Linda Howard - Prey

“It’s waiting for us. I got a four-wheel-drive SUV, is that okay? I thought we’d need one for, um, the room in back and all that. But I can change if-”

“It’s fine,” Davis said curtly. “Let’s go.”

Davis was accustomed to people kissing his ass, but he wasn’t usually that brusque. He’d want to be certain, though. Chad was too good at what he did for Davis to have him eliminated without solid proof. There were money launderers, and then there were true currency geniuses, and Chad was the latter. To some people, those more astute than others, that would have been a tip-off, so Chad had countered that signal with his degree in accounting and the implication that his talent with money was more along the lines of savant than savviness. That way his talent could be regarded as an oddity, an outlier, rather than an integral part of his overall intelligence. For this he thanked that Tom Cruise/Dustin Hoffman movie about the autistic savant, because that was the image that had been planted in people’s minds.

Davis followed the signs to the rental parking area, with Chad trailing behind, pulling his own duffel. “It’s the red one,” he said, keeping the uncertainty and nervousness foremost in his tone. “Is that okay? Red’s kind of-We can get another color, maybe something black, if you don’t-”

“Who cares what fucking color it is?” Davis interrupted impatiently, and held out his hand. “Give me the keys.”

“Keys? Oh. Oh, sure.” Chad released his duffel and let it fall, rather than standing it upright, as he fumbled in his pocket for the keys to the rental. No way would his character’s persona argue about who was driving, the way a more dominant man would, even though he’d been to the Powell place before and actually knew where he was going. He’d fudge on that, too, consulting maps and directing Davis to make at least one wrong turn. The very last thing he wanted was to have Davis the least bit on guard.

Perception. It was all about perception.

Angie couldn’t remember what Chad Krugman looked like, but she did remember that he didn’t ride very well, which meant it was a good thing they were trailering the horses most of the way. She’d made arrangements for a place to park her truck and trailer, and they’d ride the final eight, maybe ten miles. Unless Krugman had been practicing his horsemanship, he’d still have a sore ass, but there wasn’t anything she could do about that other than offer her sympathy, and she’d have to do that silently, because in her experience most men got all bent out of shape if she so much as hinted that they couldn’t do something as well as she could, even when it was glaringly obvious.

When he and his client drove up just before dark, she automatically looked at the man who got out of the driver’s seat, but he wasn’t familiar at all. She was a little surprised, because logically Krugman should have been driving-he’d been here before, therefore he was more familiar with the sometimes confusing twists of the dirt roads, which might or might not be marked. She then looked at the passenger, and even though she’d refreshed her memory by looking at his photograph, there was still a blank moment before she had a vague “oh, yeah, now I remember” kind of thing that underscored how unremarkable Chad Krugman was.

He was an inch or two taller than she, soft around the middle, with thinning dark hair and forgettable features. His clothes were kind of baggy, and just as forgettable. He wasn’t ugly, he wasn’t attractive, he was just nondescript. If his personality had been stronger none of that would have mattered, but he might as well have been born with “ineffectual” stamped on his forehead in glowing neon, except that would have been too memorable. Whatever he did for a living, Angie was fairly certain he’d never be a howling success at it. He’d muddle by, mostly by escaping notice, and that would pretty much define his life.

His client, Mitchell Davis, was almost Krugman’s polar opposite. Angie smiled at both of them as she went down the steps to greet them. Krugman smiled hesitantly in return, but Davis merely gave her a dismissive look, as if he had more important things to do than being polite.

“Ms. Powell, it’s nice to see you again,” said Krugman, and when Angie held out her hand he hastened to grab it in a slightly moist grip.

“You, too,” Angie said easily. “And please call me Angie.”

“Of course. And I’m Chad.” He looked pleased, then that expression was chased away by an anxious one as he said, “Mr. Davis, this is our guide, Angie Powell. Angie, Mitchell Davis.”

Davis merely nodded his head while he looked around, his sharp gaze taking in her less-than-new truck and the horse trailer that had seen better days; his upper lip curled slightly. She kept her face bland. Maybe her truck and equipment weren’t brand new, but they were in good shape and got the job done. “I’m glad to meet you,” she said, keeping her manners in place even if he wasn’t making any effort to do the same.

Davis was everything Krugman wasn’t. He was taller, leaner, his dark hair touched with gray at the temples. His features were hard and chiseled, his eyes a clear gray. His movements were crisp, authoritative. His clothes fit him as if they’d been custom made for him.

Angie disliked him on sight.

She could already tell this was going to be a long, long week. With any luck, Davis would bag his bear almost immediately, and neither of them would see any need to hang around for the rest of the week doing nothing. If not, well, she’d keep her mouth shut and a smile in place, and get through it as best as possible. Like anyone who worked with the public, she’d had clients before whom she disliked, and they’d gone home none the wiser. Davis wouldn’t be any different. Maybe.

“Let me show you to your cabins,” she said after the men had gotten their duffels from the back of their rented SUV. Krugman knew the way, of course, but she led them down the path that led to a patch of ponderosa pines behind the house. The cabins were tucked among the trees, partially visible from the house but positioned so both she and her clients had a sense of privacy. She had already turned on the lamps inside, and turned up the heat. Each cabin also had a working fireplace, if someone wanted the ambiance of a real fire, but the shared heating unit was more efficient and less work. Most people didn’t bother with a fire.

“I’ve put the boxes with your rifles inside your cabins,” she said. “Chad, the first cabin is yours.” She unlocked the door and gave him the key. “Mr. Davis, this one is yours.”

“Yeah, great,” he said as he took the key from her, his tone making it plain he wasn’t impressed by the accommodations, either. She pushed her annoyance away. She would be polite to him.

“I’ll leave you to unpack,” she said to both of them. “If either of you brought your laptop and need to go online, Internet is available at the house. There’s also a television room, if you want to watch anything tonight. Supper will be served at seven. It isn’t anything fancy, just stew and biscuits. I’ll see you then, or you can come in earlier to watch television or talk.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Chad said, smiling nervously. Davis’s hard, cold eyes said he disagreed, but at least he kept his opinion to himself.

As she strode back to the house, Angie reminded herself that this wasn’t about her, it was more about the dynamics between Chad and his client, and they weren’t good. He was trying so hard to impress Mr. Davis, and Davis was making it plain that he thought the entire trip was second-rate at best.