from him. Then her gaze flashed sideways quickly, as if to search for something to protect herself, and his temper spiked.
“You don’t remember me, Ivy?”
Those big green eyes that had tugged at him when she was little did a number on him now. They snatched at his sanity and resolve. She was afraid of him. Her reaction shouldn’t bother him, but it cut him like a knife.
He knew he looked like hell. His hair was too long and he needed a shave. Scarred as he was, he probably looked downright scary. The past few days, little kids had stared at him on the street. Women had yanked their heads away. Old ladies had whispered and rushed past as if he were some hideous beast.
Ivy’s fingers dug into the upholstery. “Yes, I saw you on the news. You’re Matt Mahoney.”
He balled his hands into fists. Her gaze followed the movement, and she backed up another step. She thought he intended to hit her, he realized. Then he remembered her old man beating on her and her mama, and understood her reaction.
“I heard you scream,” he said in a gruff voice. “I came to see if you were all right.” Her gaze flashed sideways again, and he followed the movement.
“What the hell?” His gut tightened at the sight of the bloody warning on the wall. Then he saw the dead animal and cursed.
“You were outside in that SUV, watching me.” Her voice rose in hysteria. “You’ve been following me, haven’t you? You were in Chattanooga, too. And now this…”
He narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t do this, Ivy. And I haven’t been following you.” Not technically, anyway.
She flinched as lightning illuminated the room, and he found himself wanting to turn his head to spare her from seeing his scar. But he forced himself to remain immobile, his gaze pinning her in place. It was her fault he’d ended up in jail. Her fault he’d been convicted.
She needed to face the reality of what her silence had cost him. The brutality he’d suffered because he’d helped her.
And she needed to give him some answers.
IVY CLUNG TO THE AFGHAN, the anger and bitterness in Matt Mahoney’s body language stealing her breath. He’d been tough back when she’d known him, but just a teenager looking for trouble and a good time.
Now, he seemed hard. Cold. Aged and bitter. Prison had probably done that to him. She tried not to think about the horrors he must have endured inside. She’d read stories, seen articles, news reports….
She’d wanted to think that he’d survived.
But the icy bleakness in his eyes told a different story. Still physically fit, he stood tall and proud, though, like a warrior prepared for battle. The long gash on his cheek appeared even more stark in real life, but the rest of his body was sculpted like an athlete’s. His muscular arms were defined, and he didn’t have a fat cell anywhere that she could see. And in spite of his shaggy wet hair, the scar and his brooding expression, he was more masculine, sexier, than she’d ever imagined.
But his soul was completely black. It had been destroyed.
She offered a tentative smile, but a warning flashed in his eyes.
A warning she would definitely heed.
Maybe he had left the bloody message and chicken as a sick idea of revenge.
“I was watching you outside,” he snarled, “but I didn’t write that threat or kill that chicken, Ivy. Unlike your father, my style is not to terrorize women.” He cut his eyes toward the wall, then started toward her, his fists still clenched, his long arms swinging by his side.
Reacting on autopilot, from memories Ivy thought she’d long ago forgotten, she threw up a hand. “Stop. Let’s talk.”
He didn’t stop, though. He kept coming, his heavy boots hammering the wood floor, his husky, angry breathing rattling the tension-laden air. She frantically searched for a weapon. Glanced at the phone, gauging whether or not she could reach it.
His gaze fell to it, and he gestured toward the handset. His hand was steady. Scarred, too,
“You don’t remember me, Ivy?”
Those big green eyes that had tugged at him when she was little did a number on him now. They snatched at his sanity and resolve. She was afraid of him. Her reaction shouldn’t bother him, but it cut him like a knife.
He knew he looked like hell. His hair was too long and he needed a shave. Scarred as he was, he probably looked downright scary. The past few days, little kids had stared at him on the street. Women had yanked their heads away. Old ladies had whispered and rushed past as if he were some hideous beast.
Ivy’s fingers dug into the upholstery. “Yes, I saw you on the news. You’re Matt Mahoney.”
He balled his hands into fists. Her gaze followed the movement, and she backed up another step. She thought he intended to hit her, he realized. Then he remembered her old man beating on her and her mama, and understood her reaction.
“I heard you scream,” he said in a gruff voice. “I came to see if you were all right.” Her gaze flashed sideways again, and he followed the movement.
“What the hell?” His gut tightened at the sight of the bloody warning on the wall. Then he saw the dead animal and cursed.
“You were outside in that SUV, watching me.” Her voice rose in hysteria. “You’ve been following me, haven’t you? You were in Chattanooga, too. And now this…”
He narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t do this, Ivy. And I haven’t been following you.” Not technically, anyway.
She flinched as lightning illuminated the room, and he found himself wanting to turn his head to spare her from seeing his scar. But he forced himself to remain immobile, his gaze pinning her in place. It was her fault he’d ended up in jail. Her fault he’d been convicted.
She needed to face the reality of what her silence had cost him. The brutality he’d suffered because he’d helped her.
And she needed to give him some answers.
IVY CLUNG TO THE AFGHAN, the anger and bitterness in Matt Mahoney’s body language stealing her breath. He’d been tough back when she’d known him, but just a teenager looking for trouble and a good time.
Now, he seemed hard. Cold. Aged and bitter. Prison had probably done that to him. She tried not to think about the horrors he must have endured inside. She’d read stories, seen articles, news reports….
She’d wanted to think that he’d survived.
But the icy bleakness in his eyes told a different story. Still physically fit, he stood tall and proud, though, like a warrior prepared for battle. The long gash on his cheek appeared even more stark in real life, but the rest of his body was sculpted like an athlete’s. His muscular arms were defined, and he didn’t have a fat cell anywhere that she could see. And in spite of his shaggy wet hair, the scar and his brooding expression, he was more masculine, sexier, than she’d ever imagined.
But his soul was completely black. It had been destroyed.
She offered a tentative smile, but a warning flashed in his eyes.
A warning she would definitely heed.
Maybe he had left the bloody message and chicken as a sick idea of revenge.
“I was watching you outside,” he snarled, “but I didn’t write that threat or kill that chicken, Ivy. Unlike your father, my style is not to terrorize women.” He cut his eyes toward the wall, then started toward her, his fists still clenched, his long arms swinging by his side.
Reacting on autopilot, from memories Ivy thought she’d long ago forgotten, she threw up a hand. “Stop. Let’s talk.”
He didn’t stop, though. He kept coming, his heavy boots hammering the wood floor, his husky, angry breathing rattling the tension-laden air. She frantically searched for a weapon. Glanced at the phone, gauging whether or not she could reach it.
His gaze fell to it, and he gestured toward the handset. His hand was steady. Scarred, too,
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