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 form. Bravo circled his fallen mistress, whining and batting at her with his paw as if to wake her. Marco was beyond caring about the dog. The hounds of hell couldn’t have scared him more than the sight of her body folded on the cold ground.
Hardly breathing as he knelt at her side, he brushed the dirt and leaves from her face and uttered quiet thanks when her breasts rose visibly with her next breath. Her pulse bounced steadily off the fingertips he pressed to her carotid.
Bravo let out a low, moaning howl. All hint of aggression disappeared from the dog as he lay down at Paige’s side as if he knew she was in trouble.
“It’s all right, boy,” Marco reassured the dog. “She’s going to be all right.”
Bravo lapped his tongue over Marco’s ear.
“Thanks,” Marco said, wiping his face as he restarted his heart. “I think.”
Laying Paige’s head gently on the ground, he worked his hands over the length of her body, probing carefully. There was no sign of a bullet wound, thank God. The shooter had missed. Either Marco had tackled him in time to ruin his aim, or Lewie Kinsale wasn’t a very good shot. Marco didn’t care which; he’d take alive any way he could get it.
The sight of the abrasions on her face and the reddened areas that would soon be bruises sobered Marco quickly. A bullet wasn’t the only way to die out here. The cliff over his shoulder climbed some twenty feet up, its sharp slope made even more treacherous by jagged rocks, protruding roots and brush. It must have been a rough ride down.
The thought of spinal injury worried him most. But as he checked her out, she shifted her arms and legs restlessly. That was a good sign, he hoped. And the Kevlar vest she wore under her uniform would have offered some protection to her vital organs.
Lightly massaging the scalp beneath her full, blond hair, he found a gash on the crown of her head. The cut oozed blood steadily, but didn’t appear deep. All in all, he figured she’d been lucky, until he got to her left ankle.
She groaned when he wiggled her foot. He muttered a curse. The joint was already swelling. He couldn’t tell if the ankle was broken or just sprained, but either way she wasn’t going anywhere under her own power for a while.
Tamping down a feeling of impending disaster, Marco gently settled her foot back on the ground, raised his head and looked around. He needed to put some distance between himself and those hunting him. The night was deep and dark now, but it wouldn’t be for long. When the sun rose, he’d be an easy target.
As would Paige, if there were more like Lewie Kinsale prowling around these woods.
He looked down at her pale face. As it did every time he looked at her, every time he thought about her, his heart gave an involuntary twist.
After six months in jail, he’d thought his reaction to her would have dulled, but one look at her had brought back all the old feelings like rapier points at his chest.
Guilt. He’d made his mistakes.
Shame. He’d endured the humiliation his actions had brought about. More.
