a dangerous criminal had been in the house, would she be upset over the splintered wood? Probably not. But it wasn’t a burglar, and she was the person who’d left the damned window open. Wasn’t like she could blame the SPD when she’d caused the issue.
A crash came from her bedroom.
“Damn it,” she said, starting toward the bedroom. Officer Rhett caught her by her elbow. She turned. “I don’t want that thing to tear up my bedroom.”
“Raccoons are known to carry rabies and distemper.”
“Did it look like it was sick?”
He blinked. “I don’t know.”
“Well, I can’t have it tearing up my stuff.” She pulled her arm away and stalked toward her bedroom. She didn’t want to face a rabid raccoon, but she also wanted to sell some of the stuff the creature was likely rummaging through. The Colorado house was still on the market moldering even after she’d lowered the price, and the apartment in Manhattan was still without a lease. She’d paid cash for the Shreveport house, but it had wiped out one of her savings accounts. If she could sell some of the couture she never wore anymore, she could use that to pay the decorator’s bill.
Nothing wrong with upcycling. It helped the environment. And she wasn’t going to wear last year’s styles.
She threw open the door and damned if the raccoon wasn’t lying in the middle of her bed like a freaking sultan. It had rifled through her trash, leaving tissues and a tampon wrapper on the floor, and knocked over a goblet she’d left on the bedside table. The crystal pieces lay strewn on the wool rug she’d brought from the mountain house. The lamp had fallen, and the curtains she’d had custom made framed the six-inch crack the little bastard had somehow managed to climb through.
Tennyson, with an eye on the raccoon, who sat regarding her curiously, stomped to the window and raised it higher. She then moved toward the end of the bed, far enough away from the raccoon that she could dart toward the open doorway if it came at her, but close enough to command the little beast’s attention. Throwing out her arm toward the window, she said, “Out.”
The raccoon rolled into a Jabba the Hutt pose and twitched its nose.
“Out. Get out,” she yelled at it.
“How much wine have you had, anyway?” Officer Rhett asked from the doorway.
Tennyson glanced back at him. The man had his hand on the gun, ready at any moment to fire if needed. Well, that was somewhat comforting. Just in case Rocky did, in fact, have rabies.
“Enough to not be afraid of a stupid raccoon,” she said.
The raccoon followed instructions the way most men followed instructions, which is to say, it sat there and did nothing.
“Ugh, why doesn’t it move? Isn’t it scared of us?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I’m not a raccoon expert.”
She waved her hands, and the raccoon leaped up and moved toward her pile of down pillows. “Shoo!”
Then the animal turned and came toward her.
Tennyson bolted, sliding behind Officer Rhett. She pressed against his back, peeking around to see the raccoon lumbering off the bed. She also noticed how firm the hot cop felt beneath her fingers. Oh, and he smelled yummy—like fabric softener and something manly.
Who did his laundry?
“Stop,” Officer Rhett said, trying to pull away from her, but Tennyson had a death grip on his waist.
The raccoon leaped to the sill and climbed out the window. The little bastard didn’t even look back as a farewell gesture.
Tennyson released her hands. “Oh, thank God. Go close the window.”
Officer Rhett turned. “You do it. It’s your house.”
“But you’re the cop.”
“Police officer.”
She made a face. “Are you scared of a raccoon?”
“No.” But he looked a bit like he was. His hand was still on the butt of the gun. She felt him stiffen his spine before striding to the window and slamming it down with a bang. The glass panes actually rattled.
The doorbell rang.
“That’s probably animal control,” she said, hurrying back toward the front of her house, leaving Officer Rhett behind.
Ten minutes later, animal control was gone with no raccoon in their animal trap, and Officer Rhett had finagled her broken French door into a reasonably secure position. She’d found a toolbox—a cute pink one she’d bought at Home Depot the only time she’d ever been to Home Depot—that had enough tools for him to make the door somewhat functional.
“You need to call someone tomorrow to fix this. Do you have someone?” he asked.