One brow arched sardonically when he said, “You do know that I’m not planning to shoot you.” Ro couldn’t help mentally tacking on a “yet” to the end of his sentence.
She decided it was time to unearth her lady balls and stop acting like a scared little girl. Decision made … Ro couldn’t stop her snark.
“No, as a matter of fact, I was not aware that you weren’t going to shoot me when you’ve got the barrel of a gun less than twelve inches from my face. And after you mentioned snapping my neck, I’ve developed the impression that my continuing to breathe isn’t exactly a priority of yours.” Ro held his stare, unwilling to show any more weakness or fear by breaking first.
Wasn’t there some animal you were supposed to stare down to show you’re not afraid? Or was that what you were not supposed to do? Yet another instance where law school failed to teach her practical skills. Like how to stare down a giant, camo-painted man who comfortably held an assault rifle as if it was a part of his daily uniform. A man with too-long, dark brown hair that curled over his ears and the base of his neck, making him look unbelievably sexy.
Wait. What?
Ro must have hit her head when she’d fallen. That was the only logical explanation for the errant thought.
Standing, he propped the gun against a four-by-four beam that supported the porch covering the area surrounding the picnic table. He lowered the barrel and resumed his crouching position in front of her.
“Point taken.”
He looked like he was about to say something else when a tall, nearly as broad, man with longish golden brown hair sat down right next to her on the bench as if they were long lost friends.
“Don’t worry, doll. He’s all bark. He won’t bite unless you ask for it. Probably.” His drawl was as smooth and potent as Tennessee sippin’ whiskey. He stuck out his hand. “I’m Zach. Zachariah Sawyer.”
Ro automatically stuck out her hand to shake his. The habit was too ingrained to stop. Because that’s what you do when someone offers a hand. Shake it. Even if you’re in an end of the world nightmare scenario and the man offering his hand is beyond gorgeous.
Good Lord. Where was she?
But instead of shaking her hand, he kissed it. In a move that Ro was certain no man outside of the 19th century could pull off without looking like a complete tool. And yet, he made it look sexy. And feel sexy. Heat began to swirl low in her belly. Seriously, body. Timing more than a little inappropriate.
His eyes reminded Ro of whiskey, too. Golden amber and flaring with what appeared to be interest; as if he knew the effect he was having on her body. An irritated throat clearing broke the moment.
“Sawyer, if you’re finished eye-fucking the shit out of her, I’d like to ask her a few questions.”
Zach tossed Conan a bandana and rested his arm on the picnic table behind Rowan’s shoulders.
“Clean the paint off your face, G, and calm down. I’m just getting acquainted.”
Turning his gaze back on her, he asked, “What’s your name, doll?”
Ro scooted down the bench to put some space between them and grasped her lady balls tight in an attempt to sound tough. “It sure as shit isn’t doll. Could you back up off me?”
Conan laughed, or at least that’s what Ro made of his gravelly rumble.
Conan was using the bandana to wipe the paint off his face as if he’d done it a million times. Who were these guys?
The face that came clean underneath was unexpected. A broad forehead, sharply carved cheekbones and a strong, squared-off jaw, covered in dark stubble. If she’d seen him dressed in a suit, passing her on the streets of Chicago, Ro might have spontaneously orgasmed. Seriously, who were these guys?
“What’s your name, girl? And why were you alone and running through the woods like you were being chased by the devil himself?” Conan asked.
The statement wasn’t far off the mark, and the images of the beaten woman, knife at her throat, came rushing back. Ro shifted, jostling her ankle, which had started to throb like crazy. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to suppress the images and the pain. The shame of forgetting about the woman for even a moment burned sharper than the pain in her ankle.
“It’s Rowan. Not girl, not doll, not anything else. Except maybe Ro, if you’re not a total asshole. I was running through the woods in the middle of the night, by myself, because I didn’t have a choice. It was either that or end up the backwoods bride of three creepy, inbred rednecks. Or dead.” Ro wasn’t convinced dead was the worse option of the two.
“Care to elaborate?” Conan asked, both eyebrows arching this time.
Ro couldn’t think of a good reason not to explain further and told them what she had witnessed. Guilt for not doing something, anything, filled Ro. Hot tears pricked her lids. “I just left her there and ran.”