Edge of Hunger. Rhyannon Byrd
the delicate angles of her face, giving her the illusion of being tough, when he knew instinctively that she was anything but. Crazy? Obviously. But there was something vulnerable and soft in her that fascinated the hell out of him.
God, he was so fucked.
âLook, I realize this seems like some kind of joke to you, but Iâm not trying to scam you,â she murmured, her left hand fidgeting with the bottom button of her shirt, just above the waistband of her jeans. âI really donât want your money or anything else. The only thing Iâm asking is that you pay attention to what I have to tell you.â
âNow see,â he replied in a slow slide of words worthy of any natural-born Southerner, âthe problem is that Iâm too much of a bastard to pay you even that.â He pointed the hammer in the direction of her car, needing her gone. Now. Before he gave in and forgot why bedding her would be such a bad idea. âSo why donât you just hightail your crazy little ass out of Henning and back to wherever it is you came from.â
A soft sound of irritation rumbled in her chest, making him grin despite himself. It was refreshing to know that little miss innocent looking had a temper, and he found himself wondering what she looked like when that passionate temper was truly riled.
Sweat popped out on his forehead that had nothing to do with the heat rolling up at them in waves from the sweltering groundâand everything to do with the feminine package standing before him. It was his own fault, but heâd been too long without a woman. Now he was in a bad way, and Ian knew he shouldâve ignored his waning interest and dropped by Kendra Wilcoxâs earlier in the week. If heâd gone ahead and gotten laid, then maybe he wouldnât be getting geared up over the strange little female standing in front of him, talking about conversations with his motherâs ghost.
âLook, Mr. Buchanan. If forgetting about this whole thing was an option, then believe me, I would. Unfortunately, it isnât. Iâve no other choice than to follow through with this, whether you act like an arrogant jerk or a gentleman.â
Mumbling around the nail heâd just placed between his lips, Ian arched one brow. âMuch to my motherâs heartache, I never did take to the whole Southern gentleman way of life. It all started the fateful afternoon I put a frog down Sally Simpsonâs pants in kindergarten,â he informed her, setting the nail in place. He flashed her an unrepentant smile, getting a perverse pleasure out of pushing her buttons. âAnd Iâve never changed.â
âAnd you sound remarkably proud of that fact.â Her voice held a hint of challenge that twisted the irritating hunger in his gut a notch tighter, and he nearly smashed his thumb as he swung down on the nail head. âA rebel through and through.â
âWhich really shouldnât come as a surprise,â he rumbled softly. âIf youâre so chatty with my mother, then Iâm sure sheâs already warned you that Iâm a stubborn son of a bitch. Youâre wasting your time here, Molly.â
The use of her first name had her blinking with an odd look of surprise. And damn, but if he didnât feel that strange little jolt between them again, like something electric and tangible skittering on the air. Something too intimate for comfort. He didnât know why heâd used her first name, but he couldnât deny that he liked the way it felt on his lips.
âSheâs told me enough for me to know that youâd be less than cooperative,â she answered after a moment, while the wind picked up, molding the soft cotton of her plain white shirt to a petite pair of high, rounded breasts. âShe also warned me that youâd react this way.â
Ian cut her a sharp look from behind his dark lenses, but bit back an even sharper retort. It was twisted, but the harder she pushed him, the more he wanted her.
âSo, we can either go ahead and have this conversation here,â she pressed on with firm conviction, taking advantage of his silence, âor I can follow you around night and day until you give in and listen to what I have to say. Your mother isnât going to leave me alone until you do.â
Bent over, his weight resting on one arm while he held the hammer in the other hand, Ian studied her. Studied her in the way a fighter sizes up his next opponent. She sounded so confident, but her body language told a different story. The little details he picked up on, like the way she kept licking at her lower lip, her left hand now clenching and unclenching at her side while her right held on to the leather strap of her purse as if it was a lifeline, told a story of their own. White knuckles. Rigid spine. In the base of her pale throat, her pulse fluttered with a telltale sign of nerves. Or was it fear? Arousal?
Whatever it was, Ian suddenly found himself captivated by the intimate sight of the pulsing vein beneath that smooth, flawless skin. It looked too delicate, too fragile, like something he could so easily sink his teeth into and mark. Taste. Something that was too much like the dreams heâd been having, and it scared the shit out of him.
âEven if what youâre saying is true, which I donât believe for one second, what could my mother want with me?â he asked in a low, rough blast of words that felt ripped out of his chest, all traces of sarcasm and humor gone. âWe didnât talk for the last sixteen years of her life and sheâs been gone for five months. Seems a little late to start mending fences now.â
âElaina regrets that all those years were wasted,â she said with such an earnest expression, he honestly believed that she was buying her own bullshit. God, she really was a whack job. âStill, she contacted me because there are things she wants you to know. Important things she wishes she had explained while she still had the time. But firstâ¦â She paused, and the look in those big brown eyes made him want to reach out to her andâhell, Ian didnât have a clue what he would have done. He was saved from finding out when she cleared her throat, wet her bottom lip with a nervous flick of her tongue, then quietly said, âIâm sorry to have to tell you that someone close to you is in danger.â
Aw, shit. What kind of sick game was this woman playing? Whatever it was, his patience was at an end.
âIn case youâve missed the clues, Miss Stratton, Iâm going to spell it out for you all nice and slow like. I do not think this kind of crap is funny.â Each word came from his lips with biting precision, his voice low, hard, expression even harder as he pulled off his glasses and glared at her through narrowed eyes. âNever have, even when my mother was parading her psycho friends in and out of our lives and putting my little brother and sister through an emotional wringer. Iâm warning you now, get back in your dingy little rental and just get the hell away from me.â
She crossed her arms over her chest, as if she could shield herself from the blast of his anger, but she didnât budge. âTrust me, Mr. Buchanan. Ian. Iâm not enjoying this any more than you are, but I made a promise to your mother and Iâm keeping it. I know she made mistakes, but sheâs trying to set things right. And if you donât listen to herâto meâto usâ¦then someone is going to end up hurt. I can feel it.â
Why in Godâs name do I always have to go for the psychotic ones? he silently cursed, running one hand through his hair so hard that his scalp stung. Must be in my goddamn genes.
That was one of the reasons heâd kept things going with Kendraâthe simple fact that she was so different from the women he usually hooked up with. The hard-nosed CPA didnât take to bullshit any more than Ian did, and they both got what they wanted from each other, even if their encounters left him with that gnawing edge in his gut. Left him cold inside. Left him⦠wanting.
It sucked, sureâbut heâd learned to live with it.
âLike I said before, my mother died five months ago. Now get off my property. This is private land and youâre trespassing.â
He