Troublemaker Read online

  No doubt about it: she’d had all the company she could stand for one day.

  CHAPTER 6

  MORGAN WOKE AND DIDN’T IMMEDIATELY KNOW WHERE he was; he lay very still, instinctively reaching out with his senses to locate any danger, anything wrong. Then the particular scent of his surroundings registered, and everything clicked into place.

  He was at Isabeau Maran’s place. The scent was great, a mixture of wood from the barn structure, the leather of the sofa he lay on, some sort of perfumey stuff in a bowl . . . what was it . . . yeah, potpourri. Silly-ass name. But most of all he could smell her. This was her place, and the scent of her was everywhere. He’d gotten up close and personal with that scent when she’d helped him into the house . . . barn . . . whatever it was. He’d been so exhausted yesterday that now he’d be hard put to physically describe her, other than attractive, skinny, with long dark hair, but she smelled great—not because she smelled like a woman, which he guessed she did, but because she smelled nothing like disinfectant.

  If he never smelled that particular hospital scent again, he’d be deeply grateful. The whole past month was tied up in a nightmare ball of pain, drugs, uncertainty, fear, anger, a disconnect from reality, and he didn’t want to be reminded of it in any way.

  He blew out a breath. He needed to take a piss, and the hell of it was he had to assess the situation. He hated it, hated every second of feeling this weak, but it was his new reality. He could make the trip on his own, or he could call her. She’d already had to help him to the bathroom twice; everything in him rebelled at the idea of asking her for help again. It wasn’t as if she were a warm and fuzzy person who made offering aid seem like nothing, the way his nurses had. She seemed to like her dog much better than she did people, which, okay, given that she’d dealt with Mac at any early age wasn’t so unreasonable. He still needed to piss. For a few minutes he lay there dreading the effort it would take to accomplish that simple task, but damned if he was going to call her for help. Even if he had to crawl, he’d get to the bathroom under his own steam.

  The house wasn’t dark. The TV was still on, though the sound was turned off because the noise had annoyed the hell out of him. A lot of things annoyed the hell out of him now because nothing was normal. He eased to a sitting position, relieved that the ache in his chest was nothing more than that. Pneumonia had been a bitch; the coughing had nearly killed him figuratively, while the pneumonia had almost done the job literally. He sat for a minute to make sure he wasn’t dizzy, then braced his right hand on the arm of the sofa and levered himself up.

  Okay. Not too bad. He was a little light-headed, but as he stood there the sensation faded.

  His steps as he crossed the open space were slow. He couldn’t do his normal confident stride; the best he could do was kind of shuffle his feet along. His body had always been a powerful machine that did his bidding, and now he didn’t recognize himself in this weak, aching shell. Maybe the worst part of this whole shitty situation was the uncertainty that he’d ever get back physically to what he had been before being shot.

  He took the time to look around, noticing details that he hadn’t before. There was a keypad beside the door, and a red dot glowing on that told him she had a security system, and at some point had activated it. Guess it was a good thing he didn’t need to go out to the Tahoe to retrieve anything.

  The barn was uncluttered, except for the dog’s toys strewn around. There was furniture—the living room area, the kitchen area, the dining area, and what looked like a small office space—in the whole open space that was the downstairs, but the furniture was only what was needed. The whole vibe was kind of barn mixed with industrial, which was weird for a woman. He didn’t know shit about decorating, but he knew women and how they liked to surround themselves with stuff. Isabeau Maran evidently either didn’t have a lot of stuff, or didn’t like stuff.

  He was relieved that, however slow he might be, he made it to the bathroom without any real problem. At least he could walk it under his own steam. Driving all day had knocked him flat for a while, which was humiliating in and of itself. Before being shot, he could and had swum and/or run for miles, but now just sitting upright for a few hours had done him in. That last hour of driving had been accomplished by sheer determination, and he’d made it by the skin of his teeth. By the time he’d parked in the driveway in front of the barn, he’d been glad no one was there because the best he could do right then was lay his head back and take a nap. He’d been there about forty-five minutes before his hostess arrived.

  Mac had neglected to mention that his ex-stepsister was a crazy dog lady, which Morgan supposed was better than a crazy cat lady. At least there was just one dog, and dogs were easier to corral than cats. He liked animals in general, just not right now. He didn’t have the energy to play, pet, or fend off an overly friendly retriever. Ms. Maran had made it plain where the dog was in the pecking order, and that was above him.

  Okay, he got that. His presence was an unpleasant surprise. He was a stranger, and an imposition. He was as uncomfortable in this situation as she was.

  They’d get through it though; he because he didn’t have any choice in the matter right now, and she because she needed the money. Despite the fact that she was being paid well to house him, he was grateful she’d accepted. From what he’d overheard when she was talking to Mac, she’d been on the verge of refusing even after the money had been offered. She’d been adamant that no one here be endangered by his presence. Morgan was fairly certain no one would be, but he couldn’t swear to it. Even the best of plans tended to get hiccups, or fall apart entirely when something unforeseen fucked up everything. He’d keep that to himself, though, or he’d likely find himself on the road in the morning, with nowhere to go and unable to get there under his own steam anyway.

  He made it back to the sofa, stared without interest at the silent TV for a while, then got the remote and clicked the off button. The room went dark, a dark he found soothing. A hospital room—even one that was makeshift—was never dark. Once he had regained consciousness, the constant light, even a dim one, had become so annoying he’d have shut off every machine, smashed every light, and sealed the door . . . if he’d been able. He hadn’t been, but now he could certainly turn off the damn TV. He knew that once his eyes adjusted, he wouldn’t be in complete darkness; clocks on the microwave and the oven in the kitchen would be pinpoints of light, but normal pinpoints, not on machines that were hooked up to him. It hadn’t been only the light that had bothered him; the unceasing noise had too, the sounds of the machines running, conversations outside his room, people walking.

  He drew a deep, cautious breath—everything in his chest still protested the expansion of muscles and rib cage—and felt something in him relax at the silence, the darkness.

  Bo didn’t sleep well because she knew there was a stranger in the house. Sharing space wasn’t something she liked or was accustomed to. Her bedroom door was closed, and Tricks was accustomed to having the run of the house so she was restless. Tricks got up on the bed, she got down on the rug beside the bed, she went to the door, she nosed around the bedroom. Finally Bo sat up and said, “Get up here and go to sleep.” Tricks made the throat noises she did when she was arguing, but she jumped up on the bed and finally settled down. Bo thumped her pillow and tried to settle down herself.

  She did finally go to sleep, but woke up annoyed—with herself, with Axel, with the man downstairs for getting shot in the first place. If he’d been more careful, he wouldn’t be in this shape. On the other hand, neither would she be making a hundred and fifty thousand—!!!—for taking care of him, so from that point of view, she was grateful he’d been careless.

  As she threw back the covers, Tricks jumped up as bright eyed as ever, ready for her first trip outside. She dashed to the door and stood there with her tail wagging, looking expectantly from Bo to the doorknob, as if trying to show her how to open the door.

  Normally Bo didn’t bother getting dressed, bu