Driven by Fire (Fire 2)

She never did.

And now Ryder of all people was stirring up odd feelings, sensitivities, emotions even, when all she should feel was wariness where he was concerned. She had everything to lose, and he wasn’t the kind of man to understand or forgive. Besides, he disliked her as much as she ought to dislike him. And she did dislike him. Except when she thought he was going to kiss her.

Luckily it was simply a matter of stress that was making her so impractical. Whether she wanted him or not, Ryder was unattainable. Besides, he’d be a pain in the ass to deal with on a daily basis, no matter how pretty he was. Those cold blue eyes of his were enough to warn her off. You couldn’t tame a wolf, and she didn’t want to.

Once Soledad was settled she wouldn’t have to see him again, and her common sense would return. She’d find some nice, safe man and forget all about Ryder. Growing up in her family had taught her to keep away from the dangerous ones, and it was a lesson she’d learned well. Which didn’t explain her sudden vulnerability where Ryder was concerned.

Her stomach growled again, loud enough to distract her from her thoughts. Food was a necessity, and she wasn’t about to wait any longer.

The hall was dark and quiet when she stepped out, her bare feet silent on the Oriental carpet. The other doors were closed, and she wondered if Ryder was asleep behind one of them. And she wasn’t going to be thinking about Ryder in bed—the image was far too distracting.

The ancient stairs didn’t even creak as she slipped down them, and once more she was astonished at the renovations this old place had gone through. The second floor was equally deserted, though there were fewer doors. She stopped and stared at the blank wall for a long moment, remembering the sliding bookcase. Was Ryder in there, holed up with a raft of computers?

After a moment she turned away, heading for the final flight of stairs, the broad curving flight that led to first floor. It was very dark down there, and for a moment she hesitated. These old places always came with rumors of ghosts—murdered lovers, abused slaves, Confederate traitors. She reached up and touched the burn mark on the side of her head from the bullet graze. There were a lot more dangerous things than the supernatural, no matter how much she’d like to believe otherwise.

She had no idea where the kitchen was, but logic told her the back of the house. In the old days it would be a separate building, but she doubted that whoever had done such a wonderful job of renovating this place had gone that far in the name of authenticity. All the doors were closed on this hallway as well, including the pocket doors to the main salon. She glanced at the door across the hall, then went over and tried the knob. Locked, of course. She put her ear to the door, listening to the omnipresent whirr of computer fans. What the hell was Ryder doing in this huge old house?

Her stomach rumbled, and she pushed away, starting across the darkened hallway to the back of the house. There had to be a kitchen there—otherwise she’d start eating the wallpaper. She was just moving when something came out of the dark, an arm around her neck, cutting off her breath.

She knew who it was immediately, and she stayed very still, waiting for him to release her. That, or she’d pass out, but she wasn’t strong enough to fight him.

“What are you doing sneaking around here?” Ryder growled in her ear. “What do you think you’ll find?” He gave her a little shake. “Answer me.”

She considered kicking back at him, but she was barefoot and she could hardly do much damage against his shins. She couldn’t make a sound with his strongly muscled arm pressed against her windpipe, and she was considering using her elbows, when the pressure loosened, and she was able to take in huge gulps of air.

“How am I supposed to answer if you’re choking me?” she wheezed.

He released her, spinning her around to face him. The hallway was very dark, and she couldn’t see his face, was only aware of him looming over her. His hands were on her shoulders, gripping tightly, and she’d probably have bruises tomorrow, she thought ruefully.

“Well?” he demanded.

“I was looking for something to eat, you idiot,” she said in a hoarse voice, not particularly worried about calling a lethal weapon names. “I haven’t had anything in more than twenty-four hours and I’m starving.”

There was dead silence from the shadowy figure. Finally he spoke. “All right. Follow me.”

That was the last thing she wanted to do. “Never mind. It can wait . . .”

“If you’re telling the truth and all you came in search of was food, then you may as well eat.”

“Do you remember when we last ate?” she said, her voice caustic. “Of course I’m really hungry.”

He grunted, and she wanted to kick him. He wasn’t giving her much choice though—he still had one iron hand clamped around her wrist and he was pulling her toward the back of the house, through what she should have realized was the logical kitchen door. Light flooded the room, and she blinked, momentarily blinded. And then she got a good look at Ryder.

He was shirtless. She hadn’t noticed that in her uprush of fear when he’d first grabbed her, or she might have fought harder against accompanying him. Of course he was glorious without his shirt on, chiseled abs like some athlete-model. Except for the scars.

He still had a white bandage covering his side, where Doc Gentry had patched him up, but there were other marks as well, ones she hadn’t noticed when he’d stripped off his T-shirt before. There was a long thin scar on his left side, the starburst of what was probably a bullet wound in his shoulder and his arm, and a half a dozen smaller marks.

“Jesus,” she breathed, tactless as always. “Were you tortured or what?”

His eyes narrowed. “Interesting that you recognize the signs of torture,” he said mildly enough, but she wasn’t fooled. Once more she’d said too much, igniting his suspicions.

“I was kidding,” she said, striving for dignity and failing. “You look like you were put through a meat grinder. Either you’re really, really accident prone or . . .”

“Or I’ve been tortured. Shit happens.” He’d released her arm, but now he took a step back toward her, and it took all her self-control not to back up. “Have you ever been tortured?”

He was frightening her. Then again, she always felt that frisson of nervousness when he was close to her, and she hadn’t decided whether it was a justifiable fear or her ridiculous attraction to him.

“Fortunately the life I’ve lived hasn’t been conducive to torture,” she said primly, then hated the tone in her voice. “You said you were going to feed me?”