Page 43

Lilac

Good God. What in the world have I got myself into?

I stare at the man’s muscled form, covered in nothing but tats, a sheet, and a bandage. According to the pet-care agency, this Mr. Slate wasn’t supposed to be in residence. I specifically asked the woman who hired me and she assured me he worked in Manhattan and rarely came home.

Why then, does he even own a dog? Selfish bastard. He probably has a Doberman or a German Shepherd as a guard and needs someone to feed the poor thing.

I thought I landed a cushy job for the summer, especially when she told me it came with a place to live. Until about ten minutes ago, I was thrilled. It just goes to show you, if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is.

Shit, shit, shit. The man with thighs on either side of mine is pure testosterone. He’s got dark, bedroom eyes, black lashes and a short beard. It looks so soft, I have to force my palm from caressing it. His lips, turned down at the moment, look like they could curl my toes when pressed to mine. That is, if I was looking for sex, which I definitely am not.

Enough! Jeesh.

Luckily, the doctor within takes over as I peel off his bandages and hiss.

Oh My God. What kind of guy is he?

“You were shot?” Shivers run up and down my spine. “Are you a cop?”

Please say yes. Please say yes.

Of course, he’s going to say yes. What else could he say? ‘No, I got shot robbing a bank?’

“Bodyguard.” He shrugs it off as if he just said he’s an accountant.

Okay. It could be worse. I take out my new doctor’s bag from under the bed and assess the pulled stitches. “You got alcohol or something to clean this with?”

He grunts some kind of affirmation and I wonder why I can’t understand him so I look down. His face is toward the window, otherwise his mouth would be right at my breasts. Realizing how intimate this seems, I step back and my butt bumps the open dresser drawer. It slides in with a loud thunk and I jump.

“And where would I find this alleged alcohol?” Damn, talking with him is like pulling teeth.

He starts to get up but I take his hand and use it to press the towel into his shoulder. “I’ll get it. Just tell me where to go.”

He smirks at my unfortunate choice of words. “In the main house. Go up the deck and down the long hallway. The bathroom is the fourth door on the right.”

Where my palm rests over his knuckles, my skin tingles and a part of me doesn’t want to pull away. His dark eyes widen, his nostrils flair, and his breath hitches.

That can’t be good.

“I’ll be right back.” Best to run, rather than walk but I come to an abrupt stop at the kitchen door when his dog barks wildly from the main house.

“What’s her name?”

“Who?” Dark eyes shoot me a confused look.

“Your dog? Its name?”

“How the hell would I know? I call it Dog.”

What an asshole. Doesn’t even bother to name his pet. I click my tongue and pause, needing just a bit more intel.

“Well does Dog bite?”

“I don’t think so. Didn’t bite me.” A cocky grin spreads over his face.

“That’s not funny, Mr. Slate.”

“Just Slate.”

Oh great. We go by one name, do we? Like Prince? Fine.

“Listen, Slate . I don’t fancy being bit by your dog. I believe we’ll both agree we’ve had enough blood for the evening.”

His face goes earnest on me, with a voice to match. “Hey, I’m not messing with you. This puppy shows up on my doorstep last night and I took him in. He was pretty banged up and it looked like someone took a shot at him. So, I stitched him up. I think you and he will get along fine as long as you drop the attitude. Dogs sense shit like that.”

Maybe I should let him bleed out.

“I’ll be right back,” I smile sweetly and slam the damn door behind me.

Attitude? He hasn’t begun to see attitude. I stomp across the paving-stone path, up the deck stairs, and open the double glass doors. Suddenly, an English Sheepdog places oversized paws on my chest and slobbers all over my face.

“Well, hi there, baby. How ya doin’? You’re such a good doggy.” Laughing, I squat and let the puppy give me a few more licks before trying to follow Slate’s directions.

The kitchen is bigger than the whole guest house with granite countertops, two islands, and enough counter space for a TV celebrity chef. I turn left at a long hall, pass at least six doors and find the bathroom. After searching multiple cabinets, I finally locate alcohol, clean bandages and a tube of antibiotic cream.

Before I go, I have a second thought and stop in what must be Slate’s bedroom. There’s a pair of boxers on the floor and I grab his jeans as well. I really do need this job and any kind of sexual attraction will just screw things up.

However, I’m not blind. I can’t help but note there’s just one pillow and not one girly decoration in the room. The fact he probably lives alone makes the girls between my legs cheer but I am not amused.

“C’mon boy.”

I open the door and the puppy gets away from me. He bolts halfway across the yard, turns and barks. Then, he returns with a bound and presses his head to the back of my knees to urge me on faster.

I have to laugh, despite the completely screwed-up situation. After I make sure Mr. Sexy is not going to die from loss of blood, I’ll pack my things and… I don’t know. I guess I’ll find some park and sleep in my car. It wouldn’t be the first time.

By the time I get to the little cottage, the pup is sitting next to Slate. His tail thumps while Slate gives him plenty of love. In the light, I notice the puppy’s bandaged too.

Like owner, like dog.

“Okay, let’s have a look-see.” I pull away the towel, our hands connect again, and my lady-lips do somersaults. This makes it more difficult to get serious and inspect the bullet wound.

“How long ago did this happen?” I pitch my voice professional and detached.

“A couple weeks.” He opens his legs so I can step between which is the right thing to do but way too intimate given the fact he is sexy as all hell and naked except for the sheet wrapped around his waist.

“Okay. I’ll repair the stitches that broke open but you should see your regular doctor in the morning.” If he can ignore the attraction, so can I. Besides, I feel bad I was the one who caused him to bleed.

He grunts something which could be agreement or dissent.

“This is going to sting.” When the denatured alcohol sinks in, he hisses and glares.

“Sorry.” While I work, he studies me so hard he either wants to become a doctor or is worried I’m incompetent.

I cut the thread and he nods with a look more suited to a professor than a patient.

“Not bad.” He leans onto his elbows to get a better look, this time at me.

Quickly I step out from between his legs, sweat rolling down my back. The suitcase on my bed reminds me I need to go.

“I, uh. Okay. Mr. Slate. I’m heading out.”

“Where to?” He looks at an old clock on the wall, then checks his wrist. “Now, it’s three in the morning.”

He stands as if that were that and, well, it’s not. “Listen, it’s obvious this job isn’t going to work out. Best if I just go, but thanks.”

For nothing.

“Knock on my door when you wake.” He turns on his heel, grabs my car keys off the kitchen table, and strides out of the house.

The puppy turns his head between outside and inside, apparently confused as to who to follow.

His bark sounds an awful lot like his new master as he runs out the door.

I think about running after my keys but something about Mr. Slate screams danger. I don’t think Edna would’ve sent me to a serial killer but still, who knows? They say it’s the quiet ones you need to worry about.

I chuckle to myself. Well, hell, he wasn’t all too quiet while he was banging on my door. Still, I wouldn’t want to cross him and he’s definitely not a guy to argue with in the middle of the night.

I push the suitcase to the floor and lay down on top of the comforter, tossing and turning, wishing he hadn’t stolen my sheet. At one point in the night, I remember I didn’t lock the door and almost get up.

Seriously? With his alarms?

Knowing he’s watching makes me feel strangely safe.

Sleep does finally come but it’s full of weird dreams and too soon I wake, just before dawn. I glance over at the main house where Mr. Sexy types, his skin lit blue by his computer monitor. Must be he couldn’t sleep, either.

For the first time since ‘The Incident’ I turn over and drop into a deep. dreamless sleep. When I wake again, the sun is high and I have a caffeine headache. Damn it. I grab a couple acetaminophen pills out of my purse and gag them down with a glass of warm water.

After, I find a kettle and some instant coffee, the most important part of the day. In minutes, heavenly java is steaming in my mug. I search the empty fridge and cupboards for cream or sweetener.

Whatever. Black it is.

Once caffeinated, I pick up my phone, push dial and let my breath out in a long stream.

Hopefully, Edna will find some other dog-walking jobs. I know none will have the house included but I’ll deal. The worst part will be sleeping in my car but it can’t be helped. After this final class at Columbia, I’ll be all caught up.

Outside, some cardinal warbles, looking for a mate. Good luck with that.

“Hello? Mrs. Weinstein?”

“Just a second. Is this Lila?”

I don’t bother to correct her. It’s Lilac, like the flower, but nobody ever gets it right. “Yes, Mrs. Weinstein, it’s me.”

“Did you get settled in all right last night?” In the background, her three beagles bay, almost drowning her out.

I shout into the phone, “Well, actually, that’s why I’m calling. Mr. Slate was not aware I would be staying in the guest house. He was actually quite annoyed.”

I leave out the part about the gun and mace.

“Oh dear. Just a sec.” It sounds as if she’s covering the mouthpiece of her phone but not successfully. “Mother? Are you there?”

An elderly woman responds like the teacher in the Charlie Brown specials. “ Wa Wa Wahhhh.”

Mrs. Weinstein seems to understand fully and continues to converse as if I wasn’t on the other end of the phone. “Didn’t you inform Mr. Slate we got him a walker? Okay… Yes… Okay.”

She speaks again and I guess she’s addressing me, now. “Don’t go anywhere, dearie. I’m coming right over. Bye now.”

My cell phone indicates she hung up and I shake my head. Where the hell can I go? Mr. Sexy-Abs took my keys. I suppose I could just demand them back but something about going over to his house and knocking on his door is too much this morning. I need a hell of a lot more coffee to deal.

Not only that, unlike last night, my thoughts are clear and I’m in no hurry to go. The hundred bucks in my wallet won’t take me too far, especially when you consider my credit cards are maxed.