A squeal pierces the air, and we spring apart. Catching my breath, I drag a hand over my mouth and glare at Kevin. “This is how you end up as pork chops.”
Kevin doesn’t care. He keeps squealing, and seconds later, I see why. On the path ahead, a hulking figure lumbers into view. Fog blankets the path, and it takes me a moment to recognize Baldy’s furrowed brow. He’s wearing the dark stocking cap again, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets.
He doesn’t look friendly.
I grab Izzy’s hand and pull her so she’s partway behind me. I don’t like the way this guy’s looking at her. “Can I help you?”
His gaze is downright icy. Something about the way his hand moves in his coat pocket sends a shot of adrenaline through me.
Gun. He has a gun.
Blame the Army for that paranoid instinct, but my heart rate doesn’t slow. The prickling in my arms is pure adrenaline, just like the way my brain catalogues his stance, his size, the exact spot I’d need to drive my shoulder to take him down. It’s been years since I saw any sort of combat action, but I have zero doubt the skills would kick in if I needed them.
Baldy doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. Just stands there on the path, staring at us with a blank expression.
I’m done pretending this isn’t creepy as fuck. “Brad Parker.” I take a step forward, keeping Iz behind me as I extend a hand. “And you are?”
He gives me a look I can’t read, and his hands stay stuffed in his pockets. I’m close enough now I could rush him if I had to. Just tackle him to the ground and disarm him. I don’t know why I’m convinced he’s armed, but my gut has seldom steered me wrong.
Slowly, he draws a hand from his pocket. Iz gasps behind me, but Baldy’s palm comes up empty.
“Danny.” He grips my hand in a firm, dry shake. “Or just Dan.”
“Dan,” I repeat. He doesn’t let go, but he’s not doing that bone-crushing thing guys do to prove they’re tough. It’s just a normal handshake, albeit a long one. “Dan, I can’t help feeling like we keep running into you.”
His icy blue eyes hold mine a few more beats. “Yep.” He lets go of my hand and shoves his back in his coat pocket.
“I mean, it’s a big resort,” I continue, conscious of Izzy clutching my left hand in a death grip. “Just seems a bit…odd.”
He doesn’t respond, which is fair, since I didn’t ask a question. Hell, maybe I should. Remembering Mark’s words about keeping your enemies close, I clear my throat.
“You play poker, Dan?”
He blinks. “Poker.”
“Yeah, poker. Five card stud, or maybe Texas Hold ‘em. We’ve got a group of guys that get together every couple weeks to play. You interested?”
He stares at me like he’s waiting for the punchline to a joke. I stare back, fighting the urge to blink. I’m tired of dicking around.
“You want me to play poker.” His gaze stays locked on mine, but his body tilts the tiniest bit toward Izzy. “With you.”
“Sure, why not?”
There are a million reasons why not, starting with the fact that this guy might be deranged.
But if there’s a deranged lunatic following Izzy around Ponderosa Resort, doesn’t it make sense to get him in a room with me, the police chief, her four brothers, and her cousin the Marine?
Dan keeps staring, and I’m beginning to wonder if he’ll answer. When he clears his throat, I feel Izzy flinch.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll play poker with you.”
“Great.” I fight to keep the surprise from my voice as I rattle off details of when and where, hoping Mark doesn’t kill me for putting our half-baked plan into action. Dan’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s a hint of bemusement in his eyes.
“I’ll bring stew,” he says. “Elk.”
“You’re a hunter then?” I’m pretty sure elk season ended a while ago, but maybe Dan’s been here longer than I thought.
“Sure.” He gives a sharp nod, then glances at Kevin. “Nice pig you got there. Looks like one I had as a kid.”
Izzy tenses beside me. “Thank you.”
He shakes his head a little sadly. “I loved that goddamn pig.”
Before I can respond, Dan gives another grunt and ambles past us on the path. He moves in an odd diagonal line, like he’s trying to avoid turning his back to us. I watch him vanish into the fog, unable to shake the sense I’m missing something big.
The instant he’s out of earshot, I turn to Izzy. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, of course.” She licks her lips, pupils dilating. I don’t kid myself into thinking it’s still the effects of the kiss. “It’s just—” she bites her lip, eyes fixed on mine. “Bradley.”
There’s something different in how she says my name. Something that makes the hair prickle at the back of my neck. “Yeah?”
“Um, there’s something you should know.”
A faint roar in the back of my head tells me I should have seen this coming. He’s her boyfriend. Her lover. Her—
“I have to tell you something important.” She squeezes her eyes closed, then opens them again quickly. “Really important.”
I fight to keep a fierce wave of disappointment from crushing me. “You know him?”
She doesn’t nod. Doesn’t shake her head either. Just looks right into my eyes like she’s weighing the weight of her words, the weight of the whole world.
“Come.” That hollow syllable lilts with Lady Isabella Blankenship, but the unease in her eyes is all Izzy. “We’ll talk in my cabin.”
Chapter 7
Isabella
The walk back to my cabin takes approximately eight thousand years. It’s partly that we stop every ten feet so Kevin can sniff something.
It’s mostly that I’m dragging my feet, buying time to decide exactly how much to tell Bradley about Dante.
Dan, I remind myself, willing to concede it’s an appropriate nickname. If he wants to blend in, that’s a start.
Then again, blending in doesn’t involve following me around a luxury resort like some predatory cat that’s been shaved and dosed with steroids. What exactly is he doing here? I have my suspicions, but until I know, I need to be careful.
“Let me take your coat.” I nudge the door shut behind Bradley and shift into hostess mode. “Can I get you some tea or maybe cocoa? Or what about dinner—it’s almost dinner time.”
He eyes me oddly as he peels off his coat and hooks it on the coatrack beside the door. “I’m okay.”
I twist my hands together, feeling awkward and a little useless. “I have marshmallows for the cocoa. I tried to buy some at the grocery store, but Sean pointed out the sugar content, which isn’t great for someone with a transplanted kidney.” I’m definitely babbling but can’t seem to stop myself. Even Kevin’s watching me warily, though it might be the marshmallow comment.
“Sean makes his own marshmallows from scratch, and he doesn’t use gelatin,” I continue for Kevin’s benefit, “so there’s no pork product whatsoever. They’re for resort guests to make s’mores, but he made a special batch for me with all my dietary restrictions taken into account and—”