Page 80 of Storm over the Caribbean
“No, Ican’tgo to the store and purchase dog food, Fence.”
“W-who’s Fence?”
I froze.
Then, slowly, very slowly, I lifted my hand away from my eyes—and met a pair of deep, dark, blue-grey ones. A pair that was incredibly, heart-achingly familiar.
“Mr Ambrose!” Leaping to my feet, I rushed over to him. “You’re awake!”
“Do. Not. Run!” he growled, eyes boring into me. “You’re preg—”
That was about all he managed to get out before I threw my arms around him and squeezed the life out of him.
“Too…tight!” he wheezed. “Can’t…breathe…”
“And I should worry about thatwhy, exactly?” Moving back, I smacked him upside the head and sent him the deadliest glare I could manage. “Didn’t seem like you particularly cared if you lived or died when youate that bloody poisoned fruit!”
“It was a valid tactical decision at the time.”
“Oh, it was, was it? So, what would you say to me making such avalid tactical decisionnext time?”
All I got in response to that was silence. Silence that said more than a thousand expletives.
Ha! Take that!
“My question still stands.” Once again, he fixed me with his icy gaze. “Who is Fence?”
I opened my mouth to answer. But before I could—
“Woof! Woofwoofwoofwooooof!”
A shaggy blur shot past me and pounced. A moment later, Mr Rikkard Ambrose landed on his back, with a happily slobbering dog on top of him, licking his face with unbridled enthusiasm.
“What,” he enquired with a voice cold enough to freeze the surface of the sun and then some, “is that?”
“That’s Fence,” I explained, cheerfully. Although I had to admit to the slightest amount of jealousy for the mutt who was still covering Mr Rikkard Ambrose’s face in doggy-kisses. “He’s happy to meet you.”
“You don’t say?” The tone of his voice only barely failed to turn me into an icicle. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“Well, then I’m happy to help.”
“Mrs Ambrose?”
“Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir?”
“Get. This. Mutt. Off. My. Face.”
“Why, yes of course, Sir. Would you like me to put it on your groin instead?”
“Don’t youdare!”
“All right, groin it is.”
But before I could wreak my vengeance upon my husband for his foolishness, the silly dog ruined my plans. Leaping off Mr Ambrose, he dashed away and, moments later, returned, tail wagging and clutching something in his jaws.
“Mrs Ambrose?”
“Yes, Dicky Darling?”
