Kestrel (Hart Briothers #3) by A. M. Hargrove

“So it was fair of you to demand all of
my secrets from me but you won’t share any of yours? Is that it?”
    “No,
that’s not it at all. Your situation was different. You were asking something
huge from me. I’m not asking anything from you.”
    His
remark stings much more than I care to admit. “I see.” I get out of the car.
    The
road we’re on leads to the water. It’s only a short walk so I decide to take
it. As I stand there facing the Wadmalaw River, I wonder about people.
Everything is always so disjointed when it comes to relationships. Why does it
have to be that way? I thought I could be friends with Kestrel. Now I’m not so
sure.
    I
hear his footsteps crunching on the road. He’s behind me when he says, “Do you
know anything about me?”
    “What
do you mean?”
    “Have
you Googled me? Done any searches on me?”
    “No.
Why?” That’s a strange thing for him to ask.
    “So
you don’t know anything about me, or the Hart name?”
    “No!
Why? Are you a serial killer or something?” Panic edges my voice. He’s scaring
me.
    “You’re
safe, Carter. You have nothing to worry about in that regard.”
    He
puts my mind at ease, somewhat, but why would he ask me that?
    “Then
why did you want to know all that?”
    “The
Hart name was pretty newsworthy about a year ago. That’s why.”
    “Oh.
Well, I don’t pay much attention to the news.”
    “Do
you know anything about HTS?”
    “No.”
    “Damn.
You really should be more conscious of your environment. I could be a
serial killer. You should’ve investigated me before I came into your home for
dinner and checked out your furnishings.”
    “Well,
I didn’t. Honestly, it never crossed my mind.”
    “Shit.
That’s very careless of you.”
    “Maybe
so. Why should I know HTS?”
    “Again,
it was in the news a lot, too.”
    “So,
tell me.”
    We
look like we’re in a face-off. Who’s gonna beat the
other to the puck?
    I
finally say, “You can either tell me, or I’ll Google it. What would you rather
have me do?”
    “My
father was a mobster and my mother shot and killed him last year when he tried
to kill my sister-in-law.”
    “The
fuck?” Who the hell is this guy?
    “My
brother is the owner of Hart Transportation Services. My father owned Hart
Entertainment. You wouldn’t recognize the name, but it was comprised of a lot
of casinos in Atlantic City and Las Vegas. I worked for my dad. I now work for
my brother. The reason I’m in Charleston is I’m opening up the southern
division of HTS.”
    I’m
trying to get past the part about his father being a mobster. And he worked for
him? What does that make him? And why did he practically jump out of the car
when I touched him?
    My
unfiltered mouth gets the best of me when I say, “So is HTS involved in illegal
activities, too?”
    If
it were possible, his emerald irises would turn me into a permanently frozen
block of ice. That’s how cold his gaze is. I have never been chilled by a look
from someone until now and I will never forget how it feels. Without saying a
word, he turns and in long, angry strides, heads back to the car.
    When
he gets halfway there, over his shoulder he calls back to me in a clipped tone,
“If you would like a ride back to town, I suggest you get your ass in the car.
Otherwise, you’re on your own.”
    Jogging
to catch up with him, I say, “You wouldn’t leave me out here.”
    “Oh,
wouldn’t I? Care to test me?”
    His
tone lets me believe he would.  
    “Okay,
maybe that question was inappropriate.”
    He
doesn’t stop. Nor does he answer. Body rigid with anger, he continues walking.
    “Look,
I’m sorry.”
    No
response. In desperation, I reach for his arm, and when I touch him, he reacts
violently. It’s almost like my hand burns him. He slings my arm away so
viciously, I’m afraid it’s injured.
    “Jesus,
I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?” he asks.
    “No,”
I say, rubbing my forearm.
    “Let
me look. I won’t hurt you.”
    I’m
sure he can