Anthology - Bad Boys With Expensive Toys

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Mimi whined, but Sophie was firm. "When I fell in love with an American, I learned English ... Of

  course, that did not have a happy ending, but you may be luckier in love."

  She put the leads on both dogs, delighted now that Vince had bought the leather and chain leash. Really, the man must be clairvoyant. He'd bought the perfect leash for Sir G the day before they met.

  He was much more intuitive than he knew, that Vince.

  "Now, I don't want to hurt your feelings, but you can't go around with blue hair and be consideredaucourant. The look was fine when you lived with old ladies,naturellement , but now you have Vince to think about, and the Doberman. You have to update, heh?"

  Mimi looked unconvinced but trotted happily on one side of her, while Sir Galahad strained against his leash on her other side. "Look," she finally said in exasperation. "You are bigger. Your legs are longer,

  but Mimi can't keep up. She only has little legs. Now, you must behave."

  After that it was better. She'd cancelled Mimi's standing hair appointment, deciding that any salon that would give a French poodle a blue rinse didn't need Mimi's business. Instead, they went to a place that Sophie herself patronized. It was run by an ex-patriot Frenchman who was brilliant with scissors. Most

  of the salon's staff had learned their craft in Paris.

  Mimi was in her element. Surrounded by French people who cooed and fussed over her, she made no protest when her fur was colored back to white.

  "I don't suppose ..." Sophie gestured vaguely to where the Doberman stood with his nose against the door, leaving a big slobber mark on the glass.

  "Sophie,mon ange , you know I love you, but the poodle is a fellow countryman, andcertainement one helps one's own. The Doberman can go to the dog groomer around the corner."

  Since there was a dog groomer nearby, Sophie was happy not to argue the point.

  The Doberman, however, was less than happy when he reached his destination, but since they stocked dog cookies and bribed him freely, he consented to be washed and brushed. And defleaed.

  While he was being groomed, she went back to Mimi and decided she looked so pretty when she was white again that her manicure needed redoing. They decided on a pale pink, and Sophie opted for the same shade herself.

  That done, they picked up the other dog and walked home via the butcher so she could buy somefiletmignon for the dogs, and a T-bone steak for Vince. "Because he has been very good to us, and we want to give him something a little special." She decided to buy some wine to go with the beefsteak, added some green beans from the greengrocer and tiny potatoes.

  On their return, the Doberman again began to pull on the lead, and, since she wanted time to cook and

  for the wine to breathe, she picked Mimi up and hurried along. She stopped to shift the combined weights of Mimi, the groceries, the wine, and the straining Doberman when she heard a sound like popcorn popping.Pop, pop, pop . There was a thud as something hit the tree behind her and then she felt a sharp pinch in her upper arm. For a crazy second she thought she'd been shot, then noticed a thick splinter of wood had scratched her skin. A piece of tree bark clung to the cut which was bleeding slightly.

  "Mon Dieu,"she cried. Moving on instinct rather than conscious intent, she huddled Mimi closer and pulled them all around to the other side of the tree. It wasn't much of a refuge, but it gave her a moment to take in the fact that she'd been shot at. Her arm burned a little where the bark chip had scratched her, but she didn't even want to think how much worse she'd feel if the bullet actually hit her instead of the tree.

  She fumbled in her bag, praying she could get to the cell phone before the gunman got another crack at her.

  "Are you all right?"

  She'd never been so happy to hear the sound of another human voice. A middle-aged woman with what looked like twin Spaniels ran to her side, pulled the cell phone out of Sophie's trembling grasp, and called 9-1-1.

  "Hold still, dear," the woman said, chattering to her that she'd learned first aid when her second husband developed heart problems. "He'd stop breathing, you see, and I had to learn to bring him back." While

  she chatted, she eased the splinter out of Sophie's arm and pressed a handkerchief— which she assured Sophie was clean—against the trickle of blood. Sophie's uppermost thought was that she'd been lucky enough to be hurt when possibly the only woman in New York who still used cotton handkerchiefs was

  in the vicinity.

  Mimi trembled in her arms, or maybe it was her own trembling making the dog wobble, but Sir Galahad once more lived up to his name. Every hair on his body bristling, he stalked back and forth in front of them, a canine terminator.

  Within a gratifyingly short time she heard the familiar peal of a siren. Before they arrived, she made a second call. To Vince. She suspected he was going to fire her. So far, in her short employment with him, she'd run into disaster twice.

  But, contrary to her expectations, he wasn't upset with her, but frantic over her safety.

  He acted a lot like the Doberman when he got home less than half an hour after she called. Having given a statement to the police, and refused a ride to the hospital, she was sitting with her feet up, Mimi curled in her lap and Sir Galahad pacing in front of the door ready to attack anyone who came after them. Sophie had the oddest feeling that he was chagrined not to have prevented her injury earlier.

  The Doberman growled deep in his throat before she heard anything. Instinctively, she grabbed Mimi tighter, then relaxed when the I'm-a-guard-dog-mess-with-me-at-your-peril growling changed to a puppyish whine and the dog wagged its stub of a tail.

  Vince was home. She let out her breath and loosened her viselike grip on poor Mimi. Somehow she felt that everything would be okay.

  Vince was so big and tough that her tension left her when he roared through the door with an absent pat for Sir Galahad and eyes only for her.

  "Why aren't you in the hospital?" were his first words.

  "There's no need."

  "I came as fast as I could. My God, you could have been killed."

  As he spoke, he crossed the room in a couple of fast strides and dropped to his knees beside her chair, studying the bandage a paramedic had applied.

  "I'm fine. Really. It's just a graze."

  "You were attacked. You are not fine." He touched her hand, her face, as though he could impart his strength to her. "You're pale."

  "I had a shock," she admitted. "I'm so sorry."

  "That bastard." Vince jumped to his feet. "I hope you're pressing charges."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "That pissant who wants you back."

  "You mean Gregory?" In truth, she'd never considered him as the one who'd shot at her.

  "You were mugged yesterday; he's hanging around your place when you get home, where you tell him

  to piss off. Then you get shot at today. Don't you think that's a bit of a coincidence?"

  "This is New York."

  He did not look convinced, and she began to wonder. Was it possible? Gregory was a man of weak character, as she'd discovered too late, but would he try to hurt her? It was hard to believe. It was tough to think at all when her arm felt as if it had been burned, and her head ached.

  Vince began to pace, a little like the Doberman had earlier. In fact, Sir Galahad was now lying across the door, as though he'd given over the pacing part of the job to Vince.

  "You're not going home," Vince said at last.

  "I'm not?"

  "No. You're staying here for a few days. I'll take some time off work, and we'll figure out what's going on."

  "I thought you were going to fire me," she said.

  He sent her an impatient glance. "Don't be stupid. He wouldn't be going after you if he didn't sense I'm interested in you. This is my fault."

  She knew there were problems with Vince's logic, but right now she didn't feel like working them out.

  All she wanted to do was lie down.

  She couldn't quite wo
rk up the energy to argue, but she tried. "My things ..."

  "We'll go later and get them." He looked down at her, and his hard face softened. "You need some painkillers and some sleep."

  "I can't share your bed," she managed.

  "Then you can share Mimi's." And without another word, he put a strong arm behind her shoulders and another beneath her knees, then scooped her up with great gentleness. "But for today, you can nap in my bed. It's bigger." So she found herself in moments tucked into his big, big bed, with the scent of Vince comforting her. He brought her a glass of water and a bottle of extra-strength painkillers. He shook out two which she swallowed, then lay down. A moment later she felt the bedcovers give, and the fluffy coat of Mimi brushed her hand. She smiled and drifted into sleep.

  * * *

  Vince called a buddy, Ed, who just happened to be a cop, and told him of his suspicions. Sophie's ex wasn't going to get another chance to hurt her. Vince couldn't imagine a man sick enough to try to shoot

  a woman to keep her out of the arms of another man, but he had to admit that Sophie was the kind of woman who inspired the grand gesture.

  Here he was in the middle of a tricky negotiation, and he'd just walked away to take a few days off. No explanation. No definite return date. But right now the safety of a woman he'd already come to care for rated a lot higher on his list of priorities than whether the latest union shop with a grievance got a four percent increase instead of two and an end to contracting out of services.

  Vince made his living on this stuff. Normally he'd be salivating over the two percent difference, loving the working guys with their straight-up talk, and the management position, which predictably complained that the company could no longer be profitable with that kind of raise.

  There was always a solution, always an answer that pleased neither side but was acceptable to both, and Vince was the man who could instinctively find the delicate balance point between the two.

  But not this week.

  Not when he was worried sick about Sophie and wanting to take apart the asshole ex who was trying to hurt her.

  Seven

  Sophie woke with a start, sitting up in bed before she realized she was no longer asleep. The silky bedspread sighed as she shifted.

  Something had awakened her.

  What?

  In a second she had the answer.

  Yap, yap, yap. .. and the scrabbling of sharp nails across hardwood.

  Mimi.

  Sophie threw off the covers and had her feet planted on the floor before she was conscious that she was awake.

  Mimi might be a little on the ditzy side even for a poodle, but she had sharp ears and a terrific sense of self-preservation. Sophie was out in the hall in seconds.

  As she careened through the doorway, grabbing the only weapon she eould find—a scrubby-looking baseball bat with a few scrawled signatures on it, she saw Mimi was doing her pit bull imitation. Her dainty snout was pulled back in a snarl, her little body almost comically fierce as she attacked the door, barking, barking, barking, her freshly manicured nails sliding and clacking as she menaced the unknown enemy on the other side of the door.

  Even as she took in the sight of Mimi, Sophie became aware of Vince flying out of his own room. His weapon of choice wasn't a baseball bat but a lethal-looking hand gun.

  In her time in America, Sophie had still never become used to the prevalence of guns. This one was gray black. She didn't have to ask if it was loaded. Vince's expression of deadly earnest told her it was.

  "Get back in your room, Sophie," he said, barely glancing her way. Three nights she'd slept in the Princess bed, and nothing had happened. Vince had insisted she remain, for her own safety, and she'd

  let him talk her into staying for several reasons, most of which had nothing to do with her safety; but maybe he was right.

  She ignored his order, of course, feeling that they needed to work as a team if they were to thwart whatever danger lurked outside.

  Besides, she couldn't have moved if she'd tried. Vince lookedincroyable in his clothes, but wearing nothing but a pair of faded navy cotton boxer shorts,Mon Dieu.

  He was tall and broad; that much she'd known with his clothes on. What she hadn't known was that one look at his chest would make her want to bury her face in the triangle of brown, silky-looking hair and sink her teeth not entirely gently into his nipples.

  She hadn't imagined his belly would be rock hard and ridged with muscle, or that his legs would be elegant in spite of the big muscles.

  She hadn't imagined she could want a man so much when she knew so little about him. Yes, he was right, on the most personal level, she should run back into her bedroom and slam the door.

  But what if she and her oh-so-American baseball bat were needed?

  For a tense moment they stayed that way. She with her bat raised, heat from her nervous palm making the handle slippery, Vince with a calm expression of concentration on his face as he pointed his awful gun at the door, and Mimi, all animation and aggression, doing her best to imitate a canine army.

  The last roommate to wander into the melee was the Doberman. He yawned, padded on long legs to the door, sniffed, and looked down at Mimi from his superior height, as though to say, "Why the hysterics?"

  Down the hall, a door shut. Someone had come home late.

  Mimi, seeming to bow to Sir Galahad's superior guard dog instincts, tried to explain her error with little yaps, some pawing of the air, and a general batting of eyelashes and tossing of fluffy head.

  Sir Galahad sat and scratched his ear.

  She rose to her hind legs and twirled.

  Sophie had to smile.

  The Doberman was more severe. He sniffed under the door, snorted, gave one deep-throated woof and padded back to bed, Mimi, still explaining, following him on short, exquisitely coiffed legs.

  Vince was taking no chances, Sophie realized, when he approached the door, checked the peephole, applied the chain, and opened the door.

  "Nothing," he said in his deep, slow voice as he closed and locked the door once again. "Damn dog."

  "She's on edge. We all are," Sophie said, eager to justify Mimi's actions.

  "Maybe," Vince said, and clicking the safety on his gun, walked slowly toward her.

  Sophie refused to back up as he advanced on her in nothing but a pair of boxers that really didn't hide all that much. But she couldn't stop her heart picking up speed or her skin going twitchy as Vince closed in on her. He was all drowsy masculinity and awakening sexuality.

  Her own desire bumped to life as he stopped in front of her, looking down into her eyes with sleepy amusement and carnal intent flickering. "Unless you're trying to get a game of scrub going, I think we can dispense with the baseball bat."

  She allowed him to take it from her and prop it against the wall. He approached her once again, awfully light-footed for such a big man.

  "Unless you're planning on playing Russian roulette?" She indicated the gun still in his hand.

  He glanced at it as though he'd forgotten it was there and said, "I'll put this back in my bedroom."

  "I'll say good night, then," she said, taking a step backward.

  He eyed her, a warm, devilish glint in his eyes making her aware of how short her gown was and that the excitement or change of temperature perhaps had caused her nipples to pop out and see what was going on.

  The air tingled with possibilities.

  He said, "You got out here pretty fast. Weren't you asleep?"

  She'd been lying there listening to the Doberman snore, her body on fire for the man in the other room. No, she hadn't been sleeping. She shook her head, realizing he'd roared into the hall almost at the same moment she had. And he hadn't looked like a man woken from deep sleep, either.

  She sent him a questioning look.

  Got back a rueful grin. "This is crazy. If we both can't sleep, I can think of something else I'd rather be doing."

  Her heart, which had barely calmed after th
e recent scare, began to race again. "And what is that?"

  "Come on and I'll show you."

  He didn't say another word, simply took her wrist and pulled her along with him.

  She could have pulled away; she could have said,non, merci . She could simply have stopped in her tracks. But she didn't do any of those things. She acted as though her wrist was welded to his hand and she had no choice but to follow.

  She was aware of everything about the moment: The way her short gown brushed her thighs as they walked, the comparative silence of New York in the middle of the night—the traffic sounds diminished to a rumble, a siren wailing somewhere. The feel of bare feet on hardwood, the cool night air on her arms, the heat in her wrist where Vince held her. She saw him dimly ahead of her, a big, forceful shape. Solid, reliable; a man a woman could turn to in a crisis.