Page 43 of Lock ’N’ Load

“The door doesn’t latch shut entirely unless you give it an extra tug,” he said pushing it open enough for him to set a low plastic tub on the floor. “No kitty litter, so I lined it with newspaper. I’ll go into town later and get whatever you need, so make a list when you wake up.” He nodded to the old oak desk. “There’s pen and paper in there.”

She rose from the bed and came to where he stood. The cotton camisole was smudged with soot, but not enough to hide the curves of her waist or the fullness of her breasts. “I don’t have any m-money, or checks, or ATM cards, or…” Her voice trailed off, and he knew precisely what she was thinking. I don’t have anything. “But I’ll go to a bank, then go shopping for myself.”

“Negative.” Matt shook his head, also knowing she wouldn’t like what he said next. “I don’t want you setting foot off this property.”

The dullness in her expression instantly evaporated, her green eyes lighting with fire. “I’m not a prisoner here.” She parked her fists on her hips, pulling that damned, soot-covered camisole tighter across her breasts.

“Of course not.” He forced his gaze back to hers. “Whoever’s trying to kill you may not know about my involvement, and probably won’t figure on you being stashed at my house. But until I can get more information about what’s going on, it’s not safe for you anywhere.”

“But—”

“No buts.” He cut her off, pressing his lips together to keep from shouting. If it wasn’t for the fact that his friends were likely in deep REM sleep at the moment, he would have. He leaned in until his face was a scant inch from hers, keeping his voice low and controlled. “Someone tried to slit your throat. When that didn’t work, they tried to burn you alive. What part of the message are you not getting?”

That green fire he’d glimpsed moments ago dulled, and her shoulders slumped as the frightening reality of his words kicked in.

“Look,” he said, handing her the T-shirt he’d draped over his arm, along with a shallow dish to use as Poofy’s water bowl. “We’re both dead on our feet, and…” Bad choice of words. “I don’t know about you, but I’d really like to wash off the smell of smoke and get some sleep. I suggest you do the same. We can talk more later. Good night. Or rather, good morning.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and closed the door behind him, giving it an extra tug to verify the latch did indeed lock into place this time. Before crossing the hallway to his own bedroom, he stood outside Trista’s door, pressing his fingers to his forehead. He hoped he’d made the right decision bringing her to his home. The practical logistics of the plan he’d just set in motion had more obstacles than Omaha Beach on D-Day. A cynophobic woman shacking up with seven K-9 officers and their dogs was a royally fucked-up scenario.

Once inside his room, he stripped out of his filthy clothes, dropping them on the bathroom floor, then tore off the bandages on his hands. He turned on the shower, waiting only a minute or so before stepping gratefully under the spray and turning his face into the hot stream of water. He uttered a groan of pleasure. But as the water hit all the shallow cuts and scrapes scattered all over his hands, chest, and abs, he sucked in a tight breath.

Great. He’d forgotten about those.

The headache that had been brewing behind his eyes had finally begun to hammer in full force. It had started when Trista kicked him in the jaw outside her house, and he’d hit the back of his head against the brick siding. Now blood pounded mercilessly throughout his skull.

When he finished showering, he stepped into a pair of clean knit boxers and went in search of aspirin. When he didn’t find the bottle he was searching for, he figured one of the guys had snatched it in anticipation of a hangover. On the way to the kitchen, he caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror on the wall. Shit. His torso looked like he’d been hit with light shrapnel, and the left side of his jaw was turning three shades of purple.

When he opened his bedroom door, he paused, listening for any sounds inside Trista’s room, but there were none. Hopefully, she could manage to get some rest.

Heading down the hallway, the same snoring came to his ears, louder this time, and definitely coming from Jaime’s room at the top of the stairs. Knowing his friend’s proclivity to snore like a freight train after a night of drinking, Matt had strategically placed Jaime as far away from the master bedroom as possible.

In the kitchen, he began searching the upper cabinets for the spare bottle of aspirin he knew was tucked away somewhere. He moved down the line, checking each cabinet, determined to find the little white pills that would be his salvation. Finally, he caught sight of them in the cabinet over the stove, hidden behind boxes of sugar and flour. Why the fuck he’d put them there, he didn’t know. Reaching for the bottle, he froze.

Soft creaks sounded in the hallway, the kind made by someone stepping lightly, tentatively. Matt tensed, trying to decipher whether the source of the noise was friend or foe. The house alarm hadn’t gone off, but given the violent events of the past few days, he readied to lunge for one of the dozen or so brand-new chef’s knives sticking out from the butcher block inset in the kitchen island.

Trista rounded the corner. Her hair was damp, and his white T-shirt covered her from the neck down to her knees. The cotton shirt swamped her slight form, but he’d chosen it because it was well worn and would be comfortable to sleep in. But that also made the soft fabric cling lovingly to the mounds of her bare breasts. At least, he assumed they were bare, because the only clothes she had left in the world were that cotton camisole and probably panties. Although even the panties he couldn’t be sure of.

At the sight of him, she gasped, her green eyes wide. She put her hand to her throat, then her breath came out with a whoosh. “You scared the pooh out of me.”

“Pooh?” He barked out a laugh at her obvious reluctance to use the word “shit.” In a house full of seven cops and seven dogs, she’d better get used to hearing it. Often.

“Yes, pooh.” She straightened her shoulders and stuck out her chin, as if she was proud of the word.

“You don’t swear, do you?” he asked, again wanting to laugh when her pink lips twisted into an indignant pout. His question reminded him of when she’d asked whether he drank alcohol.

“Of course I do. When the situation d-demands it.” She padded hesitantly into the kitchen, her bare feet almost soundless on the tile. Her eyes dipped to his chest, down his body, all the way to his toes, and back again. Matt didn’t know if she was checking him out or eyeballing all the scrapes on his body.

And speaking of cursing, hell, her shins were dotted with cuts the same way her arms were. He’d seen them at the hospital, on her pale, soft skin, and it had made his gut clench with anger at the nameless, faceless fucker who’d torched her house.

As she came nearer, his gaze was drawn to her feet. Christ, even they were cute. Unpainted, tiny feet with tiny toes. And shit, was that a…no way. Gracing the big toe of her right foot was a silver ring studded with pink, sparkly stones. “Nice toe ring. Who knew you were such an undercover rebel. You got a tattoo somewhere?”

That elicited a tiny smile. “No. But every now and then, I like to take a walk on the w-wild side.”

He laughed, louder this time. “Honey, if you think that’s walking on the wild side, we’re gonna have to work on that.”

Her smile faltered, and he realized why. He hadn’t intended it, but his words were laced with sexual innuendo. Fuck. Why the hell had he said that? There might be something in the air between them, but he’d never be capable of giving in to it.

Clearing his throat, he turned and took two glasses from one of the cabinets. “Can I get you some water for your throat?”