She shuffled back. “Cookies, some banana bread, and an apple pie.” Her shrug lifted slim shoulders. “I can’t eat it all.”
“I can’t take all of this.” But he was already backing away before she could change her mind.
She smiled. “Sure you can. Welcome to the neighborhood.” Then she glanced around at the completely deserted vicinity. “Well. Welcome to the end of nowhere anyway.” Then she shut the door in his face.
He lowered his nose and inhaled deeply. The pie. He’d definitely start with the pie. His mind spinning, he turned and walked easily through the rain to his front door, already dialing and then lifting his phone to his ear.
“Miss me?” Angus Force said by way of greeting, with the sound of light traffic around him.
Mal kicked his door shut. “I want the records on her. Not agreeing to help you, but I want the files.” He clicked off before Force could piss him off.
Then he leaned back against the door, the basket of goodies in his hands and curiosity in his head. He should repack his stuff and hit the road. Get the hell out of there.
But she’d given him a pie.
Chapter Three
Pippa woke with a startled gasp, bolting upright in bed. Her heart thundered and her stomach cramped. “It was just a dream,” she whispered into the darkness. Just a dream. It wasn’t real. This was real. She pinched her arm to make sure.
Ouch.
Okay. Even though a nightlight near the door illuminated the room, she fumbled for a brighter light on the antique bed table. Used to the routine, she took several deep breaths and studied her pretty room. She’d painted her tables and dresser a very bright green. Her bedspread was a cheerful yellow, and her rug a soothing combination of the two. The exact opposite of muted and proper colors.
She reached for the glass of water near her, noticing it was empty. Her throat hurt.
Maneuvering out of the bed, she slid her feet into slippers and moved toward the bedroom door, taking seconds to disengage the three locks.
Pausing out of habit, she closed her eyes and listened. Quiet, the peaceful kind, filled her house. No odd signatures of anything or anyone who shouldn’t be there. So she padded down the hallway into the kitchen and filled her glass at the sink.
Rain pattered against the window, and the wind had picked up to a low roar. It sounded ominous. But enough of a moon shone through the clouds that she could see the trees swaying past the grass in the backyard, fresh pine needles whipping around in a frenzy.
Then she saw him.
Malcolm West stood with his back to her in the center of the yard, wearing only boxers, his head up and his body shuddering. Rain sluiced over him, showing the hard ridges and planes of his body. Which was shaking almost violently.
The hair stood up on her arms. Silently, she moved to the sliding glass door, almost pressing her nose to it.
The light was dim enough that she could make him out, but the entire scene was a little hazy. His fists were clenched. The muscles in his arms and back bunched—impossibly so. His chest heaved, moving his entire torso.
Oh. If that wasn’t a panic attack, she didn’t know what was. A part of her, the good and righteous part, knew she should run out there and offer help. Give comfort.
The much stronger part of her remained stiffly in place, unable to move.
He howled something, the sound pained and lost in the wind. Yet anger rode it, almost visible.
She stepped back from the glass.
Lightning cracked, and she jumped. For a second, the entire yard was lit up. He was all male, full of power. Almost animalistic in the middle of that storm. His wet hair curled to his shoulders, and there was damage on that magnificent body. Three healed bullet holes near his right shoulder blade, and what looked like knife wounds down his left rib cage.
Her breath sped up, and she pressed her hand to the glass. How could something so dangerous, somebody so dangerous, draw her? Maybe she really did have that evil core she’d been accused of.
He was wounded, and he was deadly. She knew that as well as she knew her own soul.
The yearning inside her to join him, to touch him, shocked her. But still, her hand released one of the door locks.
Another large crack, and something spun through the air. That tree branch she’d meant to have removed. He partially turned, probably out of instinct, just in time to get hit in the head.
He went down fast and hard.
