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

can’t share your bed,” she managed.
    “Then you can share Mimi’s.” And without another word, he put a strong arm behind her shoulders and another beneath her knees, then scooped her up with great gentleness. “But for today, you can nap in my bed. It’s bigger.” So she found herself in moments tucked into his big, big bed, with the scent of Vince comforting her. He brought her a glass of water and a bottle of extra-strength painkillers. He shook out two which she swallowed, then lay down. A moment later she felt the bed covers give, and the fluffy coat of Mimi brushed her hand. She smiled and drifted into sleep.
    ***
    Vince called a buddy, Ed, who just happened to be a cop, and told him of his suspicions. Sophie’s ex wasn’t going to get another chance to hurt her. Vince couldn’t imagine a man sick enough to try to shoot
 a woman to keep her out of the arms of another man, but he had to admit that Sophie was the kind of woman who inspired the grand gesture.
    Here he was in the middle of a tricky negotiation, and he’d just walked away to take a few days off. No explanation. No definite return date. But right now the safety of a woman he’d already come to care for rated a lot higher on his list of priorities than whether the latest union shop with a grievance got a four percent increase instead of two and an end to contracting out of services.
    Vince made his living off this stuff. Normally he’d be salivating over the two percent difference, loving the working guys with their straight-up talk, and the management position, which predictably complained that the company could no longer be profitable with that kind of raise.
    There was always a solution, always an answer that pleased neither side but was acceptable to both, and Vince was the man who could instinctively find the delicate balance point between the two.
    But not this week.
    Not when he was worried sick about Sophie and wanting to take apart the asshole ex who was trying to hurt her.

Chapter 7
    Sophie woke with a start, sitting up in bed before she realized she was no longer asleep. The silky bedspread sighed as she shifted.
    Something had awakened her.
 What?
 In a second she had the answer.

Yap, yap, yap
. .. and the scrabbling of sharp nails across hardwood. Mimi.
    Sophie threw off the covers and had her feet planted on the floor before she was conscious that she was awake.
    Mimi might be a little on the ditzy side even for a poodle, but she had sharp ears and a terrific sense of self-preservation. Sophie was out in the hall in seconds.
    As she careened through the doorway, grabbing the only weapon she could find—a scrubby-looking baseball bat with a few scrawled signatures on it, she saw Mimi was doing her pit bull imitation. Her dainty snout was pulled back in a snarl, her little body almost comically fierce as she attacked the door, barking, barking, barking, her freshly manicured nails sliding and clacking as she menaced the unknown enemy on the other side of the door.
    Even as she took in the sight of Mimi, Sophie became aware of Vince flying out of his own room. His weapon of choice wasn’t a baseball bat but a lethal-looking hand gun.
    In her time in America, Sophie had still never become used to the prevalence of guns. This one was gray black. She didn’t have to ask if it was loaded. Vince’s expression of deadly earnest told her it was.
    “Get back in your room, Sophie,” he said, barely glancing her way. Three nights she’d slept in the Princess bed, and nothing had happened. Vince had insisted she remain, for her own safety, and she’d
 let him talk her into staying for several reasons, most of which had nothing to do with her safety; but maybe he was right.
    She ignored his order, of course, feeling that they needed to work as a team if they were to thwart whatever danger lurked outside.
    Besides, she couldn’t have moved if she’d tried. Vince looked
incroyable
in his clothes, but wearing nothing but a pair