Under Fire (Elite Force 3)

Cursing, Brandon stuffed his cell in his pocket. “Sorry, Cat—uh, Catriona, I mean. Sorry. Just distracted. Nothing from anyone on Rachel.”

“No need to apologize. You can call me Cat. It’s easier. My full name’s unusual, to say the least.”

Her name even made her laugh sometimes. Her parents had chosen it months before she was born, obviously expecting great things from her, with a flamboyant name to go with a grandiose future. But she hadn’t been outgoing or particularly pretty no matter how much they paid to dazzle her up. Hair highlights and lowlights. Manicures and spray-on tans.

Underneath it all, she was still just herself.

She wanted to sit on the beach and read. She forgot her hat and wrecked the latest hair color her mother chose for her. She got sunburned and peeled.

The boys she had liked—the ones who’d liked her back—usually freaked out when they saw her million-dollar home and met her unmistakably pretentious parents. No one had been able to accept her for herself… until she’d stumbled on two stray puppies in a Dumpster when she was sixteen. They were starving, and the female bit her.

But then she’d seen the other three—dead—puppies. The biter had been protecting her siblings.

Catriona had picked up the scruffy puppy and tucked the fierce protector into her backpack—just to be safe. She didn’t blame the little one for the bite, but she wasn’t going to offer up her arm as a chew toy. She scooped up the other and held it close enough to see the fleas crawling around in its patchy fur. The little boy pup had trembled so hard, it peed on her. She’d taken them both home, names picked out before she hit the front stoop.

Freckles and Frisbee.

She’d expected her parents to argue about taking them to the veterinarian, but her mother had been strangely cooperative. It wasn’t until they reached the vet’s office that she realized her mom intended to have the puppies put to sleep.

For the first time in her life, Catriona stood up to her mother. She’d threatened to pitch a very embarrassing fit in the lobby full of people who would undoubtedly gossip. She would make sure everyone knew her mom, Vivian Whittier, was a puppy killer.

Her mom had ground her teeth but relented. Vivian had valued nothing more than her reputation as a philanthropist. So Vivian—Vivie—had changed tactics quickly, set up treatment for the puppies with instructions to arrange for them to go to a rescue, for a hefty donation. Her mom promised to go shopping for a pedigreed pooch that afternoon.

But Catriona wasn’t budging.

The thought of giving up the two pups snapped a switch inside her she’d never expected. She was willing to bargain with the devil for those babies.

Worse. She was willing to bargain with Vivian.

Catriona had promised to attend the blasted cotillion classes. She would even try to fit in there and date boys her mom picked out.

If she could just keep the puppies.

Frisbee, the fighter, the spunky little protector, didn’t make it. Parvovirus had sapped the life from her already parasite-riddled body. But the little guy, Freckles, the shy pup that peed when you looked at him?

He made it.

And with him, Catriona had found her mission.

Her fingers worked automatically over Tabitha’s head, soothing, until her heart rate slowed and her mind cleared enough to tune in again to Brandon’s voice.

“Hey, Rachel, when you get this message, give me a call or Catriona, either of us. We just need to know you’re okay.” He disconnected.

“Still no answer?”

He shook his head. “Afraid not.”

A vein throbbed in his temple. Faster and faster still. The strain on his face, in his eyes, was worse than anything requiring an inhaler.

“She’s okay.” She touched his arm again. Thick corded muscles twitched and bunched under her fingertips, but she didn’t pull away. “I’m sure of it.”

“You can relax.” He half smiled. “I’m not going to fall apart in the middle of your yard. I’m just honest to God concerned.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. How should she answer a person who joked about… what? PTSD, maybe? That would be the main reason a military guy would seek out a therapy dog, if they didn’t have a visible physical injury. But Brandon didn’t look how she would have expected a person suffering from combat stress to appear.

He was buff and tan. He cracked jokes. She would have expected him to be antisocial. Gruff.

But not open this way. Vulnerable, even. There were most definitely shadows in his expression and dark smudges under his eyes that made her want to pull his head to rest in her lap and stroke his thick, dark hair.