It’d been five hours since Bulldog had been shoved into the police cruiser. Four and a half hours since the paramedics who had arrived at the scene, checked her head wound, and gave her a clean bill of health. No concussion. Just a bit of swelling and some pain. And four hours since she’d been driven to the local precinct where organized chaos had ensued.
She’d had to give her statement to no fewer than five different policemen on five separate occasions. She’d written a lengthy, four-page transcript of the entire abduction. Which, given the whole thing had lasted a little over five minutes, was a testament to her skill as a reporter who prided herself on being a stickler for details.
At some point, Washington had returned her purse and phone to her, and she’d made a quick call to Charlie, letting him know she was okay. She’d texted the same thing to Donny, who had quickly texted back: Thank heavens! I want all the deets when you get a minute. P.S. Love your funny face. Then she’d been fingerprinted—apparently they needed her prints on file so they could rule them out when collecting other prints from the van—her injury photographed, and the CPD had ended the day by generally poking and prodding her for any additional information she might have forgotten. Finally, she’d been pronounced drained of all pertinent details, and she’d been taken back to collect her car.
And the whole time, where was Ozzie? Well, right beside her. Still not touching her.
It was beginning to make her paranoid. They’d gone over this, hadn’t they? She had admitted to wanting to be more than just friends, and he had admitted that the whole reason he hadn’t touched her before was that he’d been afraid once he started, he’d never want to stop. When she replayed his words in her head, they thrilled her as much now as they had then. But he had touched her last night, touched her so good. And then this morning…nada.
I mean, what the hell?
Then it occurred to her…
What if he was having second thoughts? What if, between last night and this morning, he’d come to realize the extent of her feelings for him, come to understand that when she said she wanted to be more than friends, that wasn’t limited to a quick game of hide the salami, and then buh-bye? And what if he was trying to ease back, create some distance between them, because he didn’t feel the same way about her? After all, he may be a Casanova, but he was also a nice guy and her friend. If he thought his usual MO of Love ’em and leave ’em would hurt her, he’d do everything in his power to make sure that didn’t happen.
Shit!
So, then, where did that put them? Back at square one? Him not touching her and her pretending that all she wanted was to be a pal who met him for the occasional drink?
Screw that! She couldn’t go back. Not after that scene in the kitchen. Not after—
“Shove over,” Christian said, coming to stand in front of her. He had a jelly-filled doughnut in one hand and a copy of Car and Driver magazine in the other.
She scooted to make room, and he plopped down beside her. “Ruddy hell,” he said as Peanut lifted his head and meowed his displeasure at being jostled. Then the cat caught wind of the food and sat up, yellow eyes keen, crooked tail flicking side to side.
“Ruddy hell what?” Samantha mimicked Christian’s accent as Peanut transferred his furry, rotund self to the back of the sofa.
“I’m surprised smoke isn’t pouring from your ears, given how fast your gears are spinning.” He motioned to her head with the doughnut. Peanut’s eyes followed the movement with intense concentration.
“That obvious, huh?”
“Only to someone with eyes,” he admitted unhelpfully. “So what are you going on about? Anything I can help you sort out?”
As a matter of fact… “Has Ozzie ever had a steady girlfriend?”
Christian blinked, the doughnut halfway to his mouth. He swallowed and lowered the pastry. “Well now, this is an eight-point-nine on the awkward scale, yeah?”
“I’m serious.” Samantha frowned.
“As am I.” Christian’s expression was the same one he would have worn had he been sucking on a lemon. “And because I’m his friend, and because I know the two of you held a dance-off with your pants off last night, I feel obliged to remain mute on the subject of his past relationships.”
“We didn’t,” Samantha admitted. Today, Christian was dressed in designer jeans, a cotton pullover, and black leather ankle boots that flashed the Gucci logo on the sole when he crossed one ankle over his knee.
“No?” One dark eyebrow crawled up his forehead.
“No.” She shook her head. “But not because I put on the brakes. Hell no. I was all about the gas. He”—she tilted her head toward the group gathered around the bike lift—“was the one to stop things.”
“Now, that is interesting.” After a beat, Christian added, “And it explains some things.”
“Like what?”
“Like the fact that he was a grumpy Gus when he crawled out of bed this morning. I thought it was because he didn’t get the prize out of the cereal box again, but it’s because he was forced to salute his own general last night.”
Salute his own general? Where does he come up with these things?
“I’m serious.” She scowled at him.
The look Christian gave her was the picture of innocence. “Again, as am I.” He took a giant bite of doughnut. “Given this recent revelation,” he said around a mouthful, “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to tell you no, he hasn’t had girlfriends. At least not as long as I’ve known him.”
Samantha’s shoulders couldn’t have sagged any lower if someone had plopped fifty-pound newspaper bundles on them. “That’s what I was afraid of.”
Ozzie didn’t do relationships. Ever.
Christian eyed her. “I take it you don’t fancy that answer?”
“It is what it is, I guess.” She sighed, feeling hard stones of disappointment and hurt tumble through her chest. “You can’t ask a tiger to change his stripes, can you?”
“No, you most certainly cannot. Here.” He held out what remained of his snack. “Have the rest of my doughnut. It’s not quite as good as the Welsh cakes my uncle used to make. But it’s close.”
“I don’t want it if it’s a pity doughnut,” she told him with a sniff.
“Why? It tastes the same.”
When she narrowed her eyes, he grinned broadly.
Of course, when Peanut—moving with a speed Samantha would not have thought possible given his girth—jumped from the back of the sofa and snagged the doughnut in midair, it was her turn to grin.
“Thief!” Christian bellowed, glowering at Peanut’s quickly retreating back end as the cat dashed around the corner in a blur of gray fur. “Becky, your sodding cat filched my food again!”
Becky glanced over her shoulder with a look of complete disinterest. “That’s what you get for putting your food anywhere near him.”