Troublemaker

CHAPTER 13

SHE DIDN’T WANT TO BE ATTRACTED TO HIM. SHE shouldn’t, couldn’t, be attracted to him. There was no point in it, it was stupid, it was a total waste of time and emotional effort. She knew better.

Yet here she was, almost melting because he was snuggling with her dog. Well, not that exactly; Tricks had a way of making everyone eat out of her paw. It was him, specifically. She wasn’t wearing rose-colored glasses when it came to seeing him for what he was. For the most part he had kept himself very low key, and she appreciated the effort he’d made, but she hadn’t forgotten that he was here because he lived a very dangerous life, one so different from hers she couldn’t begin to relate. He was also a temporary fixture; when he was well, he’d be gone. He wouldn’t stay.

She’d never before been attracted to overt masculinity, the kick-ass-and-take-names mentality. So why him? Her ex-husband had been better looking; feckless, but better looking. Morgan’s features were rough, carved by hard experience. A woman would never look at him and think “Pretty!” but she would definitely look at him and think “Man.” Maybe that was it; maybe it was a chemical reaction, and she was responding to all that testosterone.

Her heart was pounding way too fast, perhaps in panic. She’d been aware of him from the beginning, and it had been easy to delude herself into thinking it was nothing more than his unaccustomed presence in her home making her on edge. She had tamped that awareness down, controlled it, rationalized it. What she hadn’t been able to do was destroy it. The awareness had waited, ticking away like a time bomb; perhaps she’d let herself get too comfortable because the bomb had just exploded in her face and she didn’t know what to do, how to handle it.

He’d changed. If he’d stayed the way he was, she’d be okay because she’d be in caretaker mode. He’d arrived a physical wreck, but now he wasn’t. He’d been here just a little over a week, and though she saw him every day, she was still aware that his color was better, he was stronger, he was gaining weight. Without knowing for certain, she guessed that when she was gone he worked at building his stamina because she couldn’t imagine a man who did what he did for a living being content to simply wait and let his body heal on its own. No, he’d be pushing himself beyond what an ordinary person would, fighting back against weakness, which was further evidence of who and what he was.

He was far from recovered, but in that one week he’d improved enough that he could manage by himself. In the name of self-preservation she should insist that he leave. Doing so would undoubtedly cost her what Axel had already put in her bank account, but she hadn’t spent any of it so she wouldn’t be any worse off than she had been before. It wasn’t as if she’d be destitute; she was okay financially.

But where would Morgan go? He couldn’t go home. He’d have to contact Axel, get some other arrangements made, and on that first day he’d made it plain any further contact could paint a target on his back. He had some money, he had credit cards, he was undoubtedly capable. She could tell him to go.

But what kind of person would that make her, if she put her emotions above his life? This wasn’t a game he was playing. He’d already almost died. Axel had said he’d coded twice during surgery.

She would be endangering his life if she made him go.

She would be endangering her heart if she didn’t.

All of those thoughts and realizations were racing through her mind like strobe flashes. The inner turmoil of realization was so great that she felt the blood draining from her face, literally felt her flesh contracting. Morgan must have seen it because he started to his feet, caught himself and winced in pain, then forced himself upright. He moved fast, was beside her in three long strides. “What’s wrong?” he asked, cupping her elbows in his rough palms to catch her if she staggered.

Bo fought down her reaction, conquered it, regained her mental balance. No way would she let him guess what she was thinking. She had too strong an instinct for self-preservation for that. She blew out a breath. “I just got woozy. Low blood sugar, I guess; I didn’t stop to get anything to eat.”

He was frowning with concern. “Sit down, and I’ll get you something. What do you want? A sandwich?”

“Just a yogurt. It’s too close to dinner to eat a sandwich.” Dinner wasn’t the only thing that was too close; he was too close, too warm, too big. She didn’t want to notice that the top of her head didn’t reach his chin, or how broad his shoulders were. She didn’t want to see the faint line of a small scar on his jaw, or smell the hot man-scent of his skin. He was still holding her elbows, and she liked the feel of his hands on her skin, the heat of them. Oh, damn, this was bad. He needed to release her. She needed to move away.

Thank God, he let her go and went to the refrigerator to fetch the requested yogurt and a spoon. Bo went to the bar and eased onto one of the stools. She was shaking, both inside and out. He couldn’t know. He could never know. She had to suck it up, hide her feelings-no, she had to ignore those feelings, box them up and seal it tight, until even she couldn’t tell they were there.

He opened the yogurt container for her before he placed it in front of her, the piercing blue fire of his gaze searching her face. Keeping her expression bland, she said, “Thanks,” and put a spoonful in her mouth. Never before had she been so grateful to have something so ordinary to do.

“I’ve never got what it is women like about yogurt,” he commented, leaning his hip against the counter on the other side of the bar. He was still thin, but he had the easy grace of an athlete, someone who had trained his body far beyond the capabilities of most humans. What was he like when he was at full strength?

Don’t think about it, don’t think about it. She wrenched her thoughts from that path and made herself shrug. “The texture is creamy. It’s easy, nothing that has to be prepared. When you don’t want a lot, it’s just enough.”

“The same can be said for peanut butter.”

“Do you like beef jerky?”

“Yeah. So?”

“So what’s appealing about gnawing on something with the texture of leather?”

He grinned, his ice-blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “When you finish, you feel like you’ve accomplished something. Why didn’t you stop to eat? Worried about Tricks?”

She scoffed, rolled her eyes. “I knew Tricks would be fine. I was worried about you. I just could see you doing something when you were outside that pissed her off, then she’d get all huffy and not come back inside, and you’d hurt yourself trying to catch her.”

He laughed as he looked at the dog, who was lying on her back with all four feet in the air while she enthusiastically chewed on the bedraggled one-legged giraffe. “Yeah, she’s a terror.” He rubbed the side of his nose, his expression suddenly a little abashed. “You were right. For a dog, she’s damn brilliant.”

“I know,” she said smugly. “I’ve been dealing with her for two and a half years now.” Tricks’s intelligence wasn’t due to anything Bo personally had done, but she was still proud of the dog. She paused, and curiosity got the best of her. “What did she do?”

“I was trying to do too much and got a muscle spasm in my back. She wanted to go outside, and I couldn’t bend down to pick up her ball so I told her she’d have to put it in my hand. She did.” He slowly shook his head in amazement. “Every time. How did she understand that?”

“I don’t know. All I know is, she does. If she could talk and had opposable thumbs, she’d rule the world.” She finished the yogurt, slid off the stool to put the carton in the trash and the spoon in the dishwasher. “How’s your back now?”

He turned to face her, lounged against the counter again. “Better. I borrowed her ball and used it to work the kink out. She thought that was a hell of a lot of fun, trying to get the ball from under my back.”

Bo laughed because she could just picture it. Having someone on the floor on her level was one of Tricks’s favorite things. She would light up with glee… right before she pounced.

“So how did the meeting go?” he asked. “Given how long it took, I’m guessing not well.”

“Pretty good, actually. It was about the Goodings, of course, but we worked out a plan to handle the problem. Mayor Buddy is going to make Mr. Gooding an offer he can’t refuse.”

“Does it involve a horse’s head?”

She stifled a laugh. “Only if the Hobsons get involved. I hope it won’t come to that. We’re offering to drop the charges in exchange for Kyle signing the divorce papers and leaving Emily alone.”

Morgan slanted another of those blue-lightning looks down at her. “What will prevent him from going back on his word once the charges are dropped? Can you trust him?”

“Not one bit. That’s where the Hobsons come in. If he doesn’t honor the agreement, we turn them loose on him.”

He chuckled. “I like the idea. Every town should have the equivalent of the Hobsons.”

“They probably do, but it’s our good luck that Loretta and her husband both work for the town. Charlie is in the water department.”

“She’s married?”

“To her high school sweetheart. Their son is in Morgantown, in his junior year.”

“Is he a Hobson too?” Morgan asked, looking a little puzzled.

“No, why? Oh-her name. Loretta was already working for the town when they got married, and she said it was too much trouble to change everything.”

“I guess keeping Hobson has its advantages.”

“Oh, yeah.” It struck her that their easy conversation was too easy. She’d become too comfortable with him, and he was already too familiar with the town and her life. Time to get out. She bent down and scratched Tricks’s silky belly. “You want to go for a walk, sweetie? I’ve been cooped up in a meeting room all day, and I could use some exercise.”

Tricks released the giraffe and jumped up, racing for her ball. As she passed by him, Morgan caught Bo’s arm, his clasp light, his expression serious. “Do you feel up to a walk? I can take her.”

Part of her was warmed that he was concerned enough to ask; another part of her panicked at both his touch and the close attention he was paying to her. She didn’t want him to notice her, didn’t want him to think twice about her or anything she did. She hid her reaction with a casual, “I feel fine now.” And she did-physically, at least. Her reaction before hadn’t been physical to begin with, not that she wanted him to know it.

“Where do you go?” he asked, looking through the windows at the woods on the right. “I figure I need to know, in case something happens and I have to call in the rescue squad.”

“I just follow the path through the woods, up the hill, and back. It’s about a mile and a half, enough to give her a good walk.” Tricks brought her ball up, and Bo stroked her head, then said, “I need to change clothes, I guess. Hold on, sweetie, it won’t take but a minute.”

She hurried up the stairs with Tricks right behind her. As soon as the bedroom door was closed behind her, Bo blew out a long breath. She needed the walk more than Tricks did, needed the time away from him to give herself a good talking to, to put her dumb-ass reaction in that mental box and seal it tight. She didn’t rule out maybe someday finding someone and getting married again… not completely, anyway. That was okay. That was normal.

Falling for a man she knew was going to leave was just plain stupid. She learned from her mistakes; she didn’t keep making the same ones over and over.

He was leaving. She had to keep telling herself that, because the minute she let herself forget, she was in real trouble.

The following Tuesday, after dinner, Morgan said, “I climbed the stairs today. I’m ready to graduate from the sofa to a real bed.”

“That’s good.” Bo kept her tone absent though her stomach tied itself in knots at the idea of him upstairs, so close to her while they slept. Yes, he’d be in the guest room, and each bedroom had its own en suite bath so they wouldn’t be sharing space, but still… she’d liked the sense of distance, the barrier of the stairs. Now he’d conquered that barrier, and he’d be upstairs with her at night. “I think there are sheets on the bed but I’ll check to make sure, and put towels in the bathroom.”

“I’ve already taken my duffle up.”

She straightened to stare at him, almost dropping the plate she was putting in the dishwasher. He’d managed to lift that heavy thing? How? She’d had to drag it inside. Sure, some of his clothes were in the laundry, but still. “How did you manage that?” she blurted. And how had she missed its presence? The duffle was big, and the only place to put it where it was out of the way but still easily accessible was behind the sofa. The duffle was gone-but now that she was looking she noticed the big Glock was on the lamp table beside the sofa.

He smirked, leaning against the cabinet beside the dishwasher and crossing one booted foot over the other. “The smart way. I unpacked half of it, took it up, then came back down for the rest of the stuff. Which means I climbed the stairs twice.” He chuckled at her expression. “I never thought I’d be proud of just being able to go up a flight of stairs.”

“Considering your condition when you first got here, you’ve come a long way.” He was still thin, still didn’t have a lot of stamina, but both his weight and his strength seemed to be increasing every day. “Exactly how long has it been since you were shot?”

“It’ll be six weeks on Thursday. I’d be in better shape if it hadn’t been for that damn pneumonia, but it kicked my butt big time.”

Just six weeks. To her that seemed like a very short time, considering how severe his wound had been, but here he was grousing because pneumonia had held him back.

She nodded at the Glock. “Are you feeling the need for protection?”

“Not particularly, but you can never tell. Besides, now that I’m stronger, I can take Tricks out if you’re busy. I’ve noticed that you’ve started taking your pistol with you when you walk her.”

She had; now that the weather was warm, snakes were coming out. She wasn’t optimistic about being able to actually hit a snake with a shot, so she also carried a walking stick, and kept Tricks closer to her.

“Common sense,” she said.

After she took Tricks for an extra-long walk in the fragrant spring evening that they both enjoyed-and, yes, she took her pistol-she made certain the guest bedroom and bath were ready for an occupant. His clothes were already hanging in the closet, so he’d not only taken everything upstairs, he’d had enough energy to unpack.

She went out on the balcony that ran the length of the upstairs and called down over the railing, “Have you been sandbagging?”

He was watching TV with his long legs stretched out and feet crossed at the ankle. Instead of turning around he simply tilted his head back. “How so?”

“You hung up your clothes. After climbing the stairs-twice-you should have been exhausted.”

“I managed,” was all he said, then he went back to watching TV.

Meaning he’d pushed himself, the way he’d been pushing since that first awful day, because that was what he did. Most people would rest when they got tired; he took it as a sign to do more.

She hid her antsiness by following her regular routine. Morgan had a beer, one of the six-pack of Miller he’d given her the money to buy to tide him over until her truck driver friend made another run through Alabama and could pick up some Naked Pig. After that first grocery run she’d made when he first arrived, he’d insisted on paying for all the groceries, and she’d let him. She liked that he’d thought about it.

She did some work, but she’d so devoted herself to staying busy these past several days that after an hour she finished the project-very early-and didn’t have another one ready to start yet. In the name of staying busy, she’d inadvertently worked herself into having some down time.

Now what?

She did some busywork. Then Tricks wanted to play her version of soccer, and after a minute or two of watching, Morgan took over the game, which freed her to do something else, meaning busywork in the kitchen, neatening the silverware drawer.

He played “soccer” with her for so long that Tricks finally called a halt and ran to her water bowl. Morgan said, “I guess she’s finished,” and resumed his seat on the sofa.

Tricks drank long and deep, then immediately trotted to Morgan. Bo was a few seconds too slow to react. She started to say, “Don’t let-” but it was too late. Tricks had held extra water in her mouth and taken it to Morgan, where she gave it to him right on his knee.

He jumped up with a muffled “Shit!” Tricks backed up a few steps and sat down, looking incredibly pleased with herself because she’d shown her new friend how much she cared for him by taking him some water.

Having been the recipient of Tricks’s water gifts many times before, Bo succumbed to a fit of the giggles. She tried to stifle them, but the look on his face was so funny and helpless she couldn’t help it.

“Why did she do that?’ he demanded.

She coughed and fought down any further giggles. “My best guess? She was thirsty from playing so long and thought you must be thirsty too, so she brought you a drink. She’s done it before, but only to me and a few other people she really likes.”

He looked down at his wet jeans, then at the dog sitting there beaming at him, if a dog could be said to beam. He muttered, “This better not be a joke.” Then he cleared his throat, leaned down to stroke her and rather gruffly said, “Thank you, Tricks. That was very thoughtful of you.”

She gave a doggy grin and wagged her tail, as if she knew how clever she was.

At bedtime, they all went upstairs together, which felt so weird Bo could barely say good night. If he’d gone upstairs ahead of her, or come along later, it would have been okay. The together thing was as if they were a family, which made prickles of alarm explode all over her body. They weren’t even friends. They were acquaintances who happened to be temporarily living together, emphasis on temporarily.

She firmly closed the bedroom door behind her and considered locking it, but she refused to be silly about the whole situation. He was now able to climb the stairs, so whether or not he slept on the sofa or upstairs in the guest room made no difference. If she’d thought he was a threat to her that way, she’d never have allowed him in the house to begin with.

She got ready for bed, petted Tricks and told her to go to bed, and turned out the lamp. She knew she was too edgy to go to sleep right away, but she could try.

Within a minute Tricks was whining, going from the bed to the door and back again.

“No. Don’t start this crap,” she muttered. “Tricks, go to bed!”

But Tricks had an eerie way of identifying the arguments she could win and the arguments she couldn’t because she persisted. Back and forth, from the bed to the door, back again to whine and poke Bo with her nose in case the whining hadn’t gotten the message across. She knew Morgan was upstairs, and that was something new and exciting. She wanted to go visit. If Tricks had done the same thing during the day, Bo would have been stern with her, but it was bedtime, she was tired and wanted to go to sleep, and the whining was annoying.

After five minutes of relentless whining and poking, she surrendered.

“All right!” she groused, throwing back the covers and getting out of bed. The room was dark, but there was still enough light coming through the windows, and from the electric clock, that she could see Tricks bouncing up and down with joy that her hardheaded human had finally understood what she wanted.

Bo didn’t turn on the lamp. Completely exasperated because she wanted to calm down and get some sleep, she threw open her bedroom door, stepped out onto the landing, and practically yelled, “Morgan!”

Almost before the first syllable was out of her mouth, there was a burst of movement onto the landing, along with the abrupt flaring of the overhead lights that almost blinded her because her vision had already adjusted to the darkness. She threw up her hand to shield her eyes, then squinted-and found herself staring straight at Morgan crouched in a firing stance. She was looking down the barrel of the big Glock, held in a two-fisted grip, and right above them a pair of piercing, ice-blue eyes boring a hole into her.

Her muscles locked; her blood ran cold. She’d always thought that was just an expression, but now she found that it wasn’t. She was staring death in the eye, and her body felt icy from the inside out, as if her blood had indeed frozen. Her heart was slamming against her rib cage so hard she could feel the fabric of her tank fluttering, and all she could do was stand there waiting to be shot.

Delighted, Tricks started for him and Bo almost died from terror, afraid that in his state of hyperalertness he’d shoot the first thing that moved, which was Tricks.

Instead he barked, “What’s wrong?” as he straightened and with a short, sharp motion of his wrists snapped the barrel upward and held it pointed toward the roof. Bo’s sense of relief was overwhelming, as debilitating in its way as her terror; her vision dimmed for a second, and she almost sagged to the ground before she caught herself.

Tricks was wagging her tail so hard her butt was twitching back and forth. She reached Morgan and licked his kneecap, then thrust her nose into his groin to make sure it was him. He grunted a little but didn’t move, his gaze moving swiftly from point to point, searching for the threat.

Bo tried to breathe, tried to suck in a much-needed deep breath. In a thin voice, which was all she could manage to squeeze from her constricted throat, she said, “Tricks.”

His face was still set in stern, hard lines as he looked down at the dog, who was looking up at him with bright eyes and an “Aren’t you glad to see me?” expression.

“What’s wrong with her?” he asked sharply.

Even his voice was different, deep and hard and clear. He’d lost the shallow weakness in his voice he’d had when he first came here, though so gradually she wasn’t certain when the quality of his voice had changed. He wasn’t full strength but he was still lethal, and for the first time she saw that in a way she hadn’t before, not even when he’d accidentally tried to choke her.

“Nothing,” she managed, her own voice shaking. She was shaking all over, head to foot, so acutely aware that she or Tricks, or both, could be lying in a pool of blood right now-and the whole situation was her fault. She knew what he was, yet she’d still jerked the door open and yelled his name, without considering what his trained reaction would be. You don’t poke a gator and expect it not to snap, but she’d done just that. “She…” Her voice trailed off as her terror faded enough that she could see him, all of him and not just the pistol and his eyes. She reeled under a second shock, completely different in nature from the first one but just as devastating.

He wore only a pair of boxer shorts.

She’d thought of him as thin, and he was-but only in comparison to the powerful musculature he’d sported before, going by how his clothes hung on him. His body as it was now looked like a swimmer’s body, still muscled, but sleek. Had he retained that much muscle, or had he truly been pushing himself so hard in these past two weeks that he’d already packed some back on?

She had been cold, but abruptly a wave of almost suffocating heat swept over her. She wanted to look away, she wanted to open her mouth and tell Tricks to stop nudging him in the balls, she wanted to say, “Sorry,” and go back into her bedroom. None of these were viable options, though, because she literally couldn’t move. She was as stunned as if she’d been slammed by some invisible force that had knocked her stupid.

She could see the lines of muscle clearly delineated in his arms, his long legs that still looked powerful. Holy crap, she could see something else clearly delineated in his boxers, and thank God it was sleeping. Swallowing hard, she jerked her gaze upward to the broad plates of his lightly haired chest muscles-and she stopped, staring at the obscenely long red scar that bisected his chest, and other lines that looked shattered and puckered, almost like a broken windshield. The scar-well, she’d seen surgical scars before, even those of heart surgery, and a scar was a scar. But what in hell were those dark lines radiating out from the scar?

She was still so stunned that she pointed at his chest and blurted, “What’s that?”

His dark brows drew together in a scowl. If she was still in shock, he was still in attack mode, without any outlet for the adrenaline pouring through his system. “Scars,” he said curtly. “You remember. Bullet. Surgery.”

She gave her head a little shake. “Not that. Those lines.” She moved closer, frowning at his bare chest in the brightness of the overhead light that he’d flipped on as he charged out of his room. “They look like… a spider web?”

He glanced down at his chest and grimaced. “Oh, that. That’s what’s left of my tattoo.”

A tattoo! She blinked. Okay, that made sense, even if the pattern didn’t. “Why a spider web?”

He scowled again. “It isn’t a spider web,” he growled. “It’s a bull’s-eye.”

A… bull’s-eye. She blinked, then blinked again. A freakin’ bull’s-eye?

She snapped from bewilderment to fury so fast she had no way to rein herself in, no way to retreat behind her walls. Her mouth fell open, she hung there motionless for a second, and then she blew. “You drew a damn target on your chest!” she shrieked. “You moron! Do you have a death wish? Did you think it was funny when some knuckle-dragger nearly killed you?”

He moved closer, his chin lowered, squaring up against her like a fighter about to go a round or three. His gaze was locked on her face, fire simmering in his own eyes, but he gave a negligent shrug. “I thought: ‘Shit, this messed up my tattoo.’”

She felt as if her eyes might bug out, as if her hair were standing on end. The only other time in her life when she’d been this angry was when Kyle Gooding had punched her in the face and she felt the same, as if her skin couldn’t contain her body. In her outrage, she poked the gator again, literally, jabbing his left pec with her forefinger as she glared up at him. “Idiot!”

She saw a flash of his eyes, glittering like glacier ice, and then he kissed her.

She had no warning. He wasn’t kissing her, and then a split second later he was. His right arm was around her waist, holding her up on her toes against him, and she could feel the coolness of the weapon still in his hand as it pressed into her hip. His left hand cupped her jaw, holding her face tilted up while he lowered his head and slanted his mouth over hers.

Something cataclysmic happened inside her. It felt right, as if every other kiss she’d had in her entire life had been wrong. All of her senses, everything she knew or felt, was swamped by this. The taste of him filled her, the mint of the toothpaste he’d just used underlaid by something raw and hot and powerful, something that made her heart pound and her blood, which had been so cold, sear her veins as it raced through her body. There was the heat of his skin, most of it bare, against her and under her hands. The tank shirt she wore was a single, flimsy layer of cotton between them, inadequate for protection but suddenly feeling rough against her nipples, nipples that were no longer soft but tightly pinched and erect. And below… he was erect now, too, a straining hardness pushing against the softness between her legs. There was heat there, his as well as hers, blood pooling and throbbing and burning.

Distantly she was aware that this was just a kiss, one kiss, a kiss that hadn’t stopped yet, and she was ready to let him strip down her pants and get between her legs. Even worse, that was what she wanted, wanted as she had never wanted a man before. She wanted him there, inside her, riding her deep and hard.

She was a fool.

The thought was a slap in the face, a dash of cold water, just what she needed to will control back into her arms and legs, steel back into her spine. The first step was to turn her head, breaking contact with his mouth. One kiss, but if he kept on kissing her, she knew he’d have her on her back. She let her forehead rest on his shoulder and that was almost worse, because she could smell the heat of his skin and feel the tug of instinct that urged her to burrow deeper against him, so she could absorb more of that heat and man-scent.

The second step was to stop digging her fingers into the muscled pad of his shoulder, to place her palm flat against his chest and push. Her fingertips flexed on his skin, just for an instant, then she concentrated her strength and put pressure in her touch. She couldn’t push him away, he was too strong for that, but the pressure let him know to stop.

Slowly his arm released its hold and he let her drop from her toes, her body moving down his, the hard ridge of his erection momentarily dragging through the soft folds between her legs and sending little fiery arcs of sensation through her clitoris. She caught her breath, bit back a helpless moan even as her hand pushed more insistently against him. Oh my God, she wanted to surge against him and whisper, “Do that again,” because she felt so close that if he did it again, she would come.

One kiss. One kiss, and everything else.

Then she was free, stepping back, and hallelujah, her trembling knees came through like champs and didn’t fold.

He said nothing, his eyes narrowed, his gaze locked on her. His chest was rising and falling as if he’d been running, and she was savagely gratified that she wasn’t the only one wrestling with the effects of that kiss. She refused to let herself look any lower than his face, she didn’t want to see how far his boxer shorts were poking out or if they had failed to contain him. What if they had? Would she be able to resist curling her fingers around his penis, stroking it, bringing him to his knees the way he’d almost brought her?

“No,” she said, her voice hoarse but firm. “We aren’t doing this. Sex is not on the table, not part of the deal.” She would keep saying that until she convinced herself as well as him.

He cocked his head a little. “Not part of the deal,” he agreed, “but we’ll be doing it. Count on it.”

Panic raced through her because she was afraid he was right. And if he was, it would be because of her weakness. She couldn’t let herself be weak, she had to remember that he was leaving and keep her guard up. She’d learned too many times not to depend on anyone else to forget those hard lessons now. She turned away, needing the sanctuary and privacy of her bedroom, where she could close the door and be alone. “Don’t touch me again,” she ground out. “Good night.”

“Wait.”

She didn’t want to stop, she wanted to get to her bedroom, but her feet halted and she stood with her back to him, waited to hear what he said.

“Why did you call me?”

Call him? She couldn’t think; her mind was a big blank mess. Why had she called him, what had started this fiasco? She turned back to face him, confusion written on her face, and she saw Tricks sitting patiently, waiting for the humans to stop acting silly.

Thoughts began forming, memory returning but moving as slowly as molasses. She said, “Tricks.”

He glanced at the dog. “What about her?”

“She was driving me crazy. She knew you were up here, in a different place, and she wanted to come visit.”

He scrubbed a hand over his rough jaw, the rasping sound arrowing through her. She thought of that beard scraping across her breasts, between her thighs. No, no, no! She wasn’t going to go there… she already had.

He sighed and said, “That was it? That had you yelling as if the house was under attack?”

“No, that had me yelling as if I was exasperated and wanted to get to sleep but she wouldn’t let me,” she said shortly. “Not every yell means we’re being attacked.”

“In my world it does.”

The truth of that silenced her. The scar on his chest was proof that he lived in a very different world from hers.

She acknowledged that with a nod, briefly closed her eyes. “Anyway… that was it. Just leave your door open, if you don’t mind, and I’ll leave mine open. She’ll probably go back and forth between us until she decides to pick her place and settle down. She might get on the bed with you, so if you don’t want her in there just say so and I’ll keep her with me no matter how much she acts up.”

“No, that’s okay, I don’t mind.” He gave her a smile that was like a wolf flashing its fangs, with a total lack of humor. “But just for the record-she’s not the one I’d choose.”