The Bodyguard and the Snitch by Christy Tillery French

Author:Christy Tillery French [French, Christy Tillery]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Romance
Publisher: L&L Dreamspell
Published: 2010-06-07T00:00:00+00:00

TEN

Natasha decided to drive to Striker’s place so she could pick up more clothes before heading to Roger’s. She intended to change out of the scrub suit, stuff her bloody attire into a garbage bag, and take it to the local dump. No sense getting Tommy all riled up if he saw blood on her. Much less try to get all that nasty mess out; her shirt and jeans were saturated in places.

She tried to keep her right arm from moving too much, which tended to pull the skin on her injured side, but this was almost impossible as she had to continually move the arm to shift gears. A prescription for pain pills peeked out of her shirt pocket, but she didn’t want to go that route. She decided as soon as she got to Striker’s, she would load dose on ibuprofen and lie down for a few minutes, long enough for the pain to subside a bit. She gingerly touched the bandage with her left hand, concerned it still leaked blood. Maybe if she stayed still for a few hours, it would begin to scab over and the bleeding would stop. She worried about the doctor’s lack of concern over the bleeding, the way she treated it like it was normal. Maybe so, but how much blood could leak out of a person before their body didn’t have the requisite amount?

Natasha pulled into Striker’s drive and braked to a stop, muttering a curse beneath her breath when she saw his SUV. She didn’t expect him back this early. Had Saunders and/or Mulligan called him and told him what happened? No way. He couldn’t have gotten home that fast. With a sigh of defeat, she decided he must have cut his trip short. She debated backing out and leaving, but Striker had ears like a dog; he could hear her jeep from a mile away.

Natasha climbed out of the jeep and walked toward the door, a sense of doom clanging in her mind like a friggin’ alarm. What should she tell him? Well, he deserved the truth, and she couldn’t lie worth a flip. So might as well buck up and spill the whole story to him and let him deal with it. There were times, like this, when she resented Striker’s overprotectiveness, his blatant dislike of her career choice. This was her life, her decision, not his.

She planted a smile on her face as she pushed open the door. She found Striker in the sunroom drinking a beer, watching the silver Tennessee River flow by. She leaned over, kissed him hard.

“Hey, darlin. I’m glad you’re home.”

Striker kissed back, his mouth warm and breath smelling yeasty. “Hey there.” He put his beer down as she slid onto his lap but drew back at Natasha’s wince. “What’s wrong?”

“Um, I kind of got shot today.” She slipped off his lap and sat on the edge of the chair next to him.

His warm skin tone paled, and she felt guilty she caused him such concern.

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