Page 2 of Graveyard Dog
“Oh, it’s you,” he said in his favorite language: sarcasm. “I didn’t recognize you without the frying pan.”
She had hair the same color as the girl’s, hanging in soft waves around her face and past her shoulders. A similar bow-shaped mouth and eyes the same ashen brown confirmed their relationship.
“She’s not my daughter,” she said, frantically clutching the girl to her.
Or not.
“Mama,” the girl pouted, placing the accent on the secondma, her lower lip jutting out.
“She’s the neighbor’s kid. They’re British. I just watch her from time to time.”
The girl tried to shake out of her grip. While she failed, she did manage to turn in the woman’s arms and look up at her. “Why do you always say that?” she asked in her soft British accent—one the woman didn’t have.
The laugh that escaped the older woman was so exaggerated and forced that Michael was appalled such talent had somehow eluded Hollywood scouts. She pulled the girl to her and petted her hair until he worried the child might go bald. “She’s a bit dramatic.”
The girl pushed at the brunette’s hands. “Mama, stop.”
“Look,” Michael said, growing impatient. And numb. “Like I said when you answered the door this morning, I got a call about your heater.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my heater.”
“Then why did you call?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“I didn’t. But you know that already.”
“I do?” He did? He was lost. Had he come to the wrong apartment? Damn it. How much had he drunk? He tried to count on his fingers but could no longer feel them.
The woman pushed the girl behind her as she walked closer to him. So close he could have easily taken her out with a single sweep of his leg and a triangle chokehold. And it wasn’t like an oven—dishwasher?—door handle could hold him if he didn’t want it to. Maybe for a few seconds. But he’d once fought a bear. Long story. He was fairly certain he could take an appliance door under the right circumstances.
Clearly not a criminal mastermind, the woman leaned close to him, the scent of peach shampoo washing over him, and saidthe oddest thing he’d heard all day. And he’d heard a lot of strange things already. “Be still.”
He could barely move as it was. How much stiller could he get?
“You will forget the girl in sixty seconds.”
“Mama!” the girl shouted in protest, tugging at the woman’s robe—a micro-thin garment that did little to conceal the curves underneath.
How the fuck was he just now seeing them? The curves. It was the frying pan; it had to be. Because as she leaned even closer, her beautiful face came into focus, and he felt a rippling punch to his gut.
Unhinged and beautiful.
Just his type.
Son of a bitch.
“You will never remember her,” she continued.
“Mama, don’t,” the girl said, her pout firmly in place. Only this time, she crossed her arms over her chest for added emphasis.
He leaned to the side to see her better. “I’m pretty sure I won’t forget you anytime soon.” He winked at her, and she giggled before a look of sadness shadowed her bright features.
“See?” she said, pointing at him. “He’s light.”
She would be pale, too, if she’d been hit with a frying pan and tied to a kitchen appliance.
The woman knelt and turned the girl toward her. “Get your go-bag, honey, and then lock yourself in my room.”
Why would a five-year-old need a go-bag? He looked at the woman’s profile, taking in the soft lines of her face and full mouth, and something reared up inside him. Something he didn’twantrearing up. The desire to guard. Protect. Avenge.