She glanced up. “He likes you, too. Trusts you. Dogs have great instincts, you know?”
“It’s too damn bad they can’t choose their owners.”
The puppy polished off the snack and waddled toward Sam, brushing his nose against Sam’s leg.
Scarlet laughed quietly. “I think this one has.”
Sam gingerly lifted him into his arms and the Lab settled easily, finding his happy spot.
“Are you going to name him?” she asked.
“Not while he’s in such a sorry state. When he’s healed and feeling better, I can get a read on his personality. Pick a nice strong name for him.”
“That’s a good idea.”
They stared at each other across the span of the kitchen. It was unnerving to see this big, strapping man cuddling a tiny, defenseless puppy. Heart-wrenching, really, because said pup was covered in bruises and cuts. But he looked perfectly comfortable and cozy nestled against Sam. More important, he seemed to feel safe in Sam’s arms, in his care. As though he already knew this man would protect him and love him from here on out.
Scarlet cleared her throat to combat the emotion threatening to overcome her again. She went to the stove and poked at the onions to ensure they cooked evenly. Or just make herself useful and not so teary-eyed.
Over her shoulder, she said, “Tell me when to start the bellas.”
Sam grabbed another pan and set it on a burner, not jostling his now-sleeping bundle. “Another ten minutes or so. Enjoy your wine.”
She slid onto a high-backed stool and lifted her glass. She asked, “Can we talk about the night of the art theft?”
He gave a slight shrug. “Not a lot to say about it, as I told you.”
“Where were you around eleven o’clock?”
“In the guesthouse.” He grinned, a bit mischievously. “With two very beautiful socialites. Misty Ferrera and Pembroke Peters … Peterson … I can’t remember which.”
“Peterson,” Scarlet confirmed. “Adopted by her mother’s third husband.” She took another drink and asked, “What about Michael? He claims to have been in the guesthouse as well.”
“Sure. He was there.”
“Interesting. He didn’t mention your presence when he gave his statement.”
“Obviously, from mine the FBI could put two and two together.”
“Or four,” she muttered. “You, Michael, Misty, and Pembroke.”
“Not exactly.” He propped a hip against the ledge of the counter and speared her with a pointed look. “Me, Michael, and Misty. Then me, Michael, and Pembroke. Follow?”
Her jaw slacked. “That’s some serious stamina.”
The pointed look turned downright wicked. “We were all there for a few hours.”
Curiosity—and the sexy expression on his devastatingly handsome face—got the best of Scarlet. Prompting her to ask, “Do you two do that often? Share the same woman?”
“We’ve been known to on occasion.” He shoved away from the counter and sought out his own wineglass.
Scarlet let this new revelation, this sinfully delicious tidbit, seep through her veins.
“Wait a minute,” Sam said as he eyed her over the rim of his glass. “You don’t look the least bit surprised. Or, I should say, you don’t appear the least bit fazed.”
Her brow crooked. “About you and your stepbrother engaging in threesomes? No. Doesn’t faze me at all.”
Excites the hell out of me is more like it.