“Did anybody ever tell you that you look great in mud?”

“Sorry,” Owen said. “I’d like to return the compliment, but no dice. You’re just not the mud type. Let me help you get it off.”

“No, I don’t want your help.”

“Too bad, because I really want to do it.”

It was a primitive form of play, as old as man, as enticing as woman. Winding his hand through her long, wet hair, Owen tugged just hard enough to let her know he could.

Olivia let him draw her back until her gaze met his, only inches separating them. And in that small space where their breath meshed, the air was hot enough to turn the rain to steam….

Dear Reader,

Spring is a time for new beginnings. And as you step out to enjoy the spring sunshine, I’d like to introduce a new author to Silhouette Special Edition. Her name is Judy Duarte, and her novel Cowboy Courage tells the heartwarming story of a runaway heiress who finds shelter in the strong arms of a handsome—yet guarded—cowboy. Don’t miss this brilliant debut!

Next, we have the new installment in Susan Mallery’s DESERT ROGUES miniseries. In The Sheik & the Virgin Princess, a beautiful princess goes in search of her long-lost royal father, and on her quest falls in love with her heart-meltingly gorgeous bodyguard! And love proves to be the irresistible icing in this adorable tale by Patricia Coughlin, The Cupcake Queen. Here, a lovable heroine turns her hero’s life into a virtual beehive. But Cupid’s arrow does get the final—er—sting!

I’m delighted to bring you Crystal Green’s His Arch Enemy’s Daughter, the next story in her poignant miniseries KANE’S CROSSING. When a rugged sheriff falls for the wrong woman, he has to choose between revenge and love. Add to the month Pat Warren’s exciting new two-in-one, My Very Own Millionaire— two fabulous romances in one novel about confirmed bachelors who finally find the women of their dreams! Lastly, there is no shortage of gripping emotion (or tears!) in Lois Faye Dyer’s Cattleman’s Bride-To-Be, where long-lost lovers must reunite to save the life of a little girl. As they fight the medical odds, this hero and heroine find that passion—and soul-searing love—never die….

I’m so happy to present these first fruits of spring. I hope you enjoy this month’s lineup and come back for next month’s moving stories about life, love and family!

Best,

Karen Taylor Richman

Senior Editor

The Cupcake Queen
Patricia Coughlin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Amy Mullervy,

with gratitude

PATRICIA COUGHLIN

is a troubling combination of hopeless romantic and dedicated dreamer. Troubling, that is, for anyone hoping to drag her back to the “real world” when she is in the midst of writing a book. Close family and friends have learned to coexist peacefully with the latest cast of characters in her head. The author of more than twenty-five novels, she has received special recognition from Publishers Weekly and Romantic Times. Her work also earned her numerous awards, including the prestigious RITA from Romance Writers of America. Ms. Coughlin lives in Rhode Island, a place very conducive to daydreaming.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter One

O livia hated to lose. To be truthful, it went beyond hate. She abhorred losing, to anyone, under any circumstances, but she especially loathed being bested by one of her four older and frequently infuriating brothers.

Together, they had seen to it that she learned to think fast and stand her ground at a very young age. Now twenty-four, she no longer had to dodge water balloons or check for reptiles before climbing into bed, but their propensity for teasing and practical jokes persisted, and she was adept at deflecting, countering or ignoring their efforts as the situation warranted. Sometimes she even enjoyed the challenge, and she dearly loved her brothers. She just flat-out refused to lose a wager to one of them…particularly as ridiculous a wager as the one she’d allowed herself to be roped into this time.

Olivia winced just thinking about it. If Brad had challenged her privately, she would have found some way to resist the bait. But no, her brother had tossed down the gauntlet in the middle of the Historical Association’s annual ball, in front of dozens of amused witnesses. In Baltimore society, it didn’t get any more public than that. She’d had no choice but to accept the challenge on the spot, and now pride and her own mulish nature demanded she follow through. Precisely as Brad had anticipated when he set her up, she thought with chagrin.

Pride and pigheadedness. The combination had landed her in a tight spot on more occasions than she cared to recall. But this time she’d even outdone herself. This time she was scaling new heights of absurdity. There certainly was no sane explanation for crawling out of bed at what she deemed the crack of dawn on this brisk October morning, to drive to some godforsaken little town in the backwoods of upstate New York.

She kicked the large suitcase by her side.

“Ouch.”

It was packed solid. So solid she’d had to jump up and down on it before she could close the zipper. The “Rules According to Brad” limited her to one suitcase. That presented a formidable challenge to a woman who required a minimum of two bags for a weekend jaunt, and in the end she’d resorted to cheating by wearing everything she couldn’t stuff into the suitcase.

There was a reason the layered look went out of style, she reflected, squirming uncomfortably inside a turtleneck jersey, denim shirt and three sweaters. She didn’t even want to think about how she must look. Not that it was likely to matter much where she was headed. For all she knew, the layered look was still the rage in Danby.

She reached for the oversize tote bag which she defied Brad to call a second suitcase and was rummaging through it for a map when her mother joined her in the foyer of Twin Brooks, the grand Georgian-style mansion that had been home to the Ashfields for nearly a century.

“What time do you expect Bradford?” Helen Ashfield asked her youngest, and most exasperating, child.

“I told him I was leaving at ten sharp and he’s supposed to be here to see me off. Which gives him—” Olivia glanced at her watch “—five minutes. Damn, why didn’t I think to stipulate that if he isn’t here on time, he forfeits?”

“Perhaps because you were too busy making a spectacle of yourself, throwing arrows…”

“I think you mean darts.”

“Of course, darts,” her mother conceded, oozing disapproval. “That makes it infinitely more dignified than tossing arrows at a map stuck to the wall of the Continental Ballroom.”

Olivia shrugged. “It seemed the most logical way to choose a destination under the circumstances.”

“Logical? Logical? There is not one scintilla of logic in this latest…escapade that you and your brother have cooked up.” She sighed. “I thought Bradford had more sense.”

“Well, he doesn’t.” It did not escape Olivia that her mother had not said that she thought she had more sense.

“Does that mean you are obligated to go along with whatever asinine scheme he proposes?”

“What can I say? He has a way of bringing out the worst of my inner child.”

“Please don’t joke, Olivia. Your father and I are very worried about you going off alone like this.”

“Mom, I’ve been traveling alone for years.”

“Traveling, yes. Not living and working and fending for yourself in some strange place. I cannot for the life of me understand why— Don’t say it.” She raised her palm to halt Olivia’s response. “I’m weary of hearing you say it’s the principle of the matter…whatever that means. How principle can be at stake in such a foolish, not to mention dangerous, stunt, eludes me.”

“We’re not talking about Beirut, Mom. I’m going to a town named Danby, population 14,000, for heaven’s sake. I suspect the crime rate there is lower than in Baltimore.”

“I don’t care what the population is. Every one of them is a stranger. And it’s not as if you’ll be spending a weekend. You’ll be there for months…”

“Eight weeks.”

“Alone, with no family, no job, no friends, no one who even knows who you are, for heaven’s sake.”

“That’s the point,” Olivia countered wryly, bringing a familiar, long-suffering expression to her mother’s face.

The sunlight streaming through the leaded glass windows of the foyer might have been hard on the appearance of another woman in her fifties, but not Helen Templeton Ashfield. A combination of good genes and good sense resulted in a softly glowing complexion, a still-slim and strong body and golden-brown hair, cut to flatter her classic features and draw attention to her brilliant blue eyes. The fact that the softly layered style was the look of the moment mattered not at all to her mother, who had a remarkable talent for knowing what was right for her…in hairstyles and in life.

Olivia liked to think she’d inherited those gifts. There was no question she had done all right in the looks department. Blond, blue-eyed and willowy, she was aware she could turn heads dressed in baggy sweats. Not that she would ever be caught dead in them. Her style was one she’d dubbed “casual glam,” and she wore it well. She clung to the belief that hidden somewhere inside her—deep inside—she possessed the same instinct for more significant matters. It was just taking her a while to dig it out.

She was convinced that when she at last found whatever it was she was meant to do with her life, she would know it instantly, the way her mother insisted she had known her future the very first time she’d set eyes on Richard Ashfield. She was definitely narrowing the field of possibilities. Through trial and error she had established she was not destined to work with young children or stay cooped up in an office all day or work around chemicals, especially those of a combustible nature. And she’d yet to set sight on a man and know for sure that she’d want to spend a weekend with him, much less “till death did them part.”

Her mother was still voicing her objections. Taking a deep breath, Olivia decided she would try one more time to make her understand what she was about to do. “Mom, the reason I’m going to Danby is precisely because I don’t know a soul there, to prove that I can survive completely on my own. With…how did my dear brother put it? No trust account…”

“No credit cards. No Daddy,” interrupted a masculine voice from behind her.

“Ah, the devil himself,” Olivia drawled, turning.

Brad Ashfield, like all the Ashfield men, was tall and athletic and heartbreakingly handsome. He grinned at his only sister and moved to give his mother a quick kiss on her cheek. “Good morning, Mother. Great day for a drive in the country, wouldn’t you say?”

Rubbing his hands together like the villain in a cartoon, he glanced from Olivia’s unsmiling face to the suitcase beside her and nodded approvingly. “One bag. See? You can follow orders. You’re even ready on time. Hell, Liv, if you keep this up, you just might last more than two days on a real job after all.”

“Oh, I intend to last more than two days. I intend to last the entire eight weeks. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for the pleasure of seeing you shave your head in public.”

“That would be a sight to draw a crowd, all right,” Brad agreed. Looking smug, he added, “Why, I’ll bet it would be nearly as big a crowd as we’re going to have when you shave yours.”

Her mother swung her horrified gaze to Olivia. “Oliv-ia, please tell me you are not going to—”

“I am not going to shave my head in public or anywhere else, Mother. I fully intend to win this bet. This victory will be my swan song, my final participation in anything my brothers dream up, proving once and for all that nothing my conniving, eavesdropping, interfering…”

Brad looked indignant. “I did not eavesdrop. I was simply dancing in close proximity to you and that Taylor guy when I happened to overhear you reeling him in with that old line about how you dreamed of running away from your unbearably tedious life of wealth and privilege and make your own way in the world.” He shook his head with mock dismay. “Really, Liv, I should have thought you’d retired that one years ago.”

“I believe ‘find myself’ was the phrase I used,” she informed him.

“Yes, of course. I remember thinking it was such a charmingly retro expression.”

“Did you think that right before you barged into my private conversation for the sole purpose of taunting me and backing me into a corner in public?”

“That’s not my recollection at all,” he said, stroking his chin with such phony sincerity that Olivia’s lip curled. “I only recall chatting with my sister and her partner after inadvertently bumping into them on the dance floor.”

“Inadvertently, my eye,” she muttered.

“After that I simply did my best to encourage you to follow your dream…you know, that lifelong dream of finding yourself. Hell, a lot of brothers wouldn’t even care that their kid sister was lost, never mind go to all this trouble to help her find herself. Seems to me you should be thanking me, not finding fault with every little—”

“Thanking you?” she snapped, tossing back thick, straight blond hair that fell past her shoulders. “You’re lucky I didn’t—”

“Stop! Both of you.” Their mother silenced them with a look that had shriveled braver souls. “You make me wish I could still send you to your rooms for a timeout.”

Olivia and Brad chuckled at their mother’s exasperation, and even she surrendered to a small smile edged with regret.

“But I can’t,” she continued, all business once again. “I can still threaten and nag, however, and I shall. Olivia, are you determined to go through with this?”

“Very,” she replied.

“In that case, Bradford, carry your sister’s suitcase to the car.”

He lifted it with some effort. “What do you have in here?” he grumbled. “Cement blocks?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she retorted. “You said one bag. That’s one bag. What’s in it is none of your business.”

“I’ll go along with that. And to prove what a good sport I am, I won’t even ask whether you packed on a few pounds overnight or you’re wearing enough to clothe an entire softball team.”

Olivia smiled at him. “Have I told you how much I’m going to miss you?”

“Actually, you haven’t,” countered her brother.

“This much,” she snapped, pressing the tip of her thumb and forefinger tightly together.

He laughed all the way out the door. Olivia linked arms with her mother as they followed.

“You have to promise to call,” said her mother.

“I will, Mom, I promise.”

“Every day.”

“Probably not every day. It’s long-distance and I’ll be paying my own phone bill. But I will definitely call as often as I can.”

Accepting that reluctantly, her mother continued. “And I want you to promise me you will be careful and not take risks of any nature.”

“No risks. You have my word. Trust me, if it was adventure I was looking for I wouldn’t be going to Danby.”

“And I also want your word that no matter what the final outcome of this, you will not, under any circumstances—”

“Shave my head? Trust me, Mom, do you think I’d have agreed to this if I thought there was the slightest possibility I could lose?”

Helen Ashfield searched her daughter’s eyes. “You wouldn’t have?”

Olivia shook her head, slipped on her sunglasses and grinned. “Not a chance. Think about it, Mom, all I have to do is find a job and support myself for eight weeks.”

The color seemed to drain from her mother’s face. “Oh, dear.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, hiding a trace of annoyance as she hugged her mother. “It’ll be a piece of cake.”

Maybe Brad was doing her a favor, she thought as she started down the brick steps to the wide circular drive. She was pretty tired of being the family “joke.” Good old Olivia, beautiful, but…basically useless. An intelligent woman but a pretty ornament. Well, they were all wrong. Just because she hadn’t discovered what she wanted to do with her life didn’t mean she was destined to do nothing. She was perfectly capable of doing anything she set her mind to, and she was about to prove it.

“Whoa. That’s not my car,” she told Brad as he swung her bag into the trunk of a white sedan parked behind her car.

“Of course it’s not,” he agreed cheerfully, closing the trunk. “You can’t use your car for the next eight weeks.”

“Why not?”

“Because it would violate the terms of our agreement.”

“There was no mention of cars in our agreement.”

“Sure there was,” he countered. “It falls under ‘trappings.’ We agreed you would not take with you any outward trappings of your true identity that might raise questions. That,” he continued, pointing at her beloved silver Jaguar, “is definitely an outward trapping.”

“And you,” retorted Olivia as she snatched the keys he was dangling before her, “are definitely a petty, devious jerk.”

Enduring the dents and scrapes and mismatched wheel covers, she slid behind the wheel of the used sedan and slammed the door. The seat felt too big for her. The whole car felt too big for her. Compared to her sleek, low-slung Jag it was like driving a bus. When the engine sputtered, she said a prayer that it wouldn’t start, but it did, and after only a few jerky stops as she experimented with the unfamiliar brakes, she was on her way…with Brad’s final words ringing in her ears.

“Don’t forget your weekly check-ins, sweetheart.”

Chapter Two

“I ’m so glad you called, Olivia. It’s a relief just to hear your voice.”

“Yours, too,” Olivia replied, surprised just how good it was to hear a familiar voice. Had it really been only a little more than a week?

“I can’t talk long,” she explained to her mother. “I splurged on one of those prepaid phone cards and I don’t want to use all thirty minutes on one call.”

Helen Ashfield sighed. “Really, Olivia. I can send you more phone cards. For that matter, why don’t I just drop a check in—”

“Mom…”

“Discreetly, of course.”

“Don’t you dare! I vowed to do this on my own and I intend to.” She kept the “or die trying” part to herself. “Which brings me to the other reason I can’t talk long. I’m calling you from work.”

“Work? Are you sure?”

“Oh ye of little faith,” she retorted, not entirely joking. “Of course I’m sure. You happen to be speaking with the receptionist for one of the busiest doctors in Danby.”

“A doctor.” Pause. “Do you really think that’s wise? With your limited experience, I mean.”

“Relax, Mom. Dr. Allison Black, better known around here as Doc Allison, is a vet. I’m working at the Danby Animal Hospital.”

“I suppose that’s not quite as risky,” her mother said. “Just the same, be careful in what have been your problem areas in the past, relaying messages, showing up on the right day, that sort of thing.”

“I’ll be sure to do that, Mother,” she said, drumming her fingers on the desktop calendar advertising heart worm medication. “But so far everything is going pretty smoothly.”

“Is today your first day?”

Her grip tightened on the receiver. “Actually I’ve worked nearly every day since I arrived.” That was almost true. Just not on the same job.

“I can’t wait to tell your father. He’ll be amazed.”

“Just don’t tell Brad. I want that pleasure so I can hear him start to sweat.”

Her mother chuckled. “All right. Not a word to your brother. Now tell me all about your job.”

“There’s not a lot to tell. I answer the phone, schedule appointments, check in patients, that sort of thing.”

“It sounds very…busy,” her mother said brightly.

“It’s busy, all right, but repetitive. If you don’t hear from me again you can assume I’ve died of boredom…or else run off with a veterinary pharmaceutical salesman. Don’t laugh. That’s what the last receptionist did and I’m beginning to understand why. It was a lucky break for me, though, since Doc Allison was desperate and I was the only applicant.”

“I see. Well, your father always says you have to start somewhere.”

“He also says things like ‘A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.’”

“True.” She paused a few seconds. “Olivia?”

“Yes?”

“Now that we have the forced good cheer out of the way, how are you really?”

Olivia sighed. “You’re good, you know, very, very good…even over long distances.”

“I know. I’ve had considerable practice. Let’s hear it.”

“Off the record?”

“Of course.”

“I’m miserable, that’s how I am. First I couldn’t find a job, then when I finally found one—waiting tables at the local diner—they made me wear this hideous uniform with a pink ruffled apron—you know how I feel about pink—and I ended up pouring a pot of hot coffee on some guy’s head and getting fired my very first day.”

“Why on earth did you pour coffee on the man?”

“Because he grabbed my butt, that’s why, and then all the other men at the table started hooting and laughing and I saw red. Before I knew it, I was standing there holding an empty pot. Actually it was only half-full to start with, and it wasn’t all that hot, either.”

“And those meanies fired you, anyway? Imagine that.”

“Very funny.”

“Olivia, sweetheart, I could have told you that you’re not cut out to be a waitress.”

“I wasn’t looking at it as a career move. Besides, when you don’t know what you are cut out for, one job looks as good as another.”

“Mmm. That must explain how someone who’s never been, shall we say, overly fond of animals finds herself working for a veterinarian.”

“I don’t dislike animals,” she protested. “Not completely anyway. Only the shedding, smelling, drooling stuff. I give to the SPCA and I wouldn’t be caught dead in real fur. Heck, I was even a vegetarian once. Remember the summer I turned fifteen?”

“Vividly. Did you tell them all that to get the job?”

“More or less.” Silence. “All right, I lied through my teeth and said I adored animals and that I have extensive office experience working for my dear departed veterinarian uncle whose records were destroyed in a fire.”

“Olivia, when are you going to learn…?”

“Soon. Word of honor. Right now I have to focus on surviving the next six and a half weeks.”

“Is this job really going smoothly or was that bravado, as well?”

“Half and half. Yesterday was pretty rough. I accidentally left this Doberman with an infected tear duct parked in the waiting room for more than an hour. Of course, I didn’t know it was infected, much less that it was so serious he had to be rushed to a veterinary ophthalmologist.”

“I gather your late uncle didn’t treat too many infected tear ducts,” her mother remarked in a dry tone.

“That’s not helpful, Mom. Do you want to hear this or not?”

“Of course.”

“Well, the good news is old Bozo isn’t going to lose his eye after all. That’s the dog’s name. Bozo.”

“I see. And the bad news?”

“Doc Allison was furious and made me promise to actually look at the patients at check-in and alert her to any glaring abnormalities. And she put me on notice that another incident will force her to let me go.”

“Oh, she did, did she?”

Olivia smiled, not surprised her mother was personally offended by the warning. It was perfectly fine for her to question her daughter’s ability, but even a hint of outside criticism elicited her maternal ire.

“A bit overbearing, isn’t she? This is your first week on the job, after all.”

“True, but at the time she was still pretty upset over the hedgehog.” She decided not to mention the mix-up with the fish tank, since in all fairness no one had bothered to tell her that the coral was living, not plastic, and had some sort of super sensitivity to sudden changes in its environment.

“Hedgehog?” her mother repeated warily, as if the word itself were dangerous.

“Yes. I sat on him. Not intentionally. He was the one curled up in my chair, after all. And I didn’t come down with my full weight…not once I felt those damned spikes. The little rodent totally lost it just the same. For all the noise and running around you would think it was my spikes that had punched holes in his favorite slacks…not to mention a pair of those silk panties I like so much—the ones I have to order from that little shop in Paris.”

“Olivia, this is so comical it’s tragic. I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t be. That was yesterday,” she reminded her, trying to sound reassuring as she absently swiveled her chair so she was gazing out the window, her back to the entrance. “So far today I haven’t slipped up once.”

“It isn’t even noon.”

Olivia sank back in her chair. “Don’t remind me.”

“You’re groaning because you know I’m right. I insist you stop this nonsense before you or one of those poor animals really gets hurt, and come home.”

“No.”

“Honey, I’m certain your brother will understand and—”

“No. Not a chance.”

Her mother huffed impatiently. “Really, Olivia. Why can’t you be reasonable just this once?”

“Because I’m not a wuss, that’s why, and because I don’t go back on my word, and,” she continued, her voice rising to match her irritation, “because I’d rather walk the plank—naked—than give that sneaky devil the satisfaction of seeing me shave my head in public.”

A snicker from behind was Olivia’s first clue someone had walked in without her hearing and was standing close enough to hear every word she said.

She whispered, “Love you. Gotta go,” and swiveled around to hang up the phone and grab the day’s schedule book.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said, plastering her best receptionist smile in place as she looked up—way up—and straight into a pair of dark, deep-set gray eyes she’d seen only once before and would not soon forget.

“Because he grabbed my butt,” she’d told her mother. “Because the other men all laughed,” she’d told her. What she hadn’t told her was how the man hadn’t even flinched when she tossed the coffee at him, and how his dark, unsmiling gaze had caught and held hers for what seemed like forever, until it was somehow understood between them that he was good and ready to look away, and let her do the same. She also hadn’t mentioned how, with the front of his shirt and faded jeans soaked with coffee, he had paid for his breakfast, laid a five-dollar tip on the table and walked out…all without saying a word.

His absolute control had unsettled her in a way his insolence couldn’t possibly. She was an old hand at dealing with unwanted male attention. She was not, however, accustomed to allowing a man to throw her off balance. And she didn’t like it. The fact that he was some hick from Danby made it more maddening. As soon as she’d handed in her apron, she had put him out of her mind. Or tried to at least.

“Well, well,” he murmured finally, the sardonic slant of his mouth leaving no doubt he remembered their last meeting as vividly as she did.

How much of her phone conversation had he overheard? Probably too much, given her recent streak of things going from bad to worse. She waited for him to speak first, but he was preoccupied with studying her, his hooded gaze cool and utterly unfathomable. The rest of him, on the other hand, was easy to read.

He was a big man, not heavy, just big—tall and broad-shouldered and solidly muscled. His face was suntanned, suggesting he worked outdoors. His scraped knuckles and rough hands told Olivia he worked with those hands and worked hard. A glance at the dark-brown hair curling around his ears and collar and she knew there were lots of things he’d rather do with his time than sit in a barber’s chair. She had a hunch he didn’t like sitting around of any kind.

His mouth was generous enough to be intriguing, his cheekbones high, his jaw solid…and stubborn. She supposed the town’s female population considered him quite handsome, in that primitive, diamond-in-the-rough way some women found irresistible. Personally, she’d never understood the appeal of a “fixer-upper,” in houses or men.

What she found most revealing about him, however, was something more subtle than the rest. Actually, it was two things. The way he moved and the way he was still. This, she decided, was a man totally and unmistakably at ease in his own skin. It was the sort of intrinsic confidence you couldn’t buy. If you could, most of the men she knew would have it. It also wasn’t easily cultivated. Few people cared to turn over rocks inside themselves; fewer still could come to terms with what they were and were not.

Of course, the fact that this particular man was so self-accepting indicated he was also an appallingly bad judge of character.

While she was taking stock of him, he continued to look at her long and hard. Knock yourself out, thought Olivia, buoyed by her own rush of confidence. This was familiar ground. Stares and admiring male glances were a fact of life. Also a fact of life was her skill at keeping hormone-driven responses in check, even when the man had other ideas.

Another of her father’s favorite quotes was “Use the gifts God gave you.” It wasn’t too long after puberty struck that she figured out her greatest God-given gift was the one she came face-to-face with when she looked in a mirror. It was a little while before she was comfortable with the ardent attention it brought her, and longer still until she claimed the power that was part of the package. Once she had, beauty became her weapon of choice, and through trial and error she’d come to wield it with finesse.

If this small-town Don Juan thought he could rattle her twice in one lifetime, he was sorely mistaken.

“What is it with you, lady?” he asked, when he appeared to have looked his fill at last. His tone was cordial, gentle even, but his voice was deep, the gravelly kind of deep that could give a woman goose bumps if she let it. “Are you flat-out crazy?”

“What makes you ask?” she countered coolly.

“Oh, I don’t know, something about you dumping coffee on strangers and wanting to walk a plank naked.”

“Oh, that. Yes, I’m flat-out crazy.”

Their eyes met. He might have a bigger Adam’s apple than she did, but she had a few assets of her own—a sub-Arctic tone and a dismissive gaze that had cut the machismo out from under inebriated frat boys and philandering Fortune 500 executives alike. The combination had never failed her.

Until now.

For the first time in her life she brought it to bear full force on a man and nothing happened. No stuttering or shifting of feet, and not so much as a flicker of embarrassment.

Concentrate, she told herself, allowing her lips to curve into a subtly amused smile. Next to public rejection, men most hated being laughed at.

“Now it’s my turn to ask you a question,” she said. “Do you cop a feel off every waitress who slaps a $1.99 special in front of you? Or is it only crazy ladies you can’t keep your hands off?”

First he laughed. Then he stepped around the chesthigh counter separating the entry and office, and planted his palms in the center of her desk. An ancient leather bomber jacket hung open over his black sweater and jeans. He was also sporting several days’ black stubble, and she would bet an extra week in Danby that if she bothered to check out his feet, she’d see some battered member of the boot family. The complete “bad boy” ensemble. Generations of self-proclaimed rebels had adopted it to affect a menacing, misunderstood look, with an undercurrent of raw sexuality.

And for good reason, she acknowledged to herself. It worked. As he continued to lean forward slowly, Olivia subdued the urge to wheel her chair out of reach.

“I think I’ll keep you guessing about my taste in women,” he said, his too deep voice now also too close. “I will tell you this much. If I ever do decide to put my hands on you, I’ll make damn sure you know who it is touching you. I’m scared as hell you’ll get spooked again and hurl something really lethal at me.”

Funny, he didn’t look scared. He looked pretty damned amused, Olivia decided, bristling. “Let’s get something straight. I didn’t throw coffee at you because I was spooked. The truth is, I wasn’t even upset,” she added, shrugging. “It was strictly a matter of principle.”

“Yeah?” The corners of his wide mouth curled upward. “What principle is that?”

“The one that says a man keeps his hands to himself unless I invite him to do otherwise.”

His grin became full-blown. “Unless? Or until? Either way, lady, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

“Lucky me,” she murmured, taking the hand he extended to seal the bargain. It wouldn’t have surprised her in the least if he turned out to be a fast-fingered Harry as well as a groper. The tags were from her college days, when she and a small group of close friends would pigeonhole a man according to his most impressive—or offensive—quality. Instead of prolonging the handshake, however, or rubbing a finger suggestively against her palm, he shook her hand in crisp, businesslike fashion and let go.

It was a little like being dismissed and she wouldn’t have let him get away with it if Doc Allison hadn’t come charging into the room in her usual rush.

Her boss was in her thirties, a trim brunette with a no-nonsense manner and a habit of doing at least two things at once. Now she continued scribbling notes on a chart, slapped a list on the desk and began talking to Olivia.

“Do you think you can find these medications in the stockroom? And please rummage up some vitamin samples to give to Honey-Bunch’s mom when she checks out.”

“Right away.” With no small amount of pleasure, Olivia aimed a lofty look at the man in front of her. “I’m afraid it’s going to be a few minutes before I can check you in.”

She got to her feet slowly, certain he was like most men and wouldn’t be able to resist checking out those parts of her that had been hidden under the desk. At this point even that small, pseudo-victory would make her feel better.

“Don’t bother,” he replied to her comment about the wait. Not only did he ignore the chance to check her out more thoroughly, but he turned away, shifting his attention to the vet, who had stopped writing and looked up at the sound of his voice.

She immediately broke into a friendly smile. “Hey, stranger. I didn’t know you were here.”

“You asked me to stop by, remember?”

“Of course. But you’re way early.”

Curious, Olivia lingered by her desk, shuffling papers for as long as she dared. It was long enough to note that his return smile was also friendly, as opposed to the nasty smirk he’d used on her.

“I finished setting up that new trail sooner than I expected,” he was saying. “If this is bad timing, Doc—”

“Not at all,” she assured him, taking his arm and tugging him along with her through the Staff Only doorway that led to her private office. The ease with which he fell in step with the other woman was not lost on Olivia. “I’m anxious to have you take a look at…”

That was the last thing she heard before the door swung shut.

What? Take a look at what? She resisted the urge to stamp her foot. Telling herself she really wasn’t interested in his reason for being there, or anything else about the man, she got busy gathering the medications on the list, presenting them to the furry little dog’s “mom” and recording payment for the visit.

As soon as the woman and dog left, she headed for the bathroom, or, more accurately, the mirror over the bathroom sink. Wishing it were full length, she inspected herself from a variety of angles. She looked fine, she decided. Better than fine. She looked the way she always looked, like herself. Obviously, if there was a problem, it wasn’t hers. Not that she’d been concerned otherwise. Merely curious. Mildly curious. Blame it on boredom.

Just the same, she took time to remove her lipstick and reapply it. She also combed her hair, then bent at the waist, tossing it forward and back to lose that just-combed look. Men were suckers for tousled hair and for anything else that helped link women and bed in their thoughts. Last, she pulled a tiny gold perfume atomizer from her bag and gave herself a quick spray of Sultry, rubbing the back of her wrists together until the scent of the aptly named perfume drifted over her.

She inhaled deeply. There, that was better. Strictly speaking, the perfume violated the terms of the wager. Sultry was French and hideously expensive by anyone’s standards. It was also worth every last penny, and she wasn’t going to lose a minute’s sleep over what Brad would say if he knew she’d smuggled it along.

If she’d freshened up for the benefit of Doc Allison’s visitor—which she assured herself she had not—it was a wasted effort. Either he was a very fast looker or he had left the back way. She would like to think he’d ducked out the back to avoid another round with her, but she was too good a judge of character. Nothing about him suggested he was a man who shied away from confrontation.

Perhaps his choice of exits had to do with whatever Doc Allison had invited him to see in her private sanctum. Hmm, that had definite possibilities. Her boss was married, happily so by all appearances, but she sure wouldn’t swoon from shock to discover he was over-stepping his bounds.

“Typical tomcat,” she muttered.

A hissing sound drew Olivia’s attention to the carrier she was using for a footrest. A pair of yellow eyes stared accusingly at her from within. After what just happened, she should know better than to sound off without checking first to see who was in earshot. She’d forgotten all about Izzy, the black cat with a bandaged paw who was supposed to have been picked up over an hour ago.

“Sorry, pal, I call ’em as I see ’em,” she said. “But I don’t blame you for being offended at being lumped together with that guy.”

Izzy’s stare didn’t waver. If she were the type who spooked easily, this would do it. She even went as far as to shift her feet to the floor and nudge the gray plastic carrier a few inches away.

“Nice cat,” she said. “Good kitty. Mommy will be here any minute.”

The cat countered with something between a hiss and a growl, and batted his bandaged front paw against the wire screen of the carrier.

“Cut it out, Izzy,” she ordered. “I’ve heard all about your ‘wonder cat’ routine, answering the phone and opening your carrier door and, well, frankly, Iz, I think it’s a load of bull.” She ignored the growl that rumbled from the cat’s throat. “Just the same, the last thing I need right now is for you to rip off your bandage or hurt yourself on my watch. So cut it out.”

The cat pawed harder.

Olivia tapped the door with her toe. “What’s the matter, Izzy? Don’t you speak English? How about French?” she inquired. “Touche pas. Assis.”

So much for her brothers’ claim that a degree in French culture was useless.

“What in God’s name are you doing now?”

Gretchen, Doc’s assistant, had come to retrieve the next patient’s chart. She stood with it in her hand, watching Olivia, who smiled at her to no avail. Gretchen was nineteen, a little on the plump side, and from the start she’d eyed Olivia as if expecting her to make off with a case of flea collars any second.

“Izzy was clawing the latch with his front paw, and I didn’t want him to hurt himself,” she explained.

“So you kicked him?” Gretchen shook her head. “Figures, after that stunt yesterday.”

“Yesterday was a mistake,” she pointed out. “I’ve apologized at least a dozen times. And I wasn’t kicking anything. I was trying to get the cat to stop picking at the latch.”

“Maybe he wants to get out of that carrier.”

Olivia couldn’t resist returning the girl’s smug smile. “I’m sure that’s exactly what he wants. Unfortunately for old Izzy here, his owner didn’t opt for the deluxe visit, you know, the one that includes roaming privileges whenever the mood strikes him.”

“Maybe he’s in the mood to use the litter box,” Gretchen retorted, speaking slowly, as if Olivia were not too bright. “Did you ever consider that?”

“Not directly,” she conceded. “Not yet, anyway.” She looked around. “Where’s the litter—?”

Before she’d finished the question, Gretchen was pointing toward the door at the back of the building, where the operating and recovery rooms were located. “You can’t miss it,” she said, turning to go.

“But what if once he’s out of the carrier he doesn’t want to get back in?” Olivia called after her, ignoring the look of disgust Gretchen tossed over her shoulder. “What if he runs outside?”

“He’s an indoor cat,” the younger woman called before disappearing into an examining room.

An indoor cat. She had a vague recollection from somewhere that indoor cats were indoor cats because they’d been declawed. Or the other way around. Whichever, knowing it gave her confidence as she pushed the carrier closer to the door Gretchen had indicated and opened the latch.

“Go ahead. Go. Va, Izzy. Do whatever it is you need to do,” she urged.

That’s all the prodding Izzy needed to sweep from the carrier and, with a regal lack of concern for anyone else’s agenda, sit and begin to groom himself.

“Move it, Izzy,” she said, “This is no time for a sponge bath.”

The phone rang.

“Damn,” she muttered, glancing at the phone, then at Izzy, then back at the phone. “That’s it. Time’s up. Back in the carrier.”

She held open the carrier door and reached for Izzy. The cat bolted. He was on the desk, over the counter and headed for the exit before she could say “Bad luck.”

Ignoring the phone, Olivia went after him, scrambling over the counter without Izzy’s grace or agility. For a cat with a bum paw, he was damned fast. She swerved around a woman holding a white poodle and collided instead with a young man on his way in.

“I’m Dan,” he said at the sight of her name tag. “I’m here to pick up the vaccine for—”

“I’ll be right with you,” she said without breaking stride.

Izzy was sitting at the edge of the parking lot, watching for Olivia with those yellow eyes. She approached him slowly, desperate that this not mushroom into a full-blown “incident.” There was no way she was going to let some gimp-legged cat screw things up.

Praying Izzy couldn’t distinguish a sincere human smile from a phony one, she cooed, “Nice cat. Sweet cat.”

Izzy purred, and waited until she was within arm’s reach before spinning and disappearing into the bushes that were along the side of the building.

Cursing, she took off after him.

She emerged on the other side with scratches on her face and leaves in her hair, and found herself in a narrow clearing between the animal hospital and the ancient wooden contraption that was home to Allison’s beehives.

She spotted Izzy a half second before she saw the snake. Again the cat was faster. He already had his back arched and was hissing with such venom the snake shot through the grass straight toward Olivia.

She shouted and made a wild leap in the air with no thought as to where she might land. On the way down her shoulder slammed into something solid, sending her sprawling backward. The hives, she thought, the instant she landed and immediately scrambled to her feet. Before she could assess the damage, there was a muffled, almost eerie sound in the shady clearing, and then suddenly the air was filled with bees. Black with them. Honeybees. Seven hundred and fifty dollars worth of honeybees to be exact. The invoice had arrived in the mail that very morning.

Cursing as passionately as she ever had, she plunged back into the bushes. The bees swarmed above and were waiting for her in the parking lot. She ran for the closest shelter, a pickup truck, and climbed inside, quickly rolling up the window. It was only when she reached to roll up the window on the driver’s side that she realized she wasn’t alone. A dog as big as a bear sat behind the wheel.

As he looked at her, he dropped his lower jaw, and the sight of all those big white teeth made Olivia decide to take her chances with the bees. She opened the door, but before she could jump out, the dog plowed over her. Slamming the door behind him, she grabbed a newspaper to whack the bees that had made it inside. When she’d gotten them all, she stuffed paper into the vents and took her first good look at the scene outside.

“Oh, no,” she breathed, recognizing the young man she’d run into minutes earlier. He was spinning in circles, waving his baseball cap in a frantic attempt to protect himself and the huge black dog from the onslaught of bees. The dog stood his ground by the man’s side, barking and shaking his huge head.

Olivia grabbed the newspaper and was getting out to join the fray when Allison appeared brandishing a fire extinguisher. She motioned for Olivia to stay put. Gretchen came from the other side of the building, armed with a hose, and together they fired on the swarm, allowing the man and dog to make it inside and then somehow managing to turn the tide of bees until the air was only dotted with a persistent few.

Gretchen remained on guard with the hose, while Allison dropped the fire extinguisher and hurried inside, pausing only long enough to glare at Olivia.

Even with her minimal work experience she could tell it did not look good.

Her hunch only grew stronger when a rescue vehicle and fire engine careened into the parking lot with sirens blaring. A troop of firefighters clad in black boots and red rubber coats disembarked. A stretcher was rushed inside.

Olivia followed. As she passed Gretchen, the girl shook her head.

“Another accident?” she drawled.

“As a matter of—”

“Save your breath. You’re going to need it to talk Owen out of killing you with his bare hands. My guess is he’ll be here any second now.”

“Okay, I’ll bite,” countered Olivia. “Who’s Owen?”

Gretchen smirked. “Owen Rancourt? Just about the most hard-assed, hard-driving trainer anywhere, that’s who. That’s dog trainer,” she added with an air of superiority. “As in security, and search and rescue. Danny Dewar is Owen’s right-hand man, and Romeo is his all-time number-one dog. And thanks to you they’re both in there covered with beestings.”

Olivia could feel a headache coming on. A real doozy of one.

“Some people die from beestings,” Gretchen informed her.

“And some are strangled because they don’t know when to keep their mouths shut,” she snapped. “Would you like to guess which is more likely to be your fate?”

Gretchen’s response was lost in a sudden flurry of activity as Danny was rushed to the rescue vehicle on the stretcher. From the looks of it, he was already hooked up to oxygen and an IV. Olivia’s stomach clenched painfully. She may not have meant for any of this to happen, but it happened just the same and she alone was to blame. It was like a bad joke. She was in Danby to prove to everyone—maybe even to herself—that she was more than a beautiful, essentially useless ornament, suited only to decorate some rich man’s life. Instead she was piling up proof that not only was she useless, she was downright dangerous. Men, hedgehogs, for pity’s sake, even bees weren’t safe around her.

As much as she hated to admit it, maybe her mother was right. If she had heeded her mother’s advice, she would be on her way home right now and no one would be suffering because of her ineptitude. Doc Allison would still have her treasured hives, poor Danny wouldn’t be swollen and blotchy and strapped to a stretcher, and Owen Rancourt, whoever the hell he was, wouldn’t be on his way there to “kill her with his bare hands,” as Gretchen had put it. That was probably a slight exaggeration, but even if the prediction proved dead-on, she didn’t have it in her to put up much of a fight.

Gretchen went inside, leaving her alone to watch the rescue vehicle drive away. When it reached the road, the driver was forced to stop by a gleaming black-and-chrome pickup, whose driver seemed hell-bent on making the turn into the parking lot. She continued to watch as the truck pulled parallel to the rescue vehicle and stopped so the two drivers could converse briefly. Then the rescue vehicle continued on and the truck shot toward her with enough speed to spray gravel.

Even before it came to a complete stop, Olivia knew the menacing-looking truck belonged to Owen Rancourt. Call it intuition. Call it inevitable. Call it the fitting end to what threatened to be the worst day of her entire useless life.

Hell, call it plain old bad luck. The facts didn’t change.

Fact one: judging from the expression on the man’s face as he jumped from his truck and caught sight of her, Gretchen had called it exactly. Owen Rancourt had murder in his eye.

Fact two: she and Owen the Horrible had tangled before.

Twice.

Chapter Three

F or the first time since the frantic call summoning him there, Owen’s adrenaline level began to level off. Not that it was apparent from the way his truck ripped across the paved lot. Whatever relief he felt was a result of seeing for himself that Dan, his only full-time employee and damn near his only close friend in the world, was in good hands and on his way to the hospital. Now he needed to see Romeo. Even within that small circle Owen counted as friends, Romeo stood alone.

It was the general belief in town that Owen Rancourt preferred dogs to people. It was not an impression he went out of his way to contradict. He wasn’t one of those activists who ranked animal rights equal to those of humans. It was simply a fact that, much of the time, he’d rather be in the company of his dogs than most people he knew. And if that little quirk in his nature prompted others to keep their distance, well, that was just fine with him.

There was a long list of reasons he favored dogs. High on that list was that they never trapped him into making small talk, or asked questions about things that were none of their business, or demanded more than he was willing or able to give at that moment. A passing scratch behind the ears or an hour of throwing a Frisbee, a good dog received both with a wagging tail and single-minded devotion.

Loyalty. That was also near the top of his list. Right up there with predictability. Once a dog was properly trained and bonded with his handler, you could count on him doing his job, doing his best, every time out. No surprises. No hesitation. No second-guessing. And his dogs could count on him the very same way. Simple and straightforward. That’s the way he liked things, and he did everything in his power to keep his life working that way.

There had been nothing simple or straightforward about the phone call some babbling pet owner had made on Doc Allison’s behalf. Even now he wasn’t sure what the hell had happened. The rescue crew had only taken enough time to tell him Danny’s vital signs were almost back to normal and he should be all right once they got him to the hospital. All he had been able to decipher from the phone call was what sounded like “loose bees,” “the poor man” and “the poor dog” Then the plea for him to come in a hurry.

It didn’t make sense. Allison had been cultivating honey for as long as he could remember, and if she’d ever had a problem with her bees, he didn’t recall it. Besides, Danny and Romeo were both too smart and too tough to be taken down by a few bees.

It wasn’t until he was out of the truck and standing face-to-face with hands-down the most perfect specimen of womanhood to ever float down from heaven, that it began to make a scary kind of sense. The fact that Ms. Perfection was also crazy was the piece of the puzzle that made all the others slip into place.

Instinctively his heart went back to jackhammering in his chest.

“Where’s my dog?” he demanded.

“Doc Allison is inside with him. Please, you have to listen,” she said, stepping directly into his path and raising both palms. As if that could stop him—or save her—if he felt like doing something more than listen. “I can’t tell you how sorry…”

That was enough to confirm his suspicion that whatever the nature of the crisis, she was to blame. Not exactly a surprise.

“Get out of my way,” he ordered, prepared to move her physically if she made it necessary.

She stepped aside, proving she had at least a modicum of sense.

He strode through the deserted waiting area and headed for the examining room. First he would check on Romeo. Then he would deal with the lunatic outside.

He shoved open the door without taking time to knock.

Romeo, all 140 pounds of him, was lying on his side on the examining table. A narrow white cloth covered his eyes, and the rest of him was covered with swollen bumps, some of then with gauze stuck to them. Beestings. Dozens of them, damn her. The six-year-old German shepherd was absolutely motionless. Doc sat on a stool by his side, her head in her hands. Gretchen was in the corner, looking even gloomier than usual.

At the sound of the door opening, the vet’s head jerked up.

“Damn, Doc,” he blurted before she had a chance to speak. “He’s not…”

He couldn’t even say it.

“No, no. Of course, he’s not,” Doc Allison assured him as she quickly stood and rounded the examining table to give his arm a comforting squeeze. “I have him sedated. Once the painkillers and antihistamines do their thing, he should be as—” she caught herself and shrugged “—make that not quite as good as new, not right away at least, but we can make him reasonably comfortable. It’s Dan I’m really worried about. Did you know he was allergic to beestings?”

Owen shook his head. “He is?”

“Severely so, judging by the difficulty he was having breathing.” Her lips tightened as she added, “Of course, a hundred or so beestings would overwhelm just about anyone’s nervous system.”

The mental image made him grimace. “What the hell happened?”

She shook her head and plunged her hands deep into the pockets of her wet, rumpled lab coat.

For the first time he noticed that she was wet all over. Her hair was hanging in damp clumps, and her makeup was streaked across her face.

“You look awful, Doc.”

“Thanks. I feel even worse.” She dragged her hair back from her forehead. “As for what happened…I’m not exactly sure myself. Oh, I have a grasp of the highlights, but the details are sketchy, and to tell you the truth, I’m a little afraid that if I don’t get a handle on my temper before I try to get details, I might end up behind bars before this day is over.”

“Would the charge be justifiable homicide?”

“You tell me. I found out only a few minutes ago that you’re the guy who had the coffee dumped on him.”

“True.”

“Why?”

“Long story. Comes down to her not liking to have her butt squeezed without her permission. Now let me hear the highlights about this afternoon.”

She turned to Gretchen.

“Keep an eye on him, will you?” she asked with a nod toward Romeo. “Let me know when he starts to come around.”

She motioned for Owen to follow her to her office. “Come sit down and I’ll tell you what I know. If I’m in luck—which would be close to a miracle considering how it’s been running lately—there might be a couple of cold beers hiding in the back of the fridge. My guess is I’m not the only one who could use one about now.”

In the outer office Olivia was pacing and rehearsing her apology. When it came to apologies, she wasn’t what you’d call a seasoned veteran. Oh, she’d uttered her share of sorrys for bumping into someone or not returning a phone call or breaking curfew when she was younger, but this was different. Her brow puckered as she tried to recall ever making a seriously heartfelt apology to anyone, for anything. She couldn’t.

Not that she never made mistakes. Not by a long shot. But when she did mess up or fail to do something, there was always someone to step in and handle it. There were never any unpleasant consequences. Not for her anyway.

The realization bothered her. It was bad enough that she had been buffered her entire life from the consequences of her own actions, but to be so utterly oblivious, so completely self-focused that she never gave the matter a second thought, was not something to be proud of.

Perhaps if she had taken the heat on occasion, she wouldn’t be fumbling for the appropriate words now that she needed them. This was a major-league screwup and it required a major-league apology. Even if she came up with one that was letter perfect, and even if Rancourt and her boss remained calm long enough to accept it, there was no hope of saving her job. She had only slightly more experience with work practices than with apologies, but it was enough to know her days at Danby Animal Hospital were history.

She wouldn’t think about that now.

Instead she looked around to see what else she could do to demonstrate how truly sorry she was. So far she had swept up the mess outside, rescheduled the few patients who hadn’t fled and searched—unsuccessfully—for the real culprit in all this, Izzy, the feline Houdini with the disappearing act.

While she could happily strangle the cat, part of her longed for the sound of his bandaged paw tapping on the door for someone to let him in. Not for his sake. For hers. Losing a patient only added to the body count. It would also squelch any slight chance she might have of Doc Allison giving her, if not a favorable recommendation, at least not a warning for potential employers to run for their lives.

She couldn’t think about that now, either.

Who was she kidding? She had to think about it and fast. If she didn’t find another job immediately, she would be heading home with a white flag flying from the antenna of her dilapidated car. She shuddered, then stiffened her backbone. That was not going to happen, she promised herself. She would do anything, anything, to win this bet.

She drummed her fingertips on the desk, brooding about how much less humiliating this would be if one of the offended parties hadn’t turned out to be the man from the diner. She’d toyed briefly with taking the stance that this somehow evened the score between them. Very briefly. Having your fanny patted seemed benign compared to being hauled away in an ambulance.

If only she’d had enough self-control to stop herself from dumping coffee on him, everything would be different. She might still be wearing her ruffled apron. And her father’s frequent reminder that “What goes around comes around” wouldn’t be ringing in her head loudly enough to bring on a migraine. But she didn’t have that much self-control, and the prospect of apologizing while trapped in the glare of Rancourt’s steel-and-ice gaze made her wish she knew where Izzy was hiding so she could join him.

She wondered how Rancourt would react once he heard her out. Not by shouting or lashing out, not if the tightly leashed control she’d witnessed last time was any indication. Not knowing what she was up against added to her anxiety. She dealt with it by rearranging the objects on the desk, all the time listening for footsteps so she wouldn’t be taken off guard. She was willing to say she was sorry because it was the honest truth, but she wasn’t willing to have anyone think she was nervous enough to jump out of her skin. Even if that was true, too.

After what seemed hours, Doc Allison walked in followed by Owen Rancourt. The instant he walked into the room, his gaze found Olivia and settled on her. And from that same instant, an edgy awareness of the man tingled inside her. As if that weren’t distraction enough, Olivia had a sense of the air around her becoming heavy, as if a storm were brewing.

She got to her feet, cleared her throat and tried to keep her eyes on her boss. It wasn’t easy with Rancourt’s unwavering gaze drawing hers back to him.

“How is he? Romeo, I mean?” she asked.

“Resting,” the vet replied, her tone clipped. “Has the hospital called with any word about Danny?”

Olivia shook her head. “I could call over there and—” Eager to please, she was already reaching for the phone when Doc Allison’s voice cracked like a whip.

“No.”

“I was just going to call and see if there is—”

“No.” Her tone was razor edged. “Don’t call. Don’t check. Just don’t do or touch anything. Do you understand?”

Olivia nodded.

“I understand you two have already met,” the vet continued.

“Not formally,” said Rancourt.

Doc Allison made it formal.

Olivia cleared her throat. “I’m glad I have this chance to talk to both of you together. I want to apologize…to both of you.” Her voice held steady in spite of the fact that every word she’d prepared had slipped away like water down a drain. “Everything that happened today was entirely my fault. I didn’t mean for it to happen. I was trying to do the best job I could, but somehow… First the cat wanted to use the litter box…at least that’s what he wanted me to believe, when in reality he was planning to escape all along. I chased him, which was probably my second mistake…”

The expressions on their faces made her feel as if she had suddenly lapsed into Swahili.

“Where was I?” she asked. “Oh, right, the chase. I’m in pretty good shape, but this cat was faster, much faster, even with a bandaged paw. The next thing I knew I was on the other side of the bushes…and then the snake…and the bees.” The halfhearted toss of her hands reflected her feeling of being overwhelmed by it all. “I tried. I really did, but everything I did wrong just led to something even worse.”

She paused, waiting for one of them to speak. Somewhere, way in the back of her head, she could hear her mother’s comforting voice saying to her the words she so often had, You tried, sweetheart, that’s what matters.

“Say something,” she urged.

“All right,” obliged Doc Allison. “You’re fired.”

Obviously the woman did not share her mother’s philosophy when it came to mistakes.

“I guess I deserve that.”

“You guess?”

“I meant I do deserve it.” She knotted her hands at her waist, dropped them back to her sides, finally folding them across her chest. “And I’m sorry. That might sound feeble or perfunctory, but I don’t know what else to say. I wish I could go back and undo everything that happened today, but I can’t. I can try to make it up to…”

“No,” the other woman blurted.

“I was going to say make it up to Danny. Maybe take care of his hospital bills…and Romeo’s, too, for that matter. I’d really like to take care of everything…and I mean everything.”

Rancourt finally spoke, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You’re willing to pay the bills?”

“Yes. I am.”

“And just where does someone who’s lost two jobs in less than a week come up with that kind of money?”

“I’ll figure out something,” she assured him.

Actually she already had it all worked out in her head. More than likely the bills wouldn’t have to be paid for weeks. By that time she would have won the bet and she’d be back home, with full access to her checking account…and her credit cards and a car that didn’t refuse to start three times out of five and her own beautiful bathroom, with its plentiful hot water and soft, thick towels, which she’d never appreciated until she was forced to share a bath with strangers in a rooming house.

She stopped herself before she broke down and wept, and refocused in time to hear Rancourt’s response.

“That’s not good enough.”

Her jaw lifted and her brows arched before the words Who the hell does he think he is? had finished forming in her head. Somehow she managed not to give voice to the question.

“That’s unfortunate,” she replied. “I’ve apologized, lost my job and offered to handle whatever expenses are incurred. I really don’t know what more I can do to rectify the situation.”

“I do,” he said.

She didn’t trust the sudden gleam in his eyes and she didn’t have time to figure out exactly why. One downward sweep of those thick, dark lashes and his gaze was once again as unreadable as smoke. How did a man become so skilled at blanking out? And why?

“I’m listening,” she told him. “Tell me what more I can do.”

“It’s obvious. You need a job. I need someone to fill in for Dan until he’s out of the hospital. Doc says he shouldn’t be laid up too long, and she’s agreed to hold off firing you, provided you agree to our plan.”

“I don’t understand where you’re going with this,” she said, afraid she knew exactly where he was going, hoping she was wrong. “Are you suggesting I work for you?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m stating facts. You’ve been fired from two jobs in a matter of days. In case you’re a hopeless optimist, let me assure you that folks around here won’t be lining up to hire you. Do it my way and you’ll give things time to settle down. And if you follow orders and don’t maim me or burn the place down, when Dan’s back on his feet, I’ll help you line up something else and put in a good word for you.”

“Why?”

“I guess I’ve got a thing for crazy ladies. Besides, I need someone right away. You’re a risk I ordinarily wouldn’t let within fifty yards of my place, but all things considered, I figure you’ve got more incentive than anyone to work hard and get it right.” One broad shoulder lifted carelessly. “Then there’s the little fact that you owe me. Double.”

Payback time…just as she suspected.

“Are you in?” he asked.

“Not so fast. If by owing you double you’re referring to the coffee incident, you deserved every last drop. We’re even on that score. As for today, I’ve admitted I’m responsible and…” She hesitated, desperately wishing she had an option that didn’t involve Owen Rancourt or wearing a turban until her hair grew back. She didn’t. And they both knew it.

She sighed. “When do I start?”

He almost smiled. “No time like the present.”

Chapter Four

W hen Rancourt explained that he expected her to live at his place as well as work there, Olivia’s response had been quick and succinct.

“In your dreams,” she told him.

She expected him to parry. Instead, in that irritatingly placid way he had, he informed her that he never dreamed, he wasn’t offering her a nine-to-five job, and she wasn’t the one giving the orders. His subtle emphasis on the last part ruffled her pride and she dug in her heels. It appeared they were at an impasse until Doc Allison intervened.

The vet attributed Olivia’s opposition to concern for her own safety. Belatedly it occurred to Olivia that it probably should be. Moving in with a man she barely knew, and who had reason to dislike her, qualified as one of the risks she had given her word not to take.

The other woman went on to say she understood her wariness and applauded it. She then offered her personal assurance, based on years of friendship, that Owen Rancourt was a man of honor and completely trustworthy.

Olivia wasn’t buying the honorable part. She also held that trusting a man enough to be his friend was one thing; trusting him enough to be alone with him, in an isolated camp located in the middle of the heavily wooded no-man’s-land between Danby and the rolling foothills several miles north, was quite another. None of which changed the fact that she needed the damn job. And now that she thought about it, free accommodations would be a bonus.

If he proved to be less honorable than Doc Allison claimed, well, she was able and willing to do whatever necessary to halt unwanted overtures…as Mr. Owen Rancourt well knew.

As she vacillated, the vet went on to explain that in addition to the main house, there were a number of cabins on the property, where handlers bunked when training camp was in session. The news that she wouldn’t actually be living under the same roof with Rancourt tipped the scales and Olivia grudgingly agreed to give the arrangement a shot.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be perfectly safe with Owen,” Doc Allison reassured her. “I wouldn’t lie to another woman about something like that.”

“Not even me?” she challenged, feeling as close to sheepish as she ever got. “The woman who threw this place into chaos in only two days?”

“Actually it was closer to one and a half,” the vet corrected. “And no, not even you. I like you, Olivia. You’re bright and funny. I just don’t think you were the right person for me.”

“And you think I am the right person for him?” Olivia gestured toward Rancourt.

Doc Allison’s forehead furrowed and she sputtered a bit before saying, “To be honest, Olivia, I’m not sure who you would be right for. But Owen is in a bind and he’s willing to take you on, so all I can say is…good luck to both of you.”

She urged them toward the door with an unmistakable air of relief. “I could have told you there was nothing to worry about,” Rancourt informed her when they were alone outside. “You’ll be working so hard all day, and so worn-out every night, you won’t have the time or energy to get yourself in trouble with me.”

“It’s not me I was worried about,” she retorted.

His silence left her guessing whether his comment had been intended to put her at ease, or tick her off. She had no patience for guessing games when she was the one doing the guessing. Fortunately, her dealings with men seldom involved guesswork. Among close friends, she boasted a nearly flawless track record for assessing and categorizing a man, any man, within minutes of meeting him. That was one more reason it annoyed her that this particular man refused to stay where she put him.

He succeeded in shifting her impression of him yet again by opening her car door for her. It wasn’t only that he did it; it was the way he did it…smoothly, effortlessly, as if the gesture were ingrained, rather than performed to impress. It wasn’t what she expected from a man who would paw a woman he’d never met to amuse his buddies.

To her chagrin, he insisted on accompanying her to the house where she was staying and waiting outside while she packed and settled her bill. That accomplished, she followed him the twelve miles from town to the road that accessed his land. A sign reading Canine Training Camp marked the private road in white block letters on a black background. No logo, no wasted words. Pretty much like the man himself, she mused.

The road they turned onto was paved but narrow, so narrow in places that tree branches scraped and slapped her car windows. Since it was late October, most of the leaves had already fallen, blanketing the ground with a patchwork of fiery red and gold. Here and there a tree clung defiantly to its last few leaves, refusing to surrender to nature.

Olivia was on the side of the rebel trees, even if theirs was a losing battle. How long could a solitary tree hold out against a force so much stronger and more relentless? A rueful smile curved her lips as she contemplated the man at the wheel of the truck hurtling down the road ahead of her and acknowledged an even more portentous question: How long could she?

“Six weeks…max,” she muttered to herself. Surely Dan what’s-his-name would recover and be back at work sooner than that. Maybe a lot sooner. Please give me the— She frowned. Give me whatever it takes to put up with Owen Rancourt for as long as I have to.

A white house came into view on her right. The main house, she decided. Olivia wasn’t sure what she had expected, a log cabin maybe, or a crumbling old farmhouse. Definitely not this. For one thing, the sprawling one level home wasn’t that old. It also wasn’t crumbling. Not even close. With its brick front, glossy black trim and freshly mowed lawn, it appeared fresh and well tended. A front porch with several wooden rockers at one end added a welcoming, almost old-fashioned touch that an architect might decree was at odds with the style of the house itself, but somehow it worked. But then, why should Rancourt’s home be any easier to pigeonhole than he was?

The house was situated on a small rise. She parked where he indicated, and as she got out of the car, she was able to make out the shapes of a group of smaller structures a short distance away. What she didn’t see in the fading light was what she feared most, marauding packs of dogs. Maybe her luck was changing. Rancourt had said he needed help getting ready for the next training session. Maybe there wouldn’t be any dogs around till then. Except Romeo, that is.

A slight shudder rippled through her as she recalled her up-close-and-personal view of his teeth earlier. Then she remembered what followed and groaned inwardly. Was it possible for a dog to bear a grudge, she fretted? Maybe she would never have to find out. If her luck truly was changing, perhaps Romeo wouldn’t be feeling up to coming home until she’d done her time and was out of there. A sudden bark, echoed by another and another put a quick end to her delusions of changing fortune.

She glanced around to pinpoint the direction of the barking and caught Rancourt watching her. The knowing arch of her brows did not deter him. He wasn’t smiling or frowning, but it would be a mistake to describe his expression as vacant. On the contrary, he appeared alert and interested, intensely so. Owen Rancourt made no secret that he was thinking, she realized, only of what he was thinking about.

The barking persisted.

“Dogs,” she said simply. Idiotically.

“What were you expecting?”

She shrugged. “Dogs.”

“Good. I’d have hated to disappoint you right out of the gate.”

He turned, lowered the rear of the truck and grabbed a thick coil of cable. Looping it over his shoulder, he reached for another. Next he rummaged through a box of what looked to Olivia like metal clamps and similar junk. Guy stuff, and slightly below dust on the list of things she found interesting. The rear view of the guy himself was a different matter.

It was with considerable interest that she took advantage of his preoccupation to check him out. Her gaze roamed over his broad shoulders and long legs. She liked the way his faded jeans rode low on his hips. As much as she would prefer to disdain every last thing about the man, she was forced to admit he had a nice butt. And great thighs. But then, Neanderthals often did. It was somehow linked to the excess of testosterone pumping through their veins, and other places. A private theory, but one she fully expected science to someday confirm. As a rule she wasn’t much attracted to Neanderthals. But for some reason, tonight she was…

Losing it. She must be if she was secretly ogling Rancourt and enjoying it. It was simply because she’d been away from civilization too long, she assured herself, turning away and shifting her attention to the shadowy terrain below. It was nowhere near as captivating a sight, and she felt suddenly restless. What she wouldn’t give for a glass of chilled chardonnay. And a cigarette. Which was telling, since her last smoke had been in the girl’s lav her junior year at Covington Prep.

Behind her, the sounds of clinking metal persisted. She was about to tell him to hurry it up. Her feet hurt. If she’d known when she was dressing that morning that she would be chasing a renegade cat through bushes, she would have worn boots with a low heel. She hoped Izzy had turned up safe and sound. Not wanting to dwell on the other possibility, she wiggled her toes and heaved an impatient sigh that evolved into a yawn.

Not only did her feet hurt; she was exhausted. And grimy. She closed her eyes and could almost feel herself sliding into a deep tub of hot water, almost smell the fragrance of the soapy bubbles caressing her from shoulders to toes. She couldn’t wait to get to her cabin and collapse.

The slamming of the truck’s tailgate made her jump.

She turned to tell him it was about time, but his nasty expression stopped her.

“Don’t worry about lending a hand,” Rancourt said, biting out the words. “It took a while, but I’ve got it all under control now.”

The sight of him weighted down with cables, more bulky stuff clamped under both arms, made her even more glad she’d bitten her tongue.

“Sorry,” she said. “Do you want me to take something?”

She reached out. He took a step back.

“No. It’s been a long day and I’d rather just leave well enough alone.”

“I probably should at least carry my own bag.”

“You definitely should carry your own bag,” he retorted. “But you can get it later, when I show you your cabin…and when I’m not standing around holding an extra hundred pounds.”

“Sorry,” she said again. “I guess I just got lost in…the view.”

She gestured in the direction of the foothills in the distance.

“Figures. It’s really something, isn’t it?”

Olivia turned to take another look, just to make sure he wasn’t still being sarcastic. He couldn’t possibly be. The rolling silhouette of the foothills, backlit by the sun setting in an ink-blue sky, was truly mesmerizing.

“My God, it is beautiful,” she said softly. “It almost takes my breath away.”

“Yeah. Mine, too. Night after night.”

The barking had stopped, now it started up again.

“Let’s move it. Sounds like the welcoming committee is getting restless.” There was brusque affection in his tone now. Even his impossibly square jaw seemed to have softened slightly.

“Are they tied up?” she inquired, endeavoring to sound merely curious, rather than hair-trigger nervous. If she ever decided to take on the responsibility of being a pet owner, she would choose one of those fluffy little dogs you could carry around in your purse. If the barking was any indication, the members of the “welcoming committee” were neither fluffy nor little.

“Tied? You mean chained?” He sounded offended. “My dogs are never chained.”

Her stomach seesawed. “Never?”

“No need. If you’ve got control of a dog, a word or a hand signal is as good as a chain.”

“And if you don’t have control?”

“Then you’re a damn fool. I wouldn’t keep a dog around I couldn’t control with my voice alone.”

“What would you do with him?”

“Shoot him,” he said matter-of-factly, and started walking toward the house.

Olivia hurried to catch up. “Shoot him? You mean with a gun?”

He slowed enough to eye her dubiously. “Yeah, Olivia, I mean with a gun.”

“Isn’t that rather drastic?” she asked, falling into step with him again.

“No. It’s smart.”

“But what if that particular dog just didn’t click with you? As an individual, I mean. Maybe another—”

“‘Click’?” He sounded appalled. “I’m not running a dating service, for God’s sake. I’m turning dogs into lethal weapons. And I’m the best there is at doing it. If I can’t bring a dog to heel, that’s a dog the world is better off without.”

They walked a few yards before she said, “What makes you think you’re the best?”

“I don’t think it. I know it.” He slanted her a self-satisfied smile and cocked his head toward the barking, which sounded louder and nearer with each step they took. “Of course, if you want a second opinion, you can ask them.”

“Why are they barking that way?”

“They’re glad I’m home. And they’re hungry. They heard my truck and they want to know what’s taking me so long. Then, too, they might’ve picked up on you.”

“Me? Why me?”

“A woman’s voice is pretty much a novelty around here.”

“I see. I guess that means you’re not married.” Another dumb remark. But not, she realized, as dumb as not even considering the possibility he might be married until that moment. There was just something about him, that classic lone wolf demeanor of his, that said—no, screamed—that he was a man who made his way through the world alone and liked it that way.

“No, I’m not married,” Rancourt replied with a faint, knowing smile. “Thanks for being interested.”

The man had a real talent for being irksome.

“Trust me, I’m not. I was making conversation.”

“Okay. Let’s make conversation. You shouldn’t have needed to ask if I was married.”

“How?”

“If I did, there’d be a light in that front window for me when I got home. And you wouldn’t have needed Doc’s word that you’d be safe here.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

He took the porch steps in one stride and started to set his load down a short distance from the front door, piece by piece.

“Care to explain?” he asked without looking up.

“It just seems to me that a man who’d put his hands on another woman when he has a wife at home, could be capable of other indiscretions, as well.”

“Makes sense.” He straightened and met her gaze. “Hypothetically at least, since I don’t have a wife.”

“Right. Hypothetically.”

“Come on,” he said, pulling open the door. “I’ll introduce you to the family I do have.”

He reached inside to turn on the light.

Olivia hesitated. “Maybe you should go in first.”

“You can tell your teeth to stop chattering,” he advised, humor lurking in his deep voice. “They’re in the yard out back. It’s fenced.”

“How is a fence any different from a chain?”

“A fence is a necessity when I have to leave them here alone. They still have plenty of freedom to move around, choose whether they want to be in the shade or sun, run, sleep.”

“And a chain?”

His expression took on a note of contempt. “There are no good options with a chain. And listing the drawbacks would take too long. It amounts to this—a long chain risks a dog getting tangled around something and hurting himself trying to get free. A short chain will eventually break his spirit.”

“I see.” It was good that she lacked the energy to challenge his opinion, because she couldn’t find anything in it to disagree with. She had to settle for a disgruntled “And my teeth were not chattering” as she stepped past him on her way inside.

The interior was as much a surprise as the house itself. But it shouldn’t be, she realized, after looking around. She’d heard somewhere that a perfectly decorated home reflects the unique personality of those who live there. If that was so, this place qualified for Decorator’s Dream Home of the Year.

If she’d been asked to conjure up a decorating scheme to convey Rancourt’s personality, this would be it. No frills, no extras, no nonsense. Apparently the man was no more enamored of excess “stuff” than he was unnecessary words. She might not be able to literally count the pieces of furniture he owned on the fingers of one hand, but that was the impression. Add that to the bare wood floors, windows clad only in white wooden blinds and the total absence of tchotchkes and you could sum up in a single word, austere.

“What’s the verdict?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

He’d shut the door and was leaning against it. “You were looking around as if you’re thinking of buying the place. I’m curious what you think of it?”

“The truth?”

“Nothing but.”

Olivia shrugged. “You asked for it. I think a monk’s cell would have more charm.” Taking a peek around the corner into the white and stainless steel kitchen, she added, “More pizzazz too, for that matter.”

Rancourt nodded with satisfaction. “That’s exactly the look I was going for, boring and monkish. You might as well get it straight right now—charm and pizzazz aren’t on my list of priorities.”

“How about comfort? What kind of man puts only one comfortable…” She strolled across the room to press her palm to a seat cushion. “Make that one semi-comfortable chair in front of the TV? And a thirteen-inch TV, at that.”

“A man who doesn’t entertain much…or watch much TV. Which, for the record, is a nineteen-inch.”

She glanced from him to the TV and back. “But there’s no DVD player, not even a VCR and not a single remote in sight. An American male without a remote suggests gender issues, if you ask me.”

“Then I’ll be sure not to. Come on out back and I’ll introduce you.”

It wasn’t fair, Olivia groused silently, that he should be so impervious to her baiting when almost everything about him irritated her. It wasn’t until they reached the screened porch, which opened off the kitchen, igniting an even more spirited round of barking, that she remembered to be scared.

“Maybe you should feed them first,” she suggested. “I know how much I hate socializing on an empty stomach.”

“No.” He turned on a small table lamp and un-latched the porch door, then glanced over his shoulder at her before opening it. “You’re not afraid, are you?”

She badly wanted to scoff at the very notion, but something about the size of the shadows circling on the other side of the thin screening compelled her to tell the truth. “As a matter of fact, I am,” she confessed. “Very afraid.”

“Good. You don’t need to be, but it would be foolish for you to assume that on your own.”

He opened the door and stepped outside. Instantly the dogs were all over him, leaping up and yipping for his attention, which he managed to dole out equally. At first she was unable to tell how many there were. A dozen, it seemed. As they settled down she was surprised to count only three dogs, two as big as Romeo and one even bigger.

He shoved the door wide with his shoulder and invited her to join them.

She hesitated. “You’re really sure you can control them?”

With an indignant glance her way, he issued a single curt order to sit, and the dogs lined up before him like seasoned soldiers.

Olivia stepped just outside, but no further. Even if he could control them, she wasn’t taking any chances.

“The big guy here is Radar, because that’s what he’s like when he’s on a scent,” he explained, reaching down to scratch around the ears of the largest of the three—a massive dog with a sleek, brown coat and woebegone expression. “He’s 100 percent bloodhound, from the breed’s premiere bloodline.” In a clipped, slightly louder tone, he ordered, “Radar, make nice.”

The dog got to his feet and approached Olivia, who promptly stiffened and hid her hands behind her back.

“Olivia, make nice,” he drawled, his tone dry. “He only wants to smell your hand.”

Cautiously she stretched out one hand. Radar’s wet nose and tongue made contact simultaneously. She gave a little gasp of surprise, but managed to hold her hand steady. “I thought he only wanted to smell me.”

“And maybe slobber over you a little bit,” he added, shrugging when she took her eyes off the dog long enough to shoot him a withering look. He spoke the dog’s name in that same clipped tone, and Radar’s head came up, his velvet-brown eyes riveted on Rancourt, eager anticipation in his stance. Rancourt made a simple movement of his right hand, and the big dog returned to his place in line. A second hand movement had him stretched out on the floor, gazing up at his owner with the undivided attention she’d expect him to reserve for a raw T-bone steak.

“Good, Radar. Mac, make nice,” he ordered.

This time she didn’t have to be prodded to offer the tan-and-black dog the same hand she had just wiped dry on her slacks, and she flinched only slightly when she felt his rough tongue. “This breed I recognize,” she said. “He’s a German shepherd, right?”

“To the core,” he confirmed. “Mac is short for Mac Cool, for obvious reasons. Mac’s a real character.”

She laughed. “He does have a certain roguish quality.”

He called for the dog’s attention and repeated the same hand motions to get him to retreat and lie down.

“And finally, in defiance of the ‘ladies first’ rule, since it’s rank that matters most in the dog world, this is Jez, short for Jezebel.” Bending to stroke the dog’s side, he added, “Also, for obvious reasons, if you equate the name Jezebel with being cocky and shameless.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.