Page 58 of Lock ’N’ Load

“Lehni,” Matt ordered, and Sheba lay down on the grass.

“Is that Czech?” she asked, fairly certain it was.

“Yes.” He nodded. “Sheba is a Belgian Malinois. The breed is originally from Belgium, but she was born in the Czech Republic. She received her initial training there. After the agency bought her, it was easier to keep talking Czech to her than to have her relearn another language.”

“Fascinating.” And it was. She knew next to nothing about dogs. “I had assumed she was a German shepherd.”

“A lot of people think that.” Matt knelt beside the dog and began stroking its back. In response, Sheba nuzzled his arm. “Malinois resemble German shepherds, but most are ten to twenty pounds lighter, and with much shorter hair. They were originally bred to be herding dogs, although their temperament and abilities make them perfect for police and military work.”

“Why’s that?” She was suddenly interested in learning more about Sheba’s breed.

“They’re intelligent, athletic, intensely protective, and trainable. Not to mention,” he added with a laugh as Sheba licked him enthusiastically on the chin, “highly energetic, and eager to please their handlers.”

“How much does a Czech-comprehending Belgian Malinois cost?”

“It varies. Sheba cost about ten grand.”

“Holy shit! Who knew?” She shook her head, amazed, not only at the price tag but that she’d ever be this comfortable around a dog. Glancing down at Matt, she smiled and he returned it with a rare one of his own. And just as it had when he’d dropped that peck of a kiss on her lips, her belly flip-flopped all over again.

He nodded to Sheba. “Look what you’ve done to my dog. Turned her into a worthless, wriggling blob of fur.”

Turning back to the dog, Trista laughed. Sheba lay on her back, kicking all four paws into the air. Hesitantly, Trista kneeled a solid foot away from her and reached out to rub her soft belly. One of Sheba’s hind legs began kicking furiously, and Trista twisted away to avoid getting poked in the eye by a flailing, furry paw and landed on her butt in the grass. Sheba lay on her belly, creeping closer and closer, then gently rested her head in Trista’s lap.

Without lifting her head, Sheba looked up at her and blinked. Resting her hand on the dog’s silky ears, Trista realized that in the midst of all the horrible things crashing down on her, a miracle had just taken place.

After spending a lifetime believing that all canines were the devil reincarnate, she now saw that she’d been wrong. She was well on her way to conquering her biggest childhood fear.

And she had Matt to thank for it.

Chapter Sixteen

Matt found Trista right where he expected. Seated at his desk, her fingers dancing across the keyboard. Again he noted she wore the charm bracelet, which jingled as she clicked away.

He leaned against the doorjamb, being careful not to make any noise. Watching her had become one of his favorite things to do. From where he stood, he couldn’t see what she was searching for, but she kept pecking away at the keyboard, looking awfully cute engulfed in his big leather desk chair with her lips pursed. Incredibly kissable lips.

Distracting her had been his goal in kissing her, and it had worked.

Liar. You kissed her because you damn well fucking wanted to. Again.

He’d just gotten off the phone with Buck, who had no new information. After bumping it up the chain, Trista’s bosses still refused to turn over any new intelligence on whatever was really going on. They knew damned well what was behind the attacks and that pissed him off big time. What could be so important that they’d risk Trista’s life?

By kicking her out of Langley, they’d taken her out of the game. Perhaps that had been their goal. Either way, he didn’t like being kept in the dark. If he was in the dark, he couldn’t see it coming. Whatever it was, he’d be there for Trista.

Even if that meant taking a bullet for her.

The sight of Sheba stretched out on the floor next to Trista’s chair made him feel good. He’d helped Trista overcome a fear that had been festering since she was a kid. Sheba flicked her ears, letting out a throaty, contented groan deep in her throat. Normally, his dog would be in the kennel this time of day, since he didn’t want her going soft, but he’d made an exception so that Trista and Sheba could continue to bond. Even Poofy seemed to accept Sheba in his life. Kinda.

The Angora sat on top of the desk, hunched into a fluffy white ball. A look of wariness sharpened his blue eyes, but he appeared to be at least somewhat accepting of Sheba’s presence in the room. It was as if Poofy and Sheba had formed a tentative truce.

That reporter still hadn’t returned his call. Since he didn’t trust Wayne Gurgas’s word that the CIA was trying to reach Thomas George, he considered phoning the local PD to have them drive out and check on the guy in person.

Trista’s fingers finally stilled as she intently read whatever article she’d pulled up. He took a few steps closer and froze. Every muscle in his body tightened as he read the familiar headline: Local Teen Dies in Fire.

Annoyance flared in his gut, and he balled his hands at the realization she’d cyberstalked him. The last thing he wanted was for her to learn about the absolute worst part of his life. Or discover that it was still an integral part of him, one that occasionally had him waking in the middle of the night drenched in sweat and shaking so violently his teeth chattered.

“Oh, Matt,” she whispered, then covered her mouth with her hand.

That did it. He could take her derision at what he’d done. Even her disgust. But he couldn’t stand her pity.