Sandra Brown: Low Pressure

“I’m certain that’s all it was.”

She rounded the newel post and headed for the kitchen, Dent only half a step behind her. “Uh-uh. I ain’t buying it. What are you going to be sorry for?”

“I have no idea.”

“I think you do.”

“It’s none of your business. What are you doing here, anyway?” She dragged a chair from the kitchen dining table into the utility room and pushed it against the door to keep it closed. “The neighbor’s cat comes to visit uninvited.”

When she turned back, Dent was there, blocking her. “I’ve a good mind to call the police myself.”

“Don’t you dare. The media would get wind of it, and then I’d have that to deal with, too.”

“ Too ? In addition to what?”

“Nothing. Just… just please let it go. I’m waiting for the call that my father has died. I can’t take on any more right now. Can’t you understand that?”

He understood that the woman was on the verge of a meltdown. Her eyes were stark with something. Fear? Her voice was unsteady, like it was about to crack. She was holding on to the ledge by her fingernails, but she was holding on, and he had to give her credit for that.

He softened his approach. “Look, thanks to your family, I’m no fan of cops, either. But I still think you should report this.”

“They’ll show up with lights flashing.”

“Probably.”

“No thank you. I could do without the circus. I’m not calling them.”

“Okay, then a neighbor.”

“What for?”

“Ask if you can crash on their sofa.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“A friend? Someone who could come—”

“No.”

“Then call the police.”

“You want to call them, you call. You can deal with them. I won’t be here.” She pushed him aside and made her way back into the hall. “I’ll be at my parents’ house.”

“That idea gets my vote. You’d be crazy to stay here alone. But wait an hour. Let the police come—”

“No. I want to make the drive before the storm gets here.”

“It’s not coming here.”

She glanced toward the window. “It may.” She leaned down to retrieve her shoulder bag from the floor, where she’d apparently dropped it when she came in. She hauled the strap onto her shoulder. “You still haven’t told me why you followed me home.”

“To return your lousy book.” He pointed toward the console table where he’d left it. Then he moved his boot through a heap of torn pages. “Seems somebody else likes it even less than I do.”

She was about to speak, but faltered and looked away from him, then turned abruptly and opened the front door.

Dent reached beyond her shoulder and pushed the door shut. She came around angrily, but he was the first to speak. “This is about the book. Right?”

She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to. Her expression said it all.

“You’re good and truly spooked, aren’t you?”

“I—”

“Because you know as well as I do that this wasn’t a teenager’s prank.”

“I know nothing of the kind.”

“What else would you have to be sorry for? You wrote that book, and it made somebody real unhappy.”

“I never said—”

“Unhappy enough to threaten you, and you’re taking that threat seriously. I know that because you’re scared. Don’t deny it. I can tell. So what’s going on? What gives?”

“What do you care?”

“Call me a nice guy.”

“But you’re not!”

There was no arguing that. For seconds they glared at each other, then her head dropped forward and she kept it bowed for several moments. When she raised it, she brushed back a strand of hair that had shaken loose from her ponytail.

“Dent, I’ve had a perfectly rotten day. First I had to encounter you, when you were so obviously hostile and rejecting of any olive branch. I had to stand by, uselessly, in that cancer ward and watch my dad, whom I love more than anyone in the world, suffer untold pain and indignity.

“I didn’t want to leave him, but he invented a business matter that needs to be dealt with tomorrow morning as soon as the offices open. But the real reason he sent me back was to spare me having to see him like that.

“Then, during the flight home, I had to talk myself out of having a full-blown panic attack, which was not only terrifying, but humiliating because you were there to see it. I got home to find my house wrecked, and then you showed up and started giving me grief. I’ve had it. I’m leaving. You can stay, or leave, or go to hell. It makes no difference to me.”

On her way out she flicked a master switch that turned off every light in the house, leaving Dent in the dark.

Ray Strickland was a man better avoided, and he worked at making himself appear so.

He had come by his mean countenance naturally, but he had developed mannerisms to match his appearance. A thick, low brow formed a perpetual scowl that kept his deeply set eyes in shadow. His wide shoulders and muscled arms would have made him look top-heavy if his legs weren’t equally stout.

He didn’t shave his head, but buzzed it closely with an electric razor every few days. An iron cross, like the German war medal, was tattooed on his nape. Other tats decorated his arms and chest. He was especially proud of the snake, bared fangs dripping venom, that coiled around his left arm from shoulder to wrist.

The serpent hid the scars.

Attached to his belt was a leather scabbard that held a knife he kept honed and ready in case somebody didn’t heed the advertising and decided to mess with him.

He gave off an aura of Leave Me the Hell Alone. Most anyone who crossed paths with him was happy to oblige. Tonight he was in a particularly fractious mood.

The bar where he had stopped for refreshment was crowded and hot, the band lousy and loud. Every new arrival that came through the opaque-glass entrance increased Ray’s irritation. They encroached on his space and sucked up his air. He’d left his leather vest open for ventilation, but he still felt constricted.

He signaled the waitress for another shot of straight tequila. She was wearing a black cowboy hat with a feather band, a black leather bra, and low-rise jeans. Her navel was pierced with a silver ring, and attached to it was a chain that dangled right down to there .

Ray let her see that he noticed. “I like that chain.”

“Thanks,” she said, with a silent Drop dead added. After pouring his drink, she turned her back to him and sashayed to the other end of the bar, giving him an eyeful of a heart-shaped ass.

The rejection made him mad as hell. Not that he wasn’t used to it. Women just didn’t seem to take to him, not unless he plied them with enough cheap liquor to urge on a little friendliness and cooperation. He never inspired their lust.

He just didn’t have the gift. Not like his big brother, Allen. Now there was a ladies’ man for you. All Allen had to do was crook his finger at a female and she’d come running. In no time flat, Allen could sweet-talk his way past her bra and into her panties. He’d loved women and they’d loved him back.

Only one had ever turned Allen down.

Susan Lyston.

After that bitch, there had been no more women for Allen. No more nothing .

Ray reached for his shot glass and slammed back the throat-searing tequila.

If it hadn’t been for Susan Lyston, Allen would be with him tonight, chasing tail, getting drunk, having fun like they used to. ’Course they’d been a pair of wild and crazy kids back then, but Ray had no reason to think they’d be any less fun-loving now than they had been eighteen years ago. But he would never know, would he? No. Because of Susan Lyston.