“Stand still,” he said, still growling, though with the damage to his larynx he’d sound growly even if he was trying to sing lullabies.
“Why should I? You’re the one who’s crowding me, not the other way around. If you want me to stand still, then back off.” She punctuated the last two words by putting the tip of one finger squarely in the middle of his chest and applying pressure; it was like pushing on a rock—a living, breathing rock, but still a rock. She wasn’t certain how easy it was to communicate with a rock, so just to make sure he understood, she repeated herself. “Back. Off.”
Under the brim of his hat, his brilliant blue eyes were narrow and angry. His head cocked a little, an arrogant, combative tilt of his chin, then he put his right forefinger in the middle of her chest, on her breastbone, duplicating her movement. “Make. Me.”
Furious heat surged under her skin. Make him? God, how she wished she could! Frustration and fury filled her chest, almost smothering her. She couldn’t budge him an inch, and they both knew it. Failing that, what she would most like to do was punch him in the jaw, but she wasn’t stupid. The best thing that could come of that would be that he’d have her arrested for assault, but she doubted that solution would even occur to him. No, he’d hand out the consequences himself, and even though she didn’t know what form that would take she was absolutely certain she wouldn’t like the result at all. Sometimes you just knew things about people, and she knew Dare Callahan was a stubborn jackass who would blow right past good manners if he had a point he wanted to make.
She also should have known he’d dig in his heels. Maybe he’d been a more even-tempered, congenial person when he was growing up, but since leaving the military and coming home he was known to be surly at best, and most times downright ill-tempered. Maybe he had reason to be a sorehead now, maybe he’d always been one. Either way, she had to deal with him as he was now, which was right in her face.
For a split second she weighed her choices as she stared up at him, torn between all those conflicting emotions, then abruptly something inside her heaved a tiny sigh and gave up. She could hold on to her pride and pretend she was leaving because she wanted to, but why try to put a good face on it? He’d won. Let him enjoy it.
She ground her teeth together, trying to get the words out. Damn, this was hard. She took a couple of breaths, digging deep for self-control, and finally was able to say, “It isn’t any of your business, but I just put my place up for sale.” She kept her voice low so if it wobbled, maybe he wouldn’t notice. “I’m sorry it hurts your feelings that I don’t feel like dealing with you right now, but I don’t feel like dealing with you right now. Got it?”
His expression went blank. He glanced up at Harlan’s office, then back at her. “You’re selling out?”
And there they went again, her back teeth locking together. Couldn’t he have used any term other than selling out? She did some more deep breathing, blowing air out through her nose like an angry bull. “I don’t have a choice. My business has gone downhill since you moved back and went into competition with me. I can either sell or go bankrupt.” There, that was bald enough. She hadn’t tried to protect her pride, but neither had she accused him of deliberately running her out of business. Maybe he had, maybe he hadn’t. He was definitely the cause, whether deliberate or not, and that was all the credit and a lot less of the blame she was inclined to give him. At this point, it didn’t matter, because the end result was the same.
His expression shifted, hardened. “And you blame me.”
“I don’t see anyone else around here starting up a guide business.”
He stared down at her, eyes narrowed, his mouth a grim line. “For the record, I didn’t go after any of your customers. If any of them were yours first, they came to me, not the other way around. And I’ll be damned if I’ll apologize because they preferred me.”
“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 to
ld 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.”