Bound By Temptation Page 3

  His brush off might have stung, but it had been kinder than the alternative. Even compassionate, given that her feelings hadn’t had a chance to develop yet.

  And the decision had been the right one. He was still certain of that. Better to break things off early, before emotions dug in to fuck things up. Because Emma wasn’t the kind of woman to indulge in careless affairs. She wouldn’t be able to keep her heart separate from the fucking.

  “So you slept with her,” Rio said, his voice dry. “How long did that go on?”

  Lucas twitched. Hell, he’d actually forgotten Rio was on the phone. A perfect example of the problem with Emma. She sucked him in so thoroughly he lost focus when she was around. Or, apparently, mentioned.

  “None of your damn business,” Lucas retorted, his hand tightening around the cell.

  Don’t ask…don’t ask…don’t ask.

  He couldn’t afford to get drawn back into her life. He needed to stay out of this—whatever this was.

  “So you gonna tell me what the hell happened?” Lucas asked, the question escaping unbidden, unwelcome as well. If he could have reached it, he’d have kicked his own ass.

  “Her house was trashed.”

  Okay, that didn’t sound so bad. Relief deflated his tense muscles, leaving him curiously void.

  “So while you two were together,” a careful tone entered Rio’s voice, “did you notice anything off about her?”

  Lucas frowned. “Off? As in how?”

  “Hell, I don’t know.” Rio’s voice sharpened. “Did she have any enemies, did she keep questionable company, did she have visitors in and out of her apartment all hours of the day?”

  “No. No. And no,” Lucas said flatly, suspicion rising. The litany of questions sounded too damn guarded considering Emma had been the victim of a crime, not the perpetrator.

  “You’ve got it wrong if you think Emma trashed her own place.” Lucas shook his head, his mouth tightening beneath an unwelcome burst of protectiveness. “She’s an arrow, straight as all fuck.”

  Stay out of it damnit, this isn’t your concern.

  But the words just poured out of his dumbass mouth. “Why the hell would you think she ransacked her own place?”

  “I don’t think she trashed her own place,” Rio snapped back. “But whoever did was looking for something and badge to trident, regardless of what she claims, she knows what they were looking for.”

  Lucas froze, the fine hairs along the back of his neck shooting up. That didn’t sound like a normal snatch and run. “What makes you think they were looking for something?”

  “Because while they turned her place inside out and upside down, they didn’t take anything. And there were plenty of items worth money. Jewelry. A laptop. Prescriptions. It doesn’t add up unless they were looking for something specific.” His voice turned guarded again. “Could she be dealing?”

  “In what? Drugs?” Lucas asked, his voice rising incredulously. “No.”

  “Fuck, Rocky, you admitted to sleeping with the woman. You know damn well you could be—”

  “You finish that sentence and I’m gonna reach through this phone and knock your damn teeth down your throat,” Lucas snapped. “Give me some fucking credit. If she was dealing, I would have known.”

  Silence fell, turned deafening. Lucas swore beneath his breath. The bastard didn’t believe him. Hardly surprising considering Rio’s attitude toward the fairer sex, but hell—Emma didn’t deserve this.

  “Look, Dante.” He fought to modulate his tone. “Emma’s a straight shooter. I guarantee you, she’s your victim, not your perp.”

  “That’s too bad,” Rio said after a moment, his tone darkening.

  It was such a strange response Lucas’s skin went cold. A few seconds of backtracking over the past minute of conversation and the chill intensified. “They didn’t find what they were looking for?”

  “I’d say no, judging by the look of her place. They systematically took it apart. There’s not one room untouched. If they’d found what they were looking for, they would have quit searching.”

  “You think they’ll be back,” Lucas said. Well, that explained Rio’s “that’s too bad” comment. He stirred against the door of his Jeep, his muscles so tight they ached. “You tell Emma this?”

  “Didn’t have to. She figured it out for herself.” Rio paused and Lucas heard a subtle click of keys, as though he were typing. “She’s getting a dog.”

  A dog? What the fuck? She’d be better off getting a gun and kick ass alarm system.

  Not your problem. Let it go.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose—hard—before exhaling noisily.

  “Who was assigned her case?” He didn’t have to go see her, he could keep an eye on the situation from behind the scenes. He relaxed. She’d never even know he’d been checking up on her.

  “Nobody.” Rio’s voice flattened. “We took a report, canvassed the scene, and pulled some prints. On a scale of one to ten, vandalism is a minus five. Unless the prints get a hit, or things escalate, there isn’t much we can do.”

  Escalate?

  And just like that, Lucas’s muscles tightened again. All of the scenarios that played through his mind ended with Emma hurt and terrified.

  “What the fuck’s she supposed to do until you bastards decide to step in and protect her?”

  “I told you, she getting a dog.” Rio paused, and Lucas could hear the shrug in the smooth voice. “I’ve put in a request for extra patrols around her place. That’s all I can do for now.”

  Which was a whole lot of nothing, damn it.

  “What’s her address?” Lucas committed the address Rio rattled off to memory and turned around to beat his forehead lightly against the Jeep’s doorframe.

  You stupid fucking moron. What the hell are you thinking?

  The most effective deterrent against this incessant itch he had for her was the simple fact he hadn’t known where she’d moved. Sure, it wouldn’t have taken much effort to find out, but at least the lack of an address had prevented him from spur of the moment foolishness—like visits or drive-bys.

  That first line of defense was officially gone now.

  But damn it, he couldn’t just leave her alone and unprotected either. At the very least he could teach her to defend herself. If he could convince her to buy a gun, he could show her how to use it. Even loan her one of his own, until her permit worked its way through the system.

  The trick was to keep things in the friends-helping-friends territory. Establish a firm hands and mouths to themselves rule.

  He grimaced, running tense fingers through his hair. Hands to themselves…sure…piece of fucking cake.

  Chapter Three

  With a disgusted groan, Emma threw back the scratchy sheets and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath her weight, eliciting a chorus of distressed twangs from the box springs. The night had been long and restless thanks to the uncomfortable bed, an endless string of nightmares, and the strange, vaguely threatening sounds coming from outside her motel room.

  Perhaps she should have sprung for a more upscale motel. But the string of units had looked clean and well-tended, and the price had been reasonable.

  Giving up on the prospect of further sleep, Emma brewed a cup of the complimentary coffee, and sat down at the pseudo wood desk to list what she needed to accomplish through the course of the day. As the coffee brewed, its rich, slightly bitter smell masked the pervasive scent of artificial air freshener.

  Visiting the gun store and getting her hands on a revolver was her number one priority for the day. Although, picking up a canine companion came in as a close second. Opening her laptop, she logged onto the motel’s Wi-Fi and googled firearm sales. She picked the closest pawnshop to her motel that listed handguns in their inventory. The shop didn’t open until ten a.m., which gave her four hours to research firearm laws in San Diego.

  As it turned out, her search raised two immediate problems. Number one, state la
w required government documentation with the applicant’s correct physical address when applying for a gun permit. A driver’s license was acceptable as long as it had the applicant’s current physical address—which hers didn’t. Of course she could just hand the pawn shop her license and lie about the address being correct, but if the permit was mailed out, it would go to the wrong address.

  But even worse than the lack of correct documentation was the waiting period. She couldn’t even buy a gun for ten days—and that was ten days after she passed the firearm safety exam which might take a few days. She chewed the cap of her pen while that bad news sank in. She couldn’t afford to sit tight in the motel for the next ten to twelve days either, which meant she’d have to make do with the dog, at least until she was cleared to buy a gun.

  Regardless, getting her address changed at the DMV was her new priority. She couldn’t even apply for a gun permit until her documentation showed her correct address. But googling the San Diego DMV brought even more bad news. While their office was open every third Saturday, today wasn’t one of those magical Saturdays. And while she could change her address online, it would take a week for her new license with the correct address to arrive. In the interest of saving time, she’d have to hit the DMV during her lunch break on Monday.

  At least the animal shelter was open today, although the doors didn’t unlock until ten a.m. She glanced at the flashing digital clock next to the lamp on the nightstand. She had three hours to kill before choosing her new dog. Plenty of time to hit the pet store and pick up some dog food, along with a collar and leash.

  She killed an hour browsing the San Diego humane society’s adoptable dogs. From the pictures and breed descriptions, it looked like there were several that would fit her criteria. As she perused the website, anticipation built. She should have gotten a dog weeks ago. The company would be welcome.

  Three hours later, the anticipation still hummed through her as she entered the animal shelter. However, it dimmed dramatically upon entering the adoptable dogs’ wing. The heavy duty industrial cleaners used on the cement floors didn’t come close to masking the smell of urine, or the sharp scent of desperation. Most of the dogs were front and center, barking wildly, jumping on the chain link gates, or whirling around and around in their excitement. The noise was deafening.

  She wandered from kennel to kennel, paralyzed by choices. It was impossible to choose just one animal when there were so many in need of a home.

  She’d visited three quarters of the kennels, when a skinny, small dog with a knot of bristly hair atop its head caught her eye. The animal was the total opposite of every dog she’d seen so far. Still and silent, the poor thing just sat there in the middle of the kennel—its shoulders hunched, its spine arched, its pom-pom of a head hanging despondently. It was a mottled gray, some kind of a terrier mix based on the wiry coat with its patchy bald spots. Except it didn’t have the cocky confidence she associated with terriers.

  Move along, Emma. This poor old girl isn’t big, she isn’t barking, and she’s not the least bit intimidating.

  But something about the dog’s despair reached out to snag her, stopping her in her tracks. The animal had completely given up.

  Emma’s heart hitched, and she knelt before the wire gate. “Hey there, sweetheart. What’s your name?”

  Slowly the animal lifted its head. A startled look filled its misaligned, mismatched blue and brown eyes. It slowly cranked its head to the right and looked over its shoulder toward the back of the kennel, as though it couldn’t believe someone was actually talking to it. The reaction was so pathetic, Emma’s heart hitched even harder.

  “Her name’s Scruffy,” a woman’s voice said from behind her. “The poor thing. She’s so shut down she doesn’t even respond anymore. I suppose it’s a mercy today’s her last day.”

  “Did she get adopted?” Emma asked with the sick feeling that adoption wasn’t the escape the woman was talking about.

  “Unfortunately no. I don’t think anyone even asked to see her the entire time she’s been here. Everyone goes for the cute and cuddly. And then there’s her medical condition. If prospective owners got past her looks, those twice daily insulin shots scared them off.”

  “She’s diabetic?” Emma asked, that sick sensation digging deeper. The dog—she refused to call her Scruffy—had gone back to staring at the cement floor with the weary, patience of a creature mired in soul-sucking hopelessness.

  “Diabetic, plus there’s her teeth,” the woman said.

  “Her teeth?” Emma leaned closer to the gate, but the animal’s head was hanging so low its bristly pom-pom was brushing the concrete floor, which made it impossible to see her mouth.

  “She doesn’t have any. She has to eat a special kind of dog food.”

  Move along, Emma. Not only does this dog not fit any of Officer Addario’s criteria, but it would take more money than you can afford to keep her healthy and fed.

  “When are you euthanizing her?” Emma asked, fervently hoping she’d misunderstood the woman’s earlier comment. She’d never actually said they were killing the dog, after all.

  “After viewing closes.” The woman’s voice tightened. “It’s for the best. She’s completely miserable. And she’s taking up space that should be given to animals that are adoptable. She won’t feel a thing. She’ll just go to sleep, that’s all.”

  Emma suspected the woman was trying to convince herself of that pile of horse crap, more than she was trying to convince Emma. She stared at the still dog and tried to force her legs to carry her to the next dog run.

  You can’t afford her. You can barely afford to take care of yourself.

  “What’s her story? Is she house broken?”

  A whiff of cigarette smoke reached her and she glanced over her shoulder at the woman behind her. The kennel worker was tall, with the gaunt frame of someone who existed on nerves, cigarettes and caffeine.

  “Some guy brought her in. Said his ex had left her after the split and he couldn’t afford her medicine.” Disgust sharpened her tone. “Although he sure didn’t have any trouble affording that brand new four-wheel drive pickup he was driving.” She paused to take a rattling breath. “He said she was house broken. But then again, the dude obviously didn’t mind bending the truth to suit his needs.”

  Dumped by some asshole the poor baby had trusted. Emma’s jaw set beneath a sense of kinship. “How much does the insulin run a month?”

  The woman jiggled her bony shoulders. “She goes through about a vial a month—so I don’t know, somewhere around $100.”

  A hundred dollars a month, plus her special dog food. Combined, it would be more money than she could afford to spend.

  It took immense effort to take that first step away from the kennel. If she’d been smart, she wouldn’t have looked back. That way she wouldn’t have witnessed the dog’s expression as it watched her leave. Because yeah, it had lifted its head and was watching her go with the most heartbreaking emptiness dulling its mismatched eyes.

  Emma turned back, ignoring the dog’s and shelter attendant’s identical looks of shock. “Does she bark?”

  “Not that I’ve heard.”

  Drat. Drat. Drat.

  Two hours later she was on her way home with her new canine BFF frozen on the passenger seat beside her. She could swear an expression of befuddled disbelief still glazed the misaligned, blue and brown eyes.

  The dog was wearing the collar Emma had picked up at the pet store. The second collar. The first collar had been so big the poor thing could have used it as a hula hoop. In the back of her car, the regular bag of dog food she’d bought earlier had been exchanged for two flats of canned dog food that cost twice as much, and lasted half as long. Next to the food was a bag containing a vial of insulin, a glucose monitoring kit, and a box of syringes.

  Her savings account, which had already been cringing, might never recover.

  “I’ll just have to cut back elsewhere to cover the costs of your food and med
icine,” she said, glancing at the frozen animal to her right. “I don’t watch much television. I doubt I’d even notice it was missing.”

  Canceling her cable would cover the insulin and other medical expenses the dog might incur. If she gave up her morning latte habit, that would cover the cost of the food. She glanced at the skinny animal beside her and frowned. Or at least the latte fund would cover most of the dog’s meals. At the moment, the poor thing was so skinny she needed some serious fattening up.

  The dog turned its head slightly, the brown eye watching the road unfurl in front of them, the blue eye fixed on Emma’s face. The disbelief had shifted to tentative hope.

  Maybe it was her imagination, but honestly the animal had the most human expressions.

  “First order of business is to change your name.” Emma settled her hand on the fragile, prickly shoulders beside her. “I see a lot of cuddling in your future, so how about we call you Cuddles?” A smile bloomed as she ran her hand down the hunched spine.

  Her smile vanished as the dog flinched beneath her fingers. Gently she ran her hand over the protruding spine again, trying to familiarize the animal to her touch.

  “Second order of business is a bath,” she announced, grimacing at the tacky, grimy feel to the rough coat. Now that they were out of the shelter and alone in the car, there was an obvious and offensive odor too. Rather akin to the way the shelter had smelled.

  This time the blue eye watching her broadcasted alarm.

  Emma laughed. “Relax. I’ll let you off the hook for tonight. You’ll fit right in at the motel. But tomorrow, when we return home, a bath it is.” She suppressed a shiver at the thought of returning home. “And baby, you have to learn to bark.” She hadn’t heard a peep from the dog yet, which didn’t bode well for her new canine alarm system. “If I can learn how to give insulin shots, you can learn how to bark at intruders. That’s a fair deal, don’t you think?” Cuddles cocked her head and furrowed her bushy gray eyebrows in a quizzical expression. “And that reminds me, baby. Just bear with me on the whole shot thing, okay? I’ll try not to hurt you, but there may be a bit of a learning curve there.”