by Tee O'Fallon
Take that, Sgt. Connors. I can too curse. When the situation demands it.
Although it did occur to her that if she cursed to herself when no one was around to hear it, did it really count?
Even with the beer, sleep had come painfully slowly, and she’d lain awake for another thirty minutes, tossing and turning, unable to get comfortable. It had been impossible not to remember how he’d trembled at her touch, and as she’d administered the ointment progressively lower on his torso, the temperature of his skin had seemed to rise twenty degrees. But he hadn’t stopped her. Not at first, anyway. Then something changed as quickly as a shifting wind, and he’d pretty much kicked her out of the kitchen.
The bed was warm, the air streaming in through the open window cool. Reluctant to get up, she tugged on the duvet to snuggle deeper into the plush bedding, but it wouldn’t budge. Turning onto her other side, she came face to face with a pair of amber-gold eyes. For a fraction of a second, she couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Then she opened her mouth, tilted her head back, and screamed like she’d never screamed before.
The dog leaped to its feet on the bed. Trista scrambled backward off the mattress, falling hard on her ass on the floor, which still wasn’t far enough away.
Sheba stood on the bed, her tail wagging, her jaws open, and her entire body wriggling. If Trista didn’t know better, she’d swear the dog was either laughing at her or was inordinately pleased with herself.
Trista’s heart slammed against her ribs as she crab-walked backward on her elbows to the farthest corner of the room.
Sheba pranced in a circle on the bed, panting, smiling in that evil way dogs did.
Poofy!
Had Matt’s dog eaten Poofy in the middle of the night while she slept?
Dear God, no.
Panicked, she searched the room until she spotted Poofy hunched into a ball on the desk, backed up as far as he could possibly get against the wall with the hair on his back standing straight up. Fear-filled blue eyes stared back at her, telling her this was all her fault. She should never have agreed to this arrangement, and now it was too late.
Sheba lay down on the bed and crawled to the side of the mattress closest to her, hanging her muzzle off the edge, facing her. Trista shut her eyes, her chest heaving as she gulped in air. The distant memory of another dog… She’d been helpless, only six years old. Mommy! Mommy! Where are you? Then her mother was there, picking her up and holding her tightly. More screaming. Hers. Only this time it was real, not a memory.
The dog’s eyes glowed hotly from a brown-and-black face. There was no doubt in her mind that the devil dog on her bed was about to tear her and her beloved Angora to shreds.
Sheba rose to her feet, woofing, and Trista opened her mouth to scream again.
“What the hell?” Matt stood in the open doorway, his bare, broad chest heaving, and his hair was mussed, as if he’d just woken up. He had a gun in his hand. “Sheba! Jdi ven!”
Letting out another woof—one that sounded as if the dog were disappointed—Sheba spun, leaped off the bed, and trotted from the room.
“Tris.” Matt set the gun on the desk and kneeled on the floor beside her, and the next thing Trista knew, she was in his arms, her head pressed against the solid wall of his chest. “Shh.” He stroked her hair, and she realized he was now sitting on the bed with her in his lap. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know she was in the house. One of the guys must have let her in while I was asleep.”
“Sh-she was going to kill me and Poofy,” she managed to say between shaky breaths.
Beneath her cheek, Matt’s low chuckle reverberated in her ear. “That, I can guarantee you, would never happen.”
“Bullshit.”
To her annoyance, he chuckled again. “You do curse.”
A stampede of footsteps pounded in the hallway, followed by a chorus of shouts.
“What’s wrong?”
“What the fuck?”
“You guys okay?”
“Duh, what do you think?”
“Shit. Sorry, Matt.” Another man’s chuckle. “Didn’t know you had company.”
Lifting her head enough to look over Matt’s shoulder, Trista’s eyes widened at the sight of six enormous men—six armed men—filling the open doorway.
“We’re fine.” Matt twisted his body slightly, turning to the other men. “Could one of you put Sheba back in the kennel?”
“Sure thing, Matt,” one of the men said.
“Everything really okay here?” another asked.
“Yeah. Just a little cynophobia,” Matt answered.
“A little?” someone said in a sarcastic tone.
Dying from embarrassment, Trista tucked her head back down against Matt’s chest and closed her eyes. His thick pectoral was warm and hard beneath her cheek, and that warmth zinged straight to her toes, then back up to the top of her head.
“Give us a few, would ya, guys?” Matt continued stroking the top of her head in a gentle, soothing gesture. “We’ll be down shortly. We all need to have a meeting.”
“Ten-four.”
“Copy that.”
“Later.”
The door clicked shut, and they were alone. Except for Poofy, who remained frozen on top of the desk, although his hair no longer stuck straight up from his spine at a ninety-degree angle.
She expected Matt to release her, but he didn’t. His arms remained securely around her, his hand alternately stroking her hair and her nape in delicious circles. And she was sitting on his lap. His lap. Aside from her father’s, she’d never sat on a man’s lap before, certainly not one whose legs were as big and strong as tree trunks.
As if only now realizing that her arms were still linked tightly around his back, she eased her hold, but not completely. Being cocooned in his embrace felt too damned good, as did the rippling muscle beneath her fingers.
He eased away, looking down at her. “You know we’re going to have to work on that.”
As she spoke, her lips grazed his chest. “On what?”
“Your fear of dogs.”
Leaning back, she met his amused gaze with a horrified one of her own. “No.”
“Yes.” He nodded emphatically. His lips lifted at the corners, but there was a discernible hint of sincerity in his eyes. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
Involuntarily, her hands clenched into fists. “Oh, yes I do.”
“The old adage is true. Dogs really are man’s—and woman’s—best friend, but it’s so much more than that. Sheba is not only my friend and partner, but she’s family. She loves me, and I love her. She’d take a bullet for me, and I’d do the same for her in a heartbeat.” He laughed. “I swear she knows me better than any other female in my life.”
The idea of Matt with another woman suddenly annoyed her, and not for the first time, she wondered whether he had a girlfriend. If he did, he hadn’t mentioned it, and he didn’t seem worried that she was now staying in his house for an unknown period of time.
“What happened to make you so scared of dogs?” he asked, his voice gentling, encouraging her to talk.
Not caring to relive that horrid nightmare, she hadn’t told many people in her life what had happened. Before she understood why, the words came gushing out. “When I was a girl, my mother took me to a park.”
When Trista finished describing that awful day, Matt asked, “Were you hurt?” His tone was laced with concern.
“N-no. Not really. It didn’t bite me, but it slobbered all over me, and I couldn’t breathe. I never saw Miss Annie again.”
“Miss Annie?” He grinned, displaying even white teeth.
“Miss Annie was my doll.” She punched him in the arm, noting his bicep really was as rock solid as it looked. “So don’t you dare laugh.”
His expression sobered. “Not laughing. Getting attacked by a dog under any circumstances is no laughing matter. Even though it didn’t bite you, I can understand why it traumatized you.” He gently gripped her c
hin. “Did Sheba attack you?” She shook her head. “Did she slobber on you?” Again, she shook her head. “Did she go after Poofy?”
“No, but—”
“I’m not discounting your fear. Based on your experience as a young child, there’s a basis for it. What I’m asking is, what was Sheba doing that got you screaming like a banshee?”
Frowning, she had to force her thoughts back to the very moment when she knew Sheba was in her room. “She was on the bed…” Her voice trailed off, as she realized the truth. “Lying down next to me.”
“Hate to be the one to burst your cynophobic bubble, but she was sleeping. I don’t ever let her up on the bed, but at times, she acts like a teenager, pushing the envelope and seeing what she can get away with.” The corners of his mouth lifted.
“She stays in the house with you?” Now that was an issue. A big one.
He shook his head. “Mainly, no. If I let her inside every night, she’d sneak onto a sofa or a bed the second my back was turned. Like she did on your bed. I don’t want her to get lazy and lose the drive to work. That’s a mistake a lot of K-9 officers go through with their first dog, then they have to spend more time getting their partner to re-engage.”
Interesting. “Who knew the d-dog psyche was so complex?”
Again, he gave her a smile, and she realized she liked it. His smile made her tummy all fluttery. “My point is, not all dogs will hurt you. Most, in fact, never will. Sheba never will, nor will any of the other K-9s in my kennel. They’re trained to protect the good guys.”
Suddenly, the air between them got thick and hot, steamy even, although there wasn’t much space between them at the moment. That’s when she noticed the purplish bruise visible beneath his chiseled, stubbled jaw.
She touched her fingers to his face. “How did you get this?”
He snorted. “You kicked me.”
“What?” Her jaw dropped. “I did not kick you.” His grin turned into a full-fledged smile. “When?”
“Did so.” He tipped his head to where Poofy had now mellowed on the desk and sat watching them. “You were so hell-bent on getting back inside to rescue that fur ball you kicked me, so hard my head hit the house. Got me good.”
“Sorry.” She gave him a regretful grimace. “Does it hurt?”
“Not much.”
“Great. N-nothing like kicking the g-guy who risked his life to save my cat. Or me. For the second time in less than a week.” Her arms were still loosely around his neck, and she knew she should move them, but she didn’t want to. It felt too good being here like this. Wrapped up in his arms. Warm and safe. “Thank you.”
Their gazes locked. Neither of them said a word. He swallowed, his eyes dipping to her mouth, and for a minuscule moment, she thought he was about to kiss her.
His chest rose and fell as he took a deep breath. “You’re welcome. Just doing my duty.”
His duty?
Right. Not that it was a shock, but it hurt to hear him say the words, a stark reminder of her unflappable mantra: men like him don’t go out with women like me.
Desperate to hide her disappointment, she looked away, cringing inwardly.
“Trista, I—” Matt clenched his jaw, giving her a look that told her she hadn’t hidden her emotions well at all. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to accept the inevitable. “It’s okay.” She patted his chest. “I g-get it. I really do. I’m an assignment to you, probably one you didn’t even want. Barely ten hours under your roof, and I’ve already created utter chaos.”
As if sensing her change in mood, he stood and released the arm he’d had beneath her thighs so she could lower her legs to the floor. As she slid down his body, the T-shirt rode up her thighs, and for one agonizingly long moment, they were skin on skin, her legs brushing against his, her belly contacting the hard bulge between his legs. She widened her eyes, floored by the intimate knowledge that she’d done that to him. Perhaps it was more than just duty he felt toward her.
She froze, daring to think the unthinkable. Was it even possible? Could a man like him actually be interested in a woman like me?
Hesitant hope blossomed in her heart.
His hand remained at the small of her back a moment longer before he let his arm drop. “I’ll meet you downstairs, introduce you to the guys. Then we’ll have to talk about procedure while you’re here.” He went to the door, turning at the last second with his hand on the knob. “Tug it shut harder next time until you hear the latch click. That’s probably how Sheba got in.”
He closed the door behind him, and she heard a distinct click. Well, he had warned her. In her haste last night to put distance between them, she probably hadn’t pulled it closed hard enough.
Minutes later, she’d brushed her teeth, finger-combed her hair, and put on those ridiculously baggy scrub pants, rerolling them to her knees so she didn’t trip over them. Before heading downstairs, she checked on Poofy one more time, but he was curled into a tight ball at the foot of the bed, so she left him alone.
At the bottom of the stairs, men’s voices floated to her ears. When she rounded the corner to the kitchen, seven sets of eyes focused solely on her, including Matt’s. Crossing her arms, she really, really wished she had a bra on underneath her shirt, and that she had something nicer to wear.
All of a sudden, she wanted to look nicer. For her own dignity, or so she kept telling herself, but not so deep down she understood she wanted to look nicer for Matt. Just in case…
Most of the men were sitting on stools at the kitchen island, wearing either jeans or cargo pants and T-shirts in varying colors. Matt poured two cups of coffee, but her eyes were glued to his tight, jean-clad ass and the way the snug black T-shirt tightened across his back, emphasizing the size and definition of all that hard muscle she’d had her arms wrapped around.
“Good morning,” she said, feeling the men’s intense scrutiny as any woman would in a room full of this much testosterone.
Glancing around, she realized the kitchen was larger than she remembered from last night, with white walls and cabinets and gleaming black granite counters. Antique schoolhouse pendant lights hung over the kitchen island, making something in the granite sparkle like diamonds. Everything looked new, but someone had obviously paid a great deal of attention in returning the house to its former grandeur. Funny how she hadn’t noticed any of that earlier. Then again, she’d been just a tad distracted.
The kitchen might be huge, but with all these giant men in it, she felt like a microchip in a room full of desktop computers. “Sorry if I disturbed you with my, uh, screaming.”
“No worries.” One of them, a handsome, olive-skinned giant of a man with brown hair and smiling brown eyes, slid off a stool. “Keeps us on our toes so we don’t go soft. Have a seat.” He indicated the stool he’d just vacated. “Heard you had a rough week.”
She snorted. “You could say that.” While she sat, each of them either smiled or chuckled, and it was obvious Matt had already filled them in. Eyeing a plate of bagels, her mouth watered, and her stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten since the day before. “Sheba scared the snot out of me.”
“Snot?” The gorgeous, sandy-haired man with deep-set gray eyes grinned at her from across the counter, transforming his seemingly humorless face. Then he surprised her more by laughing in the smoothest, richest baritone she’d ever heard.
“She doesn’t curse, and she doesn’t talk trash. Much.” Matt plunked a mug in front of her, reaching to the center of the island for the sugar and creamer, positioning them in front of her. As he did, she caught his freshly showered scent and couldn’t stop from inhaling deeply.
“Trista, this is Nick Houston with the Massachusetts State Police.” Still standing next to her, Matt pointed to the gray-eyed Greek god, then introduced the rest of the Greek god contingent.
“Dayne Andrews, FBI.” Matt indicated the equally large man to her left with eyes so intensely green they remind
ed her of raw emeralds she’d once seen in a museum exhibit.
Dayne nodded but didn’t smile, striking her as someone who said little, preferring to observe from the sidelines. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Eric Miller, ATF,” Matt continued, and a Viking-size man with spiky blond hair and clear blue eyes held out a hand that engulfed hers twice over as he shook it. Trista could easily imagine him wearing a metal skullcap with horns sticking out of the top.
Matt moved on to the next man. “Kade Sampson, Homeland Security.”
“Ma’am.” A dark-haired man with hazel eyes smiled broadly, revealing two of the cutest dimples she’d ever seen grace such a chiseled face.
Next, Matt pointed to a man with reddish-brown hair and the most unusual obsidian eyes. “Markus York, Secret Service.”
“Nice to meet you, ma’am.” Markus winked at her, calling attention to the deep scar over his left eye, which was still red and puckered, as if it was a recent injury.
“And this”—Matt clapped his hand on the shoulder of the man who’d relinquished his stool to her—“is Jaime Pataglio, aka Romeo, for obvious reasons.”
The comment had the men breaking into laughter. Even though she’d known them for a grand total of sixty seconds, their camaraderie was patently clear.
“I owe you an apology.” Eric, the blond, blue-eyed ATF agent caught her gaze, his expression apologetic. “Sheba getting in was my fault. With the kennel being right next to the kitchen, she heard us and wouldn’t stop whining to get in and see Matt. We had no idea Matt had brought a…guest.”
As if on cue, a series of whines came from the other side of one of the kitchen doors.
“That’s my girl.” Matt gave a half smile.
“Just like a woman,” Jaime said. “It’s like they’ve got a sixth sense, always knowing you’re talking about them behind their backs.”
“Hey, Romeo.” Kade nodded in her direction. “Be respectful of the lady present.”
