And she wasn’t just on the edge of the bed. She was in the middle, where he slept. A slow smile curled his lips as he stripped silently, leaving the small, dim light, which sat on the corner table on the far end of the room, turned on. He moved around the bed, slid beneath the blankets, and carefully, very cautiously, he eased in beside her.
She muttered something not so nice. A drowsy little comment about cold feet, but she settled back to sleep as his arm came over her and he drew her against him.
She didn’t awaken.
His frown deepened. A woman who slept alone was always aware when a man slid into bed beside her.
Crista was used to sleeping with someone.
Had that someone held her through the night and kept dreams of Dawg at bay? The bastard. He gritted his teeth at the thought of any other man holding her like this.
She belonged here, curled against his chest, snuggled into his body, keeping him warm.
It was…interesting.
He was still harder than hell. Hornier than he could remember being in years, but there was no need to hurry. No race to satisfaction so he could be alone.
His eyes closed as she muttered something again. Something about Alex and the electric bill, and he grinned. Female fluff stuff that Rowdy always teased Kelly about.
Hell, this was nice.
His eyes drifted closed, his arousal pounded between his thighs, but the edge was tempered with exhaustion and a slow easing of the tight sense of cold anger that had gripped him for years.
He buried his face in Crista’s hair, breathed out slowly, and let the darkness have him, for a few hours at least.
FIVE
Some days, it just didn’t pay to wake up. Waking up in Dawg’s bed had been bad enough, but thankfully he had been gone. She’d been able to steal a shirt and someone’s smaller-sized sweatpants, call a cab, rush back to her brother’s house to shower and change, and arrive to work on time.
Only to be fired.
Fired from a crappy waitress job in a diner that obviously didn’t have enough help to begin with.
And it had been more than clear that the owner was reluctant to fire her, which led Crista to only one conclusion. Dawg had influenced the owner.
He had her fired.
He wasn’t even decent enough to stop at just blackmailing her when she knew he had to know she was innocent. But now she was out of a job so he could have his little plaything close by.
She stood by the register as the manager wrote out her final paycheck and sighed wearily.
“Thanks, Madge,” she said quietly when the other woman, concerned and clearly upset with the orders to fire her, handed over the check.
“I’m sure sorry ’bout this, Crista.” Madge sighed, her hazel eyes compassionate. “Owner just called and said do it. Nothing I could do.”
Crista shrugged. The owner was friends with Dawg, she knew that, she knew how it happened.
Turning from the register, she tucked the check in her purse and made her way across the floor.
There were few customers at this time of the morning. Some coffee drinkers, an early rising tourist, and Johnny Grace, her next-door neighbor and Dawg’s cousin. Though Dawg admitted to the relationship only when he was forced.
He sat at the back table, a heavy frown on his brow as she moved toward him.
“Crista.” He stopped her before she could make it to the door. “Is everything okay?”
“Fine.” She gave him a stiff smile. “Cutbacks, I guess.”
She liked Johnny. He ran a bakery from his house beside hers and often brought her over fresh bread and sweets on baking days, free of charge, just because, he said, they were neighbors.
His gaze flicked to the manager, the frown still darkening his amazingly clear, soft brow. Dark blond curls framed his face, giving him an almost feminine appearance.
“Is there anything I can do?”
Anything he could do? She had a feeling there wasn’t a damned thing anyone could do. She shook her head, forcing a stiff smile to her face.
“I’ll be fine, Johnny. I have to go now, though. I’ll catch you later.”
Johnny was a good neighbor, but not a confidant. Right now, she couldn’t handle discussing this with anyone.
Her hand tightened on her purse as she stepped from the diner, her gaze swinging unerringly to the big black pickup across the street.
How the hell had she known he would be there? What instinct possessed her that she could feel him watching her, wanting her?
He was a dark shadow behind the tinted windows, until the passenger side window rolled smoothly down, revealing his unsmiling countenance and the dark glasses shielding his eyes.
His overlong black hair was tied back at the nape of his neck, revealing the strong line of his jaw and the arrogance that permeated his expression.
His hand lifted from where his long arm was stretched along the backseat, and his fingers beckoned her to him with regal confidence that she would come. Like a damned pet.
Her eyes narrowed on him as she turned and stalked down the sidewalk to the side of the diner where her Rodeo was parked. She had packed a suitcase that morning before heading to the job she didn’t have anymore. She had actually given Dawg the benefit of the doubt that he would at least trust her to work while he was playing the high-and-mighty blackmailer from hell.
But could he do that? Hell no. He had to have it all.
She jerked her keys from her purse as she heard the powerful motor moving behind her. She threw a glare over her shoulder before striding furiously across the parking lot.
She had bills to pay, a college loan to honor, not that she was using the damned degree at present, but there was always the potential of getting a decent job. Now she was going to go job hunting again and pray there was someone willing to laugh in his face when he ordered her fired.
God, he hadn’t changed. In eight years, most people managed to mature a little bit, but Dawg was still Dawg. Just a little darker, a little more dangerous, but still determined to have everything his own way.
“I don’t think so.” His big hand shackled her wrist as she moved to shove the key into the lock of the Rodeo.
Crista stood still, freezing as anger threatened to overwhelm her.
“I can’t believe you.” She tried to jerk her arm back, then stared at his fingers as he refused to release her.
They were shackled on her wrist like irons, snug enough to hold her in place, to remind her that he was bigger, stronger, harder than she was.
“What can’t you believe about me?” he asked, drawing her along with him to the truck where it sat, driver’s side door still standing open, a few feet behind him.