didn’t hurt the dog,” he assured her, swallowing the growly husk in his deep voice. Yeah, he had a right to defend himself, but his badge didn’t give him the right to be making goo-goo eyes at a possible victim or witness. Besides, she wasn’t his type. While Trip had never really considered exactly what his type of woman might be, he was pretty sure that pink high-top tennis shoes, flying fists and flaky eccentricities weren’t on the list.
He shifted to one side, easing the bulk of his weight off her while keeping a careful eye out for any sign of further attack. “You, I’m not so sure about. Sorry about the takedown, but you forced me to protect myself. Anything bruised up?”
She shoved her glasses back into place, masking her eyes as she scooted just as fast and far across the floor as she could, until the brick wall at her back stopped her. She whistled and the dog jumped up as she pulled her knees to her chest and hugged them tight with one arm. The dog, with Trip’s cap locked firmly in his teeth, settled beside her and her free hand drifted down to clench a fistful of fur at the dog’s nape. “Did Max bite you? It was an accident, I promise.”
“You didn’t answer …” Trip crouched where he was a few feet away, keeping close to her level on the floor instead of towering over her and sending her into a freak-out again. Her eyes darted to the black-and-tan dog and back across the warehouse aisle to look at him.
Okay, so she wasn’t going to speak rationally about anything besides the fur ball. Fixing a more sympathetic expression onto his features, Trip held up his hand and waved his fingers in the air. “Max, is it? He got a nip in, but I’ll survive.”
“He didn’t mean it. He’s not a vicious dog. His job is to keep me from losing it.” Um, maybe the pooch needed a little more training? Or was the armed charge and barely controlled panic that moved her body in those rigid, jerky motions her idea of keeping it all together? “He’s never been with me when I’ve been attacked before.”
“Hey, I wasn’t the one attacking—”
“I don’t know if he was defending me, or maybe just wanted to play—but he didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Trip breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, forcing himself to relax—wishing she’d do the same. He was guessing she hadn’t meant to hurt him, either.
“No harm done.” There was barely a blister on the tip of his index finger, but the gash in his forearm was oozing blood through the tear in his sleeve. “On the other hand, I think your sword wound is gonna need a few stitches.” He fingered open the rent in his shirt and examined the cut. “You know, I’ve been stabbed, tasered, shot at—even dislocated my shoulder once on a call. But I’ve never had to report being brought down by a twenty-pound dog and a broadsword before.” Maybe if he kept his voice somewhere short of its natural volume and kept smiling, she’d quit inching up against the wall like that, putting every millimeter of distance between them she could. “Makes you kind of unique.”
She didn’t so much as blink at the offhand compliment, and offered not even one flicker of a smile at his teasing. “Max weighs twenty-five pounds.”
“My apologies.” Okay. So he wasn’t making any points with Alex’s eccentric friend. Better swallow his guilt and stick to police work. Her eyes followed every movement as he plucked his badge from beneath the broken crate, dusted it off and clipped it onto his belt. Trip sank back onto his haunches on his side of the aisle. “Could you at least tell me if any of that blood on your coat is yours?”
Finally giving him a break from that accusatory glare, she glanced down at the stains on her sleeves. With a stiff, almost frantic effort, she rubbed at the reddish-brown spots, turned her hand over to grimace at the slickness that clung to her fingers. With both arms, she pulled the dog up into a hug and choked back a sob. But when her eyes nailed Trip again, there were no tears—only sorrow and distrust. “It’s Richard’s blood. Maybe yours. I’m not hurt.”
“Good.” So the woman had been scared spitless, but she hadn’t been physically harmed. He was so not the negotiator on his team. Give him something to blow up, break into, fix, and he could handle it just fine. But talking a woman off a mental ledge like the one Charlotte Mayweather was apparently teetering on? Ignoring the tweak at his conscience that he had as much to do with putting her on that ledge as her dead friend and an unknown assailant did, Trip focused on the things he could handle. He straightened enough to sit on the edge of a table and reached up to his shoulder to tear off his right sleeve. “Did you see the killer? Is that why you were hiding?” He paused midrip. “Ah, hell. You thought I was him, didn’t you. Is that why you attacked?”
Her eyes were tracking his movements again. “I know that assaulting a police officer is a really bad thing, but—”
“You have a knack for not answering my questions.”
“—to be honest, I didn’t know who you were, and after seeing Richard and all the blood, and the noise, and he knew my name—”
“Who knew your name?”
“The man on the phone. The man who called me on Richard’s phone. The killer knew my name. He was taunting me.” She hugged the dog tighter, and the pooch turned his head to lick her jaw. “He pounded on the door. The calls and the pounding reminded me of … he knows things about me.”
“Charlotte … I mean, Miss Mayweather.” He’d never seen a person pull herself into such a tight little ball of terror and uncertainty. He didn’t understand pounding and calls and what exactly those meant to her, but he wanted nothing more than to brush those dark gold curls off her cheek, wrap her up in a hug and prove that he was nothing like the man who’d frightened her into such a state. “He won’t hurt you,” Trip vowed, wisely busying his hands by going back to work on a makeshift bandage by breaking the last threads and peeling the sleeve down his arm. He had a feeling that touching her, or even moving closer, would send her into another panic. “As long as I’m here, nobody is getting to you. And I’m not leaving until Alex Taylor and the people you know and trust get here. Okay?”
After watching her eyes lock on to his without any real relief registering there, Trip looked away to check his watch. Surprisingly, only a few minutes had passed since he’d answered Alex’s call—and, he suspected, only a few minutes longer would pass before Alex and the rest of his SWAT team arrived to deal with this off-the-clock rescue. But Miss Hug-the-Dog over there was looking at him as if she’d been sentenced to a night of terror with the beast from some gruesome fairy tale—and he’d been cast in the starring role.
It was hard on a cop’s ego, and humbling to any man, to be perceived as the villain—especially when he was used to doing his job and saving the day. He needed the diversion of the pain that made him wince when he pressed the wadded-up fabric against the cut on his forearm to stanch the bleeding there.
The wind outside caught the door again. Trip didn’t know if it was the startling noise or him standing that made her eyes widen like saucers. But he figured an apology was useless and strode over to pull it shut.
After wedging a shim of wood between the door and frame to keep it closed, he faced her again. Yep, those suspicious eyes had followed every move he’d made. “Did you know this outside door had been jimmied open?”
“No.”
“Then the perp was in here.” He perched on the edge of the table again. “You were right to hide. And attack.”
“It’s not right to hurt somebody else like that.” She tucked the swath of curls behind her ear, exposing a flash of a big white-daisy earring. “I’m sorry. I swear I didn’t know you were a police officer. I get a little … stuck in my head sometimes.”
Trip dabbed at his wound again. “I’m not pressing charges.”
“You’re not?” She sat up a little straighter, confusion mellowing the distrust on her face for a few moments. But then he could see her gathering her thoughts as she swiped the crystalizing tear streaks off her cheeks. “You’re not