Page 7 of High-Priority Asset

The offer was more tempting than she dared admit, but she had to learn from her mistakes. If she kept doing the same thing repeatedly, expecting different results, then she was more deranged than he who shalt not be named.

“The valet is waiting for me to pick up my car at the garage two blocks down.” She hiked her thumb in the opposite direction from which the mugger had run. “And I’ve got to pick up my dog from day care.”

“Okay. Just hang on.” He held up both palms. “Give me two minutes. Please.” Dutch backed up, darted out of the gallery and dashed across the street.

For such a big guy, he was fast. Agile.

Isabel put away the med kit and reset the alarm. Gathering her courage, she forced herself to lock up again, ignoring the hairs that rose on the back of her neck.

It was a natural response after what had occurred. She’d been through the routine of working past the residual fear of an attack before.

Getting to the dead bolt, she cursed under her breath and made a mental note to call a locksmith in the morning.

She spun around, throwing her keys in her purse and grabbing her pepper spray. Dutch was already pushing through the doors of a restaurant and hustling across the boulevard to her.

“Here you go.” He handed her a plastic bag filled with ice. “Put that on your face. You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

His thoughtfulness warmed her from the inside out. The wall she hadn’t realized she’d built around her heart softened, but it didn’t crumble.

“Thank you.” She took the bag from the sweetest man she’d ever met. “You didn’t have do that.”

“Can I walk you to your car?”

“No. I...I...” She didn’t know how to explain it. “I have to go on my own.” The way she would any other day. No crutches, metaphorically speaking.

“All right. But you’ve got no objections to me standing here and watching you walk two blocks, do you?”

Why did he have to be so irresistible? “No objections. Thanks again. For everything.”

“How about we continue this conversation tomorrow over lunch? Or on your day off?”

She felt a flutter in her stomach and she shoved it away, replacing it with common sense. He was a hard man to refuse. A chivalrous bad boy. Or was that an oxymoron?

Maybe she was the moron for even considering it.

Six months. Then she’d take it super slow, with someone.

“Good night.” Isabel tightened her grip on the pepper spray, put the ice to her cheek and walked away at a fast clip.

Dutch was a beautiful risk, but too dangerous to take with her track record.

Chapter Three

“Is she all right?” he asked the private investigator he’d hired to watch Isabel when he was at work and unable to keep a close eye on her himself.

“Yes. I think so,” Olga Olsen said, no doubt from her perch in the coffee shop that sat diagonal to the gallery, where Brenda picked up Isabel’s morning latte—coconut milk, double shot of espresso, a sprinkle of cinnamon. “I wasn’t sure if I should’ve interceded since you gave explicit instructions never to engage with her, but then that guy came out of nowhere and helped her.”

“What are they doing inside the gallery? Is she flirting with him?” He clenched his jaw, his temperature rising.

Isabel could be such a horny minx. Batting those long dark lashes, flipping her thick, curly hair over her shoulder, throwing more sway in her walk than necessary, drawing male attention like moths to a flame.

Gritting his teeth, he couldn’t wait to climb on top of her again and lose himself in her.

“It looked like she hurt her foot and he put a bandage on it or something,” Olga said. “She’s walking to her car now.”

“Alone?” His chest tightened and he squeezed the cell phone in his hand, imagining that man carrying her to the art gallery, fawning over her. Disgust soured his stomach.

Isabel was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. And she was his.