Three minutes later the whining started. “Christ on a stick!” He sat up, shoved his fingers through his hair and dropped his head to his knees. “I’m begging you. Shut up.”
That didn’t work either.
Throwing back the sheet, Brady dropped to the floor and the very nice pad of blankets he’d carefully folded, littered with stolen treasures. A shoe, a watch, a shirt—all Brady’s.
The dog was a thief.
“We cuddled already. Don’t tell me you need more. Come on, man, where’s your self-respect?”
“Arf.”
Shit. Brady crouched low and pulled the dog into his chest. The bundle wriggled with pleasure. Brady sighed, and beyond exhausted now, slowly lowered himself to the blankets.
Not bad.
“Arf!”
In the darkness, on the floor, Brady squeezed his eyes shut and tried to pretend he was back in Afghanistan, in the middle of a war zone, which was starting to seem like it might be easier.
“Arf!”
“I’ve been to places that look at you as a free meal,” he warned softly in the dark. “Not my thing personally, but I’m willing to make an exception.”
There wasn’t another sound.
With a blissful, exhausted sigh, Brady began to drift off.
Only to come awake some time later. He lay there utterly still in the dark night, aware of the fact that something had woken him but not sure what. He was still on the floor, but there was no warm lump on his chest. Sitting up without a sound, he found the dog—in the middle of the f**king bed. How he’d gotten up there was a mystery, possibly by using the chest at the foot of the bed as a stepping stool.
But that’s not what had woken him. Pulling on his jeans, Brady grabbed the gun he’d stowed in the nightstand, moving soundlessly through the loft.
Then he heard it again, a crash from downstairs in the center that was completely closed up for the night. Thinking of the drugs that were kept there, he headed grimly toward the door, intending to protect what was Dell and Adam’s with whatever force was necessary. He turned to tell the dog to stay, but he hadn’t so much as taken a break in his snoring. Shaking his head, Brady moved out.
Downstairs, the open reception area was dark and empty, but the first examination room was lit, and sounds of a struggle were coming from within. Moving quietly along the shadows of the wall, Brady stepped into the open doorway, gun drawn.
“Don’t move,” he said.
But he was the one to go still.
In the room, arms full with an injured dog on the examination table, was Lilah.
The dog was snarling and trying to bite her, and as she wrestled with him, she spared Brady a quick glance.
“How’s this for too safe?” she asked.
Eight
Lilah took in the sight of Brady, gun in his right hand, the safety flipped off, and his hands braced in a shooter’s stance and thought, Holy shit. That was her sole thought. Holy shit. She might have even murmured it in shock, in sheer appreciation for the magnificent male form standing there so utterly completely, fantastically . . . dangerous. She couldn’t help it. In the overhead light, his nearly na**d body gleamed muscular, lethal, and entirely too sexy. “You going to shoot me or help me?” she asked, as if her heart wasn’t lodged in her throat, thundering so fast there were no pauses in between the beats.
“Fuck,” he whispered under his breath and lowered the gun, thumbing the safety back on. The sound of it clicked loudly in the very still, very tense air as he tucked the gun into the back of his jeans before stepping close to lend her a hand.Lilah let out a breath and shook it off. He seemed impossibly large and unyielding as he reached up and adjusted the overhead light so she could better see what she was doing, which she appreciated. “Thanks.”
He nodded, looking a little worn, a little weary, and a whole lot rough around the edges.
When he was tired, as he clearly was now, his features were wary, as if he knew he was on autopilot and simply trusting his instincts. It did something to her, looking at him like this, almost . . . no. Vulnerable was not the right word.
Accessible.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I should have let you know I was here.”
He said nothing. Probably still working through his adrenaline rush.
She sure as hell was. And it was to her shame that she hadn’t thought of this. Of him. She should have thought about the fact that he’d be upstairs sleeping, but the truth was that she broke in all the time with Dell’s and Adam’s blessing, and it hadn’t occurred to her to wonder what his mental condition might be at being stirred in the middle of the night. He was ex-military but clearly not so ex. He certainly hadn’t lost any of his skills.
Startling him had been bad.
He recovered far faster than she, but then again, she had her hands full. And still, all she could think was that she surely looked like crap in her baggy sweats, and he looked . . .
Hot.
God, so very very hot.
Tearing her gaze off him, she put her mind to the task at hand. She had Lucky’s head tucked beneath her arm and was struggling with holding the rest of the seventy-pound animal still. She hadn’t wanted to muzzle her and didn’t, but now, it seemed, that might have been a mistake.
Lucky was in Lilah’s care for two days while her owner was on a business trip. As had happened twice before, a porcupine had broken into the kennels through the cellar, come up the stairs to the main level, and ended up in the room where Lucky had been crated for the night. Lucky had played Houdini and gotten out, and dog and porcupine had done the tango.
Now Lucky was sporting ten quills, Lilah was up in the middle of the night playing doctor, and she’d nearly gotten shot by the sexiest, most gorgeous night prowler she’d ever seen.
Those loose Levi’s of his were threatening to slip down his lean hips, and the lack of shirt was deeply distracting. Smooth tanned skin sliding over muscle, perfectly flat, ridged abs building up to a powerful triangle of chest, shoulders, and arms. His eyes, so sharp when he’d first appeared, were going back to a sleepy look. His hair was mussed as if he’d been tossing and turning. Then he made it worse by shoving his fingers through the silky strands, and when he was done with that, he came close and took over the task of holding Lucky down for her with strong, firm hands and arms.
And sweet baby Jesus, those arms. That whole body. It was completely functional, nothing wasted, no excess, and she couldn’t look away from it. It was enough to make her walk into a wall if she’d been stupid enough to attempt walking and looking at him at the same time. “You going to say anything?” she finally asked.
He slid her a long look. “I was finally sleeping.”
She laughed and he brooded. “It’s not funny. You have me living with the devil’s spawn. So nothing personal, but what can I do to help you here so you’ll get the hell out?”
“Just holding her like that is great. I’m having a tough time here.”
“You would have managed. You’re good with animals.”
“Yes,” she agreed, thinking she’d rather be good with men right about now. In particular, a big, badass, silent, edgy, dangerous man who carried a gun in the waistband of his jeans and had a body so cut it made her want to run her tongue over every indention and then some. “And you’re good with . . . well, just about everything,” she said. “Well, except cuddling.”
He flashed her a look that was so innately male, as if she’d just questioned his Guy Card or something. It should have been annoying, but instead it made her ni**les contract in greedy anticipation. She busied herself with parting Lucky’s fur to get a better look at the first quill.
Brady grabbed the spotlight above the table and better aimed it for her as she poured vinegar over Lucky’s punctured skin. Lucky whined and Lilah did her best to soothe her before glancing at Brady. “Thanks,” she said gratefully.
He leaned close to see what she was doing, and that’s when she realized he smelled amazing.
Warm and sexy and . . . amazing.
Lucky was growling low in her throat, showing her teeth, worrying Lilah. The dog was older, around nine, and usually sweeter than molasses, which is where Lilah’s decision not to muzzle her had come in. A mistake.
Brady came in from behind Lucky’s sharp teeth and clasped the dog’s head in his big hands, holding her still. “Why the vinegar?”
“It loosens up the quills. It’s why I broke in to do this here. I couldn’t find any white vinegar at home.” Leaning over Lucky, Lilah snipped the first quill at about the halfway mark.
The dog whined and Brady stroked her face in sympathy. “You’re cutting them to let out some of the air,” he guessed.
“Yes.” She forced her attention back to Lucky, using pliers to get a good grip on the quill as close to the dog’s flesh as possible, and pulled.
The quill slid out.
Lucky cried.
Still stroking the trembling dog, Brady bent low to murmur to her softly.
“Another talent of yours?” she asked. “Soothing the scared female?”
He smiled, and she had the most ridiculous urge to pretend to be terrified so he’d hold her and murmur in that voice and hold her close, too. And maybe do other things . . . “You do this a lot on your travels?”
Brady’s eyes were still amused, suggesting maybe he knew where her thoughts had gone. “Assist a sexy woman in the middle of the night with a dog? Almost never.” He shifted, turning so he could more comfortably hold Lucky for her, and Lilah went very still.
Brady’s back was broad and smooth and gorgeous . . . except for his side, where a long, jagged scar ran from his armpit down to his ribs. It was a few shades lighter than his normal skin tone, signaling that it was at least a few years old. There were other scars as well, but nothing as major as that one long imperfection.
Lifting his head, his gaze met hers without hesitation or resignation.
Her fingers itched to touch it, to soothe him, which would be a little bit like trying to soothe a wild, untamed mountain cat. “What happened?” she asked as casually as she could, pouring vinegar over the next quill, then snip-ping it with scissors as she had the first.
He remained quiet and she figured he had no intention of answering. “I suppose,” she finally said, “it’s one of those you-could-tell-me-but-you’d-have-to-kill-me things, right?”
His mouth quirked but he held his silence. He was good at that.
“I heard you spent some time in Afghanistan,” she said softly, working out the next quill.
“I flew medical choppers.”
“And in Iraq?”
“Same thing. I was good at the hot spots.”
She poured the vinegar and then snipped the quill halfway as she thought about Brady out there on the front line, right in the thick of things, bringing people in and out on a daily basis, constantly in more danger than she could possibly imagine. “Does it still hurt?” she asked as she pulled out the quill.
“No.”
“How—”
“A machete.” His voice was easy enough, but she heard the steel undertone—he was done talking about this.
She could understand that. “I’m guessing you’ve seen parts of the world that would seem like another planet to me compared to this place,” she said softly after yet another quiet moment.
He let out a low sound of agreement.
“You must think I’m pretty naïve and sheltered.”
“No.”
“But you do think I live safe.”
He didn’t answer, and lifting her gaze, she met his, which was sharp yet warm. It seemed impossible that he could be both, but he was.
Just outside the exam room door, the rest of the center was dark, filled with shadows. Not in the exam room, which felt . . . close. Intimate.
“You’re right,” she said. “I do live safe. I grew up in this one-horse town with my grandma and good friends, and it’s always been a comfortable fit for me. And very safe.”
“It suits you.”
“It didn’t always,” she said wryly. “By the time I graduated high school, I was chomping at the bit to get out of town and find the real world.”
He smiled, interested. “So did you?”
“I went to UNLV. University of Las Vegas.”
He choked out a laugh. “About as different from here as you could get.”
“You could say so,” she agreed, and yet again wielded the pliers on poor Lucky. “I was a little out of my element.” Like a babe in the woods. Which had been the whole point.
“Is this the part where you tell me you made your tuition by becoming a stripper?” he asked hopefully.
“No,” she said on a laugh.
“A showgirl?”
“No!”
He looked her over. “I know. You became a phone sex operator.”
“Stop.” She rolled her shoulders, the smile fading because the truth was worse.
His expression turned serious. Reaching up, he stroked a loose strand of hair off her jaw. “Something happened to you.”
There was concern in his eyes, and a protectiveness that shouldn’t mean anything to her.
But it did. “No. Not like you’re thinking. It’s really just a very boring old story.”
“You’re in luck, then. I love boring old stories.”
“No you don’t,” she said on a laugh. “You hardly talk at all unless I’m bugging the hell out of you with questions.”
“True,” he said stroking poor Lucky to keep her calm. “But I like to listen to you.”
Her heart tumbled and she sighed, again moved by him when she shouldn’t be. She supposed she could tell him a little more. “I got accepted on a scholarship into the animal science program.”