Fur Ball Fever

Chapter 8

After another lengthy shower followed by a stiff shot of bourbon, Nick's morning disappeared in a flurry of activity. By noon he'd arranged for window repairs, fielded questions from neighbors, and viewed the video. As expected, he'd learned nothing noteworthy. He also had no new dog theft suspects, and, unfortunately, no clues about the shooter's identity.

After a bite of lunch, he positioned a ladder against the clapboard and settled in to boarding up his window. The shoulder holster he'd strapped on made the job harder, but the Glock's bulk provided comfort. While he enjoyed the warm sunshine, his thoughts drifted again to the gunshot. Sure, he'd gone along with the cops' theory of a kid playing with daddy's gun, mainly to get them off his back in time for his meeting with Oliver. After serious thought, he decided the perp must be one of the thugs he'd roughed up during a protection operation.

But where was the shooter now? No suspicious vehicles had left Saltwater Estates after the gunshot. Either his attacker was still lurking, waiting for another opportunity, which seemed unlikely given there were few places in Saltwater Estates where a stranger would go unnoticed, or the cops were right and the shot had been accidental. He told himself to stop worrying.

Nevertheless he checked over his shoulder.

When his cell rang he nearly fell off the ladder. On examining the caller id he groaned aloud. Without answering, he shoved the phone back into his pocket. It was the third time Granddaddy Hiram had called today, no doubt with more wild threats against Oliver.

As Nick positioned another nail he tried to forget about assorted gunmen, his granddaddy, and other homicidal maniacs by bringing to mind the way Gracie and Murphy had hightailed it to safety. A reluctant grin tugged at his mouth. What other woman would be softhearted enough to think of Ruby-Pearl's predicament before her own, determined enough to track down her suspects in the face of opposition, and gutsy enough to sling a bag of dogshit at an enemy's head?

Her kindness, principles, and courage were powerful aphrodisiacs. Although Gracie had damn near blown his cover, he couldn't stop thinking about how much he'd missed her vibrant personality and wit. He hadn't realized how empty he'd felt without her. And now that she'd crashed into his life again, he was in worse shape than ever. His hands itched to touch every tempting inch of her body. She was so soft, so curvy, so sexy. And so utterly wrong.

As he hammered in the last of the nails, he caught a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision. He whipped his head around in time to see Gracie rounding the corner onto Ocean Breeze Drive. She was making remarkable time, given the tug of a reluctant dog and the platform heels she'd strapped on.

A careless swing caused him to yelp. The hammer dropped from his hand and thudded on the ground. As he sucked his bruised thumb, his brain made rapid connections. The Lombardis lived a couple of blocks up. If they'd stolen the dogs, and odds were one of them had, he had a notion they would be ruthless if they smelled interference.

He cursed aloud. Gracie was hot on the trail of the missing dogs while closing her eyes to potential danger, as usual. By going in solo she was liable to land in a whole heap of trouble.

In one leap Nick was on the ground and moving fast. Even with his tendency to attract shooters, she'd be better off with him at her side.

He skidded around the corner and saw she was already halfway up the street. Black curls bobbed in time to the sway of those spectacular hips. He pumped his legs harder. When he caught up, he slowed down to match her pace. Any minute now she would apologize for tossing the baggie. He planned to let her off the hook gently.

Murphy greeted him with his usual doggy enthusiasm. Gracie, on the other hand, shot her nose into the air so his megawatt smile was wasted. She didn't look the least bit remorseful. Truth be told, she appeared more irritated than apologetic. Her sandals continued to tap a staccato rhythm on the concrete.