No White Knight

The shadow stops.

Turns.

And devil-gold eyes shine right at me.

“You’ve called me a lot of things, but ‘rat?’ That’s a new one, honey,” a familiar, rumbling voice throws back.

It can’t be!

Oh, but it is.

I pull back hard on Frost’s reins, pulling him up short, almost trampling the man looking at me flatly with his arms crossed and a dusty briefcase dangling from his gloved hands.

Holt flipping Silverton.

And he’s been down Nowhere Lane.

Crap!

* * *

I don’t know how I got him back to the house without having a panic attack.

Or killing him in cold blood.

I’d been ready to tear his stupid head off, erupting off Frost’s back, demanding to know what right he has, what the hell he thought he was doing.

He’s fucking lucky I didn’t shoot him—that part scares me almost as much as knowing he’s been down there.

That I’d almost shot him for real and hurt him bad.

It shouldn’t bother me when a handsome intruder’s still an intruder just the same. Of course it does, though.

One more reason on my long list of nearly a thousand to hate Holt Silverton.

I despise him for being the snake he is, angling to get in my good graces just for another attempt to buy me out.

For everything he’s done to remind me he’s nothing but a conniving asshole who’s just a little nicer about wanting my land than the rest of ’em.

For making me start to trust him…and then betraying it.

Freaking twice now, with him sneaking onto my property and going exactly where I never wanted him to.

I should be glad to shoot his face off.

Not scared out of my wits that I could’ve done him harm.

But I can’t deal with these conflicting feelings, anyway.

Not when he’s standing across from me on the other side of my kitchen table, a scratched-up, annoyingly sexy-rugged mess.

Leaves in his hair and sweat and grime on his tanned, toned neck. A familiar briefcase resting on the table between us like the Ark of the Covenant, waiting to melt our faces off if we dare open it.

I sure as hell haven’t ever worked up the lady-balls to touch it.

I wasn’t gonna leave my prints on that thing for the police to find.

I left well enough alone.

But if Holt’s got the briefcase…that means Holt’s seen the body.

Seeing that briefcase in his hand got me quiet when I’d been ready to slap his face right off his skull.

He just stood there looking up at me and babbling all kinds of excited crap I couldn’t make heads or tails of.

Something about bandits, and historical sites, and Ursa—like the constellation?

I’m officially lost.

I just know I couldn’t be standing out there with him waving that briefcase around where anyone could see. Maybe a dumb thing to be worried about at two in the morning, but when Holt Silverton comes stumbling out of the bushes in the middle of the night, seems like any dumb thing can and will happen.

Best not to take my chances.

Folding my arms over my chest, I cast a withering glare at him.

“You’ve got one minute to explain,” I bite off. “Did I not tell you to back the hell off? Did I not tell you to stay off my land? You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you on the spot for trespassing. I’m still half tempted, Holt.”

He raises both hands. “Libby, hold up. I was trying to help.”

I narrow my eyes. “Explain to me how trespassing and,” I pause, gesturing toward the briefcase, “whatever that is could possibly be helping.”

“Still figuring that part out.” He’s breathless, his eyes too intense, glittering, deep and liquid as the finest whiskey, that color so ridiculously compelling it’s too easy to want to believe anything he says—especially in his rumbling, earnest voice. “There’s a whole ghost town at the end of that trail. You never knew about it?”

“Dad said it was dangerous to go down there, so I never went,” I lie.

Oh, I know.

I know all about the damn ghost town.

And I know about the skeleton that was holding that briefcase, too.

But I’m waiting to see what Holt says before I show my hand. I can’t let him spread that crap around. Not to Sheriff Langley or the rest of Heart’s Edge.

I can’t have him bringing people here who might figure things out.

“About the only thing dangerous down there is tetanus from all the rusty nails lying around,” he says dryly. “There’s a dead guy, but whoever shot him is long gone.”

I arch a brow. “A dead guy. So, what, you just took his briefcase? And why are you so happy about it?”

“It’s not the dead guy I’m happy about!” Holt fires back. “It’s the ghost town, lady. You know the stories, right? From elementary school?”

I roll my eyes. “Old shoot ’em up crap like Louis L’Amour, yeah. I know. You don’t actually believe in it, do you?”