’s interrogation had gone. But unless they found another lead, she would remain the focus of the investigation.

She had to give them a lead. Whatever it cost her. Her mind was full of fear of what that meant, as she said good-bye to Isabelle and hung up at last.

Simply wishing for another vision hadn’t worked. How did other psychics control their dubious “gift”? The only thing she could think of was a documentary she’d recently watched about a psychic who visited crime scenes to help solve murder cases. Her visions seemed to have been triggered by some magical “vibes” violence left at the scene of the crime.

Ashley looked out into the twilight. If her “sensitivity” could be used the same way… She knew only one place connected to Blackwell, one place where the man had done something terrible. She thought of the shallow grave where Jack had been buried alive. What if some vibes had been left behind?

Maybe if she went out there, she could pick up something. The psychic on TV had talked about years and years of effort to develop her skill into what it was today. So if the “skill” could be developed, that meant Ashley might get better at it if she kept trying.

If she could bring back the vision, if she could expand it instead of fighting it… If she could see Blackwell put Jack into the grave, she could draw the man.

Tomorrow
, said the voice of fear in her head.

It always said,
tomorrow
, whether it talked about going to the grocery store or starting a new painting.
Tomorrow you’ll be brave,
fear whispered
. Tomorrow you’ll be normal. Just give me today.

That was how fear stole whole lives away.

But she had to stop letting fear win.

She had to do it for Maddie. Her daughter needed a real mother, not the shadow of one. She needed to reclaim her life. Starting right now. Because if she didn’t do it right now, she might never do it, and she wasn’t willing to lose her daughter over stupid cowardice.

So she dressed as warmly as she could, got into her car, and drove down Hadley Road, without looking once at the reservoir, pulled over at the exact same spot as she had before, and forced herself to step out of the car.

Fear, like the night, surrounded her completely. An owl hooted somewhere in the woods, making her jump. She almost got back into the car.

But then she thought of her daughter and marched forward.

Memories of the night she’d first come out here to search for the grave flooded her. She put one foot in front of the other mechanically, ignoring the bushes that tore at her pants. At least this time her legs and feet were covered.

Soon she could hear the creek up ahead. She pushed through a jumble of branches, and there loomed the solitary boulder twenty feet or so in front of her. A pretty impressive gravestone, she thought.

Finding the grave was easy, even in the dark. Police tape flitted all around it, pale moonlight reflecting off the yellow plastic.

She stopped outside the circle and drew a deep breath, looking up to the stars. Waited to feel something, see something.
Come on
.

Nothing happened.