Page 51 of Lock ’N’ Load

“Thank you,” she replied in a reluctant tone.

“Here.” Matt plunked the bottle he’d gotten her into the center of the table.

She gave him a megawatt smile that did something weird to his heart. “Dalwhinnie,” she cried.

“Pixie girl,” Nick said, “I never woulda figured you for a Scotch drinker.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” Making quick work of peeling the plastic wrapper off the top of the bottle, she uncorked the Scotch and held it under her nose, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply. “Mmm,” she moaned. “I love that smell. Honey. Vanilla. Spices.”

“I think the lady’s in love, Romeo,” Kade said to Jaime. “And not with you.”

“Pooh on you.” Jaime gave Kade a look of mock annoyance.

Pooh on you? Shit. Now Trista has my friends talking non-trash, too? I’m in an alternate reality.

“At least I have money to pay for all this now.” She glanced at the bags on the floor.

“I won’t take a dime from you.” Matt set down his glass, then picked up one of the bags and held it out to her. “Clothes, shoes, toiletries, disposable contact lenses. There’s kitty litter and cat food over there.” He indicated the other bag he’d set on the floor in the corner of the kitchen.

Slowly, she rose from the table and took the bag. “If you w-won’t take my money, how c-can I repay you?”

Kade and Dayne snorted. From the corner of his eye, Matt caught Nick raising his brows. One sharp look from him and they all shut up. “Make yourselves useful by lighting that grill out back and getting some steaks going.”

As a unit, they rose, pulled steaks, corn, potatoes, and squash from the refrigerator, and disappeared outside. Almost immediately, a cacophony of barking sounded from the kennels. Turning back to Trista, Matt saw gratitude in her eyes, although he fully intended to extract a price. It just wouldn’t be what his friends’ lascivious minds had been conjuring up.

To answer her question, he said, “I’ll think of something. For now, get dressed, then meet me in my office.” He canted his head to the kitchen door. “Down the hall to the left.”

He watched her leave, then listened as she climbed the stairs. When he heard her door click shut, he went to his office and sat at his grandfather’s enormous, inlaid leather-covered desk and powered up one of the many high-end computers and monitors.

When he’d set up the security system for his home and the new kennel, he installed top-of-the-line computers, alarms, monitors, and other hardware, although he’d been reluctant to wire the entire perimeter. If the funding he needed to get Jerry’s Place up and running ever came through, the last thing he wanted was for the property to be a place of surveillance, one with Big Brother watching from every corner.

His plan was for a laid-back, camplike atmosphere, one that included a dog training curriculum and regular counseling sessions for kids with alcohol problems. The kids would be referred to Jerry’s Place by juvenile court judges, probation officers, or even school guidance counselors. In addition to the counseling they’d receive, kids would work with and care for dogs Matt would rescue from local shelters.

Jerry’s Place was intended to be a place of healing, learning, and peace. For kids and dogs in need. But reality was like a kick to his gut.

I’m the one who needs Jerry’s Place most of all.

Deep down, he hoped it would be his salvation. His penance.

For killing his best friend.

Flicking on his monitoring station, he cued up the camera facing the road from his driveway, gratified not to see a single vehicle. Living where he did was another benefit for Jerry’s Place. With most residents in the area coming from old, wealthy stock, each family still owned major hunks of land and hadn’t sold off to developers. As a result, his neighborhood was peaceful, and any vehicles driving along the main road that didn’t belong to one of his neighbors would stand out like a Belgian Malinois wearing a pink tutu. The image had him thinking of Tinkerbell, fairies, and pixies.

Speaking of pixies, it bugged the shit out of him that Nick had called Trista a pixie. Christ, they’d nicknamed her. Three hours was all it had taken for her to tame the pants off six of the baddest, most kick-ass cops he’d ever worked with. Not that he wasn’t glad she was settling in. He just wished she was more like that around him.

And why the fuck was he the only one she stammered around?

When she talked with his friends, Jake, and the paramedics, she hadn’t done it once. Was she afraid of him? Shit. He didn’t want that.

Shaking it off, he got online and began a search on all things Russian in the D.C. area. Twenty minutes later, he looked up to see Trista standing in the open doorway, holding a crystal glass of what he assumed was Dalwhinnie. Then he took in the rest of her, and swallowed. Hard.

She’d brushed her hair, which now curled around her face in thick waves of golden brown that reminded him of summer wheat in his neighbor’s fields. Her face was devoid of makeup, but that didn’t stop him from staring at her creamy skin, the becoming tint of red on her cheekbones, or lips that needed no help in appearing pink, rosy, and—hell—totally kissable.

Christ, he wanted her, but he couldn’t have her. Ever. Not only was she under his protection, but he just couldn’t go there.

The emerald-green short-sleeved V-neck shirt she wore was one of several he’d selected in different colors because he was clueless as to what colors she preferred. And he sure as hell didn’t want to see her prancing around his house wearing any more of that mousy gray he hated. The shirt not only made her bright-green eyes even greener, it accentuated the lush curves of her breasts.

Had he gotten the shirt a size too small? He’d bought mediums, but maybe he’d been shopping in the teen department. Either way, he didn’t give a fuck, because he loved what it did to her breasts.