The Trouble with Twelfth Grave (Charley Davidson #12)(10)

But not this time, baby. I was going to score some z’s if it killed me. To that end, I did something I rarely do. I resorted to downing a nightcap. Surely that would help keep my harried thoughts at bay.

I readied for bed by washing my face and pulling the brown mess on my head into a hair band. Then I crawled between the cool, superhigh thread counts, closed my eyes, and waited for the nightcap, a.k.a. a healthy dose of Kentucky bourbon, to take effect. Before it had a chance, however, the dishwasher started making that noise again. A clanking noise with little squeaks in between.

No. Way. Was that thing kidding?

Huffing with all the drama queen I could muster, I threw off the sheets and marched to the kitchen. Reyes’s kitchen. Reyes’s chef’s kitchen with industrial appliances and lots of shiny things that I had neither the knowledge nor the desire to work.

I kicked the clanking dishwasher, which looked straight out of the Stone Age. Did they have dishwashers in the Stone Age?

Then I turned to Reyes. He was leaning against a counter, watching me in only a pair of lounge pants. The kind with the drawstring waistband. They rode low on his hips, showing off his hard stomach and abs. His hands rested on either side of him, gripping the edge of the granite countertop at his back. He tightened his grip, and his muscles leaped to do his bidding. They contracted with the effort, the hills and valleys shifting under his wide shoulders.

I stepped closer, my fingertips craving the texture of his body. Just one taste. Just one pass over his rib cage or up across his chest.

“There’s something wrong with Princess Penelope,” I said as I eased closer. Power emanated out of him in hot, sensual waves. He was like a predator on the verge of attack, barely able to restrain himself. Strength and grace incarnate.

He studied me, his gaze shimmering underneath his impossibly long lashes. “Who’s that?” he asked, his voice like warm water rushing to all my naughty parts.

“You don’t know the name of your own dishwasher?” I teased. “Do you remember my name? Or is that asking too much?”

His gaze dropped to my mouth, and my lungs stopped working. “Is there a point to this?”

I recovered enough to nod and answer him. “Yes, something is wrong with Princess Penelope. I think it’s her carburetor.”

He reached out and pulled the drawstring at my own waist. “I was referring to the fact that your clothes are still on.”

I jerked awake and bolted upright, blinking into the darkness. It was a dream. It was only a dream.

Once I’d oriented myself, I searched the room. No idea why. Naturally, he wasn’t there. He’d reverted back to his old ways. Invading my sleep. Making me crave him.

I just couldn’t figure out his endgame. Why not just come to me? The dreams from before were pure, no-holds-barred eroticism. These were erotic, but not overtly sexual.

They were, however, the reason I’d slept so little over the past three days. Every time I closed my eyes, strange little vignettes, as perplexing as they were sexy, played in my head. And in every one, I’d get close enough to almost touch my husband, only to be startled awake before I could manage it.

Maybe that was his endgame. Maybe that was the point. To dull my wits. To keep me exhausted and disoriented, but why? So I couldn’t track him? Like I could, anyway.

After I woke up, which was about ten minutes after I’d lain down, it didn’t take me long to realize sleep was going to be just as elusive this morning as it had been yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that.

Was he doing this on purpose? Was this some sort of strategy on his part? But to what end? If his plan was to keep me disoriented, what would he gain?

I gave up, mostly because my brain hurt, and got out of bed. I needed coffee. And a shower. Or a coffee shower.

Hey …

Since I’d had enough coffee over the last twenty-four hours to see noise, I chose the shower first. The problem with showers was that I never got to enjoy them alone. Even with Reyes gone, I endured interruption after interruption. And this morning was no different.

“Hey, gorgeous girl,” I said to a departed Rottweiler named Artemis.

She joined me most mornings to chase streams of water as they splashed on the rock walls and tile floor. Sadly, every time she found a new source of entertainment, she’d almost knock me over to get to it. Walls, she could go through. Me, not so much. I’d hoped she would learn that someday, but it had been several months since she officially became my guardian, and the situation looked grim.

She licked the wall—or tried to—and did her darnedest to catch a thin stream of water in her mouth. She barked at it, stopped just long enough to let me scratch her ears, then went back to licking the tile floor. I could only hope George, the shower, would forgive us for violating him so.

But Artemis wasn’t my only visitor. I heard a soft, lilting voice come from my living room.

“Aunt Charley?”

“I’m in the bathroom, hon.” I turned George off—probably in more ways than one—and reached for a towel.

“I just have a couple of questions for you,” Amber said from behind the closed door. Amber was Cookie’s thirteen-and-three-quarters-year-old daughter. “Are you, um, busy?”

“Busy?” I asked, wrapping a towel around my head.

“Is Uncle Reyes in there with you?”

After almost choking on my own spit, I cleared my throat and said, “Not at the moment.”