Linda Howard: Prey

“I don’t believe I’ve asked you to apologize. In fact, I don’t believe I’ve asked a damn thing of you.” And she wouldn’t, not one tiny thing. “You asked what my beef is, I’ve told you, now get your nose out of my business and leave me alone.” She broke away, stepping out of their little hostile circle, and once again reached for the truck’s door handle.

His hand shot out and he gripped her arm, holding her in place. “Wait.” Angie froze, her heartbeat abruptly thundering like a runaway horse as she looked down at the tanned, powerful hand that completely encircled her forearm. It was a lean, long-fingered hand, callused, and the back of it was marked by a two-inch-long white scar. His touch radiated a heat that burned through the thick double fabrics of her shirt and coat. “How much are you asking for your business?”

For a minute she couldn’t believe he was actually asking her that, then she went white with anger and jerked her arm away from his grip. “I’m not selling my business ,” she snapped. “I’m selling my place , and getting the hell away from here, and away from you!”

She pulled the truck door open, tossed her tote bag inside, and climbed into the driver’s seat. She wanted to do something violent, hit him, kick him, but contented herself with slamming the door and shoving the key into the ignition as hard as she could. The motor turned over as soon as she turned the key, and roared to life. If she’d had a clutch, she’d have popped it, but she had to be satisfied with floor-boarding the gas pedal and fishtailing out of the parking lot, though it would have been a lot more satisfying if the lot had been gravel instead of asphalt and the wheels had thrown rocks against his legs.

Immediately she pictured the scars on his face, his hand, and her imagination violently rejected the very idea of peppering him with gravel. That was too much like shrapnel, and she couldn’t… well, she just couldn’t. She’d put this part of her life in the past and move on. The future had to be better; she’d made some miscalculations, some bad decisions, but she’d learn from her mistakes and things would get better. They would . They had to.

Dare Callahan stood in the empty parking lot and glared after the blue Ford as Angie Powell barreled down the road as if she were escaping from Satan himself. “Fuck!” he said violently, both his fists clenching. A good, old-fashioned bar brawl would suit him right now, but the nearest bar was over thirty miles away and this time of day there likely wouldn’t be anyone available to brawl with anyway. His next best choice was a punching bag, and he did have one of those hanging in the barn back at his spread, but he wanted to knock the shit out of something right now, not an hour from now. He was out of luck unless he wanted to shatter the bones in his hands beating on the weathered brick building.

That was the effect she had on him. Ten seconds in her vicinity, and he was ready to fight something, anything. She was goat-stubborn, hostile, infuriating, and made him feel like a fool. Good riddance. He’d be glad when she was gone.

Except, even though she always looked at him as if he was a pile of steaming fresh cow manure that she’d just stepped in, there was nothing he wanted more than to fuck her blind. It had been that way from the day he’d first seen her. He’d even asked her out-twice-and been slapped down twice, and her attitude made it pretty damn plain she wasn’t the least bit interested in him, but his dick was too stupid to get the message. All he had to do was see that high, round ass of hers, or that dark ponytail swinging down her back, and the damn thing perked up and all but begged to be petted.

Life would be a lot calmer with her gone. Hell, it wasn’t even as if she was especially pretty. Dark hair, dark eyes, the kind of strong, carved bone structure that hinted at some Native American blood a few generations back, but nothing extra. Attractive, yeah, but that was it. Except for her ass. Her ass was jaw-dropping, eye-popping, slobber-dripping prime .

Maybe when she was gone his dick would give up the insane hope that some day it would have a shot at having her. And maybe then he himself would get serious about looking for another woman, someone who could stand to spend a few minutes in his company, which Angie Powell obviously couldn’t. He didn’t spend his time crying into his beer over her; he’d been rejected before, and sometimes it sucked, but he didn’t curl up in a whiny, whimpering ball because of it. Still, for some reason, having her there kind of blunted the desire to go out looking for someone else. Even though he hadn’t asked her out again after the second rejection, he knew his own competitive nature well enough to realize that part of him-like his dick-had stayed focused on her and refused to give up.

With her gone, his clientele list would grow even more. He might have to start turning people down-

An idea streaked across his brain like a flash of lightning, freezing him in place. It was so obvious, yet so outlandish, that he automatically tried to discard it. She wouldn’t go for it in a million years… would she? No. Maybe.

Maybe?

Damn . It just might work.

He looked up at Harlan’s real estate office, then down the road to where the blue truck was just a dark speck.

“What the fuck,” he said aloud, “why not give it a shot?” He strode across the parking lot and climbed the stairs to Harlan’s office. Harlan heard him coming, of course; his boots thumped on the steps and the planks of the upstairs landing. When he opened the door, Harlan had already swiveled his chair around and was waiting with an expectant look on his florid face.

“Dare,” he said in mild surprise. “I thought you might be Angie coming back. Sit down and have some coffee with me.”

“Thanks,” Dare said, because on principle he never turned down coffee. He never knew when he might get another cup, and he’d been deprived often enough that he never took coffee for granted. Going over to the coffeepot, he poured a cup for himself, then one for Harlan. “Black, white, sweet?”

“Black and sweet.”

“How many?”

“Two.”

Dare dumped in a couple spoonfuls of sugar, gave the coffee a quick stir, then handed the cup over to Harlan. He dropped his tall frame into one of the four client chairs Harlan had optimistically put in the office. “Angie just told me she put her place up for sale,” he said brusquely, in his mind the ritual of coffee having taken care of whatever social niceties there were. “What’s the asking price?”

Angie stared straight ahead through the windshield, her hands clamped around the steering wheel. Her eyes burned, but she refused to cry. She wasn’t a crier, anyway; the only time in her life she could remember having a complete meltdown was when she’d made a fool of herself at her wedding. If she hadn’t had the meltdown she wouldn’t have been so embarrassed, so in her book crying was not only a waste of time but also opened the door to all sorts of bad results.

She wouldn’t cry over Dare Callahan, anyway. There was nothing there to cry over. They had no history, no connection other than being in competition with each other, and that wasn’t going to endear him to her. No, if she was emotional about anything, it was about selling her place. She’d grown up in that house. Her dad had loved it here in western Montana, loved the people and what he did; his grave was here. Leaving here felt as if she’d be leaving him.

No way. She was moving, she had to, but she swore to herself right then that she’d come back at least once a year, more often if she could manage it, to tend to his grave, to leave flowers, even to talk to him as if he could hear her. Love didn’t go away when someone died, and she would make a point to honor him for the rest of her life. He’d been a good man, and he’d devoted himself to raising her after her mother deserted both of them for some sleazy guy when Angie was almost two.