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She stilled, then rounded, the blade up.
The outline stood in the door, nearly filling the frame. Huge, with wide shoulders and a voice that she recognized.
Maybe.
“Stay where you are.”
He held up his hands. “Calm down.”
“Calm down? You’re in my house. I’m calling 9-1-1—”
“I think in Italy it’s 1-1-2.”
Jerk!
“Not that I call emergency services that often, but our coach makes us learn the numbers for every country.”
And if she’d had any doubt, his sentence confirmed it.
“What are you doing here, Hudson?”
He flicked on the light.
She blinked against the brightness.
Yep, Hudson Bly stood in the doorframe, big, bold, and unwelcome. He pointed at her chef’s knife. “Put down the knife and I’ll tell you.”
“Ha. You’ll tell me now.”
“What are you going to do, carve me up for steak?”
“I might.”
“I’m all muscle. I wouldn’t taste good.” He smiled then, a poster boy for the Vienna Vikings.
Oh, the jerk!
“Yeah, well, the village dogs don’t care.”
His smile dimmed a little.
But really, yeah, what was she going to do? She lowered the knife. And then— “Wait. Were you the one who tossed my house?”
“Tossed? What is this,CSI?”
“Law and Order, thank you, and you didn’t answer the question.”
“No, I didn’t toss your place. But I did get here earlier and see the mess. Thought you were just a really bad housekeeper.”
“Now you can leave.” She stabbed the knife at him.
“Yeah, nope, sorry.” He still held up his hands, but now stepped into the room, all sense of a grin gone. “Where have you been?”
“Where have I—that’s none of your business!”
“I think it’s a little of my business. You were supposed to go home. And yet, I see shopping bags from Milan downstairs.” He lowered his hands. “Unless you call Giorgio Armani home now.”
“Funny.” But she lowered the knife. “I just needed some…shopping therapy.”
