Conor and Kirra followed her into the bedroom. A king-size platform bed took center stage. Folding back the ice-blue comforter, she climbed between the hotel-white sheets with a low groan and settled the ice pack on her jaw. Kirra jumped onto the bed and curled up with her head on Louisa's hip. "She hasn't left my side since I got home."

"Dogs know."

"Know what?"

"They know when something's wrong."

"I've never had a pet." She stroked the dog's head. "It's nice."

"So I guess you're still considering keeping her?"

"I couldn't do that. She's your dog."

"Doesn't look that way from where I'm standing," Conor said as Kirra closed her eyes and heaved a contented sigh. "Besides, she's not safe in my apartment."

Louisa sat up, wincing. "Jackson said he was with you tonight. What happened?"

"Someone broke in tonight and busted up the place."

The ice pack dropped from her face. "That's terrible! You think it's Kirra's former owner?"

"I'm sure. He was waiting for me." Conor didn't mention the gun. She had enough to worry about.

Her eyes scraped over him. "But you're all right?"

"I'm fine." He touched her hand. "But I'd feel better if Kirra stayed with you."

"If you're sure, then I'd be happy to keep her." Louisa's smile was lopsided, but her pleasure shone through her eyes.

Conor's chest swelled at her pleasure. "Do you mind if I sit in here with you for a while?"

"I guess not." But Louisa's eyes narrowed in suspicion when he stretched on top of the covers next to her.

He ignored her look and puffed the giant pillows behind his back. A flat-screen hung on the wall opposite the bed. "Want to watch a movie?"

"Sure." She handed him a remote control. "You pick. I don't watch much TV."

Looking for something relaxing, Conor flipped through the channels until he found an old movie network showing Bringing Up Baby. He tossed the remote on the bed next to him. "How's this?"

"I love Cary Grant." Louisa snuggled deeper into the pillows.

"Me too. My parents used to watch his old black-and-whites when I was a kid." Conor remembered crawling into bed with them on Saturday mornings.

"Were they happy?"

"Very. I never doubted they loved each other. That's what I always thought I'd have someday." Conor glanced over. The soft light of the television played on her delicate features, spurring an ache deep in his chest. "What was it like before your mother died? Were your parents happy?"

"I think so." She sniffed. "He's never gotten over her death. After she died, he started drinking and spending most of his time in Europe."

"Did he ever take you with him?"

"Once in a while. Most of the time he left me with his sister."

"The one you saw tonight?" Suspicion bloomed in Conor's chest. Louisa's aunt had upset her tonight.

"Yes." Her voice faltered.

Wanting a connection with her, Conor reached across the comforter and put his hand over hers, careful not to touch her bandaged palm. "Want to tell me what happened?"

"Tomorrow." She pulled the covers up to her neck. "Tell me about your brothers and sister."

"Jayne and Danny were a handful, that's for sure." He told her about some of the trouble they got into, including the time they stole a car. He talked until her eyes closed and her breaths evened out.

Conor, used to being awake until the early hours, waited fifteen minutes before he gently lifted the ice pack from her face and returned it to the freezer. He eased back onto the bed and adjusted the pillow behind his head.

Louisa sighed. Still asleep, she rolled toward him. Her temple settled against his shoulder, the intimacy of the weight of her head on his body spurring an urge to gather her closer, but he didn't want to disturb her. How would she react when she found him in her bed tomorrow morning?

Didn't matter.

No matter how secure her building, there was no way he was leaving her alone. Not after she could have been killed. Conor rested his temple against her hair and breathed in the scent of her shampoo. He was staying right here, all night.

21.

Why hadn't she drawn the shades? Sunlight burned Louisa's eyeballs right through her closed lids. She tried to go back to sleep, but pain pulsed through her face. The ibuprofen had worn off. Her knees protested with stiffness and fire as she rolled away from the glare, opened her eyes, and stared at a man's rib cage.

She jolted. Ow. Straightening her leg, she eased her left knee into a more comfortable position. Then she turned her attention back to the half-naked man in her bed.

Next to her, Conor reclined on two pillows. He was still dressed in his jeans, but he'd removed his shirt and shoes during the night. His eyes were closed, and his jaw was shadowed, as usual. Her gaze drifted down. After all, she knew what his face looked like, but she'd never seen him without a shirt. Oh my. The arm flung over his head stretched his torso taut. His body was all about understated power. A scattering of dark hair swirled across his pectorals. Firm muscle expanded his broad chest and shoulders and defined a lean abdomen. She swallowed, the sight of his body stirring a primal need inside her. Her eyes followed the line of dark hair that swirled into the waistband of his jeans and led to- "Good morning." His throaty voice startled her.

Her cheeks heated. She blinked away from admiring his flat belly, and then some. "I'm sorry. I was staring."

"Yes. Men hate it when women ogle their muscles." Conor rolled his eyes. "Do you want me to put my shirt back on?"

How could she answer that question? "It's not necessary."

The turquoise in his eyes brightened with roguishness. "Necessary isn't a factor. What do you want?" He dropped his voice to a husky whisper.

Oh Lord. Warmth flushed her torso. She pushed the covers back. Was the heat on?

"If you took off your shirt, then we'd be even," he teased.

"Doesn't the dog need to be fed or walked or something?"

He rolled on his side to face her. "Kirra was fed and walked at seven."

At the sound of her name, Kirra, lounging at the foot of the bed, raised her head and wagged the stump of her tail.

Touched by his thoughtfulness, she said, "Thank you. Did she eat?"

"Not much. I'll give her until Monday to start eating, then it's back to the vet."

He was studying her face. Oh my God. Her face. She raised a hand to her jaw. The skin was puffy under her fingers. She could only imagine . . .

He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. "You look beautiful."

"How do you always know what I'm thinking?"

"I have a sister, remember? That bruise looks like it hurts. I'll get you some ice." Muscles rippled as he sat up.

She tried not to stare, without success.

"Kirra and I bought breakfast while we were walking. Let me bring you food so you can take an aspirin." He moved to the edge of the bed, stretched, and stood. Glancing back, he caught her staring again. "I'll leave the shirt off." He left the room grinning-and still half-naked, giving Louisa an eyeful of hard and powerful back that made parts of her sing through the soreness of her bruises.

She fell back on the pillows. He wasn't the first man she'd seen without a shirt, but none had affected her this way. The hardness of his body concealed kindness that made her heart do a triple-espresso flutter. But she had to admit, though it felt superficial, she wouldn't complain about the hot body attached to his generous soul.

If she wasn't hurt . . .

What? She'd have him instead of her breakfast?

Why not? Clearly, he was interested. Neither of them was attached. Though she hadn't had a relationship for some time, she enjoyed sex. Sex had never been her issue. It was the emotional expectation generated by physical intimacy that had always been her problem. Typically, she was one who preferred to keep sex and her relationships casual. But eventually, most men wanted to see a relationship progress. They wanted marriage and children and all the associated connections that Louisa was unable to make.

Something warned her that sex with Conor would be more intense than any she'd experienced in the past. Could she handle it? Or would he end up joining her short list of failures? Even worse, was she ready to risk hurting both of them?

On that depressing note, she pushed to a sitting position. Her limbs were achy and stiff. Pain throbbed through her jaw, but she felt better than she'd expected. Today was Saturday. No work. She could stay in bed all day . . .

Saturday.

Oh no.

"What's wrong?" Conor walked back into the bedroom carrying two cups of coffee and a white bakery bag.

"The museum fund-raiser is tonight." She pressed a bandaged palm to her forehead.

"I think they'll expect you to cancel." He set the coffee on her nightstand.

Louisa swung her legs over the side of the bed. "We have a lot riding on tonight."

"Take it slow." He took her hand as she got to her feet, his grip solid and steadying as the floor pitched beneath her feet like a cruise ship in high seas. His gaze assessed her, doubtful and worried. "Dizzy?"

"Not at all," Louisa lied as she limped toward the bathroom, her equilibrium steadying. She switched on the light and looked in the mirror. Ugh. Her jaw was puffy, and a bruise extended from her chin nearly to her ear. She was lucky she hadn't knocked out any teeth.

Her palms weren't so bad, and her black-and-blue, scabbed-up knees could easily be covered with slacks. But her face . . . Major concealer work to be done there.

"Considering you took a swan dive into pavement last night, you look pretty good." Conor leaned on the doorframe. "Why don't you just call your boss and explain? I'm sure he'd understand."

"The museum is largely dependent on donations." She brushed her teeth. "This is the first big fund-raiser since I started. The opening of the new Celtic Warrior exhibit is the biggest event this autumn. I have to be there to talk about my qualifications and the new exhibit. Patrons want to see where their money is being spent." Plus, she didn't trust her boss. What would he say in her absence?

Conor shook his head. "So you still intend to go?"

"I don't have a choice." She shooed him out of the bathroom and closed the door to use the toilet. When she emerged, he was lounging on the bed drinking coffee, as relaxed as if he spent every morning in her bedroom. "I don't want to lose this job."

Conor looked around the apartment. "Do you really need it?"

"I don't need the job in the financial sense, no. But I love what I do." Losing another job would no doubt disappoint her father again. What would he think if Louisa didn't work? If she just managed her trust fund and spent her time organizing charity events? Could she even do that? Her entire life had been focused on this career. It was a major part of her identity. The thought of leaving it behind was disconcerting.

Louisa pointed at her chin. "Do you think I can get this swelling down at all before tonight?"

"Maybe. Keep your head elevated and be diligent with the ice pack."

"That'll help?"

"It should. Back in my boxing days, I used to pack my face in ice after every fight. It wasn't pretty." He reached for his shirt.

Too bad. "I saw the picture the media released. It looked painful." Though even battered, he'd been attractive in a virile, primal way. "And they tied in the fight you had with Kirra's owner with your altercation with Heath. They succeeded in making you seem violent."

"Which is exactly what Damian said they would do." He grimaced. "I have to run by Jayne's house and pick up the laundry I left there. Everything in my apartment was ruined. Are you all right here by yourself?"

"I'm fine."

"OK then. I'll bring lunch back with me. Anything special you want?"

Louisa moved her aching jaw. "Something soft."

"I'll be quick." Conor kissed her gently on the uninjured side of her face before leaving.

Louisa put an ice pack on her face for twenty minutes, then grabbed her laptop and brought it back to bed. Turning it on, she propped a pillow against the headboard. Kirra jumped onto the duvet and stretched out next to Louisa.

She skimmed through her e-mails. Twenty messages into her inbox, she spotted a message from her father, the subject line: "Itinerary." She clicked on it and copied the details of his upcoming holiday visit to her calendar. Nerves rattled in her belly. What was he going to tell her? She glanced at the clock. Nine a.m., three p.m. in Stockholm. It was time for their weekly phone call. Ward Hancock kept a strict routine. Saturday afternoons were spent in his study, working. If she was lucky, and she phoned early, she'd catch him still relatively sober.

She wasn't the luckiest soul in the world.

She picked up her cell and speed-dialed his number, her stomach knotting as the line rang again and again. Where was he? She left a message and set her phone aside.

"Something's wrong, Kirra."

The dog rolled closer and flipped Louisa's hand with her nose. Louisa settled a hand on the dog's head. "Something is definitely wrong."

The phone rang as Conor emerged from the shower in Louisa's guest room. After toweling himself off, he pulled jeans from the duffel bag on the dresser. The basket of laundry he'd retrieved from Jayne's house was all the clothes he had left. Almost everything else Conor owned was destroyed. He sat down on the edge of the bed and caught his breath. Renter's insurance would cover most of the damage, and he didn't have many personal possessions that couldn't be replaced, except the photographs the scumbags had piled up and pissed on.

He'd hired professional cleaners to strip the place bare. Then what? Would these kids ever leave him alone? Why the hell were they so determined to have Kirra? The streets were teeming with pit bulls, and Kirra wasn't much of a fighter. Why did they want her back so badly?