Troublemaker (9 page)

He evidently knew something about women, because he said, “What kind of milk?”

“Skim.”

“Water, please.”

She snorted and got him a glass of water, put that, a napkin, and the small plate containing his half sandwich on a tray that she took to him and placed on his lap.

“If you can finish this half sandwich, I'll make you another,” she said to head off any comment.

She didn't linger and watch him eat, though Tricks had no such compunction. The dog had been on her best behavior, staying out of the way and not demanding attention, but food knocked that notion out of the park. She positioned herself directly in front of him, dark eyes fixed on the sandwich, following every move he made as the sandwich moved from plate to mouth and back again. About every ten seconds she scooted a little closer to him, in case distance was causing him to misinterpret what she wanted. Within a minute, she was practically sitting on his feet, her muzzle resting delicately on the edge of the tray.

Bo bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing and watched to see how he dealt with the power of the eyes.

He'd eaten about half of the half sandwich when he asked warily, “Is she going to attack?”

“I wouldn't put the sandwich anywhere close to her mouth,” Bo replied, then relented because she didn't want Tricks to startle him into any sudden movement. She'd already done that herself, and she still felt guilty. The least she could do was afford him some peace to eat his pitiful meal.

She opened Tricks's treat jar. “Want a treat?” she asked rhetorically because Tricks had abandoned him as soon as Bo reached for the jar. She trotted over, eyes bright, and from the corner of her eye Bo saw Morgan hurriedly stuff the rest of the sandwich into his mouth.

She crouched down and gave Tricks the treat as well as a good rub behind her ears and a kiss on top of her head. “Want another?” she called, feeling as if she was offering a treat to the man as well as the dog.

“No, thanks,” he said. “That was enough.”

After collecting the tray and setting the glass of water beside him so he could have a drink if he needed one, she nuked a turkey dinner for herself and ate in silence, sitting at the kitchen bar. Only when she'd finished did she think to ask him if he wanted the TV on.

“Sure,” he said, though he didn't sound very interested. At least sound, rather than silence, would fill the air. She usually read or watched TV or surfed the web at night, but she didn't want to sit with him and had already spent enough time today on the computer; she didn't want to spend more. That left reading, or going up to her bedroom to watch the small TV set she had up there.

But it wasn't late enough to go to her room; it wasn't even quite dark yet, given that it was April and daylight savings time had pushed sundown to around eight. The clouds made things darker, and glancing out she saw that a thin layer of snow was on the ground, looking more like frost than snow. “It's been snowing,” she said, just to make conversation. “Nothing heavy, at least not yet.”

“It's April.” He scowled at the window. From his seated position he couldn't see the snow on the ground, but there were a few flakes swirling in the almost-twilight.

“We've had snow in April before.” Every April, it seemed, even if it was just a light covering to remind everyone Mother Nature could hammer them at any time.

“I'm from Florida. Snow sucks.”

“I got used to it,” she said. She'd grown up in several different places and hadn't called any of them home until she'd landed in West Virginia.

The time crept on, and Bo became more and more uncomfortable. She didn't like having her home, her privacy, invaded by a stranger. She'd deal with it, but she didn't like it. What little conversation they had was as brief and stilted as the snow conversation. She put on a coat and took Tricks out one last time and came back in to find in that short length of time her guest had gone to sleep.

She took that as a signal to fetch a couple of blankets and a pillow from the guest bedroom. To wake him up, she stood at a safe distance
and yelled at the top of her lungs, which sent Tricks into a barking frenzy and definitely woke him up, though without the violent reaction of the first two times.

She helped him make another trip to the bathroom, refilled his water glass, made up the sofa with blankets and pillow, and once he was sitting down she pulled off his boots and set them aside. “Do you want to keep your pants on?” she asked, keeping her tone prosaic. She didn't care if he took them off or not—she had zero interest in his body—but he might have a preference. “Do you have any pajama bottoms in your duffle?”

“I'll keep them on,” he said, which in a way answered her question about the pajamas.

She thought a minute, then took out her cell phone and called her landline number. She had both as a redundancy in case of emergency, one of the requirements of the town fathers. She had a phone in the kitchen, and one in her bedroom. As soon as it rang, she disconnected the call, then handed the cell to him. He looked at the phone and back at her. She explained, “If you need me, just call up the last number. I have a phone in my bedroom. That's if you don't have your own cell phone—” She stopped. “Do you?”

“I have another burner, in the duffle.”

She shrugged. “I'll deal with it tomorrow. Just keep mine tonight.”

“What if someone calls you?”

She opened her mouth to tell him that wasn't likely, then stopped. “Right. It's snowing, so there's no telling what some idiot might do on the highway.”

“The phone is in the end zip pocket on the left.”

She got out the phone, identical to the one she'd used to call Axel, and programmed her cell number into it. Then, with a sense of relief, she said good night and bolted with Tricks up the stairs to the privacy of her room.

She hadn't realized exactly how tense she was until she closed the bedroom door and felt her shoulder muscles relax. She and Tricks were always here by themselves, and it felt
wrong
to have to work around
someone else's presence. Having him here meant she couldn't wander downstairs in her underwear to get her first cup of coffee, meant she and Tricks couldn't have a rousing game of Hide the Ball, meant she had to consider all sorts of demands on her time that she wasn't used to having. She had to close her bedroom door in her own house, not for her privacy because she knew he wasn't able to come up the stairs, but to protect him from an inquisitive dog in the middle of the night. She shuddered to think what would happen to Tricks if he was awakened by a cold wet nose shoved into someplace sensitive.

No doubt about it: she'd had all the company she could stand for one day.

M
ORGAN WOKE AND DIDN'T IMMEDIATELY KNOW WHERE
he was; he lay very still, instinctively reaching out with his senses to locate any danger, anything
wrong
. Then the particular scent of his surroundings registered, and everything clicked into place.

He was at Isabeau Maran's place. The scent was great, a mixture of wood from the barn structure, the leather of the sofa he lay on, some sort of perfumey stuff in a bowl . . . what was it . . . yeah, potpourri. Silly-ass name. But most of all he could smell her. This was her place, and the scent of her was everywhere. He'd gotten up close and personal with that scent when she'd helped him into the house . . . barn . . . whatever it was. He'd been so exhausted yesterday that now he'd be hard put to physically describe her, other than attractive, skinny, with long dark hair, but she smelled great—not because she smelled like a woman, which he guessed she did, but because she smelled nothing like disinfectant.

If he never smelled that particular hospital scent again, he'd be deeply grateful. The whole past month was tied up in a nightmare ball of pain, drugs, uncertainty, fear, anger, a disconnect from reality, and he didn't want to be reminded of it in any way.

He blew out a breath. He needed to take a piss, and the hell of it was he had to assess the situation. He hated it, hated every second of feeling
this weak, but it was his new reality. He could make the trip on his own, or he could call her. She'd already had to help him to the bathroom twice; everything in him rebelled at the idea of asking her for help again. It wasn't as if she were a warm and fuzzy person who made offering aid seem like nothing, the way his nurses had. She seemed to like her dog much better than she did people, which, okay, given that she'd dealt with Mac at any early age wasn't so unreasonable. He still needed to piss. For a few minutes he lay there dreading the effort it would take to accomplish that simple task, but damned if he was going to call her for help. Even if he had to crawl, he'd get to the bathroom under his own steam.

The house wasn't dark. The TV was still on, though the sound was turned off because the noise had annoyed the hell out of him. A lot of things annoyed the hell out of him now because nothing was normal. He eased to a sitting position, relieved that the ache in his chest was nothing more than that. Pneumonia had been a bitch; the coughing had nearly killed him figuratively, while the pneumonia had almost done the job literally. He sat for a minute to make sure he wasn't dizzy, then braced his right hand on the arm of the sofa and levered himself up.

Okay. Not too bad. He was a little light-headed, but as he stood there the sensation faded.

His steps as he crossed the open space were slow. He couldn't do his normal confident stride; the best he could do was kind of shuffle his feet along. His body had always been a powerful machine that did his bidding, and now he didn't recognize himself in this weak, aching shell. Maybe the worst part of this whole shitty situation was the uncertainty that he'd ever get back physically to what he had been before being shot.

He took the time to look around, noticing details that he hadn't before. There was a keypad beside the door, and a red dot glowing on that told him she had a security system, and at some point had activated it. Guess it was a good thing he didn't need to go out to the Tahoe to retrieve anything.

The barn was uncluttered, except for the dog's toys strewn around. There was furniture—the living room area, the kitchen area, the din
ing area, and what looked like a small office space—in the whole open space that was the downstairs, but the furniture was only what was needed. The whole vibe was kind of barn mixed with industrial, which was weird for a woman. He didn't know shit about decorating, but he knew women and how they liked to surround themselves with
stuff
. Isabeau Maran evidently either didn't have a lot of stuff, or didn't like stuff.

He was relieved that, however slow he might be, he made it to the bathroom without any real problem. At least he could walk it under his own steam. Driving all day had knocked him flat for a while, which was humiliating in and of itself. Before being shot, he could and had swum and/or run for miles, but now just sitting upright for a few hours had done him in. That last hour of driving had been accomplished by sheer determination, and he'd made it by the skin of his teeth. By the time he'd parked in the driveway in front of the barn, he'd been glad no one was there because the best he could do right then was lay his head back and take a nap. He'd been there about forty-five minutes before his hostess arrived.

Mac had neglected to mention that his ex-stepsister was a crazy dog lady, which Morgan supposed was better than a crazy cat lady. At least there was just one dog, and dogs were easier to corral than cats. He liked animals in general, just not right now. He didn't have the energy to play, pet, or fend off an overly friendly retriever. Ms. Maran had made it plain where the dog was in the pecking order, and that was above him.

Okay, he got that. His presence was an unpleasant surprise. He was a stranger, and an imposition. He was as uncomfortable in this situation as she was.

They'd get through it though; he because he didn't have any choice in the matter right now, and she because she needed the money. Despite the fact that she was being paid well to house him, he was grateful she'd accepted. From what he'd overheard when she was talking to Mac, she'd been on the verge of refusing even after the money had been offered. She'd been adamant that no one here be endangered by his presence.
Morgan was fairly certain no one would be, but he couldn't swear to it. Even the best of plans tended to get hiccups, or fall apart entirely when something unforeseen fucked up everything. He'd keep that to himself, though, or he'd likely find himself on the road in the morning, with nowhere to go and unable to get there under his own steam anyway.

He made it back to the sofa, stared without interest at the silent TV for a while, then got the remote and clicked the
off
button. The room went dark, a dark he found soothing. A hospital room—even one that was makeshift—was never dark. Once he had regained consciousness, the constant light, even a dim one, had become so annoying he'd have shut off every machine, smashed every light, and sealed the door . . . if he'd been able. He hadn't been, but now he could certainly turn off the damn TV. He knew that once his eyes adjusted, he wouldn't be in complete darkness; clocks on the microwave and the oven in the kitchen would be pinpoints of light, but
normal
pinpoints, not on machines that were hooked up to him. It hadn't been only the light that had bothered him; the unceasing
noise
had too, the sounds of the machines running, conversations outside his room, people walking.

He drew a deep, cautious breath—everything in his chest still protested the expansion of muscles and rib cage—and felt something in him relax at the silence, the darkness.

Bo didn't sleep well because she knew there was a stranger in the house.
Sharing space wasn't something she liked or was accustomed to. Her bedroom door was closed, and Tricks was accustomed to having the run of the house so
she
was restless. Tricks got up on the bed, she got down on the rug beside the bed, she went to the door, she nosed around the bedroom. Finally Bo sat up and said, “Get up here and go to sleep.” Tricks made the throat noises she did when she was arguing, but she jumped up on the bed and finally settled down. Bo thumped her pillow and tried to settle down herself.

She did finally go to sleep, but woke up annoyed—with herself, with Axel, with the man downstairs for getting shot in the first place. If he'd
been more careful, he wouldn't be in this shape. On the other hand, neither would she be making a hundred and fifty thousand—!!!—for taking care of him, so from that point of view, she was grateful he'd been careless.

As she threw back the covers, Tricks jumped up as bright eyed as ever, ready for her first trip outside. She dashed to the door and stood there with her tail wagging, looking expectantly from Bo to the doorknob, as if trying to show her how to open the door.

Normally Bo didn't bother getting dressed, but now she did. She hit the bathroom herself, stopped to drag a brush through her hair and drink a glass of water. By the time she was dressed, Tricks was going back and forth between her and the door, letting her know this delay was unacceptable. Bo forcibly shoved her annoyance away. This was the way things would be for a while, she'd agreed to it, so she'd damn well be an adult about the situation. She wouldn't blame Morgan Yancy for being careless; instead she would do her level best to take care of him and actually earn the money Axel was paying her.

She thought of his gray, exhausted face, and her conscience twinged. She'd let her massive dislike for Axel color her interactions with a man who was barely hanging on.

With that in mind, she'd have clipped a leash to Tricks's collar if she'd had it with her, but the leash was downstairs. All she could do was do her best to keep Tricks from bounding up in his lap and generally making a nuisance of herself. Bracing for whatever Tricks might do, she opened the bedroom door and said, “Let's go outside.”

No matter what, watching Tricks greet the morning always made Bo smile. Tricks never just
walked
. She pranced, she danced, she all but skipped. She was overjoyed with the prospect of going outside, of having her breakfast, at life in general. Bo also suspected Tricks got up every morning plotting a world takeover, because she never stopped trying to arrange everything to her liking.

The broad, industrial-type stairs were open to the floor level, and she could see that Morgan was still stretched out on the sofa, though the blanket that had covered him was now on the floor. Poor guy, as tall
as he was, the sofa couldn't be all that comfortable. Until he could make it up the stairs under his own power, though, the options were limited.

Tricks immediately started for him, of course, and Bo said again, “Let's go outside,” and grabbed the tennis ball from the floor. Immediately distracted, Tricks began bouncing in anticipation. Bo detoured through the kitchen to hit the magic button on the K-cup coffeemaker and slide a cup into place, grateful that the cup would be full when she returned. After disarming the alarm, she opened the door, and Tricks shot through the opening.

The ground was white but it hadn't been a heavy snowfall, probably no more than an inch. That was good because the sun was trying to break through the low gray clouds and the snow should melt quickly. For now, the day was cold but not icy. All in all, not bad. The year before, they'd been hit with a big snow in the middle of April, and that had been such a downer because it had seemed as if winter would never let go.

She had to throw the tennis ball for Tricks a few times before the dog settled down to do her business. Then Tricks ran around sniffing things, as if checking whether or not any strange creatures had invaded her territory during the night. She found a stick and romped in the snow with it, twisting and jumping and prancing. Finally Bo called her in with “Ready for breakfast?” Tricks was always ready for breakfast, or any other meal; she immediately came trotting over, a look of canine glee sparkling in her eyes. Bo retrieved the tennis ball from the yard—who, exactly, was the retriever here, and who was boss? She didn't care. She and Tricks had their routine, and they were both happy with it.

As they entered the door, she smelled the delicious scent of coffee at the same time she noticed Morgan was now awake and sitting up. He looked marginally better than he had yesterday, despite the growth of beard darkening his jaw. At least he didn't look as if he were about to die.

His gaze was blank and guarded as he looked up at her. Considering how welcoming—
not!
—she'd been the day before, Bo didn't blame him. She hung her jacket on the hook beside the door and asked, “Are you a coffee drinker, or would you like something else?”

Relief flashed across his face and was gone before she was certain she'd read him correctly. “Coffee,” he said immediately.

“Cream or sugar?”

“No, just black.”

She really, really wanted that first cup of coffee, but she thought he probably wanted it more. She did take the time to slide another K-cup into the machine and another mug under the dispenser, and press the button before taking the steaming hot coffee to him. His blue eyes focused on the cup as if she were bringing him ambrosia. “Thanks,” he said, reaching out with both hands. He had big, rough-looking hands, scarred in places, bruised from needles and thin from the ordeal he'd been through, but she knew for a fact how strong they still were because she'd felt one clamped around her throat.

She watched his eyes close briefly as he took that first sip—she knew how
that
felt—and asked, “Didn't they let you have coffee in the hospital?”

“Once I could eat, yeah, but this is the first cup today. I was afraid I'd have to settle for skim milk.” His voice was still thin and kind of scratchy, his eyes swollen from sleep, but she got a sense of increased energy from him. Not a lot, but anything was an improvement.

“I'll pick you up some he-man milk today. My pantry is empty even for me,” she admitted. “I haven't had time to do much food shopping lately.” Between her chief-of-police duties and the technical-writing projects, she'd been hustling, which was good for her bottom line but hell on her schedule. Going back into the kitchen, she got her own coffee and took a few blissful sips before setting it aside to dip some dog food into Tricks's bowl, and put out fresh water for her. Tricks rushed over; she never had to be enticed to eat first thing in the morning; that routine was only for dinner, when she wasn't as hungry.