Kill Me Again

But there was no reply.

He wasn’t lying on the floor beside the bed, the way he usually did, so she could let her arm dangle over the side, and stroke his big head until he fell asleep. He wasn’t lying on the bed, across her lower legs, or with his head on her chest, rendering her immobile or in danger of suffocation, either.

Where was her dog?

And who was creeping around in her kitchen?

Olivia reached for the telephone on the nightstand, pushed the talk button and heard nothing but dead air. No landline. Her blood went cold. Had the intruder cut the phone line?

And then her mind went to the place it would have gone sooner if she hadn’t trained herself to avoid it. Her ex-lover, Tommy Skinner. Had he finally found out the truth? That she was still alive and in hiding, living a false life under a false name. A life that felt more real than any other one ever had. Had he finally come, sixteen years later, to exact revenge for what she’d done to him?

She had to get out of the house, she realized, no longer willing to downplay the fear that was trying to keep her alive.

But first she had to find her dog.

She slid from the bed, unconsciously smoothing her red flannel pajama bottoms and white lacy camisole top, and tiptoed to the bedroom door, which stood two inches ajar. She never shut it all the way, so that Freddy could come and go throughout the night. Her cell phone was in her purse, which was on a hook in the living-room closet. Dammit. She didn’t have a gun, either. Not there in the house, anyway. She’d never thought she would need a gun with Freddy around.

She peered through the slightly open door into the living room, and saw Freddy, lying on his side on the hardwood floor. Asleep, she thought—and then the truth hit her. He was lying too still, not moving at all. And he would have heard the sounds that had awakened her far sooner than she would have. She tensed in shock and fear, about to pull the door wider and run to him, but before she could, it crashed inward, hitting her in the head and sending her backward onto the floor. Her forehead screamed in pain, and she felt a trickle of blood there, even as she realized a man wearing a black ski mask was standing over her. Scrambling backward, crablike, she shielded her face with one arm, and went icy cold in terror when he lifted a gun and pointed it at her.

“Stay still!” he barked from behind the mask.

“What did you do to my dog?” She made no effort to keep her voice down.

“Quiet, dammit!” He worked the gun’s action.

“All right, all right.” She stayed still and bit her lip to keep from speaking again. She was shaking from head to toe, yet her mind kept on working. She tried to get a look at him in case she lived through this, so she could give a description later on. Her arm was still blocking her face. She couldn’t seem to convince herself to lower it, so she peeked around it. Her assailant was lean and wiry, not overly tall, though he seemed it as she lay on her back on the floor, looking up into his gun barrel. “Please,” she whispered, unable to keep her mouth shut, despite his threats. “Please tell me what’s wrong with my dog. What did you do to him?”

“Shut up!”

She shut up but kept taking mental notes. He was wearing a ski mask, a black turtleneck, black jeans and black gloves. At first she wasn’t even sure of his skin color, but then she glimpsed it through the eye holes of the mask. He was Caucasian. It was too dark to guess his eye color.

He went to her dresser and yanked open the drawers, raking his hands through her clothes, sending them flying in the process, all the while keeping the gun and one eye on her. He pulled one drawer all the way out and flung it to the floor when he was finished, then turned to her closet.

“What do you want?”

He turned sharply and stared at her. “I told you to shut up, bitch! Do you want to die like your dog?”

“Freddy! No!” She surged to her feet, ignoring him, his threats and his gun, and took one lunging step toward the bedroom door.

Her attacker caught her bodily around the waist, flung her backward onto the bed and leaned over her. “The disks. I want the disks. Where are they, Sarah?”

“Sarah…” she whispered. God, no one had called her that in more than sixteen years. “No, I’m not Sarah. I’m Oliv—”

He swung his gun hand so suddenly that she couldn’t anticipate the blow, and her position on the bed didn’t leave room to duck it, anyway. The side of the handgun connected with her jaw, and her head snapped hard to one side. He straddled her on the bed as stars exploded behind her eyes and lifted the gun again.

But then something—no, someone—tackled him from the side, the momentum carrying him off the bed to the floor. Olivia scrambled off the bed herself, though her head was spinning. Stumbling toward the doorway, she managed to stay upright, to get through it with only one thought on her mind.

Freddy.

He was still there on the floor, and he hadn’t moved. She staggered toward him, then fell half on top of him, hugging his big neck. “Oh, Freddy, come on, baby. Freddy? Freddy!”

The other two crashed into the living room, and she surged to her feet again, racing for the closet and the cell phone she’d left in her purse. The newcomer delivered a series of blows delivered so rapidly she couldn’t have counted them. The intruder’s head snapped back with each one, and she finally realized that her rescuer was none other than the man she had fallen asleep thinking about. Aaron Westhaven.

Even as she watched in stunned awe, he snapped the gun from the intruder’s grasp, removed and pocketed the clip, then ejected the bullet in the chamber. And he did it all in about a half second, while she stood there with the cell phone in her hand. He met her eyes and gave her a subtle shake of his head, telling her no.

Then the intruder ran for it, blowing past her and out through the front door. Aaron ran after him, but she caught hold of his forearm just as he reached the doorway.

“Aaron, please don’t!” she cried.

He stopped in his tracks in the doorway, turned to look at her. But she was focused on Freddy again. Releasing his arm, she returned to her beloved pet. She rubbed his giant head as tears spilled over her face. “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God! Freddy.”

She heard a motor roaring away, and then Aaron was kneeling beside her, his hands on her dog. “He’s breathing. Hey, you hear me? He’s okay.”

She sniffled and lifted her eyes to his. “He’s not dead?”

“No, he’s breathing. His heart’s beating strong. Feel.” He closed one of his hands around hers, enveloping it entirely, and then he pressed it to Freddy’s chest. She felt the powerful, steady throbbing of his massive heart against her palm.

Her mouth fell open, and her eyes closed. “He’s alive! Freddy, come on boy, wake up. Wake up for me now.” She bent and kissed his muzzle, then rubbed his face and ears, but he didn’t respond.

Aaron sighed and then bent closer, running his hands over the dog’s huge body in search of injuries, frowning the entire time as if puzzled. He laid his head on the dog’s side, listening. Then he sat upright again, nodding. “I think he’s fine. There’s not a mark on him. My best guess is that he’s probably been drugged.”

“Drugged? Dammit, it was the steak.”

He looked at her, brows raised.

“He was eating a piece of steak when I got home, and I couldn’t get it away from him.”

“So your burglar fed him some doped meat. Can’t blame him. You don’t break in to a house with a dog this size unless you take some precautions, right? I think he’ll be fine. Can you turn on a light?”

Sniffling, she got up and found a light switch.

Aaron was still looking at her dog, lifting his eyelids, looking at his eyes. “Yeah, he’ll be fine. He’s starting to come around already. It would take a huge dose to do any lasting harm to a dog this size. Hell, he’s almost a pony.” He glanced up at her, and his face changed. “Damn,” he said, and he rose, coming to her, gripping her chin very gently, turning her face. “What did he hit you with?”

“First my bedroom door. Then his gun.” She ran her fingertips over her hurting jaw. “What are you doing here, Aaron?”

“I was feeling like a sitting duck at the hospital. And I overheard you and the doc talking before, so I knew where to find your key and your car.”

“So you just left?” She let him help her to her feet.

“I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“Mind? You probably just saved my life.”

She let him lead her into the kitchen, though she hated to walk away from her dog. But he eased her into a chair that left her a clear line of sight to Fred’s still-prone form. Then he turned on the water, located a washcloth and soaked it, then went to the fridge, where he filled the cloth with ice. “Here, hold this on your jaw.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s not even close to enough to say how sorry I am, Olivia.”