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backward and he takes one forward. I step toward the stalls, thinking I may be able to jump onto the chicken wire. The dog mirrors me. It's like we're doing a perfectly syncronized dance and if I weren't so terrified I'd probably find it endearing. Maybe even amusing.
    Since I'm probably about to get my throat ripped out, I'm not amused.
    I'm about to make a leap for the stall door when a deep male voice makes the dog turn. "Frank!" A whistle follows. "Frank!" Trey steps into the barn. He's backlit by the bright afternoon sun, so I can't make out his face, but I'd know his silhouette anywhere.
    Frank is overjoyed to see him. Wagging his nub of a tail back and forth with a vengeance, he runs over to Trey who scratches his head. I swear the dog turns just to glare at me over his muscled shoulder.
    "Oh, hey," Trey says when he sees me.
    I'm still too terrified to respond. He studies me a minute and must catch sight of my expression because he says, "Don't be scared. Frank won't hurt you. He likes expats." He pats the dog's head.
    I swallow. "He doesn't exactly seem happy to see me," I squeak out.
    "He's just not used to females."
    That doesn't make me feel much better. But with Trey nearby, I'm able to relax a little. Surely the dog wouldn't attack me with his master right here. Surely?
    "His name is Frank?" I ask after forcing my throat to work. "Not Killer, or Cujo, or something more appropriate?"
    Trey steps farther into the barn, lifting his sunglasses. His face starts to come into focus. He's wearing half a grin. "Yeah, like Sinatra."
    I stare at Killer . "Because the pattern on his fur makes him look like he's wearing a tux…" I murmur, finally seeing a dog instead of a mythical hell beast.
    "And he carries a mean tune. Can put back the martinis too."
    I remember that Trey tucked me in last night and feel my cheeks flush. "So, last night…"
    "Don't worry about it," he says quickly. "I learned my lesson the hard way to avoid the Pakistani stuff. It's unpredictable. Some nights you can drink an entire bottle and…nothing. Other nights, four shots and you wake up naked on your floor with no pants."
    I think I'm thankful that didn't happen.
    "At any rate," I say, interrupting my own sordid thoughts. "I'm sorry for being a burden."
    "Seriously, don't worry about it. I'm sorry my men put you in that position. They know better."
    I shrug it off. "Don't blame them. I'm a big girl."
    "Please let me know if D or the others get out of hand…"
    "No, no. They were fine. Like obnoxious brothers."
    His eyebrows bob at the comment. He must share my sentiment.
    I'm starting to relax more. Frank is glued to Trey's side. He still watches me carefully, but doesn't seem on the verge of attack. "Why do you all call him Double D, anyway?"
    "Oh, um, his wife apparently has, well, a pair of…um…" He starts to gesture a set of large breasts and then promptly drops his hands.
    "Double Ds?" I finish for him.
    "Yeah," he says with a sheepish smile. "It was all he could talk about for months after they got married. The nickname quickly followed."
    I laugh, surprised by how at ease I feel. "And I thought he was hitting on me!"
    Trey's expression is serious when he looks at me, but it's a forced serious. "Oh he was. Or is. Most of my guys don't let a little thing like marriage get in the way of their social life. Every member of my security team is married, and that has never kept them from indulging in, um…extra-curricular entertainment."
    My stomach sinks to my shoes, and not because D, Two Bit, Rick, or Junior are married. And still visit prostitutes or keep mistresses—as Trey so delicately suggested.
    "Except me," Trey adds with a half-cocked grin. "I tried. It didn't work."
    My stomach jumps back into place. "That happens," I say quietly.
    He studies me for a moment and my temperature raises another ten degrees under the scrutiny. For the first time since I met him, I can finally see his eyes clearly: dark brown with flecks of gold and