“Smart man.”
“He is. But that’s all I meant by not the first time I’ve taken a punch.”
Satisfied she was showing no signs of concussion, Finn turned away long enough to snag the arm of a passing waitress and request she bring him a towel or bag filled with ice.
He might not know her well, but even Finn realized it was a testament to just how much her cheek must be hurting that Tucker didn’t make some snide comment about him ordering her staff around. Or that after the waitress returned with some ice wrapped in a towel, she didn’t protest when Finn moved close, sliding his hip against hers, to place it against her cheek.
But she did hiss and jerk back in response to the pain and cold.
Finn wrapped a hand around the back of her neck, holding her in place.
“That hurts,” she grumbled.
What was wrong with him? He wanted to pick her up, plop her down into his lap and do whatever it took to make the pain go away. Even though he knew that wasn’t possible.
The only person Finn ever worried about taking care of was Duchess—and she wasn’t technically a person.
“I’m sorry, but something tells me you’d rather keep the swelling and bruising to a minimum.”
With a sigh, she settled against the wall, the warmth of his palm cupping her head. The soft rain of her hair brushed across the back of his hand.
His gaze snagged on her lips. He wanted to taste them. Wanted to know if the taste of her would be just as spicy as her attitude, or if that prickly outer shell hid a sweetness designed to bring a man to his knees.
But he didn’t get the chance. He could feel the presence behind him long before the man spoke.
“Boss, problem’s all taken care of.”
“Great. Thanks, Wyatt.”
“You okay?”
“She’s good. Looks like she’ll have one hell of a bruise tomorrow, though.”
The toe of her shoe connected with his hip. “I can speak for myself, thank you very much.” Her gaze shifted to the man standing just over his shoulder. “I’m fine. Give me a few minutes and I’ll be back out on the floor.”
“Take your time. The guys and I have everything in hand.”
Finn watched Wyatt disappear. Beside him, Duchess stirred. She moved to follow and Finn was too preoccupied to notice or call her back. He wasn’t worried about her—she was better behaved than the morons they’d just thrown out.
“Hey, how the hell did you get back in, anyway? I’m pretty sure I said you and your dog weren’t welcome.”
“And yet we weren’t the ones who just tried to start a riot in the middle of your bar.”
“That’s a little melodramatic, don’t you think?”
Finn shrugged. “I’m not the one sitting here with an ice pack on his cheek.”
She shoved at him. Finn moved so Tucker could slide out of the booth. He figured asking her to sit still a little longer wouldn’t have made any difference. He could have stonewalled and kept her in, but he wouldn’t put it past her to duck under the table.
The minute she stood she let out a loud hiss and her entire body buckled again.
Jolting forward, Finn caught her around the waist, not bothering to wait before depositing her back onto the bench.
Kneeling in front of her, he asked, “What’s hurting?” even as his gaze swept over her looking for apparent signs of injury.
“My ankle. I must have twisted it when I got knocked on my ass.”
His mouth tugged into a frown. “It’s no wonder with these death traps you seem to think are shoes.”
Slipping one of the heels from her left foot, he dropped it onto the floor, not caring when it clattered with a resounding bang.
“Hey!” She jerked forward, trying to dive after the shiny black heel. “Those cost eight hundred dollars.”
Finn wrapped his fingers around her ankle, the smooth warmth of her skin registering somewhere deep inside. “Excuse me?”
“They’re couture.”
“Did you just tell me that you spent almost as much as my mortgage payment on an impractical pair of heels?”
For the briefest moment, Tucker looked a little sheepish. But the expression didn’t last long, quickly replaced with bravado and a no-nonsense stare that threatened to cut straight through him.
God, there was something about this woman that lit up everything inside him. She was infuriating and adorable at the same time. Intriguing and tempting.
“I don’t need to justify my spending habits to you.”
“No, you sure don’t,” he said, tucking his chin into his chest to hide the smile he couldn’t quite stop. Probing her ankle, he moved it from side to side, testing her range of motion. So far, it wasn’t swelling, which was a good sign. “But maybe you should lay off the heels for a few days while this heals.”
She harrumphed, crossing her arms over her chest, but didn’t argue with him.
Slipping the other shoe off, this time carefully setting it onto the floor beside them, Finn grasped her by the arms and gently pulled her up, taking as much of her weight as she’d let him.
“Try putting some weight on it.”
Gingerly, she did, only grimacing slightly, before shaking his hands away. “I’m fine.”
His fingers tingled where they’d touched her skin.
Scooping her shoes up, she limped away.
Shaking his head, Finn debated whether to let her go or try to help. It was obvious which she wanted. But before he could make up his mind, a commotion snagged his attention.
Several feet away, Duchess was raising a ruckus, barking and pawing at the floor.
Finn stilled. There was only one thing that would cause the dog to react that way.
“What the hell?” Tucker flashed him a glare. “If she leaves so much as a scratch on my floor I’m sending you the repair bill.”
“Darlin’,” Finn said. “You’ve got a bigger problem than a scuffed floor. Duchess only reacts that way to one thing.”
“I hardly think she’s found an IED buried beneath the floorboards, soldier.”
“No. Duchess isn’t trained to scent bombs.”
Pushing ahead of her, Finn stalked over to where Duchess was going crazy. A couple of tables had been pushed out of the way during the fight, and right there, tucked halfway beneath the leg of one of them was a plastic bag filled with a decent amount of crystal meth. Not the kind of baggie sold for a single hit of fun...this was a big enough score that it would be broken up and sold.
“Drugs. Duchess is trained to find drugs.”
* * *
SONOFABITCH. THAT’S WHAT she wanted to say, but she managed to not let the word out. Not because she particularly cared what the man standing beside her thought of her vocabulary—she’d been raised by a soldier and she owned a bar. Her dictionary of curse words was understandably intense. But giving in to that urge would probably lead to a serious meltdown that she didn’t have the luxury of indulging in right now.
Tucker