Page 5 of Armed ’N’ Ready

She wanted to laugh at the image of her panties dangling from a hand big enough to pound a six-inch spike through a board without a hammer. Maybe it was the stress, or the embarrassment, but she couldn’t hold back a tiny snicker. And was he—

No way.

Blushing?

Beside her, the black shepherd huffed and took a step closer, cutting short the full-on laughter about to escape her throat. She scrambled to the center of the bed. Her heart began hammering, and she half expected the dog to leap onto the bed and clamp its jaws around her leg.

“Platz,” Sgt. Houston ordered the dog, who lay down next to the bed, still eyeing her with an intensity that was unnerving.

“Easy, Saxon.” He knelt by the dog, laying one of those massive hands on its neck. Almost instantly, the tension in the animal’s body seemed to ease. “He won’t hurt y—”

She followed Sgt. Houston’s gaze and looked down to see that in her mad dash to the center of the bed, her towel had slipped again. Her nipples jutted against the thin blue bikini fabric, reminding her of two blueberries. She gasped and clutched the towel to her chest.

“Malloy,” he shouted into his mic. “Where the hell are you?”

“Right here, Sarge.” A female officer in uniform stood at the bedroom doorway. “Sorry, I got tied up with—”

“There’s another dog in the bathroom, and she”—he nodded to Andi—“needs to get dressed,” he growled. “Bring her downstairs ASAP. Aside from the suitcase, this room hasn’t been searched.” Without waiting for a response, he yanked a leash from his belt and clipped it to the dog’s harness. “Fuss.”

The dog—Saxon—trotted to his side, and both of them went out the door.

She stared at the open doorway, then looked at Officer Malloy, who was also staring after him, a curious expression on her face.

“What’s his problem?” Andi grabbed her clothes from the bed and began to dress. “I’m the one whose privacy just got trashed.” She yanked on her panties and shorts, then tossed the towel on the bed and began putting on her bra.

“I understand completely, ma’am.” Malloy nodded.

She tugged the blue tank over her head. “Please don’t you start in with the ma’am thing, too.”

“No, ma’am.” She grinned. “I’d better get you downstairs before Nick—Sgt. Houston—pops a blood vessel.”

Andi fished a brush from her suitcase, then paused before running it through her damp hair. Nick. Sgt. Nicholas Houston. She didn’t know why, but the name suited him. A manly name that implied he could conquer an entire city. Single-handed, since he was obviously accustomed to people jumping at his command. Then again, she supposed he was only doing his job.

The army of cops she could now hear rummaging around downstairs had complete control of the house, which just punched all her control-freak buttons—a throwback to her days as a financial planner. And after what had happened in her old job, calling the shots on everything in her life was more important now than ever.

She sat heavily on the bed, staring at the brush in her hand. Whatever was happening was serious but had nothing to do with her. This wasn’t even her house. She happened to be in the wrong place at a really, really bad time.

The worry that had been brewing inside her now stung her gut like a swarm of bees. Clearly Joe—one of her best friends—was in deep, deep trouble. The only question was how deep.

…

While Nick waited for Ms. Andi Hardt and her dog to make guest appearances, he removed Saxon’s body armor and stowed it by the front door. His dog’s coat was matted down with sweat, and as he ruffled the damp fur, Saxon uttered an appreciative groan.

They went into the kitchen, the only room downstairs yet to be searched. He gave his dog ample leash to search the cupboards and storage bins for drugs, firearms, ammo, and any other black powder items.

Saxon’s tail waved back and forth as he sniffed and processed scents on the floor, in the air, and near the cupboards, then circled twice to be sure he didn’t miss anything. The place was as neat as a pin. Aside from a sparkling clean coffee maker, the gleaming black granite counters and island were bare.

When Saxon had completed his search, Nick began opening upper cabinet doors. Next to an expensive-looking cream-colored china bowl, he discovered a box of frosted strawberry Pop-Tarts. Sure enough, when he looked down, Saxon was eyeing the box intently. Nick gave a low chuckle. Two years ago, he’d caught his ten-year-old twin nephews feeding Saxon an entire box of that same flavor of Pop-Tart. Since then, his dog craved them.

The refrigerator contained only milk, condiments, and salad fixings. The last, he’d guess, had been put there by the woman upstairs. With such an athletic body, he figured her for one of those strict fruit, nut, and salad-eating women who stayed as far away from meat as she could possibly get. Yeah, he’d tried not to look, but when he’d whipped open the shower door, it had been impossible not to notice.

She had long, supple runner’s legs up to her neck, and every inch of damp, toned skin he could see was sun-kissed in a light golden hue. But the most striking thing about her was her eyes—the prettiest cornflower-blue ones he’d ever seen. Looks aside, there was more to the woman than what that little bikini covered.

Despite being scared by what was happening, she’d exhibited spunk in spades, doing her best to hide her fear behind the verbal lashing she’d given him. Most women would have experienced a total meltdown at finding a cop and his K-9 in her bathroom. Her reaction had taken a one-eighty from that. After belting out a skull-splitting scream, she’d actually thrown stuff at him.

The memory had him chuckling, and it took a few seconds for him to realize Saxon was waiting for his next command, canting his head as if thinking: get yours out of your ass and back in the game.

“Sorry, buddy.” He’d seen plenty of bikini-clad women before, and it pissed him off that this one was messing with his professionalism and his concentration.