Rich Bitch: Everything's Going to the Dogs by Nancy Warren

clean—against the trickle of blood. Sophie’s uppermost thought was that she’d been lucky enough to be hurt when possibly the only woman in New York who still used cotton handkerchiefs was 
in the vicinity.
    Mimi trembled in her arms, or maybe it was her own trembling making the dog wobble, but Sir Galahad once more lived up to his name. Every hair on his body bristling, he stalked back and forth in front of them, a canine terminator.
    Within a gratifyingly short time she heard the familiar peal of a siren. Before they arrived, she made a second call. To Vince. She suspected he was going to fire her. So far, in her short employment with him, she’d run into disaster twice.
    But, contrary to her expectations, he wasn’t upset with her, but frantic over her safety.
    He acted a lot like the Doberman when he got home less than half an hour after she called. Having given a statement to the police, and refused a ride to the hospital, she was sitting with her feet up, Mimi curled in her lap and Sir Galahad pacing in front of the door ready to attack anyone who came after them. Sophie had the oddest feeling that he was chagrined not to have prevented her injury earlier.
    The Doberman growled deep in his throat before she heard anything. Instinctively, she grabbed Mimi tighter, then relaxed when the I’m-a-guard-dog-mess-with-me-at-your-peril growling changed to a puppyish whine and the dog wagged its stub of a tail.
    Vince was home. She let out her breath and loosened her vise-like grip on poor Mimi. Somehow she felt that everything would be okay.
    Vince was so big and tough that her tension left her when he roared through the door with an absent pat for Sir Galahad and eyes only for her. “Why aren’t you in the hospital?” were his first words.
    “There’s no need.”
    “I came as fast as I could. My God, you could have been killed.” As he spoke, he crossed the room in a couple of fast strides and dropped to his knees beside her chair, studying the bandage a paramedic had applied.
    “I’m fine. Really. It’s just a graze.”
    “You were attacked. You are not fine.” He touched her hand, her face, as though he could impart his strength to her. “You’re pale.”
    “I had a shock,” she admitted. “I’m so sorry.”
    “That bastard.” Vince jumped to his feet. “I hope you’re pressing charges.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “That pissant who wants you back.”
    “You mean Gregory?” In truth, she’d never considered him as the one who’d shot at her.
    “You were mugged yesterday; he’s hanging around your place when you get home, where you tell him
 to piss off. Then you get shot at today. Don’t you think that’s a bit of a coincidence?”
    “This is New York.”
    He did not look convinced, and she began to wonder. Was it possible? Gregory was a man of weak character, as she’d discovered too late, but would he try to hurt her? It was hard to believe. It was tough to think at all when her arm felt as if it had been burned, and her head ached.
    Vince began to pace, a little like the Doberman had earlier. In fact, Sir Galahad was now lying across the door, as though he’d given over the pacing part of the job to Vince.
    “You’re not going home,” Vince said at last.
    “I’m not?”
    “No. You’re staying here for a few days. I’ll take some time off work, and we’ll figure out what’s going on.”
    “I thought you were going to fire me,” she said.
    He sent her an impatient glance. “Don’t be stupid. He wouldn’t be going after you if he didn’t sense I’m interested in you. This is my fault.”
    She knew there were problems with Vince’s logic, but right now she didn’t feel like working them out.
All she wanted to do was lie down.
    She couldn’t quite work up the energy to argue, but she tried. “My things …”
    “We’ll go later and get them.” He looked down at her, and his hard face softened. “You need some painkillers and some sleep.”
    “I