Dream Eyes

She’d hit his senses like an intoxicating drug that night. He’d gotten the same exhilarating shock today.

If anything, his reaction was even stronger this time, probably because he’d been thinking about her nonstop for the past month.

She was tall for a woman, just the right height for him, Judson thought. Attractive, but not in the generic cover-girl style. What she had was a hell of an edge.

She wore her dark hair snugged back in a sleek knot that emphasized her regal nose, high forehead and deep, watchful, witchy eyes. Her curves were subtle but one hundred percent feminine. There was a sleek, feline quality about her that appealed to all of his senses.

Which immediately brought up the obvious question. Where was the man in her life? According to Sam and Abby, there was no significant other in Gwen’s world. But that seemed unlikely. Who do I have to kill to get to you, Gwendolyn Frazier?

The old floorboards creaked beneath his boots when he crossed the room. The i

He stopped at the window to study the view. The river was visible through a thick stand of trees. From where he stood, he could not see the falls. He thought about what he had managed to discover concerning the events of two years ago. The first two deaths had occurred less than three weeks apart. Gwen had found both bodies. A few days later, Zander Taylor had gone over the falls, an apparent suicide. Gwen had been the one who had called 911 on that occasion, too.

It was all very murky, but the one fact that stood out was that the series of mysterious deaths had ceased following Taylor’s death. The surviving members of Ballinger’s research project were all still alive according to Sam. At least they had been until this morning.

But now the director of the project was dead. And once again it was Gwen Frazier who had found the body.

He contemplated the heavily forested landscape for a while. There was a lot of wilderness left in the mountains of Oregon. Every year, people went out hiking in this part of the Pacific Northwest and disappeared forever. The rough terrain provided ample hiding places for all kinds of predators, including the human kind. A killer could commit murder and vanish into the woods for as long as it suited him.

He turned away from the window and yanked off the crewneck pullover. Opening his leather bag, he took out a fresh edition of the shirt in a slightly different shade of gray, grabbed his overnight kit and went into the grand, Victorian-style bathroom to freshen up. He wasn’t used to working for private pay clients, but he suspected that neatness counted; at least he was pretty sure it counted with a client like Gwen. Downstairs in the tearoom she had made it clear that she had some doubts about both his talent and his commitment to the job. He’d better get his act together before she fired his ass.

He had to consider the reputation of Coppersmith Consulting, he told himself. It wasn’t like he could afford to lose another client.

It took him half a second to recognize the guy in the mirror. His eyes didn’t appear quite as bleak and soulless as they had for the past few weeks. He’d been right about one thing: Gwen Frazier was the distraction he’d been needing.

He tucked the clean shirt into the waistband of his khakis and left the giant bathroom.

A muffled meow stopped him. He turned toward the co

Judson unlocked the door on his side, but when he tried the handle, he discovered that it was still secured on Gwen’s side.

“Sorry, cat,” he said. “You’re stuck in there for now.”

There was another muffled meow from the other room. This time the cat sounded irritated.

“Take it up with the boss lady,” Judson said.

He went back across the room and paused to brace his right boot against the bench at the foot of the bed. He pulled up his pant leg and checked the pistol in the leather sheath strapped to his ankle.

Satisfied that he was appropriately dressed for business—probably overdressed for this job—he let himself out into the hall and went back downstairs. A disturbing whisper of energy arced across his senses when he realized that Gwen was not waiting for him in the lobby.

The desk clerk looked up from whatever he was working on and squinted through his black-framed glasses. He was in his early thirties, with a stocky build and sandy brown hair that had evidently been thi

“If you’re looking for Ms. Frazier, she went outside to talk to a guy,” Riley said.

Judson nodded. “Thanks.”

He looked out the window and saw Gwen in the parking lot. She was not alone. A tall man with a shoulder-length mane of blond hair was with her. Something about the way the two stood together made it clear that they were not strangers. Gwen’s tightly crossed arms and angled chin told him that she was not happy with the way the conversation was going.

He pushed open the front door and went outside. It was late afternoon, and the Pacific Northwest was still basking in the long days of summer. But here in the mountains, twilight fell early, even at this time of year. The shadows were already creeping over Wilby.

Anticipation heated Judson’s blood as he walked toward Gwen and her companion. Maybe this was the guy he was going to have to kill to get to Gwen.

Gwen was facing the entrance of the i

“Oh, there you are, Judson,” she said quickly. “I was just explaining to Wesley that you and I have plans for this evening. This is Wesley Lancaster. Wesley, this is Judson Coppersmith.”

It didn’t take any psychic talent to know that he had just been promoted from the role of financial adviser to that of lover, Judson thought. No problem. He could work with that. He moved to stand very close to Gwen, his shoulder just brushing hers.

“Lancaster,” he said. Taking his cue from Gwen, he was careful to keep his tone civil, at least until he figured out what the hell was going on.

“Coppersmith.” Wesley acknowledged the introduction with a short, brusque inclination of his head that went well with his short, brusque greeting. It was clear that he was not thrilled to learn that Gwen was not alone.

At close range, it was clear that somewhere along the line a few Vikings had contributed to Wesley’s gene pool. He was tall, narrow-hipped and strategically muscled in the ma

Instead of the battle armor, Wesley wore a pair of hand-tailored black trousers and a dark blue silk shirt. The collar of the shirt was open partway down his chest. A slouchy linen jacket, a pair of Italian loafers and some designer shades finished the look. But Judson was sure that no self-respecting Viking warrior would have been caught dead at his own funeral pyre looking like he was dressed to make a pitch at a Hollywood film studio.