Protector for Hire (6 page)

Janelle frowned. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. Why not?”

“You’re kidding, right? It’s freezing.” She puffed out a lungful of frosty air. “You can see my breasts.”

The last bit of blood in his brain headed south. “What?”

“Breath. You can see my breath. What did you think I said?”

She wasn’t smirking, so clearly he was losing both his hearing and his mind. Either way, there was no way he could keep this up.

Oh, you keep it up just fine when she’s around.

“Why don’t you go back inside and make some coffee?”

She stared at him oddly for a few beats, then shrugged. “Suit yourself. Want me to make you a Pop-Tart?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Okay then. See you inside.” She turned and practically skipped back to the cabin.

It was all he could do not to stare at her ass.

…

Breakfast was a tense affair, a far as Janelle could tell. So was the impromptu lesson Schwartz gave her on how to build a fire.

So was pretty much everything, if Janelle stopped to think about it. She wasn’t sure if Schwartz hated her or wanted to have sex with her. It was possible the two weren’t mutually exclusive.

You just have sex on the brain,
her subconscious told her.

How could she not? She was sharing nine hundred square feet of space with a lumberjack who looked like a Greek god. Maybe sleeping with him wouldn’t be the worst thing. Maybe they were even compatible. Maybe—

Right, because your taste in men has always been so stellar?

The thought made her feel glum. Okay, so she’d had no idea Jacques was a heroin importer. He’d told her when they’d first started dating that he managed a pharmaceutical company. Later, after she’d found out what he really did for a living, he’d pointed out that he’d never actually lied.

Nope. He dealt pharmaceuticals, all right. Janelle had just been too blind to notice what kind.

“Your picker is broken,” her sister had told her a long time ago when she’d gone crying to her about some silly boy who’d broken her heart.

Janelle eyed Schwartz from across the desk in his office and remembered those words again.

“What?”

She blinked, and realized she’d been staring at him. “Nothing,” she mumbled. “Sorry. I just stare off into space sometimes when I’m brainstorming a project.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

It was the most they’d spoken all day, ever since Schwartz cleared a space for her laptop at the end of his long desk and grudgingly agreed they could share his work space. She knew he designed security systems for government buildings, but she wasn’t entirely sure what that entailed. Apparently it was something he could do out here in the middle of nowhere with minimal human interaction, which was probably the big selling point for him.

Her job as a graphic designer meant she could work from just about anywhere, too, though she was accustomed to doing it with a little more traffic outside and the option to pop down the block for a latte every few hours.

“Don’t you ever get lonely out here?” she asked.

The words were out of her mouth before she had a chance to consider whether it was a smart thing to ask. Schwartz’s quick reply suggested he’d given even less thought to her words than she had.

“No.”

“No?” she asked. “Not ever?”

“Nope.”

“Don’t you miss your friends? Your family? Creature comforts like Thai takeout and fast taxis and French flea markets?”

Something dark flashed in his eyes, and Janelle felt pretty sure it wasn’t a longing for French flea markets.

“I said I don’t get lonely,” he said. “What part of that doesn’t make sense to you?”

“The part where you’re a good-looking guy with a certain unique charm and a basic human need for companionship. I don’t understand why you’d want to be out here all by yourself, cut off from civilization, your friends, your family, your—”

“I’m not alone. There’s Sherman.”

Janelle glanced down at the floor, where the big wolf-dog had made himself at home on the cushioned bed Schwartz had dragged in from the living room. The beast had been snoring for the last hour, but his ears pricked at the sound of his own name.

“Sherman’s good company, I’ll give you that,” Janelle admitted.

“This, from the woman who ran screaming from him less than twenty-four hours ago.”

“Yeah, well, being trapped in a cabin together has a way of breeding fondness and intimacy.”

“No shit.”

He sounded annoyed by that, and Janelle figured they weren’t talking about the dog anymore. Better remedy that.

“So how did you and Sherman meet?”

“I was in this dimly lit saloon, and I’d had a couple drinks, and—”

She laughed. “Come on, be serious. Enough with the bestiality humor.”

“I
was
being serious. And you’re the one who brought up bestiality. Anyone ever tell you that you have a very dirty mind?”

“Constantly.”

He looked pained, but she ignored him and began using the point of her sock-clad toes to massage the sweet spot behind Sherman’s scruff. She’d discovered earlier how much he loved it, and the big creature groaned with pleasure and closed his eyes.

“So you met Sherman in a bar?” she prompted.

“No, that’s just how I started the story before I was rudely interrupted by a woman with her mind in the gutter.”

“You’re one to talk, Mr.-Let-Me-Show-You-My-Log.”

“Touché.” He drummed his fingers on the edge of his desk and looked out the window. “I’d gone to town to pick up supplies and have a beer or two. I don’t like to drive if I’ve had anything to drink, and that’s especially true when a blizzard moves in.”

“And that’s what happened?”

“Yep.”

“So you shacked up with one of your lonely female ski instructors or ranch hands or river guides?” She kept her tone light and tried not to notice the jealous pang in her chest.

“No, I went to the little B&B across the street. It’s a place I stay sometimes when bad weather sets in before I can get back here.”

“So then what happened?” This whole story was the longest string of words she’d ever heard Schwartz utter, and she wanted to keep him talking. She was enjoying the glimmer of nostalgia in his eyes, the animation in his face as he told a story she imagined he hadn’t shared with too many people.

“Sometime around four in the morning, I heard something yipping outside,” he said. “At first I thought it was coyotes off in the distance. Then I realized it was right outside my door. I looked out the window and didn’t see anything, so I opened the door and this little ball of fluff came tumbling inside.”

“Sherman?”

“Sherman.” He nodded. “He was no more than six weeks old. Half frozen and half starved and walking kinda funny. I figured out pretty quick he had a broken leg.”

“That’s horrible! What did you do?”

Schwartz leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs out in front of him, and Janelle tried not to stare at that massive chest and massive hands and massive—

“I brought him in and dried him off and got him warmed up by the fireplace. I had some leftover meat loaf I’d brought back from dinner, so I broke it up into little pieces and watched him gobble it up like he’d never seen food in his life. By that time, it was getting to be daylight, so I went back to the saloon and found the vet.”

“How on earth did you know there’d be a veterinarian at a saloon?” Janelle asked. “And that early in the morning?”

“Well, he lives there, for one thing. The town is tiny, and the saloon’s not really a saloon. It’s basically just a room in the basement of a house where people go to drink sometimes.”

“You’re kidding me,” she said, thinking of the trendy cocktail bars and craft beer pubs and snooty bistros back home. “So the town’s veterinarian runs a bar in his basement.”

“Yep. And the town accountant does tax returns in his hardware store. And the town dentist also owns the only restaurant in town, which probably explains why he makes the most sugar-filled blueberry pie you’ve ever tasted.”

Beneath her toes, Sherman rolled over, then nudged her with his paw until she started rubbing circles on his belly. She smiled as she complied with his demands.

“So the vet took a look at Sherman and said he’d been abused,” Schwartz continued. “No shit, right?”

“Right.”

“He set the leg and gave me some meds and some special food for him. Turned out Sherman was a cross between a husky and a wolf, which isn’t all that common. Didn’t take me long to figure out who he belonged to.”

“Who?”

“Auto mechanic. He’d just started breeding them, thought he could make a bunch of money selling wolf hybrids on the internet.”

“Why on earth—”

“But it turned out to be harder than he thought. A lot of states have laws about wolf hybrids, so his out-of-state buyers started sending the pups back. Sherman was one of those, and he had the added disadvantage of a bum leg. Made it pretty much impossible to sell him again.”

“How did you learn all of this?” She was trying to wrap her brain around this new version of Schwartz. The one that had a wide social circle of friends in this cozy little town only an hour away. Something about it seemed comforting.

“The vet told me about the mechanic,” Schwartz said. “First time I’d ever talked to the guy. Either one of ’em, actually. Probably the last time, too.”

“Wait, you mean you aren’t buddies with all of them? The accountant? The dentist? The mechanic? The vet?”

“’Fraid not. I mean, they might recognize me if they see me around, but I’m not one for a lot of chitchat.”

Okay, maybe he didn’t have a social circle. “Why on earth not? Everyone needs friends.”

“Sure,” Schwartz said, glancing down at his dog with an expression of fondness that nearly broke Janelle’s heart. “That’s why I have Sherman.”

Janelle shook her head, still making toe circles on Sherman’s belly. The beast groaned and closed his eyes, clearly in canine nirvana.

“How long ago was that?” she asked. “I mean, how old is Sherman?”

Schwartz thought about it a minute, closing one eye as he counted something out in his mind. “Eight years.”

“Eight years,” she repeated. “So you lived out here all alone for two years, had some brief social interaction with a veterinarian eight years ago, enjoy periodic hookups with women passing through town, and have avoided friendships and connections beyond that.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Thank you for the recap of my social life. I trust this is going on Page Six?”

She shook her head, not sure whether to throttle him, feel sorry for him, or admire the hell out of him.

She settled for interrogating him again. “So what happened to the mechanic?”

“The one who left Sherman to die?”

“Yes. Did you find him?”

“I had a few words with him.”

“Words? That’s good. I mean, I guess that’s one more conversation to add to your roster.”

“Sure. If you count my fist to his face as conversation.”

Janelle felt her jaw drop. “You punched him?”

“Of course I punched him. He left a puppy to die in a blizzard. He’s lucky that’s all I did.” Schwartz stood up, apparently done with the conversation. “I’m grabbing another Pop-Tart. You want one?”

“No thank you,” she murmured, her brain still reeling with the idea of this mountain man who’d spend ten years avoiding contact with his family and friends and all other humans, but came to the rescue of an injured pup, and devoured Pop-Tarts with the glee of a little boy.

Who the hell was this guy?

And why did she suddenly care so much?

…

Schwartz slammed the door behind him as he stalked away from the cabin like a man running for his life. He had to get out of there.

He’d muttered some excuse to Janelle about grabbing firewood, though he’d already stocked the rack next to the door with more wood than they’d need all week.

He didn’t need firewood. He just needed to get away.

His breath was coming hard by the time he’d stomped to the top of the hill and turned to look back on the little cabin. The doors were locked tight, and he could reach the place in two minutes if she needed him.

But for now, he needed something else. Space. Fresh air. Peace of mind. A single moment where he wasn’t going quietly insane at the sight of Janelle sitting at the end of his desk with her hair falling over her eyes and the tip of a pen sliding back and forth between those perfect pink lips.

Dammit. He could still smell her. He lifted the front of his faded flannel shirt and drew it to his nose, breathing in the sweet, flowery scent of her. His heart twisted, and he closed his eyes, his brain echoing the sound of some cheerful pop song she’d been humming while she worked.

She probably thought he was insane. When her leg had brushed his under the desk, he’d bolted up so fast he’d knocked over his chair.

“Christ,” he muttered now as he kicked a tree and yanked his phone out of his pocket.

He hit the speed-dial number for Grant and waited, annoyed to realize how eager he was to hear his brother’s voice.

Grant picked up on the first ring. “Hey, how’s it going?”

“Fine.”

“She’s settling in okay? Not too homesick or scared or—”

“I said she’s fine. Jesus, you want a minute-by-minute account of her bathroom habits?”

“Paying that close attention, are you?”

“Fuck off.”

Grant just laughed. “Seriously, everything’s okay?”

“Sure. Any word on her asshole ex?”

“Yeah. Mac’s been pretty intense with the surveillance. Sounds like Jacques and his guys are still going nuts trying to track her down. No luck, obviously.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“For now. You’re not letting her online or anything, are you?”

“Hell, no. No email, no phone, no outside contact of any kind.”

“That’s gotta be driving her nuts.”

“Not my problem.”

“She’s a social girl. You’re at least talking to her, right?”

“Sure. We sit around all day sipping espresso and discussing our feelings.”

Grant laughed again, and Schwartz resisted the urge to kick the tree.