matter of minutes.
But the woman might not have that long.
His arm muscles tensed as he set the second crate on top of the first. “I’m comin’ in, Charlotte.”
Trip tilted the table onto one end, jammed it up beneath the door’s hinges and shoved. With one mighty heave, he separated the door from its frame.
The table fell to one side as he pried the busted door open. It shielded him until he could angle around and see into the deep recesses of the closet behind it. “Charl—”
He caught a glimpse of short curly hair and glasses before the woman inside hollered a piercing rebel yell and charged him.
The first blow knocked the door back into him, slamming into his nose and making his head throb.
“Ow!” He tossed the door after the table, held up his hand and reached for his badge so she could see he meant her no harm. “Relax. I’m here to help.”
Seriously? Was that a sword? She screamed a deep, guttural sound that was all instinct and fear. The long metal blade arced through the air.
The blow caught him on the forearm and Trip swore. He felt the sting of the blunt blade splitting the skin beneath his sleeve and knew he had only one option when she raised the archaic weapon again.
Forget reassurances. With a move that was as swift and sure as breathing to him, Trip ducked, catching her wrists and twisting her around. He hugged her back against his chest, lifted her off her feet and shook the sword from her grip. “Damn it, woman, I’m one of the good g—”
He tripped over something small and furry that darted between his legs, and down they went.
Chapter Two
Trip clipped a crate with his elbow on the way down, landing on the unforgiving concrete floor with the panicked woman sprawled on top of him. Thank God he’d broken her fall instead of crashing down on top of her. “Are you okay—?”
“You can’t take me!” A swat of thunder echoed her protest and a heel clocked him in the shin, jarring the few bones that hadn’t already taken a beating. A dog barked in his ear, lunged at him. Trip swatted it away, but it barked again. The woman he’d come to rescue twisted on top of him, fighting as if she was the one who’d just been attacked.
“Sheesh, lady. You’re all ri—Scram!” As he pushed the dog out of his face, her fist connected with the gash in his forearm, making the wound throb, and she slipped from his grip. When he felt her knee sliding up his thigh and saw her fingernails flying toward his face, Trip was done playing hero for the night. He caught her wrist, blocked her knee and rolled, pinning both her hands to the concrete above her head and crushing her flailing legs and twisting hips beneath his. “That’s enough!”
“Get off me!”
“Miss Mayweather …” Despite the weight of his body, and the unforgiving wall of Kevlar that shielded him from further injury—he hoped—she fought on with futile persistence beneath him. Her funky red glasses flopped across her lips instead of her nose and her exposed eyes were open wide, terrified, like a spooked horse. And hell, it was his fault. “I’m sorr—” But she was still too much of a danger to him to release her outright and let her bang away like the storm outside. “I’m sorry.” What he wouldn’t give to be armed and built a little less like a tank right now. She was scared and he was probably scarier than whatever had sent her to hide in that room in the first place. “Look, ma’am—”
“No!”
“Hey!” He tried to pierce her terror with his voice. But he was breathing hard, too, and the dog was barking, and he couldn’t find the calm tone he needed. “Hey.”
“Let me go,” she gasped.
“Are you gonna hurt me again?”
Bang. The wind caught the outside door. It slammed into the bricks and every muscle in her body jerked with the sound.
“Richard’s dead. He’ll kill me this time.”
“Lady—”
“Don’t kill me.” She squeezed her eyes shut, straining against him, tiring.
Trip’s blood ran cold. Those were tears on her lashes.
“I’m not gonna … Ah, hell.” Shoot him. Make him run ten miles in full gear. Give him paperwork. But do not … do not let a woman cry on his watch. “Stop that. I’m not the bad guy here.”
“Don’t hurt me,” she gasped.
He needed to end this. Now.
“Shh. Nobody’s gonna hurt you. You’re safe. Come on now. There’s no need to be cryin’ like that.” Trip eased himself down, covering her like a blanket with his body, erasing the distance between their chests, controlling her tenacious struggles with his superior size and strength. She’d pass out from exhaustion before he even worked up a sweat at this rate.
“No,” she moaned, pushing against his shoulder as soon as he freed her hands. “Please.”
“Charlotte, you need to breathe.” He brushed a kinky tendril of golden toffee off her cheek and dropped his voice to a husky tone. “Look at me.” She shook her head and tears spilled over her cheek, flowing as steadily as the rain outside. “Look at my badge …” Nope, not on his belt. It had gone flying in the initial tumble. She squirmed valiantly, her tired fingers curling into the shoulders she’d pummeled moments earlier. He was desperate to calm her down, to stop those tears, but he wasn’t about to go retrieve it with the way she was still writhing so unpredictably beneath him. Ignoring the twinge in his forearm, Trip propped himself up on his elbow and reached for the brim of his cap. She grunted with renewed energy, shoved hard against his chest. “It says KCPD …”
He felt the dog’s hot breath in his ear a split second before he felt the pinch on his fingertip. “Ow! Back off, pooch.”
“No!”
The mutt was after his hat. “Get out of here!” He wanted to play tug-of-war? Trip closed his fingers around the dog’s muzzle and shoved him away. “Give it—”
“Don’t hurt my dog!” Charlotte Mayweather pulled her hands away and went suddenly and utterly still beneath him. The mutt pulled the cap from Trip’s startled grip and trotted off to a corner. A plea wheezed from the woman’s throat. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t hurt my dog.”
She’d refused to give up the fight or listen to reason for her own safety? But she’d surrender for the dog’s sake?
Although her golden lashes still glistened with tears, her eyes were suddenly clear, focused and looking right up into Trip’s. For several seconds, his vision was filled with deep dove gray. The scents of dampness and dust and heat filled the air between them, filtering into his head with every quick, ragged breath.
For a woman who had as much feisty terrier in her as the dog gnawing on his cap, she’d suddenly gone all quiet, all submissive, all ready to listen to civilized reason now that she mistakenly thought her furry sidekick was going to get hurt. Trip was the one who was bleeding here. Charlotte Mayweather was one seriously twisted-thinking, incomprehensible, crazy …
Woman.
The realization short-circuited the adrenaline still sparking through Trip’s body, leaving one sense after another off-kilter with awareness. Curvy hips cradling his thighs. The most basic of scents—soap and rain and musky woman.
And those big, soulful eyes.
“Don’t go by your first impression of her,” Alex had warned.
Made sense now.
Charlotte Mayweather was a menace to herself and anyone trying to help her. And, while he wouldn’t call her beautiful, she was definitely … distracting.