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“Not a problem. She filled the car with cases, so I think she may have suspected. Tell me, did you contact the lost puppy’s owner?”
The lost puppy. No doubt Lyrica would be incensed if she knew the title she’d been given for the call.
“Naw. It’s a cute little thing, though.” He grinned as he spoke. “I’m thinking about keeping it for a while. It’s lonely around here by myself.”
Silence filled the line for long moments. “The puppy has a home, my friend. Don’t forget that. And the owner might not be the sort to appreciate anyone thinking he can steal it away.”
“Then I guess they should have been more careful about the care and security of the little thing,” he growled. “As well as the fact that they dropped a friend from puppy-sitting duties without informing him. I might have been more inclined to give the puppy up if he had.”
Sam laughed.
The muffled sound was rich, filled with amusement and wicked knowledge.
“You are in so much trouble, my friend,” she continued, laughing. “And I can’t wait until the fireworks. I think your sister and I will find front-row seats to the spectacle.”
No doubt they would, and sell extra tickets in the process for the hell of it.
Graham snarled silently. “I used to like you.”
“Sure, you did—that’s why you tried to stick me with good ole Doogan when I applied for this position. I haven’t forgotten that, you know.”
Doogan really wasn’t that bad, Graham told himself as he disconnected the call and shoved the phone back into the holster pocket. Hell, he’d never had much trouble out of Doogan himself.
Except for that little fiasco in South America.
Graham frowned as he set the alarms to the house and the fenced main yard.
There was the accident in Russia . . .
He paused and stared out at the pool.
Doogan had nearly gotten them both killed in Cuba a few years before . . .
Okay, so maybe he was that bad, but hell, Doogan had a dirty job. For as long as Graham had known the man, Chatham Doogan had carried a hell of a lot of responsibility on his shoulders. No matter how many times things had gone from sugar to shit, Doogan couldn’t have done better . . .
Well, he could have refrained from sleeping with the daughter of that dictator in South America. And no doubt he could have held back just a little when he beat the shit out of that Kremlin guard for hitting his little wife . . .
Dammit.
Doogan was a damned good friend anyway.
—
Lyrica slept until late afternoon, awakening with a dull headache and weary resignation. She was stuck with Graham until Dawg returned home. That knowledge didn’t help the pressure building in her temples in the least. The memory of the flames consuming her earlier only increased her certainty that if she didn’t get away from him, and quickly, then there would be no denying him, no matter what he wanted. No matter how much it would destroy her.
Rising from his bed—his bed.
Yep, she was all but officially part of the Graham Brock fuck-me club. The one she had sworn to his sister she would never join.
Kye was going to kill her, there was no doubt. And it wouldn’t be a merciful end.
Graham’s sister would cut a friend out of her life so fast for becoming focused on her brother that it would make her head spin. She didn’t care about letting anyone and everyone know that hooking up with her brother was a betrayal of their friendship. And she had stuck to her word every time it had happened.
Lyrica might have focused on Kye initially because of her fascination with Graham, but it was the friendship that had grown in the past year that had become more important to Lyrica. That and the knowledge that Gra
ham went through women nearly as fast as other men went through underwear.
Graham of course didn’t wear underwear. That little piece of information had been relayed by last June’s bimbo, DeeDee or something. She’d been very smug, very triumphant as she informed Lyrica and Kye of that little fact after his sister made the same observation concerning his women.
