Edge of Hunger. Rhyannon Byrd

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СКАЧАТЬ walked around the front of the truck, Riley had stuck his head out the driver’s side window and shouted for Ian not to go anywhere until he’d heard from him.

      Huh. As if he had the energy to go anywhere. Frustration had gnawed him down to the bone.

      Slamming his backside down on his sofa, Ian tossed his cell on the battered coffee table, wondering if he should try Molly at the motel, then shook off the irritating thought. If she had half a brain, she’d have already hit the road by now, and what would he say anyway? Hey, you were right. Some jackass mangled Kendra, leaving her body scattered over a field for an unlucky group of teenagers to come across when they stopped to take a leak. It was pretty sick and the kids are probably going to need therapy. Guess I really should have listened to you.

      Naw, he could save that useless conversation for…never. He already hated himself enough at the moment—he didn’t need to add her scorn on top of it. She’d tried to warn him, but like the arrogant know-it-all his brother always accused him of being, he hadn’t listened. Seemed he’d spent years fine-tuning the worthless talent of shutting people out, ignoring them, even when they were trying to help him.

      Scrubbing his hands down his face, Ian struggled to get his mind on something useful, something that would help Riley nail that murdering bastard’s ass, but his brain just kept buzzing with the images of Kendra’s broken body and the blood-soaked field that he knew he was never going to be able to fully erase from his memory. Hell, they couldn’t even be sure it’d been a human who killed her, the damage was so extreme.

      If you can’t be honest with anyone else, jackass, at least be honest with yourself. You know what it was, his conscience taunted him, scraping against his nerves like a jagged blade. You’ve known all along.

      Ian clenched his jaw, doing his best to ignore the snide asshole in his head, wishing he could just get his hands on whoever…or whatever was responsible. He might not have been in love with Kendra, but he’d respected the hell out of her, and at the start of their affair, he’d enjoyed the time he spent with her. Kendra Wilcox had been a good person. Funny, beautiful, independent. She hadn’t deserved what she’d suffered. Christ, no one deserved to die like that.

      Riley was going to come back for him the second something came up, and he needed to rest before things started rolling, but he was too angry to sleep, adrenaline still pounding through his system, keeping him on edge. If he couldn’t get some rest, food would be the next best thing to keep him going, but he couldn’t face another nuked dinner. Everything tasted stale to him these days, his appetites bored with the usual fare.

      Muttering under his breath, Ian made his way into the kitchen, grabbed the bottle of scotch and a glass, then headed back toward the sofa, picking up the remote for his flat-screen TV; the only thing in the apartment worth lifting, if anyone ever bothered to break in. Flicking on a Rockies game, he sprawled out over the cushions, trying to focus his mind on RBIs and pitching averages, rather than the gruesome images he’d witnessed—trying not to think of Kendra and the strange little blond who’d warned him that someone close to him was in danger.

      Like an idiot, he’d spent the entire damn night and day trying to convince himself that Kendra’s murder had nothing to do with him, that he couldn’t have prevented it from happening. But he knew better. There was a burning, gnawing sensation in his gut that felt too much like shame for him to buy his own bullshit. He made an attempt to drown out the unwanted, sour emotion by hitting the scotch, but it didn’t work worth a damn. Instead, he just kept sinking deeper into the guilt, like standing on the muddy banks of a river, his bare feet sinking farther and farther into the thick layers of sludge. Riley had pressured him all night for anything he could offer up, but he’d lied through his teeth, claiming that he didn’t have any information. He didn’t tell him about Molly, much less the fact that she’d delivered her strange little warnings straight to his face, begging him for his help.

      And he sure as hell hadn’t mentioned the dream they’d shared. Instead, he’d done his best to avoid thinking about it, though it was always there, lingering at the edge of his consciousness…waiting for the moment to strike.

      Like now, his conscience whispered, and he drained the glass, the liquor hitting his gut with a hot, fiery burn.

      Exhaustion finally overtook him in the seventh inning, his last thoughts centering on Molly Stratton as he drifted into a restless sleep. He wondered where she was, what she was doing. Wishing he could get her out of his goddamn mind. Hating the grinding frustration… the illogical panic that burned like acid in his chest every time he faced the maddening possibility that he might never see her again.

      Despite the oppressive heat of the evening, he slept hard, thanks to the booze. Until the dreams began again. Ian had half expected the fertile heat of the forest and the erotic frenzy of the gypsy campfire, and he’d been prepared to do everything he could to keep his focus on the first woman he got beneath him. If he went with it, then maybe he wouldn’t find himself drilling Molly into the damp forest floor, taking more of her than he had any right to.

      But as always, fate had a way of turning around and biting him on the ass.

      As Ian pulled himself up from the deep, murky levels of his subconscious, he opened his gritty eyes to a soft, flickering light—and instantly knew something was wrong. Something even more messed-up than before. Than the twisted nightmares that had been plaguing him for weeks.

      There was no forest…no gypsy campfire…no sloe-eyed provocative brunette to slake his lust.

      Instead, Ian found himself kneeling on a soft, intricately woven Persian carpet, the air around him filled with the intoxicating scents of woman and wood smoke as a fire roared somewhere in a distant hearth, the heat of the flames warm against his naked body. And sprawled before him on her back, her pale thighs spread indecently wide, lay Molly.

      â€œWhat?” he heard her gasp, surprise softening her husky voice, blurring the edges of her speech, as if she’d only just realized it was happening again. She’d probably been snuggled up in one of the lumpy motel beds, carrying on some warped conversation with his mother’s ghost, only to suddenly find herself there, with him. Her gaze flicked its way down the pale line of her body, velvety brown eyes going wide with shock as she took in the unadulterated intimacy of their positions.

      She moaned, and quickly covered herself with her arms.

      Lust thickened in Ian’s throat, choking off his ability for speech. He gripped her wrists, pulling her arms away from her body, pinning them at her sides. The red-and-black swirl of the rug accentuated the warm, luminous glow of her skin, while her honeyed scent grew stronger with the rise of her pulse. Atop the delicate swell of her breasts, her nipples hardened like tender berries, lush and beautiful and ripe. He wanted to draw them into the heat of his mouth, suck on them until she came undone. Wanted to run his lips across her fever-warm skin, so smooth and soft and delicious, and work his way down the mouthwatering length of her body.

      â€œIan?” she whispered, her voice hushed…shaky. “How?”

      He shook his head, unable to pull his heavy gaze away from the provocative details of her figure, each exquisite discovery making him ache just a little harder, a little deeper. “I don’t know.”

      â€œWhere are we?” she asked, her breasts rising and falling as the cadence of her breathing grew shorter and sharper.

      â€œDon’t care. СКАЧАТЬ