As he leaned over the crib, a strip of tape stretched taut, he heard a low growl.
The dog?
Where?
But he’d checked. He didn’t move a muscle.
Swallowed hard.
Nothing.
But …
He reached into the crib.
Another warning growl.
What?
He was sweating. But all he had to do was grab the kid.
Oh, no, she was moving, and her eyes were open.
Big and round.
She started to scream, and he slapped the tape over her mouth.
All hell broke loose!
A huge graying animal, barking like mad, burst from beneath the skirt of the crib. Snarling, it leaped up, knocking him over, white teeth flashing.
The kid—trying to scream, tearing at the tape—scrambled to her feet.
He jumped up and grabbed her.
The old dog, the half-crippled one he hadn’t paid much attention to, clamped onto his leg.
Teeth sunk through his jeans.
Pain seared his calf.
“Aaah!” he cried, biting off his own scream.
Too late!
He heard running feet in the hallway.
Whirling, holding the wriggling, panicked kid in front of him, he saw Nikki Gillette.
Standing in the doorway.
A pistol leveled at his chest.
“Put her down,” she ordered, though her words seemed a little slurred and she swayed sightly. “Duke Wheelan, put my baby down this second, or I’ll blow your head off.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” he said, holding tight to the frantic toddler, his little human shield with one arm, his pistol with its silencer now in his free hand. All the while, he was kicking hard, trying to dislodge the damned dog. Still, the fierce monster held on.
“I said, ‘put her down!’” But Nikki was leaning against the doorjamb now, whatever was wrong with her taking over. The gun wobbled in her hand, and he knew she wouldn’t shoot, wouldn’t risk harming her child.