Page 6 of High-Priority Asset

Blushing uncontrollably, she hoped her toes didn’t turn red.

“The only thing that’d seal the deal is if you enjoy pizza and motorcycle rides,” he said.

“I have Pizzarama on speed dial and I’ve been on the back of one or two bikes.”

“Yep,” he said, with a smile that’d melt any woman into a puddle of hormones. “Perfect.”

Clearing her throat, she broke the eye contact. “You never answered my question. Hornblower, Hamlet or relative?”

Lifting her other leg, he checked her right foot. “Hornblower. My mother was an English teacher.”

“Why did she name your sister Wendy?”

“Believe it or not, from Peter Pan. My sister lucked out, right? She should’ve been named Titania, Desdemona or Goneril.”

Isabel laughed. Instantly she regretted it as agony flared in her cheek and she winced.

“You’ve got some glass in your foot. Once I get it out, we need to put ice on your face.” He took a closer look at her sole. “You don’t happen to have a pair of tweezers, do you?”

“Other side of the desk in the manicure set.”

He moved around the back of her chair and dug out the tweezers from the other drawer. Lowering down on his knee, he looked up at her. “This might hurt a little.”

“Not as much as a punch to the face. I’ll be okay.”

His features pinched in a scowl, one hand tightening into a fist as if he wanted to beat that mugger senseless. “Do you want to call the police and file a report?”

“What’s the point? I’m sure that guy is long gone, and I’d rather not waste the time.” She’d prefer to get her dog and her car and go home to her condo in Malibu.

“Karma will get that dude. Trust me.”

She hoped so, but she didn’t want to think about the mugger anymore. “How did you get the nickname Dutch?”

“When I was little, kids in school bullied me and made fun of my name. One day I watched this old movie Predator, and Arnold Schwarzenegger’s character was this butt-kicking tough guy named Dutch. I wanted to be like him. After I started working out, bulked up and called myself Dutch, nobody picked on me anymore.” Turning his attention back to her foot, he squinted and carefully plucked out a shard of glass with the tweezers.

He had the skill of a surgeon.

“I barely felt that,” she said.

“Good. The last thing I want is to cause you pain.” Something in his tone rang sincere. He grabbed the antiseptic and cleaned the area. “Will you be able to walk in your shoes?”

“Yes.”

“Sure? I can carry you.”

Was he for real? “I can handle it.” She slipped on her heels and stood. Not letting the soreness that she felt show, she schooled her expression. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“How about we go across the street? Let me buy you a drink and we can get ice for you.”

Holy crap. Her pulse started racing again. Was he asking her out?

Even more surprising, she wanted to go with him. Dutch was mysterious, a contradiction of the best kind. On top of that he’d saved her purse, carried her back to the gallery, tended to her foot and had been charming and vulnerable rather than creepy or aggressive.

But she was done rushing into dates and adding guys to her long list of regrets.

“Thanks, but I don’t drink.” She loved red wine and missed sipping a fine Brunello, but alcohol didn’t mix well with her meds.

“What about dinner?” he asked, his honeyed, husky tone making heat rise in her face. “Or we can just get you some ice and keep chatting.”