by Tee O'Fallon
As Jaime poured himself a cup, she noticed both men were drinking from earthenware mugs. “Why do I get a travel mug?” She lifted the silver cup with the black rubber grip.
“Matt’s orders.” Nick ushered her from the stool toward the back door, opening it. “You guys got a date. Outside.”
Before stepping out, she looked from Nick to Jaime, sensing something was afoot as they both averted their gaze.
“Matt forbade me to go outside.” She narrowed her eyes at them.
“Not in the front of the house facing the road. But you can go into the backyard if one of us is with you at all times.” Nick gently shoved her out the door.
“Hey! Wait, I—” But the door had already shut behind her.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped onto the grass, inhaling the crisp morning air. The weather was finally beginning to cool off, but it was still comfortable. This was her first real look at Matt’s property, and what she saw amazed her.
Some of the lushest, greenest grass she’d ever seen blanketed at least several acres stretching out before her. Surrounding the manicured field were thick stands of evergreens mingled with tall oak trees, the leaves on which were just beginning to turn shades of yellow. The center of the field was dotted with an assortment of ladders, ramps, hurdles, stacked drums, and cinder blocks. On one side of the field, separate from the house, was another building with a sloped, red roof. A door opened, and Matt walked out and began striding toward the equipment, beckoning her to join him.
As she walked to meet him, sunlight glinted off his dark hair, and she wondered if it was as soft as it looked. With his cop haircut, it was short, but she’d bet she could run her fingers through the strands.
Even in something as simple as khakis and a dark-blue polo, the man was all business, but it wasn’t just the clothes. It was in his bearing and his overall demeanor. The man positively exuded confidence in everything he did. She really, really wished she possessed even a fraction of his self-assuredness.
“Morning.” He smiled at her, but there was a mischievous glint in his eyes that made her suspicious. “Sleep okay?”
“Great, thanks.” Like shit. There goes my language. When had that started? Probably after someone tried to murder her, twice, so she was entitled to a few curse words here and there.
“Liar.” His gaze drilled into her as he gave her that classic interrogative-cop look she’d seen on too many TV shows. “I can see the dark circles under your eyes. Is the bed uncomfortable?”
“N-no.”
“Is the guys’ snoring keeping you up?”
“Um, n-no.” Shit. The stammering thing wasn’t going away after all.
His eyes narrowed, intensifying his cop look until she worried she’d unintentionally blurt out the truth. “Then what?”
I was thinking about you running your hands across my silk-covered skin, then—
“I was w-worried about that reporter,” she lied again. “Has he returned your call?”
“No.” Matt shook his head. “But it’s only seven in the morning.”
“What is all this?” In a desperate attempt to derail his interrogation, she swung her arm to encompass all the equipment.
He followed the direction of her arm. “It’s a training facility. Or, at least, I hope it will be one day.”
“For K-9s?” She should have realized it immediately.
He nodded. “Partly, yes. Since September 11 and all the recent terrorist attacks around the world, there’s a shortage of trained K-9s. I’ve been gathering the necessary equipment here and building a classroom in there.” He indicated the red-roofed structure. “It’s not quite finished. I still need AV equipment and a few other things. But I could use some grant money to finish it up.”
“You said partly K-9s. What else d-do you plan to do here?”
“I want to help kids. Teens with alcohol problems.”
Wow. She should have seen that coming. The other night at her house, when she’d offered him a drink and he declined, he’d said he hadn’t had one since he was sixteen. There had to be a story there. Whatever it was, she’d bet her last USB drive it was something bad. “Does the place have a name?”
“Jerry’s Place.” His eyes softened, and it was obvious there was more behind him opening up this training facility than he was letting on. “After getting a grant, my goal is to get listed as an approved community service facility, so that when a juvenile offender is sentenced to community service, he or she can come here and work with the dogs. To start with, I’ll select a few rescue dogs from local shelters so the kids can work with animals that need them as much as the kids need the dogs.”
Pausing, he looked off in the distance. He seemed to be somewhere far, far away, seeing something she couldn’t. Something that wasn’t really there, of course. “Who’s Jerry?” she asked.
“My best friend. Or, he was. Jerry would have loved this place.” Turning back to her, his gaze was sober, and if his face hadn’t been composed of all those hard, chiseled planes and angles, she’d say he looked sad. He took a deep breath. “Jerry and I were both crazy about dogs, but our parents would never let either of us have one of our own. They said we weren’t responsible enough, so…”
“What did you do?” she asked softly.
He chuckled and looked away again. “What any kids who wanted a dog would do—prove our parents wrong. We did everything to show our folks we were mature enough to take on that responsibility. We both got every dog-walking job we could find after school and took care of neighbors’ and friends’ dogs while they were on vacation. But we never did manage to get our own.”
His face went sober again. “Jerry died a long time ago, and this is the best way I could think of to remember him. Helping kids and dogs in need. Taking care of a dog and training one can give a kid a sense of purpose and responsibility.”
“How did Jerry die?” she whispered, inherently sensing whatever had happened had left a painful mark on Matt’s soul. Their gazes met, and she hoped he’d tell her. Thus far, she knew him solely as a cop and her protector, but now, she found herself wanting to know the man inside.
His eyes went hard. “In a fire.”
“Oh God.” No wonder he’d gotten in her face about what fire does to the human body. “Were you there?” She had a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that he had been. The scars on his hands and forearms. Only now, she realized they were burn scars.
“Nice try, lady. Getting you out here isn’t about me.” The corners of his mouth lifted, instantly transforming his somber expression back to mischievous. If she didn’t already think he was the handsomest man she’d ever met, she did now. Holy shit. Right then, she was practically bowled over by him. “It’s about you.”
Before she could react, he turned to the red-roofed building and whistled. To her horror, a dog—Sheba—launched through the open door.
For a millisecond, she froze. The signals from her brain warning her to flee weren’t transmitting to her limbs. The travel mug slipped from her fingers to the grass. She began to shake, and her heart hammered against her ribs. “What are y-you d-doing?” As if her words broke the spell, she turned to run, but he caught her arm, pulling her to him, her back to his chest. “N-no! Let me g-go!”
As the dog’s athletic gait quickly ate up the distance between them, Trista tried backing up, but that only pressed her deeper against Matt’s enormous body, giving her a small measure of safety.
“Relax,” he said against her ear. “I keep telling you she won’t hurt you. You need to trust me on that.”
Sucking in deep breaths, Trista’s chest rose and fell as Sheba came closer. In two seconds, the dog would be on them. “P-please,” she whimpered, her entire body shaking with fear. “D-don’t do this.”
Sheba neared them, her jaws open, her tongue lolling out the side of her mouth. Trista squeezed her eyes shut, tensing, waiting for those sharp canines to puncture her flesh.
“Open your eyes,” Matt ordered so
ftly.
Still tensing, her body against Matt’s, she realized his arms were around her. More to the point, she was still alive. The dog hadn’t attacked.
Grimacing, she opened her eyes to slits and held her breath. Two feet in front of her, Sheba stood, wagging her tail. The dog’s jaws were open, but it was due to panting, from the effort of running across the field at breakneck speed. Not because she was about to attack.
“Sedni,” Matt said, and the dog sat.
Sheba’s amber-gold eyes glittered in the morning light, and if Trista could rid her mind of the certainty that the animal wanted to pounce and eat her for breakfast, she could swear the dog was…smiling.
“See?” Matt’s breath was warm against her neck. “Give her a chance. She only wants to get to know you. It’s in a dog’s nature.”
Sheba stretched out her neck, bringing those jaws closer, but all she did was sniff the air in Trista’s direction. Those amber eyes stared at her, and she couldn’t look away. Suddenly, the dog opened its jaws, and Trista twisted in Matt’s arms, trying to get away. Now they were chest to chest. Without thinking, she threw her arms around his waist, clutching him to her.
“Honey, turn around.”
Squeezing her eyes shut again, she shook her head. “N-no.”
“Yes.” He eased away from her, tipped up her chin with his forefinger, then kissed her.
With her eyes closed, she hadn’t seen his mouth come down on hers, but when his lips met hers, she snapped open her eyes and jerked back. When she looked up, his lids had lowered, and his darkened eyes were totally focused on her mouth. Her own gaze sought out his lips, and her belly flip-flopped, as if a swarm of butterflies were scrambling to take flight inside. He stared at her an instant longer before exhaling a tight breath through his nose.
“You only did that to distract me. D-didn’t you?” Because there could be no other possible explanation as to why he would kiss her. Or is there? Stupidly, she hoped so. Logically, she knew there wasn’t. Mantra. Remember your mantra.
Giving her his typical scowl, he forced her to turn in his arms and face the dog again. Sheba still sat obediently at their feet, but now the animal was wriggling in place, her tail wagging harder, her face still sporting that imaginary smile.
“You can do this. Dogs are a miracle, and once you let them into your life, you’ll wonder how you ever lived without them.”
“I don’t need a d-dog.” Again, she shook her head. “I have Poofy.”
When Matt chuckled, his chest vibrated against her back. “It’s not the same. Poofy’s a great cat, but no cat in the world can provide you with the kind of steadfast companionship, loyalty, and protection a dog can. Think of it as broadening your horizons. Right, Sheba?”
Lifting her snout, Sheba opened her jaws and responded with a low howling, intermingled with guttural grunts and yips from low in her throat. It was almost as if the dog was talking. Trista had to admit it sounded kind of cute, especially coming from this dog in particular. Because like Matt, this dog was a cop.
Again, he chuckled, and she liked how it pushed the muscles of his broad chest against her back, making her feel safe and secure. “Do you trust me?”
“No.” Although she really did.
“Reach out your hand. Let her smell you.”
Trista swallowed, then took a deep breath and slowly stretched out her hand. Her fingers shook, and when Sheba leaned forward, the dog’s nostrils flared as she smelled Trista’s hand.
“Good. Now pet the top of her head. Stroke her ears. She loves that.”
With her fingers still trembling, although not so much now, she petted the dog’s head. The fur was softer than she expected, and warm. Beneath her hand, Sheba blinked, looking up at her. Winking.
Sheba’s body wriggled in a way that even Trista understood was sheer delight. The dog pushed her head more firmly against her hand.
“She wants you to stroke her ears,” Matt said. “Do it.”
Obeying, she eased her hand higher, delighted to discover the short, dark-brown fur covering the animal’s ears to be even softer than that on her head. Keeping her snout closed, Sheba moaned, letting her know she liked having her ears massaged.
For several minutes, she quietly stroked and petted the dog, and before she knew it, she was using both hands, reveling not only in the feel of the beautiful coat beneath her fingertips but in the dog’s obvious appreciation of her attention.
The more she touched Sheba, the more the dog wanted. As soon as she stopped petting her, Sheba nuzzled her hand with unexpected gentleness, yowling until Trista started the process all over again. And throughout it all, her tail never stopped wagging.
“You are beautiful,” she whispered when Sheba stood and began pirouetting in front of her, practically dancing.
The dog’s ears pricked up, and she gave Trista a light lick on the back of her hand. When Trista giggled, Sheba made a series of yipping sounds so similar to human laughter, it made Trista smile. The dog sat back on her haunches, lifting her paw and holding it in midair. Instinctively, Trista reached out and took the paw, as if shaking hands.
“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, bei
ng 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.