by Pennza, Amy
“Well, it’s wrong. My career is hanging by a thread. The last thing I need is some local news station in L.A. picking up a story like this and blasting it all over town. This is exactly the sort of story tabloid shows love.”
If he frowned any harder, it was going to become permanently etched on his face. He gave his head a small shake. “I think you’re missing what’s really important here.”
“No, I’m really not. And I know how these things go. Dean has never missed an opportunity to talk about how well his business is doing. He would fight this, and it would be my word against his.” Goosebumps broke out on her arms at the thought of facing off with Dean in court. “I want nothing to do with that.”
Smith’s features softened. “It won’t be like that.”
She didn’t plan to find out. “I’m not filing a report. Besides, he didn’t…” Memories of garlic-scented breath washed over her. She closed her eyes for a second as a shudder rippled through her. “He didn’t force me to do anything.”
Some men yelled when they were angry. Others got quiet. Smith was one of the latter. His voice dropped down a full register, and some of the deadly focus he’d displayed earlier leaked back into his gaze. “The hell he didn’t. He took your choices away.”
His rage isn’t for you. She had to remember that. Otherwise, she was going to bolt off the bed and out of the room. She took a deep breath. “Don’t you understand? If you push me to file a report, you’d just be doing the same. I’m a big girl, Smith. This is my decision. If you want to help me, respect my choices.”
He wanted to argue. She could almost see him bite back his response. Instead, he stared at her for what felt like a full minute, then turned on his heel and left the room. Deuce, who still sat just inside the doorway, wagged his tail but stayed put.
Ashley made eye contact with the dog. “Is he always like this?”
Deuce gave her a doggy grin.
“That’s what I thought,” she muttered.
Smith reappeared, a white metal box in his hands. He placed it at the foot of the bed and flipped the top open, revealing various bandages, gauze, and tubes. He pulled a couple items from the box and turned to her. “Do you mind if I treat the scratch on your back? I have some medical training.”
As soon as he said it, her shoulder started burning. “Okay.”
He put his supplies by her hip, then helped her lean forward again. “This might sting,” he said, opening a small, white foil packet.
“Do your worst.”
He swabbed something cold over her shoulder. Fire shot down her arm. She gritted her teeth. Dammit!
“Easy,” he murmured.
The approving note in his voice filled her belly with a glow that warmed her to her toes. Then he rubbed something sticky over the wound, and more fire zipped across her back. She hissed through her teeth.
“Almost done.”
She tried to look over her shoulder, but she couldn’t see the wound. “Is it deep? Do you think I’ll need a tetanus shot?” She’d never had one, but she’d heard they were awful.
“It’s not deep. I just want to make sure it’s clean. There’s no telling how long those tools have been hanging on that wall.” He plucked a bandage from the bed, his fingers brushing her hip as he went.
A shiver that had nothing to do with the pain in her shoulder swept down her spine. She pinned her gaze on her knees. How could she feel pleasure under these circumstances? Every brush of Smith’s warm fingers on her back sent sparks shooting across her skin. She shivered again.
“Are you cold?”
“A little.” She took the excuse he’d given her and ran with it. “I forgot how chilly it gets in Texas in January. I didn’t pack for the weather.”
He stuck the bandage to her skin and stepped back. “All done.”
She sat back and met his gaze. His eyes looked more green than blue. “Thank you.”
He nodded. “I’d like it if you stayed here tonight. I don’t think you have a concussion, but you really shouldn’t be alone over the next twenty-four hours. Just to be safe.” He gestured toward a narrow doorway on the other side of the room. “There’s an en suite just through there, fully stocked. You should have everything you need. And I’ll be right next door if you need me.”
After her near-miss with Dean, the prospect of walking home to an empty, dark house made her stomach clench. It wouldn’t be a hardship to stay in the soft bed, surrounded by plush pillows and a thick comforter. The thought of a policeman sleeping in the next room didn’t hurt, either. Especially when he looked like a linebacker.
“Thank you,” she said. And then for some stupid reason, her eyes filled with tears. A powerful, unnamed emotion welled up and stuck in her throat. Before she could stop them, the tears flooded her eyes and streaked down her face. Her breaths came in fast, uncontrollable pants.
Smith was at her side in a heartbeat. The bed dipped under his weight. He smoothed his big palms down her arms and pulled her against his chest. “It’s all right. It’s all right.”
She pressed the side of her face against his t-shirt. “I-I’m s-sorry.”
His voice rumbled under her ear. “Nothing to be sorry about, querida. So get that thought out of your head right now.”
Her hands were awkward in her lap, so she wrapped them loosely around his waist. The scent of laundry detergent and some spicy scent—like a light aftershave—filled her nose. The urge to burrow into his chest was overpowering. She’d forgotten how good it felt to be held by a man.
He rocked her back and forth, then stroked a firm hand down her hair, smoothing it away from the bandage he’d placed on her shoulder. “What you’re feeling is normal. It’s the adrenaline and fear leaving your body. So just let it out.”
“I feel like such an idiot. I never”—she sniffed—“cry.”
“Well, I won’t tell anyone. And Deuce can’t talk, so he’s pretty good at keeping secrets.”
She let out a watery laugh. “Thanks.”
He eased her away from him but left his hands on her arms. “I can tell you from experience that the best thing for you is sleep.”
She kept her gaze on his chin. Blue-black stubble shadowed his jaw. He must have to shave every day, she thought absently. “O-okay.”
He stood and bent over her legs. “Here, let’s get these shoes off.” His warm fingers brushed her ankles as he worked at the tiny buckles, and a shiver raced up her spine. He placed the heels on the floor. “Do you feel well enough to stand so I can pull back the sheets?”
She slid to the floor, and he smoothed back the covers and lay the pillows flat. “All right,” he said. “Back in.”
The sheets were gloriously cool on her heated skin. She let him tuck her in like a child. As if his words had cast a spell, lethargy swept over her. Her limbs grew heavy. She struggled to keep her eyes open.
He called Deuce over, then leaned down and patted his flank. “Hey, Deuce buddy, I want you to stay in here tonight, huh?”
Deuce pushed his head under Smith’s hand, then lay on the ground next to the bed.
Dimly, Ashley heard Smith croon praise to the dog. Through drooping eyelids, she saw Smith close the medical kit and tuck it under his arm. He stared down at her, his hazel gaze steady. “You sleep, okay? You’re safe here.”
Safe. Of course she was. Because he was with her. The heavy, dragging sensation pulled at her mind. Smith’s face blurred at the edges.
A gentle hand pulled the blankets to her chin. The last thing she heard was a deep voice that said, “Rest, beautiful girl.”
10
Someone was shining a bright light in her face.
Ashley groaned and turned her head to the side…then groaned some more because the movement made the back of her skull ache like it was being pummeled by tiny jackhammers. The light followed her.
What the hell?
A scratching sound—like sandpaper rubbing against wood—invaded her consciousness. Slowly, realization dawned, and
she opened her eyes. The light was coming from a window.
And she was in Smith’s guest room.
She shot upright, and the blankets fell to her waist. The jackhammers in her head pounded harder. “Ugh.” She brought her hands to her forehead. Her stomach pitched. She took shallow breaths through her mouth. After a minute, the roiling in her gut subsided.
There was more scratching—this time from the side of the bed. A low, canine whine sounded.
Nausea under control, she pulled her hands away from her face. Deuce rested his chin on the bed, his amber eyes doleful. Two triangle-shaped patches of tan fur outlined his eyes, giving him a perpetual look of faint surprise. She gazed around the room, which was decorated in a simple but tasteful style reminiscent of a quaint bed and breakfast. The wallpaper was a dark navy. A profusion of vines and delicate pink and white flowers saved it from being too overpowering. Gleaming mahogany woodwork as thick as her waist ran around the room’s perimeter. Matching crown molding hugged the ceiling.
Deuce made a soft sound, pulling her attention back to him. She rested her hand on the top of his head. The fur was much softer than it looked, especially the pale tufts around his ears. “Hey, boy. Did you stick around all night?”
His ears twitched forward.
“Well, if you did, thank you.”
Abruptly, he pulled his head from under her hand and trotted to the closed door. He looked back at her over his shoulder and whined.
She’d never had a pet, but the sign of a dog in need of a potty break was unmistakable.
She untangled herself from the covers and slid off the bed. As soon as her feet touched the floor, a wave of dizziness washed over her. She leaned against the mattress until it passed. A clock on the nightstand revealed it was two thirty. She looked at the two windows that flanked a chest of drawers. Sunlight spilled into the room and made rectangles on the floor. Holy crap, she’d slept through the night and into the afternoon.
Deuced whined again.
“Coming, boy.” On her way to the door, she noticed a stack of folded clothes on top of the dresser against the wall. A scrap of paper bearing Smith’s bold handwriting sat on top. Did that mean he’d left? She itched to read it, but Deuce was practically doing the potty dance by the door.
As soon as she opened it, he wiggled through and shot down the stairs in a clatter of toenails on hardwood. She stuck her head out the door and peered up and down the hallway, listening for any sign of Smith. When she heard nothing, she followed Deuce.
He waited for her at the front door, tail wagging. A security pad on the wall beamed a steady green light. She unlocked the door, which chimed with a robotic bell sound. Deuce shot across the porch and into the yard. As she leaned against the jamb, her gaze on Deuce, she recalled what Dean had said about Smith’s finances. Fancy home security systems didn’t come cheap. Cops weren’t known for their luxurious salaries, and a cop—even a police chief—in Prattsville couldn’t be bringing home all that much.
Deuce did his business quickly, then trotted back up the steps, tongue lolling.
She stood to the side so he could slip past her. Even with the extra space, he brushed his big body against her thigh on his way in. She shut the door, then turned and leaned against it. When Smith had brought her inside last night, she’d been woozy from the combination of wine, the knot on her head, and the long walk home in four-inch heels. Now that she had a chance to look around, she whistled under her breath. Wow.
There was nothing about the decor that screamed wealth, but it was obvious Smith had spared no expense when it came to restoring the home. The foyer walls were covered in dark mahogany paneling that matched the wood floors and stopped at hip height. Above it, an understated tan shade covered the smooth plaster. Ashley stepped to the wall and ran her hand over it. She knew more about antique furniture than houses, but she was fairly certain Smith had departed from Victorian style when he’d chosen paint over wallpaper. She couldn’t blame him. To say the Victorians had loved busy patterns was an understatement.
To the right of the hallway was a small sitting room with an ornate fireplace and a chandelier topped with a white plaster medallion. A gray area rug with a shag pile stretched across the floor. The room was furnished with a comfortable-looking sectional sofa and an oversized chair. Unlike the floral monstrosities in Grandma Winnie’s house, Smith’s furniture was cool and modern. The style should have clashed in the otherwise traditional room. Like the exterior color scheme, though, it somehow worked. The sitting room wouldn’t have looked out of place in a home magazine. How had a small-town police chief managed to pull together such an impressive space?
Clearly, there was more to Smith than met the eye.
Something nudged her leg, and she looked down and met Deuce’s gaze. The sight of him reminded her of the note she’d seen upstairs. She patted her thigh. “Come on, buddy. Let’s go see what your mysterious master has to say.”
As if he understood her intentions, Deuce let out a soft woof and trotted to the stairs. Smiling, she followed him back up to the guest room.
The note was written on a piece of stationery that said “Prattsville City Hall” at the top.
Ashley clucked her tongue as she picked it up. “Stealing government property, Chief Salvatierra?”
She’d only seen it one other time, but Smith’s bold handwriting was unmistakable. Wasn’t sure of your size. Make yourself at home. Back by 7 p.m. Need anything, call. — SVS. There was a phone number printed underneath.
Did the man always write in sentence fragments? She rubbed her thumb over his signature—or what passed for one. What did the V stand for? She hadn’t missed that he’d called her querida last night. So Dean had been right about Smith having Mexican roots?
As soon as she thought of Dean, the back of her head throbbed. She touched the lump on her skull. The swelling seemed better, but the knot was still tender around the edges. As she probed the wound, she realized with disgust that her hair felt grimy. She looked down at her tube top and jeans. Suddenly, she couldn’t get out of the clothes fast enough.
Her bladder also chose that moment to make its presence known.
She scooped up the bundle Smith had left and headed for the narrow door he’d pointed out the night before. Inside was a small but well-appointed bath with a stand-up shower tiled in dove gray. After she relieved her aching bladder, she showered quickly. A metal stand in the corner held a stack of fluffy white towels folded with the precision of a department store display. She wrapped one around her body and tied up her hair turban-style with another.
The clothes Smith had left were definitely his. She had to roll the waistband of the sweats three times to stop them from sliding down her hips. The gray cotton t-shirt fell to the tops of her thighs, the sleeves to her forearms. She stared at the pile of her dirty clothes on the floor. Smith hadn’t provided any underwear, and the feel of his sweats brushing against her sex was curiously intimate. Her red panties lay on top of her jeans. For a second, she considered washing her panties in the sink, but she shook her head. She had no way to dry them, and there was no way in hell she was stringing up her underwear in Smith’s bathroom.
In the end, she folded her clothes and left them stacked on the sink. A quick search of the vanity drawers revealed a hairbrush, toothpaste, and a toothbrush still wrapped in plastic. She set the toothbrush on the counter and stared at it as she brushed the tangles from her hair. How on earth was Smith single? When Pia heard he stocked his guest rooms like a hotel, she was going to be on the first flight from L.A.
Ashley brushed her teeth and wandered back into the bedroom. Deuce, who lay curled up like a donut next to the bed, lifted his head.
The clock on the nightstand said four thirty. As if her shower exertions had caught up with her, a wave of dizziness threatened to send her crashing to the floor. She made it to the bed and slipped under the covers.
It wasn’t the worst thing in the world, snuggling under a heavy blanket with a guard dog
watching the door. The scent of laundry detergent and the same spicy aftershave she’d smelled last night wafted around her. She lifted the t-shirt to her nose and inhaled. Smith’s scent was faint, but it was there.
Danger. The warning shot through her drowsy mind like a spear. It was so very dangerous to give in to temptation—especially with Smith Salvatierra. She knew practically nothing about him, except that he valued his privacy and preferred the company of his dog over people.
But at that moment, the pleasure of sinking into his bed, surrounded by his scent, was a temptation she wasn’t willing to ignore.
She let her eyes drift shut, and then dove headfirst into the sleep that beckoned to her.
11
For what felt like the hundredth time that day, Smith glanced at his passenger seat. It was weird working without Deuce by his side. A few times, he’d started to talk out loud, only to realize he was alone in the car.
Although, most people would probably consider it strange that he talked to his dog in the first place.
Most people didn’t spend nine or ten hours in a patrol car, either. He was willing to bet long haul truckers and folks in similar occupations tended to speak their thoughts aloud, even if their audience was mute—or imaginary. It was human nature to crave interaction with others.
Even if you were a danger to others.
The GPS informed him in a crisp British accent that he needed to turn left. He checked his rearview mirror, moved over, and made the turn. He knew Prattsville pretty well by now, but he didn’t often venture to this side of town. It was mostly office buildings and warehouses, and the car traffic was minimal. Some of the business owners had pooled their resources and hired a rent-a-cop to patrol their parking lots. If the guy had been a kid with a badge and a walkie talkie, Smith might have worried. But he’d talked to the patrolman a few times and had been relieved to learn he was a retired police sergeant from San Antonio. It helped to know there was someone competent on the job. Prattsville was small, but it could use another full-time officer. Smith couldn’t be everywhere all the time.