Tricks had found her tennis ball and brought it to Bo, nosing it into her hand. “Good girl,” Bo praised, rubbing behind the silky ears. Tricks sniffed at the man on the sofa, then gave a joyous whirl because someone new was in the house. She bounced up and down, woofed softly to Bo, then began racing back and forth from her toy box to the man, bringing toy after toy until there was a heap of stuffed animals, chew sticks, and balls in front of the sofa.
His breathing had deepened. Maybe he’d gone to sleep. At any rate, he was oblivious to the growing heap of offerings, but bringing her toys was keeping Tricks occupied. “Go to it, girl,” Bo said to Tricks and left her still fetching toys while she herself went out to fetch the heavy duffle.
She grunted from effort as she dragged the duffle out of the Tahoe; it was so heavy she couldn’t prevent it from thudding to the ground, so she knew he hadn’t lifted it into the SUV himself. Probably he hadn’t even packed it himself.
Huffing and puffing, she lifted one end of the duffle and dragged it to the house and inside the door, where she let it drop with a thud. She looked at the flight of stairs going to the loft bedrooms, pondering the further logistics of her houseguest. She doubted he could make it up the stairs to the guest bedroom, so that meant he’d be sleeping on the sofa. There wasn’t any point in trying to wrestle the heavy bag upstairs when he’d need it down here. At least there was a full bathroom on the ground floor, or they’d have a serious problem. For now, the best she could do was shove the duffle close to the sofa so he could reach it if he needed anything.
His eyes were still closed despite Tricks’s bouncing back and forth. Bo hesitated a minute, thinking of all that needed doing, such as feeding them both and probably taking care of somehow getting him to the bathroom. Testing the waters, she asked, “Are you conscious?”
No answer.
Damn. She didn’t know if that was good or not. If he was just asleep, that was good. On the other hand, if he was unconscious, that could be very bad. She shouldn’t disturb him if he was sleeping. If he was unconscious, not doing something could kill him.
This was a bona fide dilemma.
Better to make a mistake and ask forgiveness than do nothing at all, as the saying went. She leaned over him and gently shook his right shoulder. “Hey—”
That was the only word she got out because his eyes flared open and his right arm shot out, his hand clamping around her throat, fingers digging deep and cutting off her air. For a split second all she could see was the blazing blue of his eyes, filling her own vision as it rapidly began dimming. Panic shot through her, hot and acid; the abrupt certainty that she was going to die blurred into an instinctive fury and without thought or even being able to see what she was aiming for, she struck, putting all her strength behind her right fist as she drove it toward his face. The impact jarred her arm all the way to her elbow.
He grunted, “Fuck!” and released her throat.
She staggered back, gasping for air, her hand going to her throat to massage the aching tissue. As soon as she could suck in some air she gasped, “Shit!”
They stared at each other from a safe distance of several feet.
Whoever had said it was better to make a mistake and ask forgiveness, blah blah blah, had been full of shit.
He’d been in the house fewer than five minutes, and he’d already tried to kill her. This couldn’t be good.
CHAPTER 5
SHE SHOULD HAVE KNOWN AXEL WOULD LIE. “NOT A danger to her,” hah!
Bo eyed him as she gingerly shook her hand; punching someone in the face hurt. Probably it hurt him, too, but that was his problem. He struggled to a sitting position and felt his nose. A little bit of blood trickled down and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.
Guilt almost—but not quite—assailed her for punching a wounded man. Common sense told her not to be angry, but he’d been trying to choke her and she didn’t feel very sensible about it. She wasn’t the instigator here. Even as weak as he was, she knew in her gut that he could easily have killed her, likely would have if he hadn’t realized what he was doing and who she was.
She didn’t want him bleeding all over her sofa. Silently she fished in her pocket for one of the clean tissues she always carried, in case Tricks gave her a drink of water she hadn’t asked for, and held it out to him. He took it and wiped at the blood, then looked down at the smear of blood on his hand and wiped it away too. He didn’t seem to want to look at her.
Tough.
“What the hell?” she demanded and left it to him to decipher her meaning, not that he needed to be a mental giant to do so.
“Sorry,” he muttered, holding the tissue to his nose. “Just . . . don’t shake me, okay? Yell, or throw something at me.”
“You can bet I’ll throw something at you.” Annoyed, she realized she was as much as admitting she wasn’t tossing him out on his keister. She’d made a deal with the devil, and she was getting paid for it.
Besides . . . she wasn’t stupid. The man had been shot, after all, and she could add two and two. She said, “Combat?”
He hitched up his right shoulder, then froze as the movement evidently pulled on things that didn’t want to be pulled. After a moment he said, “Of a sort.”
She didn’t see how there could be a “sort” of combat; you either fought, or you didn’t. Still, enough said. She got it. She was still grumpy about the incident, but she got it. She stood with her arms crossed, half-glaring down at him. “Okay,” she finally said. “But don’t choke me again.”