Page 2 of Edge of Ruin (The Edge Trilogy #3)

Kendrick was still a mystery. I knew only what Duncan had told me. That he was some sort of ex-spy commando who’d been on a top-secret intelligence-gathering task force with Duncan years ago.

Now, unaccountably, he grew flowers. Duncan had been vague about the details of that career change, his brain being flash-fried from being insanely in love with Nell.

This mysterious Kendrick lived alone in the woods.

He evidently had an apartment in his barn.

According to Duncan, the man was cool with letting me huddle in this flowery bower like a quivering, nose-twitching bunny until we figured out what to do about our art-hungry, murdering psychopaths.

Very nice of him, but it didn’t say much for his smarts, or his sense of self-preservation.

He must owe Duncan money. Only a true bonehead would take on a hard-luck case like me.

I was still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Duncan had assured me that Kendrick knew the score, that he had agreed to the plan, that he wasn’t intimidated by the risks.

But come on. No normal person would agree to something that crazy.

The guy must have a screw loose. Yeah, sure, invite the unknown girl with the deadly psychopath stalking her to crash in my barn. What could possibly go wrong?

This quiet, bucolic retreat had sounded so perfect, back in New York City. Too perfect, in retrospect. Now that I was pondering it all alone, stuck in the mud.

Ah, yes. There it was, a stack of gray, weathered planks with the odd rusty nails sticking through them at crazy angles.

I wrestled and yanked until I’d extricated a few boards, along with some ugly splinters, then negotiated the slippery boards through the fir thickets.

By the time I got back to the van, soggy, scratched, and panting, I was spewing a fresh stream of profanity.

I hauled out my toolbox, hammered the nails flat, and started wrestling them into place.

Mud oozed over the tops of the planks, and I was thoroughly slimed from chest to feet when I heard the deep voice from behind me.

“I don’t think that’ll work right now.”

I jolted up, knocking my head on the bumper. “Who is that?” I scrambled to my feet, looking frantically around myself. There was no one there that I could see.

I scanned the trees and reached for the tire iron stowed under the seat, groping until my fingers closed over the bar of cold, hard metal.

“Where are you?” I called out. “Say something.”

“Over here.”

I spun, brandishing the tire iron. A tall man stood there, half hidden in the trees. He was shrouded in a dull-green hooded rain poncho, dripping with rain. I would never have seen him if he had not spoken.

Adrenaline zinged through me. I gave the tire iron an experimental heft. “What do you think you’re doing, sneaking up on me like that?” I demanded.

He took a step forward. I raised the tire iron with a menacing face, and he stopped.

“Sorry I scared you,” he said.

Edna whined anxiously from the van, sticking her nose outside the door I’d left halfway open. “Stay, Edna,” I snapped. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m not going to attack you,” he said, pushing back his hood. “You can relax.”

Relax, my ass. Light, silver-gray eyes, cool and unreadable.

His face was brown, lean. High cheekbones, a hooked nose.

A scar on one temple slashed down into one of his straight, dark eyebrows, leaving a white line.

He had a short beard, or maybe longish beard stubble.

Dark hair, long and shaggy. He regarded me steadily.

Drops of rain beaded his face. He did not look like Snake Eyes, as Nancy and Nell had described him.

This guy was not loathsome, swollen, squint-eyed, or malodorous.

Not that I could smell him from here. I would have to get much closer. And inhale. Hungrily.

This guy was oh-my-God fine. I tried to breathe. My terror was transmuting itself into utter embarrassment. An unfortunate development.

“Put it down, please.” A small smile crinkled up the skin around his eyes.

“What?” I said, realizing that my mouth had been hanging open.

“The tire iron.” He glanced at my white-knuckled hand.

“Oh.” I felt foolish, panicked. Acutely conscious of the mud on my clothes, the hair stuck to my face, the way my wet, muddy shirt clung to my tits.

Of how incredibly tall he was. Even if he wasn’t Snake Eyes John, he was still a stranger, and there was nobody around here for miles.

Just me and Edna, the world’s friendliest dog.

I looked at the hand that clutched the tire iron. It was shaking.

“The boards aren’t going to work,” he said. “It was a good idea, but the mud is too deep.” He took a step closer. I backed away, then kicked myself for acting like a scared, cringing kitten.

He picked up a stick, walking away from me and heading around the back of the van, prodding at the mud with a stick he held.

Released from the spell of his eyes, I finally managed to exhale. Get a grip. He was not going to leap on me like a rabid dog. I had to at least try to be civil. My face felt so hot, raindrops should be skittering on it like water on a griddle. Insane. I never blushed.

“I asked what you were doing here,” I said, trying to sound authoritative.

“This is my land,” he said.

“Oh.” I dropped my gaze, before his bright eyes could catch it and nail it down again. “Do you always walk around in thunderstorms?”

“I do, actually. Rainstorms, at least. The thunder took me by surprise. But I like the rain. I like the way it smells. I really, really wish you’d put that thing down.”

“I’ll put it down when I’m ready to put it down,” I said shakily.

He tossed down his stick. “Whatever. Just don’t hit me with it.”

“I wouldn’t without provocation,” I said.

His mouth twitched. “Oh, please,” he murmured. “Would you just chill the fuck out, already? You are safe. Completely safe. I swear it. On my immortal soul. Okay?”

That made me feel ridiculous, so I promptly threw the tire iron back into the van in disgust.

“You travel alone?” he asked.

“No. With my dog,” I replied.

Edna barked excitedly when her existence was mentioned, taking it as permission to bound out the door.

She landed in the mud with a wet plop, shook herself, and trotted over to the stranger.

She gave his large brown hand a cautious sniff, then panted up into his face, smiling.

Then she stroked her mud-spattered head against his leg.

“Down, Edna,” I ordered, startled. Edna had never cozied up to strangers without taking her cue from me first. It made me feel vaguely betrayed. “Get back in here!”

Edna trotted back, panting and smiling. “Sorry about that,” I said.

“No problem.” A brief smile lit his face. “Nice dog.”

“Too nice,” I muttered. I started to push back the tangled hair that clung to my face, but stopped short, remembering the mud on my hands.

He gazed at me, projecting a weird, supernatural calm. Maybe hanging out in nature did that to a guy. Look at him, walking through pouring rain because he liked the way it smelled. What was he, a freaking Jedi knight? Give me a break.

It made me feel embarrassed to be myself. Frantic, citified, stressed out, nervous, afraid. A shallow little squeaking hamster racing on a wheel. And the hungry, fanged tomcats were lurking out there, licking their chops. Waiting for lunch.

Oh, for Christ’s sake, I needed a vacation. Or at the very least, a night’s sleep.

“Your van’s not going anywhere today,” he remarked.

I suppressed a snarky comment and wiped my hands on the hem of my drenched t-shirt. Good grief. He could see everything through that shirt. I hadn’t worn a bra, being all alone, and I wasn’t wearing a jacket. And oh, shit, now I was blushing again.

“I figured that out all by myself,” I said. “Can you tell me how I might get a tow around here?”

He prodded the mud with his stick once again, looked up at the lowering clouds.

“That isn’t going to happen for a while,” he said calmly.

“See how steep that hill is? No one can pull you out until this dries up.” He stroked Edna’s head.

“What possessed you to drive a beat-up old vehicle like this out onto an old logging road in the middle of a thunderstorm?”

“This beat-up old vehicle is the only one I have,” I shot back. “It’s been my home for years, and it’s a perfectly fine machine that’s served me very well. It’s the damn road that’s the problem!”

A frown appeared between the man’s brows. “You live in this thing?” His tone was faintly incredulous.

“Yes, actually,” I said. “I’m a craftswoman. I work the craft fair circuit, so I often end up living on the road. Up till now, that is.”

“Interesting, but this road goes nowhere that’s relevant to you and your crafts fair circuit, so it doesn’t explain what you’re doing on my land.”

Why, that arrogant dickhead. “That’s none of your business,” I told him.

“It is now,” he said. “Since this thing is blocking my road.”

I lifted my chin. “Wait a second,” I said. “Didn’t you just say that nobody’s going to be driving on it until it’s dry anyhow? Ergo, I’m not blocking anything, buddy.”

His eyes looked me thoughtfully up and down. “True enough, I guess,” he said. “But it’s still my land.” He wasn’t ogling me, but my body still shivered, as if he were checking me out, inch by inch.

I suppressed an urge to cross my arms across my breasts. I would remain nonchalant or die in the attempt. “Besides, I’m not trespassing,” I said, with all the bravado I could muster. “I’m on my way to my new landlord’s place. Can you tell me how far it is to Jack Kendrick’s house?”

The man’s face went blank. His brow furrowed as he stared at me, and then at the mud-splattered, fantastical painting on the side of my van. “Wait,” he said slowly. “Hold on. Don’t tell me you’re Vivien D’Onofrio.”

Tension started to tighten, in my belly, my neck. “Why shouldn’t I tell you that?”