Prey by Linda Howard Page A

“Is that okay? Red’s kind of—We can get another color, maybe something black, if you don’t—”
    “Who cares what fucking color it is?” Davis interrupted impatiently, and held out his hand. “Give me the keys.”
    “Keys? Oh. Oh, sure.” Chad released his duffel and let it fall, rather than standing it upright, as he fumbled in his pocket for the keys to the rental. No way would his character’s persona argue about who was driving, the way a more dominant man would, even though he’d been to the Powell place before and actually knew where he was going. He’d fudge on that, too, consulting maps and directing Davis to make at least one wrong turn. The very last thing he wanted was to have Davis the least bit on guard.
    Perception. It was all about perception.

    Angie couldn’t remember what Chad Krugman looked like, but she did remember that he didn’t ride very well, which meant it was a good thing they were trailering the horses most of the way. She’d made arrangements for a place to park her truck and trailer, and they’d ride the final eight, maybe ten miles. Unless Krugman had been practicing his horsemanship, he’d still have a sore ass, but there wasn’t anything she could do about that other than offer her sympathy, and she’d have to do that silently, because in her experience most men got all bent out of shape if she so much as hinted that they couldn’t do something as well as she could, even when it was glaringly obvious.
    When he and his client drove up just before dark, she automatically looked at the man who got out of the driver’s seat, but he wasn’t familiar at all. She was a little surprised, because logically Krugman should have been driving—he’d been here before, therefore he was more familiar with the sometimes confusing twists of the dirt roads, which might or might not be marked. She then looked at the passenger, and even though she’d refreshed her memory by looking at his photograph, there was still a blank moment before she had a vague “oh, yeah, now I remember” kind of thing that underscored how unremarkable Chad Krugman was.
    He was an inch or two taller than she, soft around the middle, with thinning dark hair and forgettable features. His clothes were kind of baggy, and just as forgettable. He wasn’t ugly, he wasn’t attractive, he was just nondescript. If his personality had been stronger none of that would have mattered, but he might as well have been born with “ineffectual” stamped on his forehead in glowing neon, except that would have been too memorable. Whatever he did for a living, Angie was fairly certain he’d never be a howling success at it. He’d muddle by, mostly by escaping notice, and that would pretty much define his life.
    His client, Mitchell Davis, was almost Krugman’s polar opposite. Angie smiled at both of them as she went down the steps to greet them. Krugman smiled hesitantly in return, but Davis merely gave her a dismissive look, as if he had more important things to do than being polite.
    “Ms. Powell, it’s nice to see you again,” said Krugman, and when Angie held out her hand he hastened to grab it in a slightly moist grip.
    “You, too,” Angie said easily. “And please call me Angie.”
    “Of course. And I’m Chad.” He looked pleased, then that expression was chased away by an anxious one as he said, “Mr. Davis, this is our guide, Angie Powell. Angie, Mitchell Davis.”
    Davis merely nodded his head while he looked around, his sharp gaze taking in her less-than-new truck and the horse trailer that had seen better days; his upper lip curled slightly. She kept her face bland. Maybe her truck and equipment weren’t brand new, but they were in good shape and got the job done. “I’m glad to meet you,” she said, keeping her manners in place even if he wasn’t making any effort to do the same.
    Davis was everything Krugman wasn’t. He was taller, leaner, his dark hair touched with gray at the temples. His