Spectacular Rascal: A Sexy Flirty Dirty Standalone Romance (16 page)

If someone had broken in the alarm would have sounded. And even if Nico had somehow managed to shut off the security system, it would have beeped loudly as it was disarmed. It wasn’t anything that obnoxious that pulled me out of my sleep. It was something softer, the dull thud of someone stumbling home drunk in the hall outside, maybe. Or the person’s feet in the apartment above hitting the floor as they headed to the bathroom to take a piss.

Or maybe the dog. Fang could be in the living room working out her abandonment issues on the furniture. According to Cat, the dog usually sleeps with her, so the little pervert probably isn’t thrilled to have been consigned to her dog bed for the night.

I’m already planning to take Fang back to bed with me if she’s awake—I grew up sleeping with dogs, and I know I won’t be able to resist the “why can’t I come snuggle?” pup eyes if they’re turned my way—when I see the tiny form sprawled on the kitchen floor in front of the refrigerator.

My mind registers that it’s Fang, but something about the scene immediately strikes me as wrong. It takes a moment to realize that it’s her position. I’ve never seen a dog sleep on her side with her head lolled awkwardly toward the floor like that. From there my mind clicks from one thought to the next pretty quickly. I jump from realizing Fang is hurt, to theorizing what could have hurt her, to understanding that one of those things could be a human intent on hurting me, too, in just a few seconds.

But my mental process isn’t quite fast enough.

I’ve just started for the bottle of tequila, planning to arm myself before I check on the dog, when I’m hit hard from behind. The step I took into the kitchen makes the blunt object strike my shoulder instead of my head. I’m not knocked unconscious, but it still hurts like a son of a bitch.

I cry out and spin with a clenched fist, deciding to punch first and figure out who I’m punching later. My fist connects with the toned stomach of a shorter man, but the guy clearly isn’t expecting my blow. He doesn’t have time to clench his muscles, which means my fist goes in hard and deep.

He doubles over with a gagging sound just as the door to Cat’s room flies open.

“Get back inside and lock the door!” I order, distracted from the intruder long enough for him to rush me.

He butts his head into my midsection like a battering ram, sending me staggering backwards. My back hits the edge of the island, sending a flash of pain through my spine. I try to knee him in the chest, but he’s still coming, plowing into me with his head as his fists go to work on my ribs. I clench my gut muscles and reach for his shoulders, trying to pry him off of me. But before I can get a solid grip on the bastard, Cat’s foot connects with his hip hard enough to send him tumbling to the floor.

“Get somewhere safe and call 911,” I shout as I push away from the island, charging the guy as he jumps back to his feet.

“Let me help you,” Cat says, but I’m already tackling the smaller man to the ground. We roll over and over, landing in a rectangle of light beaming in through the half-closed blinds, giving me my first good look at his face. I recognize Petey, Nico’s driver, the man responsible for making his boss’s enemies disappear, and my blood goes cold.

Cold, and then boiling hot, my vision blurring with rage as I realize this man has come here to hurt Cat, maybe even kill her.

I aim a fist at his face, fully prepared to break a few bones, but the rabid little shit gets to me first. He’s small, but he’s insanely fast, and strong as fuck. I’ve barely caught the flash of movement out of the corner of my eye, when his fist rams into my right cheekbone, making cartoon stars streak across my vision. The blow connects with enough force to knock my weight to the left. Before I can shift back to the right and return the punch, the weasel wiggles out from under me and makes a break for the front door.

With a curse, I jump up to run after him, only to slam into Cat, who apparently had the same idea. We bounce off each other with twin sounds of pain and surprise. I hit the wall and recover my balance fairly quickly, but Cat, having collided with someone almost twice her size, falls all the way to the floor.

I move to help her up, but before I can take a step, she’s bounced back to her feet with some back snapping ninja move that reminds me that she’s a black belt in one of the martial arts.

“Stop him!” she shouts, starting for the front door.

I dart into the hallway just ahead of her, running fast, but the front door is already closing behind Petey the Disappearer. Skidding to a stop on the hall carpet, I wrench the door open in time to hear the door leading out to the street thunk heavily shut and footsteps pound away outside.

“Wait.” I grab Cat’s arm as she tries to push past me.

“I have to catch him,” she says. “If I can prove Nico sent someone to break into my house, then the police will have to take me seriously.”

“He’s got too much of a head start,” I say, holding tight as she tries to pull away. “And we have to check on Fang. He hurt her. She’s unconscious…maybe worse.”

Cat’s face pales, and the fight goes out of her. “Oh, no.” Her hand flies to cover her mouth. “Fuck, Aidan. If he killed Fifi, I don’t know what I’m going to do.” Her eyes begin to shine. “I’ll have to kill him. Hunt him down and kill him with my bare hands.”

“I’ll help you,” I promise, putting an arm tight around her shoulders. “Come on, let’s go check on her together, then I’ll start Googling twenty-four-hour vet offices.”

“No, I’ve got a friend.” Cat shuts the door and presses a hand against it for a moment, as if bracing herself for what we might find in the kitchen. “If Fifi is still alive, Shane will take care of her, any time of day or night.”

“Then let’s go get her and take her to your friend.” I capture Cat’s hand, holding tight as we move back into the apartment, praying that Fang isn’t down for the count for good.

Thankfully, when Cat and I kneel down beside the fallen guard dog, it’s immediately obvious that she’s still breathing.

“Thank God.” Cat’s breath hitches as she scoops Fifi gently into her arms. “Come on, baby. Let’s go get you fixed up.”

“I’ll get her bed and her leash just in case,” I say, wishing I could do more.

Helping take care of the damage Petey has done is too little, too late. As Cat hurriedly changes out of her pajamas into a pair of black yoga pants and a grey tank top, I can’t help thinking that it could have all too easily been her lying on the floor. It could be her unconscious in my arms, and me figuring out ways to kill the person who hurt her.

We’re in way over our heads. It’s time to make contact with Bash and get some professional help before someone other than Fang is hurt.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

By the time we get out of the cab near Cat’s friend’s building on the Upper West Side, dawn has stained the sky above Central Park bright yellow with streaks of orange, and Fang is starting to whimper in Cat’s lap. It’s an encouraging sign, but I know Cat’s not going to feel better until we hear from a licensed professional that her fur baby is going to be okay.

I won’t, either.

This never should have happened. I should have kept it from happening. Or at least kept Petey from getting away.

Some bodyguard I’m turning out to be.

I follow Cat into the grand old building at the corner of 72
nd
Street and Central Park West, attempting to look non-threatening as the man at the front desk eyes the bruise on my cheekbone. Finally, after he calls upstairs to ensure that Shane is expecting a “large man with several tattoos,” he adds our names to the guest register and motions us through to the elevators. I may have earned a battle scar—and done at least a little damage to Nico’s thug—but it never should have come to this.

Neither my client, nor any of her nearest and dearest, should have been hurt on my watch. This is my fault. If I hadn’t underestimated mobster security system hacking abilities, and ignored Cat’s warning that her ex would lose his shit if he found out I was spending the night at her place, Fifi wouldn’t be shivering and crying, and Cat wouldn’t be so pale that she blends in with the white elevator walls as the lift zips skyward.

I’m so busy mentally ripping myself a new one, and thinking of all the things I could have done better, I don’t realize we’ve stopped on the penthouse level until we step out into an apartment so enormous it reminds me of the museum on the other side of the park. The Met is the only other place I’ve ever been that has rooms with twenty-foot ceilings and artfully lit paintings on the walls.

The museum vibe continues in the rest of the space. Heavy couches with carved wooden arms, draped with blankets from at least a dozen different countries, create a welcoming conversation area in the center, while floor to ceiling bookcases with a sliding ladder lend gravitas to the far side of the room. To our left, a galley-style kitchen long enough to fit in a luxury cruise ship, filled with stainless steel appliances and dominated by an island larger than my entire apartment, gleams in the early morning light.

Sitting cross-legged on top of the island is a plush woman in pink harem pants and a tight black tank top with a white towel folded in half in front of her. As soon as we step through the elevator doors, she motions urgently to Cat with both hands.

“Bring the little love over here, Sweet Pea,” she says, her blue eyes kind and compassionate behind her black horn-rimmed glasses. “We’re going to make it all better, I promise.”

“Thank you so much.” Cat sniffs as she lays the trembling Fang down on the towel in front of the woman I can only assume is Shane. The gentle way her fingers probe Fang’s belly speaks of a vet’s comfort with animals. “She seems to be coming around,” Cat says, staying close. “But she hasn’t opened her eyes yet.”

Shane hums thoughtfully, her gaze fixed somewhere in the distance as she continues to run her hands over the dog. “Well, that makes sense,” she says softly. “She’s so little. Even if that worm only gave her a tiny bit of sedative, it would knock her out for a good long stretch. I
could
give her something to help her come to. But considering I don’t know what was used to put her out, I’d rather wait and let her wake up on her own.”

“But she
is
going to wake up.” Cat nibbles anxiously on her thumb, clearly in need of reassurance. “It’s just the sedative that’s keeping her knocked out, right? They didn’t hurt her?”

“I’m not seeing any evidence that she was injured.” Shane lifts Fang’s head and gently examines her teeth. “I imagine the sniveling coward slipped into your place with a treat, Fang gobbled it up like the terrible little guard dog that she is, and then laid down for a long hard nap.”

With a final nod, she sets the pup down and folds the towel in half, covering Fang in the fluffy white cotton. Only when she’s finished with the exam does she reach out to grab Cat’s hand and look her friend fully in the face. “Feefs is going to be fine. And, thank God, so are you!” Shane turns, holding her free hand out toward me. “You must be Aidan. I’m Shane. Thank you so much for keeping my stubborn friend safe.”

“Good to meet you.” I take her hand, surprised by the strength of her grip.

Now that I’ve looked her full in the face, I’m struck by how much she resembles one of those English rose Victoria’s Secret models, or maybe a Persian cat. She looks like a creature accustomed to being petted and pampered and served delicacies on sterling platters. Even without makeup on, she has an over-the-top beauty that’s a little mind-numbing at first glance. But she’s also got a firm hand and no shortage of fire in her belly when it comes to defending a friend.

Shane releases my hand and turns to Red with a pointed look. “Maybe now Miss Catherine will finally listen to reason and come live with me until the Nightmare in Human Form can be convinced to leave her alone.”

“It’s weird when you talk about me in third person when I’m standing right here.” Cat sounds as tired as she looks, and her usual smartass tone is noticeably lacking.

“Well, if a girl weren’t so stubborn,” Shane says in a decent English accent, “a girl wouldn’t drive her friends to appealing to total strangers for help in making her see sense.”

“
Game of Thrones
,” Cat says, seeing my confused look. “She watches too much of it.”

“There is no such thing as too much
Game of Thrones
. It’s like cats and chocolate and orgasms.” Shane smiles up at me, apparently amused by my continued confusion. “Things that are better in bulk. I had ten cats before I moved to the city. And as soon as I can convince the HOA committee to let pets in the building, I plan to bring all of them to live with me and acquire three more so I’ll have a baker’s dozen.”

Shane gives Cat’s hand a final squeeze and then slides off the island to land lightly on the kitchen floor. “I’m going to put the kettle on and make a hot water bottle to help keep Fang calm as she starts to wake up. Anyone want tea? Coffee? Children’s chewable morphine for the huge bruise on his face?”

“Now she’s talking about
you
in third person.” Cat leans wearily against me. “That means she likes you.”

“Does she really have chewable morphine?” I whisper.

“Possibly. She has a surprising collection of weird shit.”

“Which is why I like
you
so much,” Shane says, turning back from the sink with a red kettle in hand. “But sadly, no, I don’t have morphine. I do have ibuprofen and those gigantic Tylenol that make me sleepy, but always knock out my backaches. Either of those sound good?”