I’ve no idea how much time has passed or how long I was sleeping, but by the look of him, he’s worked a whole day, and the sky is lit up in fieryoranges and reds, suggesting the sun is setting.
“The fuck you sneaking around my house for, woman?”
Shuffling to a sitting position, I wince when my whole body alights with pain, my leg being the worst, the ribs second, “Call it curiosity. Tell me, Knox Carter, how long before your entire world falls apart?”
His blue eyes narrow. “Where’d you see the name?”
“So many questions and yet you’re not asking the right ones,” I tut, “Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars in debt against the ranch, another hundred thousand on medical… I give it six months.”
The gun in his hand twitches, the temptation to use it working through him. I do love getting under a man’s skin.
“Get the fuck out of my house,” He snaps at me, tucking my gun into the back of his pants before he storms away, his steps heavy, furious.
I’m slower to go after him, the pain making it nearly impossible to move as quickly as I’d like. I can’t leave, so it’s time to bring out those negotiation skills my father taught me young. Fighting against my uncle this way is a sure way to lose. I need this place.
“Why would I leave when I can work something out that benefits the both of us?”
He chuckles darkly, “You think a city girl like you has anything I want?” His eyes lick down me in a way that has goosebumps rising, a heat uncurling in my stomach. There’s so much venom there, but there’s desire too. I see it, feel it even. I wouldn’t mind working off some tension with the cowboy either, fucking and fighting go hand in hand, and everything tells me this man canfuck.
“Not even a little curious, cowboy?” I saunter toward him, stopping until I’m an inch from his huge body. He’s at least six foot four, could even be five and I’m not short by any means, but I still have to tip my head back to look him in the eye. I lift a hand and run the tip of my red painted nail down his flannel shirt, the top few buttons left undone to show hard muscle and tan skin, a smattering of hair peeking out the top. “Don’t you want to know my name?”
He captures my wrist, halting my hand just above his naval. I feel the hard planes of his abs, smell the sweat on his skin, the soil on his hands. His eyes flick around my face, first my eyes and then my mouth.
“All I know, darlin’, is that you’re trouble, and I ain’t got time for your kind.”
“Elena,” I whisper my name, “De Luca.”
He goes entirely rigid, my name settling into him like a weight. He knows the name, knows who I am and what I can do.
He drops my wrist like it burned him and stepsaway from me, reaching for the gun.
He has it pointed at me with my next breath.
“You can shoot me.” I turn around and head to his fridge, though I know it’s empty save for a carton of milk, a couple eggs and some leftovers that I wouldn’t even feed the dog. “Or you can hear me out.”
“You’re the reason this town is dying,” He growls behind me, his thick accent weighing down every word. “There is nothing you could offer that I would want.”
I pull the eggs from the fridge and place them down, feeling the weight of the gun pointing at my back. I put on a good show, but my heart is pounding inside my chest. Reaching into the cupboard, I pull out the bread I saw in there yesterday and then set a frying pan on the stove and turn on the gas.
“Then shoot me, cowboy,” I glance over my shoulder, “But if that were true you would have done that already.”
He remains a quiet, threatening presence behind me.
“You could too,” I go on, “It would solve a lot of other people’s problems if you did. Will you place flowers on the grave you dig for me?”
“Your kind isn’t welcome here, Elena.”
“That’s a little hurtful.” I turn and rest on the counter, giving him a pout. “You don’t even knowme.”
“Don’t need to.”
“Ah, I see how it is,” I nod, pushing off the counter to walk toward him again, leaving the stove on behind me. I can smell it getting hotter, the oil in the pan heating. “You’re painting me to be the same as my father.”
Behind me the pan snaps and crackles, oil spitting out and hitting the steel top. The burning smell increases.
“But I am not him,” I keep strolling toward him, trying to keep my gait normal but my leg smarts with every step.
A hissing sound begins followed by the familiar whoosh as flames lick up the sides of the pan, catching the oil on fire.
