Guarded Read online

  Praise for

  GUARDED

  “A terrific read! The story kept me turning those pages.”

  —Tara Kingston, author of the Secrets & Spies series

  SPIRITED

  “Great! A real page-turner. Once you pick it up, you won’t want to put it down until you’re done!”

  —Lynsay Sands, New York Times bestselling author

  “[A] sweet, funny, sexy debut!”

  —Lena Diaz, author of the Deadly Games Thrillers

  “No magic crystal ball is needed to foresee this writer is bursting with talent! I can’t wait for more from her!”

  —Shelby Reed, author of The Fifth Favor

  “Spirited is an intriguing blend of romance, mystery, and ghosts to keep you up late at night.”

  —Dianna Love, New York Times bestselling author of the Belador series

  “This mix of romance, ghostly visions, and unexpected danger is unbelievably fun and thrilling!”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Lively, funny, and fresh, this engaging debut novel is just the thing for readers who want their mystery thrillers with a ghostly twist and an offbeat sense of humor.”

  —Library Journal

  Berkley Sensation titles by Mary Behre

  SPIRITED

  GUARDED

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China

  penguin.com

  A Penguin Random House Company

  GUARDED

  A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2014 by Mary Behre.

  Excerpt from Spirited by Mary Behre copyright © 2014 by Mary Behre.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

  BERKLEY SENSATION® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-63025-9

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / August 2014

  Cover illustration by Tony Mauro.

  Cover design by Sarah Oberrender.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Version_1

  For my children, who really wanted me to write a story about talking animals.

  CONTENTS

  Praise for titles by Mary Behre

  Berkley Sensation titles by Mary Behre

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  EPILOGUE

  Sneak Peek at Spirited

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Leis Pederson and Nalini Akolekar, thank you for believing in this series. Working with both of you is an honor.

  The Berry Best Betas: Chris Behre Jr., Chris Behre Sr., Valerie Bowman, Kim Kenealy, Tara Kingston, Yvonne Richard, you patiently read whatever I put in front of you and the feedback is amazing. I simply cannot thank you enough.

  Dianna Love, thank you for reading my first book in the airport and sending a cover quote that made me squeal with delight.

  Kim, thank you. You are truly my best friend.

  Thank you, Chief Scott Silverii, for patiently answering all of my questions about the various roles and responsibilities of police officers. Any mistakes made in this book were completely my own and sometimes intentional.

  And as always, thank you, Sparky, Indy, and The Captain. You three make every day special. I love you.

  PROLOGUE

  THE COFFEE SUCKED. Why had he agreed to meet at this out-of-the way diner? Adam toyed with the stained mug in his hand, waiting impatiently for his client to arrive.

  Client.

  His lips twitched. No, the prick was Adam’s mark. On the very short list of men Adam would make suffer and bleed for their crimes. The men would finally face the retribution they should have seen long ago.

  The front door opened. Light shafted through briefly, outlining the balding man’s large frame. And he was a beast. Well over six feet tall, he filled the doorway or would have had he paused there long enough to cast more than a quick shadow. Instead, the client had spotted the table and loped into the room. Dressed in pressed blue jeans and a starched-collar, white button-down shirt, he gripped the strap of his messenger bag. He probably thought his semicasual look, despite the man-purse he clutched, made him blend in with the regulars of this establishment. He couldn’t have stuck out worse had he shown up wearing Armani and suddenly broken into a rousing rendition of “The Eye of the Tiger.”

  Still, Adam nodded his greeting, gesturing to the open, faded maroon seat opposite him.

  “Hi, hon. Welcome.” The too-friendly, two-pack-a-day waitress nearly beat the behemoth to the table. She lifted a smudged glass pot and shook it gently, sloshing around the brown liquid. “Coffee, Mister?”

  “Smythe. Jake Smythe,” the client said, as if she’d been asking for his name. Given the addition of the many wrinkles on her forehead, it was clear she hadn’t wanted anything other than his order.

  “He’ll have a cup of your unbelievable coffee too, Essie,” Adam answered with a smile, reading her yellowed name tag.

  She poured the vile liquid into a chipped white ceramic mug, then pointed to the milk cow and sugar container on the table. “If y’all need anythin’ else, just give a yell.”

  Smythe watched the woman walk away. Smythe, right, ’cause that didn’t sound at all like Smith.

  “Mr. Smythe, do you have my money?”

  Smythe’s eyes widened and he glanced around before slouching in his seat.

  No one looked at them. The four people in t
he diner, including the cook and the lone waitress, Essie, were on the opposite side of the room. Adam had selected that booth, in the corner farthest from the rest of the patrons at Café and Gas, to insure privacy.

  Smythe didn’t appear convinced. He fingered his coffee cup without taking a sip, frowned and darted nervous glances around the restaurant. Finally appearing reassured, he pushed the cup away from him and withdrew a thick white envelope from his murse. He flirted with dropping it on the table, twice letting the crisp edges brush the cracked laminate before twice pulling back. Finally, he dropped it into his lap.

  Adam ground his back teeth, but said nothing and waited.

  “How do I know you can deliver? I don’t want some government busybody knocking on my door with a search warrant. It’s imperative that the thing,” he emphasized the word in a whisper, “I’m purchasing is free and clear.”

  Adam curled his lips into his best “you can trust me” smile. “He’s all yours, free and clear. I’ve got the paperwork showing the transfer of ownership from a fictitious private collector to you. No one will come after you. Just make sure you don’t pull an Ohio stunt, and the government boys will leave you alone.”

  Ohio. The site of the worst private zoo disaster in recent history. Revulsion crossed Smythe’s face. “Right. When do I get it?”

  “Tonight,” Adam said and waited for Smythe to smile. Which he did. Predictable shit. “Provided you pay me. In full. Right. Now.”

  Smythe squirmed. Again, that fat envelope came into view. Like an overfed snake, sneaking up from beneath Smythe’s side of the table. Smythe pushed it across the chipped laminate toward him.

  Adam waited to see if the asshole would snatch it back again. When it remained there untouched for a full thirty seconds, he picked it up and glanced inside. While the envelope was thick, it wasn’t filled with Benjamins. No, those were fifties in there. He shifted in the booth to relieve the sudden ache in his too-straight back. “Where’s the rest of it?”

  “Half now. Half upon delivery,” the client beast said with a smug expression, then sipped his coffee. Smythe’s eyes widened, smugness gave way to disgust, and he swallowed audibly.

  Coughing into his fist, Smythe wheezed, “Take it or leave it.”

  “That wasn’t the deal.”

  “What are you going to do? Sue me?” The Smythe asshole grinned.

  Adam didn’t curl his hands into fists. He didn’t smash Smythe’s face into the table hard enough to shatter his nose. He didn’t jam the coffee spoon into the self-righteous shit’s eye.

  Instead, he shifted in his seat again trying to alleviate the strain on his spine. “I’ll take it,” Adam said, adding a heavy amount of aggravated surrender to his voice.

  “Good.” Smythe fished a business card out of his back pocket, then pushed it across the table. Pointing to it with one beefy finger he added, “Meet me at nine. I’ll have the rest of your money.”

  Adam didn’t answer. No need. Smythe was already heading out into the August afternoon sunshine.

  One down. Four to go.

  He’d go to the meet, show off the rare white tiger, and collect his money.

  Then he’d feed Smythe to the hungry cat.

  Or maybe not.

  No sense giving the tiger indigestion before transferring him to his new home.

  But Smythe would pay. Tonight.

  Adam stood, dropped a couple of bills on the table, and headed toward the door. All the while envisioning how many pieces he could slice off Smythe before the bastard finally died.

  CHAPTER 1

  “SOMETHING’S WRONG WITH Mr. Fuzzbutt.” Beau’s angelic voice rang out seconds before the backside of his long-haired black guinea pig bounced before Dr. Shelley Morgan’s eyes. At almost the same moment, a cry went up from the back room of the small veterinary clinic.

  “Shelley, I need you!” Feet pounded quickly down the short hall before Jacob, the veterinary clinic’s too-excitable intern, burst into the room yelling, “Lucy is trying to turn Hercules into her Thanksgiving dinner. And this time I think she might just chew his balls off.”

  “Language! And Thanksgiving’s four weeks away. At most, she wants a light snack,” Shelley said, pushing to her feet and sweeping the fur ball known as Mr. Fuzzbutt into her hands.

  But Jacob hadn’t heard her attempt to lighten the moment. The intern/groomer/assistant had already spun around and disappeared into the back room. His cries of, “Stop that, Lucy. Get up, Herc,” were nearly drowned out by the cacophony of dogs barking.

  Ah, it was a Wednesday. Most people hated Mondays because they believed the first day of the workweek was full of insanity, but Shelley knew otherwise. In her twenty-four years of life, every major catastrophe occurred on the day most folks referred to as “hump day.” Today was shaping up to be as invariably crazy as every other weekday that started with the letter W.

  “Doc, can you help him?” Beau’s voice, still high-pitched from youth, wobbled as he spoke.

  She turned to the worried ten-year-old who was small for his age. His large luminous brown eyes were framed by thick black glasses. His clothes, although threadbare and clearly hand-me-downs, were clean as were his faded blue sneakers.

  “Don’t worry, Beau. I’m sure he’ll be fine. Just have a seat in the waiting area and I’ll be back shortly. I’ll bring Mr. . . .” she couldn’t bring herself to say the word Fuzzbutt to the child, and settled with “your little buddy back after I’ve examined him.”

  “Okay, Doc. I trust you.” Beau nodded. His words so mature for one so young. “But I can’t just sit and wait. How about I bring in the bags of dog food from outside?”

  “That would be a big help, Beau. You remember where the storeroom is? Just stack the ones you can carry in there. And don’t try to lift the big ones.”

  Not that the little guy would be able to do much. The last time the clinic received donations, the dog food had come in fifty-pound bags. Beau likely didn’t weigh more than sixty-five pounds himself. Plus, it had rained late last night and the town handyman she’d hired hadn’t had a chance to fix the hole in the shed’s roof. So chances were good several of the bags were sodden and useless.

  Still, he beamed as if she’d just handed him a hundred-dollar bill. “You know it! I’ll have the bags all put away before you can bring Mr. Fuzzbutt back. Just you wait and see.”

  Then Beau was out the front door. The length of bells hanging from the handle jangled and banged against the glass as he took off around the corner to the storage shed.

  Gotta love small towns. Shelley couldn’t suppress the grin, even as good ole Mr. F made a soft whoop, whoop noise in her hands. She glanced into his little black eyes and asked, “So are you really sick?”

  The eye contact formed an instant telepathic connection. Shelley’s world swirled to gray. Still vaguely aware of her surroundings, she focused her attention inward on the movielike scenes sent from the little boar in her hands.

  An image of Beau’s anxious face peering between the bars of the cage, filling and refilling the bowl with pellets sprang into her mind. At first she thought the guinea pig was repeating the same image over and over, but quickly she realized what was happening.

  “Oh, so you’ve been eating,” she said. “But Beau doesn’t realize it because he’s been topping off the food bowl.”

  Mr. F. whooped again.

  She chuckled. “Well, you’re a pretty wise pig not to eat everything you’ve been given. Many others wouldn’t have such restraint. I’m not sure I would. You sure you don’t feel sick?”

  The little pig winged an image of Beau snuggling him close and occasionally kissing him on the head as they watched Scooby-Doo. The image was so sweet she let herself get lost in the moment and almost forgot she was at the clinic.

  “Shell-ley,” Jacob wailed.

  She jumped and turned in tim
e to see Jacob burst through the swinging door separating the back hallway from the reception area of the clinic. “Jeez! Jacob. You’ll freak out the animals.”

  “Come on. I can’t stop her and he’s just lying there!” Jacob gestured wildly with both hands.

  Right. Lucy attacking Hercules. Although Lucy was all of three pounds and a ferret, to Hercules, a ninety-pound dog. How much damage could she do?

  “It’s Wednesday,” Shelley said on a sigh. “Although, at least if it started out like this, it can’t get any crazier.”

  Mr. Fuzzbutt whooped again. I swear, the little pig’s laughing at me.

  “Jacob, take Mr. F and put him in examination room one.” She hurried through the swinging white door, which led to the back, stopping briefly to hand Beau’s pet to her intern. “There’s a small cage in the cabinet under the sink. Pull it out and put him in it, then meet me in the doggie spa.”

  Without waiting for a response, she hustled to the back room. She usually avoided this area. She’d spent a weekend painting murals of fields, dog bones, blue skies, and fire hydrants on the walls to give dogs and their owners the impression of luxury accommodations. According to Jacob and their boss, Dr. Kessler, her hard work paid off. Unless she was in the room with the canines.

  Today, six dogs were there for the Thanksgiving Special, a deluxe grooming, complete with a complimentary toy turkey. Metal cages lined one wall, each with a plush foam bed. The occupants waited in doggy paradise for their turn at the day’s scheduled deluxe treatment by Jacob. Soft strains of Bach filtered through the air, barely audible over the ruckus of barks, yips, and howls as the canines commented on the show in the middle of the floor.

  That was, until one of them caught her scent. Mrs. Hoffstedder’s beagle noticed her first. He let out a single high-pitched yowl, then lowered his head and covered his eyes with his paws. One by one, the other five dogs did the same.

  Shelley didn’t bother to wonder why they feared her. She’d given up asking that question years ago. It’s not as if she’d ever beaten an animal. Jeez, she didn’t even raise her voice. But almost every dog she’d come into contact with for the past seven years either hid from her or tried to attack her.