Page 20 of Walking the Edge

“I don’t need supervision.” He moved the armchair away from the door. “Go put on something warmer.”

She’d “something warmer” him. Cath gathered her kitten into her arms. “My landlord will have a fit if you drive nails into the wall.”

“He’s going to have to replace the whole frame.” Mitch waved her away. “You better change before you come down with pneumonia.”

He set to work without another glance. She stood there, working to loosen her clenched jaw, the kitten purring in her arms. He wouldn’t be around long, and she should cut him some slack. But a problem still existed.

Mitch had saved her from being shot by the burglar, he’d chased the man away, and now he wanted to give up his beauty sleep to fix her door. She couldn’t let herself get indebted to a man—especially one like Mitch—but a verbal thank-you would never even the score. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I can heat up some spaghetti if you’d like.”

“That would be nice.” He glanced over his shoulder, a groove cutting between his brows in the Mitch version of a frown. “What way would I take it?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Warmth invaded her cheeks. She never blushed, even when she had to hand over a condom. She also could stand up to men who wanted to take advantage of her. Which was Mitch in spades. So why did she keep blushing? “You could think I want to prolong this…” She rolled her hand a few times, searching for a neutral word. “This encounter.”

“Of course,” he said.

“Of course what?”

“I understand. You want this”—he cleared his throat—“‘encounter’ to end once I eat.” He gave her a blazing smile.

A sexual rush rang along her nerves like a siren. Too late now to put that particular fire out. She’d started out trying to get rid of him, so what did she do? Invite him inside. Now she would be feeding him. Dinner would mean another hour of exposure to this arrogant bounty hunter, and she’d already had more than she wanted.

* * *

Mitch stood to inspect his handiwork. Two nails at either end of both spatulas ought to keep the door shut until a carpenter could install a replacement. He shoved the recliner back in place as an extra precaution.

Cath Hurley had disappeared behind the closed door almost fifteen minutes ago. How long did she need to change clothes? He much preferred her in the fuzzy robe, but something told him he’d never see her in that again. He didn’t need to either.

He keyed his phone, staring through the front window at the closed shutters on the facade. His brother Jack finally answered the call. “What’s the word on Hal?”

“He’s out of surgery. Hold on, the doc’s coming out to talk to me now.”

Jack had agreed with Hal’s advice, but he knew nothing of the how or why behind Hal’s wound. Nor who was at fault. That would come out soon. His throat burned and Mitch swallowed.

Had Cath Hurley opened the back door to allow her brother to escape? Was she his accomplice in the business of selling drugs? She claimed her brother hadn’t confided in her, but everything she said could be a smoke screen.

“The surgeon thinks he’ll mend up fine.”

Mitch eased out a breath. “That’s good.”

“Kurt wants to talk to you when you get home. Hold on.”

Kurt would bawl him out about this goatfuck. He’d want to know what Mitch planned to do to recover the fugitive and fulfill his obligations to Big Easy Bounty Hunters. How many times had he heard the words Don’t take the job if you can’t do the job?

Cath’s bedroom door remained shut. Why had he mentioned Kurt’s problem to her? No one outside the family needed to know, and Catherine Hurley would never meet his older brother.

So why? Mitch drummed his fingers on his thigh. The sight of her family photos had slammed him with his own lack, and he’d simply reacted. Not good. Not going to happen again either.

A door opened behind him, and he swiveled.

“It won’t take—” Her gaze caught on the cell at his ear, and she closed her pretty mouth, unadorned but still attractive as hell.

His blood zoomed faster, and he forced air into his lungs. So what if she set his jingle bells ringing?

“Are you there, Mitch?”

You’re still talking to Jack, nutso. “Roger.”

Mitch stared at Cath. She’d transformed into an all-American girl next door with blue jeans and a gray sweatshirt stamped with what could be a college name.

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