Page 112 of Price of Angels

“Jesus, what kinda chick willingly spends time with him?” Candy asked with a chuckle.

“She’s hot, man,” Aidan said. “But insane, obviously.”

“She’s not,” Ava said, frowning, earning censorious glances from all males present save her husband and Tango, who didn’t do censorious on any occasion. “She’s sweet,” she said. “And he’s really serious about her.”

“How would you know?” Ghost asked.

“I had lunch with her.”

Mercy frowned but said nothing, still concerned about the situation.

Maggie said, “Whatever she is, I take it Michael doesn’t want anyone laying hands on her. Did you figure that out tonight, RJ? Don’t touch other people’s dates.”

He mumbled a response.

Movement behind the crowd, at the front door, drew Ava’s attention. Michael and Holly leaving.

Ava said nothing. Let them escape, she thought. She would have wanted someone to do the same for her, years ago, when she was wildly in love with a dangerous man she couldn’t have.

“I want to ask you something, and I don’t want you to feel like you have to answer.”

Michael considered the cards laid out before him on the carpet. They were at his house, and they’d both showered, and were in sweats, and were exhausted and enjoying the warm crackle of the fire. Tomorrow, he’d have an angry president to answer to, but right now, he didn’t care about much of anything besides their game of solitaire and the way the fire danced across her fresh-scrubbed face.

“Shoot,” he said, laying the five of spades up on the appropriate stack they’d built between them.

She nibbled at her lip a moment, studying her cards, then lifted her eyes to his. “I’ve been wondering how you came to be a part of the Lean Dogs, when you…well, you don’t seem to like the rest of them that much.”

A simple question. Not a simple answer. And unfortunately for him, he didn’t speak in subtleties.

“I didn’t set out to join,” he said. “It ended up happening, ‘cause I was well-suited for it. It’s a long story.”

She smiled at him. “I’ve got nowhere to be.”

He gave her a discouraging look, but of course she wasn’t deterred.

“It can’t be any more embarrassing than my story,” she said in a light voice that belied the tiny tremor in her hands.

And it wasn’t, was it? No part of his history was as repulsive as the tale she’d told him.

So he took a deep breath and said, “My uncle raises hunting dogs. Blueticks and Great Danes.”

Her brows went up. “Great Danes are hunting dogs?”

He nodded. “Uncle Wynn uses them for boar hunting. They’re the kill dogs. The hounds do the tracking, and then you pull them back. And the Dane goes in with Kevlar” – he gestured to his own chest – “and holds down the hog while the hunter goes in with the knife.”

She watched him curiously, no trace of revulsion on her delicate features. She looked fascinated.

“It’s a real old fashioned way to hunt. Most people use rifles, or bows. They get in blinds and wait for the pig to show. Wynn’s always done it the mountain man way, like they did it a hundred years ago. Lots of people use pitbulls, but I’ve never liked them. The Dane’s got the size and the smarts, and the trainability.”

Holly nodded.

“Uncle Wynn used to sell to people all over the southeast. He was real picky about who he sold his dogs to. And we never used a shipper; I always did the delivery.

“This guy in Arkansas wanted to buy an adult dog, one we’d already trained. So I took the dog, met the guy, and he asked if I’d stay on a few days and show him how to work with the dog. We did that a lot, with the adults we sold, so I said I would.”

He still remembered the moment he’d found the mailbox with the number he was looking for and turned up the driveway. The house had been a rambling brick number with Spanish arches leading into front courtyards, and shiny black double front doors. Between two windows, a massive circle of laser-cut metal adorned a section of front wall.Lean Dogs,Arkansas, on top and bottom, and the silhouette of a running dog in the center. The design was repeated on a snapping white flag that flew just beneath the Stars and Stripes on a tall pole out front. The yard was large, well-landscaped, brick-lined beds bursting with flowers. And everywhere there were bikes. Heavy, black, sinister Harleys, and a few old Indians.

Michael had stopped the truck in front of the garage doors, between a double column of parked motorcycles, and whistled softly to himself. The black and white Dane he’d brought, Ramses, had licked his face and whined from his spot in the passenger seat.

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