Page 45 of Lock ’N’ Load

Maybe she should chock it up to the stress of the last week and everything that had happened. Perhaps she could blame her Nurse Nancy routine on gratitude.

No. That isn’t it.

Sgt. Matt Connors was beautiful. With all that smooth, taut skin covering thick, hard muscle, she hadn’t been able to keep from touching him. His arms were long and strong, as were his legs. From his pecs to his abs, his entire torso was covered with undulating ridges of incredibly well-defined muscle. Looking at him in the kitchen, with him wearing nothing but those tight boxer shorts, her mouth had literally watered. That had never happened to her before. Then again, aside from an occasional day at the beach, she’d never been around a man so scantily clad, and it did things to her body that she’d also never experienced.

Tingles had skittered across her skin, and beneath Matt’s soft T-shirt, her nipples hardened to tight buds. Something deep inside her began craving something new. Something unfamiliar.

She’d been through hell over the past few days and hadn’t given a thought to what it would mean to stray beyond her comfort zone. She’d nearly been killed twice in the past week, and for once in her life, she wanted to do something without second-guessing herself, without preparing an analytical plan to examine every action and reaction.

If she’d learned nothing else over the past few days, it was that life could be cut short, without any warning whatsoever. So she’d done what her feminine instincts demanded. And those instincts had screamed at her to rub that goddamn antiseptic ointment on Matt’s body. So there.

Take that, Sgt. Connors. I can too curse. When the situation demands it.

Although it did occur to her that if she cursed to herself when no one was around to hear it, did it really count?

Even with the beer, sleep had come painfully slowly, and she’d lain awake for another thirty minutes, tossing and turning, unable to get comfortable. It had been impossible not to remember how he’d trembled at her touch, and as she’d administered the ointment progressively lower on his torso, the temperature of his skin had seemed to rise twenty degrees. But he hadn’t stopped her. Not at first, anyway. Then something changed as quickly as a shifting wind, and he’d pretty much kicked her out of the kitchen.

The bed was warm, the air streaming in through the open window cool. Reluctant to get up, she tugged on the duvet to snuggle deeper into the plush bedding, but it wouldn’t budge. Turning onto her other side, she came face to face with a pair of amber-gold eyes. For a fraction of a second, she couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Then she opened her mouth, tilted her head back, and screamed like she’d never screamed before.

The dog leaped to its feet on the bed. Trista scrambled backward off the mattress, falling hard on her ass on the floor, which still wasn’t far enough away.

Sheba stood on the bed, her tail wagging, her jaws open, and her entire body wriggling. If Trista didn’t know better, she’d swear the dog was either laughing at her or was inordinately pleased with herself.

Trista’s heart slammed against her ribs as she crab-walked backward on her elbows to the farthest corner of the room.

Sheba pranced in a circle on the bed, panting, smiling in that evil way dogs did.

Poofy!

Had Matt’s dog eaten Poofy in the middle of the night while she slept?

Dear God, no.

Panicked, she searched the room until she spotted Poofy hunched into a ball on the desk, backed up as far as he could possibly get against the wall with the hair on his back standing straight up. Fear-filled blue eyes stared back at her, telling her this was all her fault. She should never have agreed to this arrangement, and now it was too late.

Sheba lay down on the bed and crawled to the side of the mattress closest to her, hanging her muzzle off the edge, facing her. Trista shut her eyes, her chest heaving as she gulped in air. The distant memory of another dog… She’d been helpless, only six years old. Mommy! Mommy! Where are you? Then her mother was there, picking her up and holding her tightly. More screaming. Hers. Only this time it was real, not a memory.

The dog’s eyes glowed hotly from a brown-and-black face. There was no doubt in her mind that the devil dog on her bed was about to tear her and her beloved Angora to shreds.

Sheba rose to her feet, woofing, and Trista opened her mouth to scream again.

“What the hell?” Matt stood in the open doorway, his bare, broad chest heaving, and his hair was mussed, as if he’d just woken up. He had a gun in his hand. “Sheba! Jdi ven!”

Letting out another woof—one that sounded as if the dog were disappointed—Sheba spun, leaped off the bed, and trotted from the room.

“Tris.” Matt set the gun on the desk and kneeled on the floor beside her, and the next thing Trista knew, she was in his arms, her head pressed against the solid wall of his chest. “Shh.” He stroked her hair, and she realized he was now sitting on the bed with her in his lap. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know she was in the house. One of the guys must have let her in while I was asleep.”

“Sh-she was going to kill me and Poofy,” she managed to say between shaky breaths.

Beneath her cheek, Matt’s low chuckle reverberated in her ear. “That, I can guarantee you, would never happen.”

“Bullshit.”

To her annoyance, he chuckled again. “You do curse.”

A stampede of footsteps pounded in the hallway, followed by a chorus of shouts.

“What’s wrong?”