“A normal person.”
He bared his teeth when he smiled and said, “Who says I’m normal?”
“How is it I never noticed this sarcastic side to you when we met before?” she asked with a frown.
“Because I liked you.”
The meaning being clear: I don’t like you now.
It shouldn’t have made her sad.
As they rounded the house, the cabana now in view, she said, “You’re one to talk about my job given you’re not actually a chef but a killer for the Pride Group.”
“Hunter,” he corrected. “And I’m flattered you took the time to find out about me.”
“I didn’t…That is…” She stammered as she realized she’d admitted to having him researched. “Were you ever going to tell me?” was what she ended up blurting.
He shrugged. “Maybe. Given your timid nature, I was making sure you could handle my violent side before divulging it. At worst, my cover as a chef would have worked.”
“What if I’d truly been that innocent little girl, and I’d run when I discovered the truth?”
No mistaking the feral nature of his grin when he said, “I would have chased.”
The question being, what would he have done when he caught her?
The delicious shiver that went through her body had some fine ideas that had everything to do with pleasuring flesh and not torturing pain.
“You use your job as a cover,” she stated.
“Being a renowned connoisseur of food, who likes his ingredients fresh, does come in handy for the tasks that take me away from my base city.”
“It’s a good cover,” was her grudging reply.
As they traversed the pool deck, he cursed. “Shit.” The cabana door gaped wide open.
“Apparently, you’re a better chef than hunter. Looks like your catch is gone.”
“Impossible! I had them tucked tighter than a boar for Christmas dinner on a spit over a coal fire.”
For a moment, she could almost taste the crackling fat, and her mouth watered. “That’s rather specific.”
“Just mentioning the impossibility of the shooter getting loose.”
“Maybe the wind blew the door open.”
He entered the cabana and emerged shaking his head and holding on to a robe. “They’re gone. Dammit.” He shrugged on the robe and belted it. Shame. He had nothing to hide.
“For a big-time hunter, your security sucks.” she taunted.
“Maybe I should hire a pro to fix it.”
She arched her brow. “Don’t look at me. I’m not available for work on account that I’m getting married in a week.”
“That soon, huh?” He turned away from her, and her attention got caught by a solid red light peeking out of the flowerpot by the cabana door.
Had there always been a light? “Um, is that a camera by that hibiscus plant?”
He turned to follow her pointing finger, crouched, and parted the leaves. “Shit. Bomb. Take cover.” He’d just thrown himself in her direction when the explosion hit.
Chapter Four
The impact of the bomb tossed him off his feet, and Dean flew right off the edge of the pool deck and into the water, which was better than over the cliff. Luckily, he hit the liquid in his human shape. His cat, being a bit of a pussy, was of the mind that if it didn’t have bubbles and a ducky, then it was a waste of time.
He hit the water feet first and sank to the bottom, which gave him some protection against bullets and other projectiles that might harm his fleshy parts. Dean kept his eyes open and watched as best he could through the agitation as things plopped into the pool with him. Lawn chair, part of a table, chunks of siding from the cabana, an unconscious wife...
What a mess. He’d need a crew to come in and drain the pool, then clean it, not to mention rebuild his cabana, mundane tasks that he shoved to the back of his mind for more pressing matters.
Who the hell had sent snipers to his house armed with a bomb?
Were they after him or something else? And…
If he didn’t do something to save Natasha, he’d end up a widower.
Oddly enough, despite her attitude, he found himself not keen on that idea. He began to kick across the pool, aiming for her plummeting body, only to stroke faster as her momentum slowed, and utterly relaxed, she began to float upward. This close, he could see her eyes shut and limbs hanging limply. He didn’t spot any blood; however, he knew for a fact that sometimes the worst injuries didn’t present any signs at all.
In more positive news, the exploding chunks ceased hitting the pool’s surface, and it began to calm, making them targets. The latter being not so positive.
With a wary gaze for bullets trying to streak past the water barrier, he kicked and strained until he could reach out and grab Natasha, his fingers closing around her slender yet muscled arm. Months ago, he’d actually fallen for her story that the firm tone she kept her body in came from hot yoga.
Now, he knew better.
Holding tightly to her, Dean shoved to the surface, dragging her face into the evening air. His gaze bounced around, looking for movement, listening for signs of the enemy. But they’d already fled. Or so his instincts claimed.
He didn’t relax, though, not until he heard Natasha take a breath. He kept hold as he stroked for the shallow end of the pool. Away from the shooting flames.
His cabana burned, and in the distance, he heard sirens. Nosy neighbors. There might be a few hundred yards between the properties, but as soon as he lit the barbecue—with a can of lighter fluid and enough charcoal to roast dozens of steaks—the firemen came tromping onto his property. Commending him on having not one but two fire extinguishers nearby, and then leaving with apologies—and bellies full of steak—not all that sorry for bothering him. Each time, his neighbor Frank woke to something having peed inside his house.
Might be time to get a new neighbor because it was inconvenient having human officials showing up so soon. They’d ask questions that he’d have a hard time answering—because the truth wasn’t an option.
Exiting via the pool’s shallow end stairs, Natasha’s limp body in his arms, he strode straight into the house, moving as quickly as he dared with his wet feet on marble and hardwood. He didn’t have time to do much, but he set a quick stage before the first of the firetrucks and policemen arrived on the scene.
By the time they ran into the backyard, trampling his gardens on their way, Dean was spraying at the flames with a garden hose, a cigar in his mouth, his wet shirt stinking of booze, his grin that of a partially drunk rich boy.
“Hallo there, officers.” He saluted them with the hand holding the watering hose. The cops yelled as he sprayed them—not so accidentally. He held in a smirk as they jumped back.
“What’s going on here?” barked the dark-skinned female officer with steel threading her black, curly hair. She wore a navy blue uniform and had her hand on the butt of her weapon. The name on her jacket read: Beaumont. Her gaze flicked between him and the flames at his back.
“Just having a late-night drink and a smoke.” He winked and waved the cigar and the hose at the same time. This time, he didn’t antagonize and spray anyone. While she remained by his side, the fire crew in yellow suspenders ran past, yanking a thick hose that made him wince. His poor lawn.