Beowulf: Explosives Detection Dog (12 page)

S
team rose from the mug he cradled between both hands, forearms propped on his knees as Tony sat on the back patio, staring at the trees. He took a sip and cringed at the stinging the hot liquid created against his split lip.

Steps sounded from the right and he turned. Came to his feet. “Grady.”

His big brother, who was shorter by four inches and heftier by twenty pounds, stalked toward him. His gaze struck Tony’s lip, sporting the telltale evidence of having to subdue their father, then lowered. “We weren’t expecting you for a couple of weeks.”

Tony nodded as he returned to his cushioned seat. “Change of plans.”

“Mom told me what happened.”

Tony stared into his coffee.

“I’m sorry.”

He slurped some of the hot liquid, careful to avoid his injury, and swallowed. “Nobody’s fault.”

Grady rubbed his long, thin hands together. “I feel like it’s mine. He’s getting more unpredictable. I just can’t seem to talk Mom into putting him into managed care.”

“Give her time.” Tony hated this conversation.

“Another stint like that—I mean, what if he went after Mom like that? She doesn’t have your training. He’d have killed her.”

He swirled his coffee. Grady seemed overly eager to put their father away. But even now, Tony had to admit his brother was right. “I’ll put in for an extended leave.” He threw back the rest of the brew and savored the heat of it searing his esophagus. “We’ll get him moved then.”

He didn’t like it. Didn’t like the idea of relegating his father to a soldier’s home, of abandoning the man who’d given everything he had, including his mind, to fight for his country. Putting him away felt like the ultimate betrayal of one of the nation’s finest.

“When’s that, Jimmy?”

The only time his brother used that name card was when he wanted the upper hand. “As soon as I can.”

“Mom said you have a girlfriend.”

Tony smirked and let out a breathy laugh. “Mom wants me married. She thinks that will tame me.”

“Will it?”

Tony eyed his brother. “Don’t go there, Grady. Not today. Not this time.”

“Look, you know I think—”

“Yes.” Tony stomped to his feet. “I do know. But I joined, it’s who I am. And quite honestly, I’m pretty dang good at what I do. It’s an honor to serve.”

“You mean, to escape
this
. To escape watching Dad fall apart.”

“Escape? Grady, I was here the first time he went haywire. The last two years of high school were spent wondering when I walked through the door after football practice, if Dad would be here or in wherever he was when things went bad.” He stabbed a finger at his lip. “Serving in the Special Forces doesn’t mean I’m escaping.”

“No, you just went from one hell to another.”

Tony laughed, despite his frustration. His brother had a valid point. “It sure ain’t heaven.” Unless one counted meeting certain beautiful dog handlers.

“What’s her name, the girl you mentioned to Mom?”

Another laugh escaped as he let his eyes close. “Timbrel.” Or should he say Audrey? No … no, he didn’t want to arm his brother with that information, that he’d taken a shining to the daughter of a Hollywood socialite.

“How’d you meet her? Or can’t you tell me?”

“She’s a dog handler.”

“So, she’s military, too?”

“No, not anymore.”

“When do we get to meet her?”

That’s where it hurt. “Probably never.” He looked at Grady, at the brother who was his opposite in so many ways, right down to the black hair and brown eyes. “She stood me up. We had a great night then she bolted.”

“Sounds just like your type.”

Tony frowned at his brother.

Grady laughed. “Sorry. I just meant she’s a challenge. That’s your type.”

“She’s wounded.”

“No surprise there.”

“Don’t.” Tony scowled. Though he could take Grady’s antimilitary talk when it came to himself, Tony wouldn’t tolerate his talking about Timbrel that way. “Don’t do that. Keep your poison to yourself.”

Stomping her foot on the vinyl floor, Timbrel gritted her teeth. “Okay.” She banged her foot against the cabinet. “Bye.” She jammed her thumb against the E
ND
button and threw her phone on the counter. Holding the edges, she kicked the cabinet again.

Clicking nails alerted her to Beo’s entrance into her tiny kitchen.

Bent, she clawed her fingers through her hair and balled her hands into fists. Elbows on the Formica, she resisted the urge to scream. This was just like her mom. Nina Laurens knew exactly the organization she’d donated to. She was inserting herself into Timbrel’s life once again.

No. Not again. Not this time. Handling was one thing her mom hadn’t been able to touch or contaminate. Timbrel sure wasn’t going to let her start now. She snatched her phone and hit the A
UTODIAL
.

“Hello, darling.”

The Indy 500 had nothing on the rate of Timbrel’s pulse. “I want you to back out of the fund-raiser.”

“Which one, sweetie? There are—”

“You know exactly which one.” The growl in her voice matched the one Beo threw at squirrels scampering up the tree outside her tiny cottage.

“Ah.” Her mom’s voice dipped. “That one. Well, I’m sorry—it’s not possible.”

“It is possible. You find a way to do it. I don’t want you in this. I don’t want you meddling in my life.” Timbrel’s lungs struggled to expand.

“Think past yourself for once, Audrey.” The first edge of frustration bled into her mother’s voice.

“Timbrel.”

“Listen, darling, I’ve got to run. But if you want to talk about this, then come to dinner Friday night at seven.”

“No.”

“I am willing to hear you out, hear your reasons for asking me to go back on my word, but you have to do it here, to my face, in my house. If not, then my answer is the same—no.”

“Mom, just—please. Stay out of this.”

“Gotta run. Dinner. Adios!”

Dead silence rang in Timbrel’s ear. She turned and flung her phone across the room. It hit the wall and dropped. Pieces splintered and spun across her floor.

Timbrel dropped her head into her hands again and groaned. “Why won’t she just stay out of my life?” She slid along the cabinets onto the floor.

A soft nudge at her arm made her grunt.

“Beo, stop.” She wrapped her arms around her knees and rested her forehead on a knee.

Another nudge.

Timbrel ignored him.

Beo charged in, shoving his head beneath her arm, then lifting it, forcing her to let him in. Timbrel laughed as he swiped a drool-laden tongue along her face. “All right, you big bully.”

Another slop.

Timbrel laughed again.

Another. Timbrel pushed back.

He pushed into her, effectively pinning her as he went to town, slathering her with kisses. Trying to shield herself against his uncanny ability to lick her when her mouth was open, Timbrel wrapped her arms around his broad chest. “Okay, okay. I give!”

He slumped against her, panting. Completely pleased with himself.

She smoothed a hand along his skull. “Thank you.” Planted a kiss there. He always knew how to make her feel better. Cheek against his head, she sighed and petted him. “What am I going to do?”

She’d left LA, left her mother to get away. To have a life—her
own
life. A real life. To be … safe. But every time she turned around, her mother somehow managed to inject herself. Timbrel’s becoming a handler was something her mom couldn’t touch, couldn’t understand, since she hated dogs. To have her now dropping zeroes in the bank account of A Breed Apart—her mom was being the diva once again.

Timbrel pushed Beo off her lap. Grabbed her phone, reassembled it, cringing at the broken plastic on the corner. She powered it up … and waited. Had she broken another phone? She snatched her keys from the counter and whistled. “C’mon, boy. Let’s go for a ride.”

If she couldn’t convince Khat, maybe Jibril would listen. Or maybe Heath. He was usually at the training yard at this time of day. The forty-minute drive out to the ranch gave her time to formulate her plan. Because the last thing she would do was ask her mom. Showing up for dinner wasn’t just dinner. It’d be a social event with at least thirty “close friends.” Not family, because Nina Laurens didn’t have family. Both parents dead, husband—well, which of her five ex-husbands did one invite?—and her siblings wouldn’t speak to her. Surprise. Surprise.

Timbrel cleared the security gate, and her Jeep bounded down the road toward the house. As she broke through the trees into the clearing, she nailed her brakes. What on earth?

A half-dozen cars crowded the makeshift parking area.

She pulled up to the main house and parked. Climbing out, she searched the training yard. She could hear voices but couldn’t see who was down there. No worries. She’d just talk to Jibril and hope for the best.

She knocked on the door and entered. “Hello?”

The conference room door near the back opened. Aspen appeared, surprise etching her pretty face. “Timmy? What are you doing here?”

“Looking for Jibril. Or Heath.” She pointed in the direction of the parking lot. “What’s with all the cars?”

“General Burnett is here talking with potential handlers.”

“Burnett?” Why did her stomach squeeze tight and bring to mind a pair of green eyes belonging to a Special Forces soldier?

Heath appeared behind her. “Asp—oh. Hey, Timbrel.”

“Heath,” Timbrel said as she started toward him, “I need to talk to you.”

“Yeah, sure. But it’ll have to be later.” He turned to Aspen. “He wants the files.”

“Right. Excuse me.” Aspen hurried toward the office.

“Hogan, that you?”

At the general’s booming voice, Timbrel smirked. “Probably wants to chew me out again.”

“It’s his way of showing affection.”

Timbrel laughed as she stepped forward with Beo at her heels. She entered the conference room. A quick look delivered four recruits sitting around the table. A Hispanic male, a blond, and a brown-haired soldier, both in camo, and a woman with nearly white hair. Timbrel then locked on to her target. Familiar blue eyes, framed by salt-and-pepper hair, smiled at her.

“Hello, General.”

“That’s a lot more civil than last time.”

“Likewise.”

He guffawed. Wiping his eyes with his thumbs, he pointed to the corner. “You remember this guy, don’t you?”

Timbrel checked over her shoulder as a large shape rose over her.

Beo growled.

Giving him the signal to heel, Timbrel shrugged—the man was gorgeous! Mussed sandy blond hair. Clean shaven. A straight nose, defined jaw. Built well, in shape—but no, she’d
know
if she’d met him before. The eyes.

“Sorry … I don’t—”

A hand to his jaw, the man rubbed his face, as if that should mean something. Green eyes telegraphed some strange message, and his eyebrows bounced as if to say, “See?”

The eyes. She knew those eyes!

The little things that pinged at the back of her mind collided. His build. His smirk. The way he moved his hand over his face. Beard … less.

“What are you doing here?”

The chemistry between the two was undeniable. And unforgivable. Lance couldn’t afford to lose Hogan or VanAllen on the upcoming mission. So they needed to get over whatever had happened.