Code Name: Baby. Christina Skye

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.”