The Renegade Steals A Lady. Vickie Taylor
to pick a fight with him. Marco’s being on that van tonight hadn’t been a coincidence any more than the wreck had been an accident.
Fingers fumbling in his effort to hurry, Marco bent over and checked the man’s pulse. Steady and strong, but he’d have a headache when he woke, not to mention a sore throat. Next he pulled the man’s wallet out of a pocket. Kind of the shooter to bring credit cards along—those might come in handy. Another valuable moment flew by while Marco glanced at the driver’s license, memorizing the name—Lewie Kinsale—then holding the cards in his teeth while he ejected the rounds from the man’s rifle and flung the bullets as far as he could.
As long as he was helping himself, he shimmied the man out of his coat. Marco figured he needed it worse than this guy did. Skinny-dipping in the lake had nearly turned him blue. He’d known the water would be cold, but he hadn’t figured on the swim taking twice as long as it should have. On a good day he could swim the mile in less than twenty minutes. But today was definitely not a good day.
Knowing he would need dry clothes to prevent hypothermia when he reached the other side, he’d held his jumpsuit out of the water with his one good arm. With the other arm, the one he’d wrenched in the wreck, he’d pulled himself along as best he could, glass shards grinding inside his shoulder with every movement. For the last ten minutes of his swim, he hadn’t been sure he’d ever see the far shore. The cold, black bottom of the lake had seemed almost inviting.
Marco shivered at the memory. He hadn’t given up then and he wasn’t about to give up now.
He gave the sheepskin sleeve a final yank and clutched the coat to his chest. Pulling the man’s belt out of its loops next, he fashioned a pair of makeshift handcuffs to slow the man down in case he woke sooner than Marco predicted. Finally, urgency battering his chest like a jackhammer, he turned to run.
He hadn’t taken the first step before he had to pull up short again. He froze, face-to-face with the most intense whiskey eyes he’d ever seen. Familiar eyes. And familiar lips, peeled back to reveal two rows of teeth. Very long, very sharp teeth.
“Bravo,” he finally managed to say, pushing the childhood horrors out of his mind. “Hey, boy.”
Bravo growled, low and deep.
“Long time no see.” The dog’s diesel rumble kicked up a gear. Marco swallowed. Hard. “You know who I am, don’t you? You remember me. You’ve been looking for me.”
Bravo took a menacing step forward. It took all the will-power Marco possessed not to step back. God, he hated dogs. Especially big ones like this—giant furry bundles of claws and fangs and eyes that locked on like laser-guided missiles.
Bravo swung his head around to check the trail behind him, a whine intermixed with his growls. Marco recognized the dog’s confusion. Hopefully he could use that uncertainty to his advantage. Slowly he wrapped the sheepskin coat around his left forearm, just in case Bravo wasn’t as confused as Marco thought.
“What’sa matter, boy? Don’t know what to do without Paige here to tell you?”
Marco took a brave step forward. The dog’s attention snapped back, but he didn’t attack. Marco’s confidence soared. He could do this. Bravo knew him. Marco had watched Paige handle the dog enough times. Had worked crime scenes with them. He even knew a few basic commands.
Paige had insisted on introducing him to Bravo up close and personal when he’d come into her house, despite Marco’s reluctance to be in the same room with the dog. Bravo was trained to protect her, she’d said. He needed to know Marco wouldn’t hurt her.
Marco had agreed quickly enough then. God knows he hadn’t wanted Bravo to mistake the, uh, gymnastics with Paige as a struggle. Not with the most vulnerable part of his anatomy attracting trouble like a lightning rod.
He’d sweated all the way through his brief Police Dog 101 course, but he had survived. Now that training was paying off in a way he’d never imagined. Bravo knew him as one of the good guys. The dog wouldn’t bite him.
He hoped.
“Paige isn’t coming, boy,” he said reassuringly. “You’re going to have to figure this one out on your own.”
Marco eased forward another step. Bravo barked a warning, shifting his weight from paw to paw.
Marco stopped. His heart spiked every time the dog blinked, much less barked. Dammit, he had to get past that dog. What was the matter with him? It was just an animal, a dumb mutt.
A dumb mutt with three-inch incisors and more schooling than most people with college diplomas.
He took a deep breath. He didn’t have time for this.
Paige had told Marco that looking a dog in the eye was tantamount to a challenge. Sort of like staring a man down, direct eye contact established dominance…to the survivor.
Swallowing his fear, he looked down at Bravo. Unblinking, he held the dog’s gaze.
“Sorry, boy, but I’ve gotta go see about Paige.” He stepped forward, ignoring the foam dripping from the corner of Bravo’s mouth, or at least trying to. “You’re really just a big, prissy poodle, aren’t you?” Picturing Paige’s protector with a big frou-frou haircut bolstered Marco’s confidence again. “You’re not going to bite me.”
He moved past the dog, turning sideways but never releasing the dog’s stare as he passed. Bravo barked harshly, a decidedly unpoodlelike warning.
Determined not to show fear, Marco took another step. A twig snapped under his heel. Instinctively he jerked his head toward the sound.
Bravo lunged, taking Marco’s break of concentration as victory. And to the victor go the spoils, as they say. Marco just hoped the spoils didn’t include his jugular.
Bracing against the attack, he flung the arm he’d wrapped in sheepskin out in front of him. Long teeth sunk deep into the coat. At first there was only intense pressure, like a vise closing on his arm. Then the coat slipped, and Bravo’s teeth sunk through the sheep’s hide and into Marco’s. Into flesh and sinew.
He stumbled backward, fighting his panic as much as the pain. All he could think was Don’t go down. Don’t let him get you down.
His back hit a tree. He used the solid trunk to regain his balance. Bravo tugged with all his weight, sitting back on his haunches and pulling. Fire streamed through Marco’s arm, then ice. Then nothing. Numbness.
Okay. No more poodle jokes, ever. I promise.
With his free hand, he groped for the leash dangling from the dog’s collar and jerked. The German commands Paige had taught him came back in a rush and he reeled through them, searching for the right one. “Aus!” he commanded. Out.
The dog twitched, clearly confused by this man who was both master and prey. Marco repeated the command twice more, yanking on the leash until the dog reluctantly released his padded arm.
Ignoring the slide of blood down his palm, Marco pulled the dog close, all his attention on the ninety pounds of quivering canine at his side.
“Foos,” he ordered. Heel.
Unmoving, the dog glared at him like a rattler ready to strike. Matching glare for glare, Marco put all the breath he had into his voice. “Give it up, big guy. I’m in charge.”
The dog’s ears sloped back. A good sign, he thought.
“Now, foos!”
Bravo spun around Marco’s legs to sit at his heel. Marco smiled. Almost.
Flexing his fingers painfully, he unwound the punctured coat from his forearm and pulled it on.
“All right, let’s go.”
He jogged away, slowly letting out his breath when Bravo trotted along beside him instead of chewing his leg off.
Marco thought he’d have another showdown when they reached Paige’s crumpled