assessment, noting the faces and the cars and the details. She was good with details. It was one thing that made her a top notch commanding officer. That, and her instincts. She could assess a situation in the blink of an eye and note any threats, and then she could take the appropriate action. Deploy. Advance. Flank.
Run!
The warning echoed the moment she spotted the cowboy who rounded the side of the building. He made his way toward a beat-up 1967 Chevy Camaro parked near the road.
A pair of black jeans outlined his long, muscular legs. A black button-down shirt, the tails un-tucked, framed his broad shoulders. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows to reveal the detailed image of a six shooter that had been tattooed on the inside of his left forearm. He wore a black Stetson tipped low on his head, shrouding the upper part of his face.
While he fit with the locals—he certainly looked the part with his boots and Stetson—he didn’t fit.
She tried to picture him swapping stories at the local feed store or hanging out here at the Dairy Freeze, and she couldn’t. His entire persona seemed much too intense, too detached, too mysterious for a small town like Skull Creek.
Too sexy.
The thought struck as her gaze hooked on his sensual mouth. An unexpected visual struck—of that mouth pressed to her throat—and her nipples snapped to attention. Need sliced through her, sharp and swift, and her stomach hollowed out.
As if he sensed her reaction, he turned. He tipped the brim of his hat back and the light illuminated his high cheekbones and sculpted nose. A fierce green gaze blazed across the distance between them and collided with hers.
Her breath caught and her heart paused. It was a crazy reaction for a soldier who made it her business to feel nothing and stay focused.
But for the next few, frantic heartbeats, her brain seemed to scramble and she forgot everything except him and the way he looked at her. Into her. As if he could see past the thick outer exterior, to the soft, vulnerable woman beneath.
As if that woman even existed.
She didn’t.
Abigail had accepted that fact a long time ago when she’d failed so miserably with Hockey Hunk. Three hours in Chicago’s top salon hadn’t been enough to transform her from a pudgy tomboy into a desirable woman.
She’d still been too stocky, too shapeless, too ballsy.
Then and now.
But that was okay. She was a commanding officer, not a Hooters girl. She didn’t need that kind of superficial attention. She needed respect.
Well, that and a really rocking orgasm to ease her current nerves.
His gaze swept her from head to toe and stripped away every scrap of clothing. Anticipation zapped her and the air bolted from her lungs.
He grinned then and she had the unnerving thought that he knew her frustration. That he knew her.
She stiffened and put up the invisible barricade vital to a special ops soldier. No expression. No emotion. Nothing. Just name, rank and serial number.
His gaze widened and surprise flashed in the bright green depths. At least she thought it was surprise. But then he turned, the car door opened and he disappeared inside. The engine caught.
A rush of panic bolted through her and she pushed to her feet.
Because Abigal Trent didn’t waste her time thinking and analyzing. She was a field operative. Paid to trust her gut and act on it. And her gut told her something wasn’t right.
He wasn’t right.
He was hiding something, and there was only one way to find out exactly what that was, and whether or not it had anything to do with her latest mission. There was always the possibility and with her reputation hanging in the balance, she wasn’t leaving any stone unturned.
Abby headed for her rental car and took off after him.
3
SHE WAS FOLLOWING HIM.
He knew it even before he saw the blaze of headlights in his rearview mirror. He felt her. He’d felt her the first moment she’d spotted him.
Her piqued interest. Her pulse-pounding lust. Her surprise. She’d never reacted so fast, so fierce to any member of the opposite sex and it had freaked her out.
He knew the feeling.
It didn’t matter that he’d sucked down enough blood to last him several days. His gaze had met hers and bam, the hunger had sliced through him, cutting him to the quick and scattering his common sense. In an instant, he’d wanted to forget everything—particularly the all-important fact that his youngest brother Cody was waiting for him, along with the computer genius that was going to help him track down his sister-in-law. That’s why he was still stuck in this hole-in-the-wall. He needed a lead on Rose and her whereabouts. Once he had enough information, he would hit the road and find her. After he watched his youngest brother tie the knot next week, that is.
Then he would uncover the truth behind the tragedy that destroyed his family and his home one hundred and fifty years ago.
He could still see the flames on that fateful night. Smell the sharp scent of smoke and decay and death.
The Braddock Boys had ridden into the chaos together. Brothers who’d vowed to watch out for each other. A pact they’d made as kids when their father had abandoned them to ride off after some saloon whore. Lyle Braddock had died in a bar fight not long after, and not one of his boys had mourned him. They’d been too busy taking care of each other to worry over the no-good sonofabitch and the fact that he’d never been much of a father figure.
When Cody had up and left to join the Confederate cause, Brent and his brothers had ridden along to keep an eye on him. They’d seized supplies and helped Confederate troops and made a name for themselves as the most notorious raiding group the Union army had ever seen. They’d sure-as-shootin’ been a major pain-in-the-ass to Quantrill and his boys.
But then the war had ended, the South had lost, and the Braddocks had headed home.
They’d arrived to find the entire ranch—the main house, the barn, the outbuildings—consumed by flames. The herd had been scattered. And what was left of his family? Gone.
Dead.
A nightmare. That’s what Brent had thought as he’d leapt off his horse and tried to save what he could, who he could. The whole scene had seemed so surreal. The dead bodies, most burned beyond recognition, stretched out here and there——his mother, the half dozen hired hands, the ranch foreman, Colton’s wife Rose, their six year-old son. But then reality had hit along with a very real crack to the back of his skull. He and his brothers had been attacked from behind, each picked off one-by-one, and left to die.
They would have been six feet under for sure if not for Garret Sawyer. Garret was the creative genius behind Skull Creek Choppers, the fastest growing custom motorcycle manufacturer in the South. He was also the two hundred year old vampire who’d
