Guarding Grayson Read Online Free PDF Page B

on, too. You, uh, need to stay warm. I'll grab a pair of socks for you."
    The corduroy shirt hanging around her like a robe, she took the pair of wool socks from him, and then gave him a blank look. "What do I do with these?"
    "Put them on your feet," Gray said, fighting to keep his voice low and calm, even as his heart cracked open another notch at this further evidence she was not all here. "You always go barefoot, and then complain your feet are cold, remember?"
    She said nothing, but perched on the side of his bed and pulled the socks on. She got the first one wrong with the heel up, and Gray pushed her hands aside and straightened the sock on her slender foot and ankle, then took the other sock and motioned for her to lift that foot. She did, and he pulled the sock up for her. Her skin was silky, cool and clammy. His socks were much too big, the heels riding up her ankle, but they stayed up around her calves.
    "Socks," she recited, peering at her raised foot. "Also known as stockings. Worn with shoes."
    He straightened, not sure if he wanted laugh or cry—maybe both. "Right."
    A low grumble of sound emanated from her middle. She peered down at herself, her chin back, hands flying out. "What is that? It feels very ... strange."
    She looked up at him again. "This body is experiencing discomfort. Inform me of what it needs."
    Gray shoved both hands into his hair and held onto his head, pressing on it as if he could wrest some sense from this situation. He couldn't.
    She sounded like a character from a that TV show of hers—one of the stranger characters. Like that episode with aliens. And maybe that explained a lot—she was suffering from some mental breakdown, so she fell back on a favorite fantasy. He just hoped she wasn't waiting for the brothers to join them.
    Her stomach growled again, louder, and Brynne swayed, her face going paler than ever.
    Gray gazed at his girlfriend. His freakishly strong, tech-destroying, dead-looking girlfriend.
    She was here now, and whatever the hell she'd been up to, she obviously had not been taking care of herself. Since Topper refused to help him for her own reasons, until he could get to another phone, or alert another neighbor to call the sheriff and ask him to bring the EMTs with a strong sedative, he couldn't let Brynne faint on his carpet.
    "You're hungry, at a guess," he said. "You never did eat enough to keep a chihuahua alive—from the looks of you, that hasn't changed. C'mon, there's food in the kitchen."
    He held out his hand, but instead of waiting for him to lead the way to the kitchen, she gestured sharply for him to wait. "I will go first."
    She was consistent, at least. She walked past him, pausing for a moment at the hallway leading to the bathroom, bedrooms and his studio, doing that weird head-tipping thing again. God, he hoped she wasn't about to stop the refrigerator, or blow up the microwave. He snorted at his own imaginings. She hadn’t done those other things—his phone dying was just a coincidence.
    She was mentally ill, that was it. He looked from her to the front door, and calculated his chances of getting out and away to wait for the sheriff on the front porch. Then he looked at her thin frame in his enveloping shirts and sighed. No, he'd feed her first, then he'd go.
    But he did open the drawer of his nightstand, pull his Ruger and slide it into the back of his jeans, then pull his tee over it. Nice thing about flying FBI Air, he'd been able to bring it in his duffel, with some ammo and neither of the agents had said a word.
    Brynne stepped into the lighted kitchen, and surveyed it. "It is safe," she pronounced.
    Gray rolled his eyes as he moved past her. "Yeah, could've told you that. Listen, whatever game you're playing, just drop it. Sarah Conner, you're not."
    “I do not know this Say-ra Con-ner. Is she a friend of yours?”
    Gray ignored the question. This was not the time to explain one of his favorite old movies. He opened the fridge, pulled out