Prey: A Novel Read online

  By Linda Howard

  A LADY OF THE WEST

  ANGEL CREEK

  THE TOUCH OF FIRE

  HEART OF FIRE

  DREAM MAN

  AFTER THE NIGHT

  SHADES OF TWILIGHT

  SON OF THE MORNING

  KILL AND TELL

  NOW YOU SEE HER

  ALL THE QUEEN’S MEN

  MR. PERFECT

  OPEN SEASON

  DYING TO PLEASE

  CRY NO MORE

  KISS ME WHILE I SLEEP

  TO DIE FOR

  KILLING TIME

  COVER OF NIGHT

  DROP DEAD GORGEOUS

  UP CLOSE AND DANGEROUS

  DEATH ANGEL

  BURN

  ICE

  VEIL OF NIGHT

  PREY

  By Linda Howard and Linda Jones

  BLOOD BORN

  Prey is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,

  and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination

  or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events,

  locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Linda Howington

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books,

  an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group,

  a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  BALLANTINE and colophon are registered

  trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-52629-8

  Jacket design: Jae Song

  Cover photograph: © George Kerrigan

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  He’d won.

  She’d lost.

  She really, really hated losing. Losing pissed her off more than just about anything else.

  The very idea made her grind her teeth, made her think twice about what she was about to do, which essentially was to throw in the towel. Okay, not exactly throw in the towel, but she was definitely retrenching, and she needed to act now. Stubbornness was one of her main faults, something she was well aware of, so before it could trip her up and make her change her mind, Angie Powell quickly scrawled her name on the contract with the only Realtor in the area, Harlan Forbes, then leaned back in her chair and tried to control her breathing.

  There, it was done. Her place was officially up for sale. Her stomach was so knotted she felt as if she’d stepped off a cliff and was cartwheeling toward the ground, but there was no going back. Well, there probably was; Harlan had known her most of her life, and would probably tear up the contract right now if she asked him to. Not only that, the contract wasn’t open-ended. If her home didn’t sell in the allotted time, she’d either extend the contract or … what? What other option did she have? None, that’s what. This was do or die, sink or swim, and any number of other back-against-the-wall clichés. She was damned if she’d just give up, though. Moving operations wasn’t the same as giving up.

  “I’ll get this posted online right away,” Harlan said, swiveling around to lay the contract beside his sleek, all-in-one computer and monitor combined, a surprisingly up-to-date piece of electronics in a shabby, crowded two-room office on the second floor above the hardware store. “That’s how most of my contacts are being made these days.” He gave her a quick glance, concern written large on his florid face. “Don’t get your hopes up on having a firm offer right away, though. The listings around here are on the market for six months, average, which isn’t bad in this economy.”

  “Thanks,” she said to Harlan, who’d been one of her father’s best friends. She supposed he needed to make the sale as much as she needed to sell. The downturn in the economy had hit everyone. Six months. God, could she hold on for six more months? The answer was: If she had to. She could do anything if she had to.

  She got to her feet. “Believe me, I’m not hoping for anything right away.”

  But she was; she couldn’t help it. She wished the place would sell this very minute, before she could think about it too much. At the same time, she dreaded the thought of leaving, and the two emotions pulled and fought inside her until she wanted to scream, for all the good that would do, which was none.

  She shrugged into her coat and picked up her big tote bag, settled her hat on her head. She needed both the coat and the hat. November had come in cold and brisk, already dusting the valleys with a few light snows. The mountain peaks surrounding the valley were white, the wind blowing off them carrying the scent of winter, evergreen mixed with fresh snow. A warm front was coming in that should melt the snow back some, but everyone, human and animal, knew the warmth would be temporary; soon the cold would settle in for months.

  She had to plan on being here through another winter. It would be nice if her place sold immediately, but if she was anything, Angie was realistic. Pie in the sky had never appealed to her, not when there was a plain old apple on the ground. Right now, however, she couldn’t see either apple or pie. All she could do was try to eke out a living and stay on top of her bills enough to hold off foreclosure, until her place sold and she could relocate.

  If. Now there was a word. If her dad hadn’t borrowed a bunch of money five years ago to expand the business, buying more horses, four-wheelers, building three small guest houses, the place wouldn’t even have a mortgage, and she’d be okay even with the downturn in her income. But he had, and she wasn’t. Yes, she’d sold the four-wheelers and most of the horses, and used the money to pay down the principal on the loan, but even if she refinanced, the payment would be more than she could handle, and that was assuming the bank would let her refinance, as tight as credit was right now.

  At least she hadn’t waited until she was in real trouble. No, that big, wide streak of realism had read the writing on the wall and recognized that, within a year at the absolute most, she was going to be out of money and out of business, unless she took action. But a year was optimistic; the six months Harlan had mentioned for selling her house and property was far more like it. By then, she might not even be breaking even, and one thing she didn’t want to do was dip into her savings. For one thing, she didn’t have that much; for another, throwing good money after bad was a good way to lose everything.

  Harlan heaved his bulk out of his squeaky office chair and walked with her to the door. “I’ll be out tomorrow to take some pictures,” he said.

  “I’ll be there. I have a guide trip day after tomorrow, so I’ll be getting everything ready.” Right now, that one guide trip, with a repeat client, was the only thing on her books. Three years ago, before Dare C