Code Name: Baby (7 page)

C
AUGHT IN SLEEP
, one foot in dreams, Kit heard a low, steady
tap-tap
on the roof, a rare sound in the desert.

Yawning, she burrowed back under the covers. During the last storm, Baby and Diesel had raced through the mud like creatures gone mad, scampering in circles, their heads raised to the sheeting rain. Butch and Sundance had simply lain down and rolled until they were completely encased in brown slime.

A dark nose rooted under her quilt, searched right and left, and then a second nose appeared.

“How did you guys get out of the kennel?”

Downstairs, pots clanged. Kit took a deep breath as she smelled the unmistakable aroma of coffee brewing.

Wolfe.

Hit with a sudden dose of memories from the night before, she closed her eyes. She'd heard the sound of breaking glass, armed herself with her father's rifle and moved quietly down the hall….

And then Wolfe had knocked her weapon away, tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and dropped her in the closet.

Baby's head appeared from under the quilt. Her tail banged loudly on the edge of the bed, signaling keen excitement. Diesel wiggled out next and laid his head at an angle over Baby's.

“High-handed jerk,” Kit muttered. She didn't care if the man was back or how he looked. She didn't care why he'd come back either. She'd had a crush on Wolfe Houston for way too long, but it was over now. He was no good for her, and nothing was ever going to happen between them, so she'd packed up her memories and shipped them off to the same dead letter box that held her belief in Santa Claus and the tooth fairy.

He wasn't swooping into her life again, no way. She was
over
him and that was final. Guaranteed. Definite. The thought made her feel good.

Kit frowned at what Wolfe had told her about Emmett's return and break-in. The man was nuts as well as nasty, and she had called to report him to the local police before she'd gone to sleep. The deputy was the son of her father's best friend, and he'd assured her that Emmett would be taken into custody the following day.

More pots rattled downstairs. Diesel took off at a run, clearly hoping for edible handouts.

What was the freaking man doing down there, cooking for the 75th Infantry Division? Sighing, Kit looked at Baby, who gave two quick barks. “Okay, I'm coming. After a quick shower, everything is bound to look better. But I've made up my mind. I'll eat his food—assuming it's edible—and drink the coffee I smell brewing, and then I'll kick him out on his tight and very attractive butt. I don't need his kind of trouble back in my life. Not for a second.”

She'd dreamed about him for ages and planned her future around possibilities that involved him. But somewhere in the last months working with these four special dogs, Kit had grown up and gotten over her fantasies. She had important things to do with her life and she wouldn't go on looking over her shoulder, hoping for an illusion.

Baby's tail thumped.

Pleased with her determination, Kit threw off the covers—and fell back with a groan.

Pain hammered at her back. Her knees felt frozen. She tried again to sit up and grimaced, wishing she could tell herself it was nothing. But she knew what her X-rays looked like. After fifteen months, she'd read enough online medical articles to be nearly as conversant with her illness as her family doctor.

But that was books, and this was real. Books didn't capture how pain
felt.

She studied the room dizzily. Something had made her worse. Something that she couldn't remember.

She forced down deep breaths, trying to relax. More stress meant more tension.

For the first time Kit considered the possibility of getting weaker. Her doctor had warned her the disease might progress, but Kit had been resolutely optimistic. She didn't want to hear about diminishing capability or limited strength.

She gripped her soft quilt, shivering. If she lost joint mobility, she couldn't adequately care for her dogs, which meant giving them up to another trainer. Without strength, she couldn't handle the constant demands of the ranch and that would have to go, too. She couldn't ask Trace to come home and help. This was her world, not his.

She took a sharp breath. She wasn't giving up. There were always new medicines, new techniques—

Tensely, she stared at the top of her nightstand. Her pills were exactly where she'd left them, each day's dose carefully marked in her own handwriting. Last night's compartment was untouched.

Relief blazed through her. In all the turmoil after the break-in, she'd forgotten to take her pills. She'd been watching
Casablanca
and dozed off, and then Wolfe had shown up. For some reason, that part was still a blur.

But there was no more worrying or wondering about why she felt so much worse.

She grabbed the container and gulped down two pills, confident that she'd be better in fifteen minutes, maybe less. Then she could get back to living her life.

With stiff legs, she stood up and tugged down her nightshirt. First, a shower. Second, coffee.

Third, kick Wolfe out of her house.

As the first hot spray of the shower hit her face, Kit sighed in primal pleasure. After allowing herself several long, indulgent minutes under the pounding water, she forced herself to face her situation honestly. Was she really going to throw Wolfe out?

It wasn't that she didn't find him incredibly sexy, because she did. It wasn't that her gut response to his gorgeously chiseled body had changed, because it hadn't. The man still spiked her awareness meter right up into the red zone.

But Kit refused to waste any more time mooning over a man who'd always be a shadow, slipping in and out of her life when he could fit her in around whatever covert mission he was on at the time.

Which brought her to question two: What
was
he doing here?

Kit glared at the steam covering the glass door. He said Trace had asked him to come by. A perfectly reasonable story, except that it didn't ring true. Trace knew she'd always been vulnerable where Wolfe was concerned, and he would have made a point to tell her that his friend was dropping by, so she'd be prepared.

Wolfe couldn't leave New Mexico fast enough all those years ago. He hadn't been back once since he'd joined the Navy, and it wasn't as if he had anything new pulling him home. So why did he appear now?

Either something was wrong with Trace, or Wolfe was lying. Since Kit didn't think he would lie about Trace being fine, that meant he was lying for another reason. None of the possibilities looked good.

Frowning, she shut off the water and grabbed a towel. It was time to get a few answers from the man who was currently making free with her kitchen.

Which brought her to question three: why hadn't her dogs shown signs of wariness or hostility, or attempted to warn her when he'd arrived? They'd never met Wolfe and had no reason to consider him a friend, but they'd all taken to him immediately.

The question kept gnawing at Kit as she dried her hair and pulled on her oldest, most threadbare jeans. No way was she going to fuss for the man who'd ruined most of her teenage years and a major part of her adult life.

Just by being gorgeous…and unavailable.

She took a quick glance in the mirror. Her hair was uneven from the last time she'd cut it. Her face was sunburned and there were faint lines under her eyes. That was A-okay with her, because she wasn't getting dressed up for Wolfe Houston ever again.

Baby stayed one step ahead as Kit headed for the stairs, drawn by the heavenly smell of coffee. Had the man ground fresh beans? The scent seemed to be from a new bag of Jamaican Blue Mountain she'd stashed in her freezer because she hadn't had time to grind it.

Now
that
was strictly hitting below the belt.

Irritated, she strode down the stairs, where more delicious scents assailed her.

Warm maple syrup.

Blueberries and cinnamon.

Pancakes sizzling in fresh butter.

What kind of sneaky pool was the man playing? He'd cooked her favorite things for breakfast. How had he remembered all that?

Kit stopped just outside the doorway, her senses on full alert as Wolfe moved easily around her kitchen. Today he was wearing some kind of tan camouflage pants and a simple white T-shirt, but his shoulders were rippled and his biceps stood out in perfectly cut lines.

Okay, he looked good. Maybe even fantastic. Mouthwatering, in fact. But it meant zip to her. Zilch. Nada. She wasn't falling victim to him ever again. Pancakes and caffeine be damned.

With that thought firmly in mind, she yanked the last button closed on her flannel shirt and stalked into the kitchen, nearly tripping over Butch, who was lying across the threshold.

They were guard dogs. Alert, highly trained service dogs. Hel-lo?

“Are you still here?” Kit snapped, annoyed to see Sundance following every step Wolfe took, while Diesel perched in the spot where food was most likely to drop.

“Looks that way. The state police called. Someone should be here to take a report before noon. There's a big pileup on the interstate, so that's the best they can do.” He slid a stack of pancakes onto a plate and pushed it down the counter toward her. “Sit down and eat. You look like you could use something in your stomach.”

When he reached for a clean mug from the cabinet, his muscles flexed and Kit realized she was hungry all right, but not for breakfast.

Irritated by her lapse, she moved around him in search of her own mug. As she did, their bodies bumped together, his taut thighs pressing against her hips.

No drooling.

“Sorry.” He stepped back carefully, getting another plate.

“Nice of you to cook,” she rasped. “But I'm not hungry.”

His eyes narrowed. “You're too thin. You should eat.”

“What are you, my doctor?” With a glare, she wrestled down a mug and filled it with coffee. The smell of freshly brewed beans made her close her eyes in a wave of abandoned hedonism. “You ground my new stuff.” She managed to make it sound like an accusation.

“I couldn't find anything else.” He slid silverware across the island. “You want butter on your pancakes?”

Kit stared at him over the rim of her mug. “I told you I'm not hungry.” She had barely finished when her empty stomach rumbled loudly.

Wolfe's mouth twitched as he set a small bowl of warmed maple syrup down next to the steaming pancakes. “Whatever you say.”

Okay, that was definitely hitting below the belt. She
loved
warm maple syrup. It ranked right up there next to no-holds-barred sex. Not that she was thinking about sex right now.

“Don't you have somewhere to go? Missing plutonium to find or a terrorist cell to infiltrate?”

He flipped a dishtowel over one shoulder, smiling faintly. “The world's at peace for a few hours, it appears.”

Kit sat down, nursing her coffee. “They teach you to cook in the New Army?”

“Navy, not Army. And I can cook pancakes fine. Your mom taught me how. Said it was part of a liberal education.” Wolfe looked out at the rain coating the windows. “One hell of a lady, your mom.” He cleared his throat. “How's the coffee?”

Excellent, and he knew it.

“Okay,” Kit said coolly, trying to ignore the seduction of a slab of butter melting over a hot, golden stack of blueberry cinnamon pancakes.

Chill, O'Halloran.

She took a gulp of coffee to keep from reaching for the syrup. “So the world's at peace, is it? That's a relief. Now maybe you'll tell me how you got inside last night without my dogs going berserk.”

“Probably because of Trace.”

Kit sat up so fast that coffee sloshed over the counter. “He's here?”

“No, not here. Sorry if I said that wrong. I meant because of this.” Wolfe pulled a sweatshirt off the chair behind him. “This belongs to Trace. I took it by mistake when I was packing my gear.”

Kit frowned at the dark cotton sweatshirt. She didn't recognize it, but it was the kind of thing her brother would wear.

Wolfe held the sweatshirt out to Baby, who sniffed it thoroughly, then tugged it out of Wolfe's hand and carried it across the room.

“Hey, I need that, honey.”

Baby barked once, her tail waving in the air.

“She thinks you're playing fetch.”

“You mean she expects me to go after her?”

“Not exactly. She's trying to see what you'll do—or what she can get you to do.”

Wolfe's mouth curved. He lunged for a dark cotton sleeve, only to grab air.

Baby skidded under a nearby chair.

“How'd she do that?”