He released her. “Is there anyone else here with you?”
She looked sideways, as if accessing her options, then shook her head.
“Good answer. It better be truthful. Are there other dogs on the premises?”
Suddenly, she pulled her hands from their tucked position and began yelling into her cell phone. “Help! Help! He’s got a gun!”
“Fuck!” He dropped his rifle and grabbed her from behind as she tried to get away. Bogart took this as his cue to once again join in the fray, and began jumping and barking in unbridled joy.
“Brouza hund! Platz!” James’s drill sergeant tone caused the dog to obey instantly. He moved several feet away from the pair and dropped into a submissive crouch. Too bad the woman in his arms wasn’t so easily mastered.
He had dropped a hand over her mouth to stop the shouting but she continued to kick and twist, rubbing her body against his in ways that made him register that she was young and in good shape, and smelled like the kind of fresh-brewed coffee he’d give his left nut to have a cup of right now, after having spent the night in the woods.
For his peace of mind and, before she hurt herself, he overwhelmed her protest by scooping her up off the floor with an arm about her middle. “Settle down, dammit, or I’ll cuff your hands and feet. Do you understand?”
She stilled but didn’t respond. But of course, he realized, she couldn’t speak with his hand over her mouth. He lifted it.
She sank her teeth into the meaty edge of his hand. As he released her, she twisted and lifted her knee in a quick jab to his groin.
If he hadn’t been a police officer she might have caught him off-guard, but he was accustomed to dealing with suspects. The bite hurt but her knee bounced harmlessly off the thigh he lifted to deflect her jab. He did lose his hat as she swung a slap in his direction before dancing away.
The hellcat palmed her phone and began jabbing numbers into it.
“Shit! Give me that!” He jerked the phone from her hand.
Shay stumbled back out of his reach but lifted her chin in triumph. “Too late! I’ve already called 911 once. You’d better leave. The police will be here any minute.”
“Damn it, lady! I am the police!”
As his roar of rage died away, James glanced at her phone. Sure enough, she’d dialed the emergency number. He ended the call and tucked it in his pocket. He had to give her credit. She had balls.
He swiveled his head in her direction. For the first time she came into focus as a person, and it was a revelation. She was about five six, with a thick mahogany ponytail skewed to one side in their struggle. Thick dark bangs framed her eyes, appearing darker than before and narrowed in calculation. But to be honest, he was more interested in the fact that her hoodie had come unzipped and it was spectacularly obvious that she wasn’t wearing a bra.
She followed his pointed gaze to where the vee of her jacket had widened to the waist and the globes of her breasts were trembling with the heated rise and fall of her breath.
“Pervert!” She jerked her zipper up, her cheeks coloring with emotion, anger or embarrassment, he couldn’t tell. The zipper didn’t budge. Cussing under her breath, she yanked again, and then a third time before it moved, locking the plastic teeth back together all the way up to her chin.
James stood staring at her a moment longer, wondering whether she’d yanked open her jacket to distract him or if it was just an accident. Either way, he was distracted. None of this had gone the way he’d expected.
He glanced over at his long-lost partner to help him regain his balance. Bogart sat up and looked back at him with a slack-jaw, lolling-tongue expression that looked for all the world like a big fat grin.
James’s attention switched back to the woman. She had recovered her composure with surprising speed. But her expression caught him totally off-guard. She wasn’t just angry; she was dead furious and ready to do battle.
He watched her judge the distance between herself and the door and then between herself and him, before she spoke. “You say you’re police? I want to see some ID. Now.”
He reached into his jacket for his badge and then held it out toward her. “Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department, Special Operations Division.”
Shay glanced at the shiny badge and then up into his face. If she’d been asked before this moment what her attacker looked like, all she could have described was a very angry male in camouflage clothing with a rifle.
Now she needed a whole new vocabulary.
He was young, maybe not even thirty, and tall. And he was gorgeous. He had that old-fashioned handsomeness with a broad brow and strong jaw, baby blues, spiky short dark hair, and the kind of mouth that made bad boys so irresistible. Not that it made any difference. So what if his muscular shoulders and tapered hips gave him the look of an Abercrombie and Fitch model? He had attacked her. In her home.