by Kate Angell
His hellhound was renowned. Publicly visible among his fans, party posse, lovers. She refused to admit that she knew about his ink. She purposely lost a point by saying, “Daffy Duck on your butt?”
His expression called her crazy. “No ass duck.”
Six to seven, his favor.
He knuckled his chin. Scruff shadowed his jawline. “Bet you karaoke.”
“I . . . have. But not well. I choose easy songs that make me look good.”
“‘Happy’ by Pharrell Williams?”
How did he know? She nodded.
He calculated, “There are about eighty words in the lyrics but they feel like ten. Minimal effort, maximum crowd-pleaser.”
“Bet you can’t recite a nursery rhyme.”
“Name one,” he challenged.
“I’m a Little Teapot” was the first to come to mind. “You can stand up and do the movements, too, if you’d like.” That would be entertaining.
“No dancing,” he muttered under his breath before he lowered his voice, sing-songed, “I’m a little teapot, short and stout, here is my handle, here is my snout. When—”
“’Snout’?” she burst out. Was he serious? “Try ‘spout.’ It’s a teapot, not a pig.”
He shrugged. “I lost the hearing in my ear as a kid. Some words aren’t always clear.”
“No one corrected you?”
“My teacher thought I was being a smart-ass.”
That made sense to her. He’d mistaken her name in the noisy crowd on the boardwalk. “Stevie” had sounded like “Stewie” to him. She cut him some slack. “‘Wheels on the Bus’ might be easier for you.”
“‘Go ’round and ’round.’”
“I’ll let you slide. Seven-eight, you lead.”
“Around your house,” he presumed. “You shout at appliances.”
She blinked. Wanted to deny his assumption, but could not. “Once or twice, and only when the timer on the microwave sticks and burns my bag of popcorn.”
“I have a toaster that makes its own decisions,” he admitted. “All selections brown too dark. It hates bagels. I’ve raised my voice, too.”
“Watching TV, you call out referees.”
“That I do,” he confessed. “Refs miss calls. I set them straight.”
Eight to nine. She gave great thought to her tenth and final assumption. She studied his face. Rough, with several scars. His nose . . . “You broke your nose in a fistfight,” she presumed. “Twice.”
He touched his forefinger to the bumps on his nose. Grew silent. She wasn’t sure he would even answer. He finally did. “One fistfight, defending my younger brother against a neighborhood bully. The second was a door slammed in my face.”
“You were slow in moving out of the way?”
“My dad was faster.”
“Oh . . .” She felt awful, but doubted that he would accept her sympathy. Saying nothing seemed better than saying something that might offend him. She kept it light. “Do I get a half a point for the fistfight? It was a two-part assumption.”
“I’m easy. Take it.” He took his sweet time with his own last impression of her. “You like me more than you’re willing to admit.”
That gave her pause. “We barely know each other. I don’t dislike you, but I do find you annoying.”
“Annoying, tolerable, close enough. I find you a challenge.”
“I’m not a game or a competition.”
“If you were, I’d already have won.” Arrogant man.
“Don’t bet on it.”
“I’m a sure thing, Stewie.”
“I’m not, Joey. You lost the point.”
“I won overall. Nine to eight-point-five. My prize?”
“That I played the game with you.”
“That’s it? I was hoping for more.”
“Less is often more.”
He pulled a face. Snorted.
The hardness of the cement bench forced her to her feet. Her bottom felt numb. She needed to stretch. She strolled to the curb, searched the road for approaching vehicles. One came her way, but it wasn’t Lori. She’d spent far too much time in Joe’s company. His game had been interesting and fun, but it had tipped the scales in his favor. She found she liked him—a little. She needed her friend—now. Before she liked him—a lot.
“You leaving me?” he called to her.
“Shortly.” Or so she hoped. On foot if she had to. The weather wasn’t in her favor, though. Clouds had confiscated the sun. The sky was now overcast. “Looks like rain,” she noted.
“I’ll need to put the top up on my convertible.”
She wondered what kind of car he drove, but didn’t give him the satisfaction of asking. Most likely something sporty and fast. A thrill ride. Just like the man himself.
“I could give you a lift,” he offered for the second time that day.
She’d declined on the boardwalk. She hedged now. “Maybe, if Lori doesn’t show. Or if there’s lightning and thunder and I’m feeling desperate.”
“I’ve never been any woman’s last resort.”
“I’ll give her five more minutes.”
Joe glanced at his watch, tracking the time. “Four minutes, forty-five seconds . . . Four minutes, thirty seconds. . .” Irritating man.
Distant thunder humbled her. She might have to relent and accept his ride. Hurry up, Lori.
The entrance doors swooshed open behind them, distracting him from his countdown. A male transporter pushed an elderly patient in a wheelchair toward a waiting car at the curb. The aide assisted the man onto the passenger seat, shut the door, and the vehicle drove off.
The hospital employee waved and called to Joe, “Big season ahead, dude.” He recognized the Rogue.
“Planning on it,” Joe agreed.
“I checked out the spring training schedule, and your first game is against your Triple-A affiliate.”
Joe’s shoulders tensed. “The Rebels. I’m aware.” “Rivalry never hurts. It keeps players sharp.” The transporter pushed the wheelchair back through the automatic doors.
Thunderheads bulked up. A storm crouched on the shoreline. The quiet before the storm hung heavily between them. Joe sat as still as stone, his breathing shallow. Lowering his gaze, he stared down at the sidewalk, his expression closed. A muscle ticced in his cheek. Something the transporter had said left him unresponsive. Spring training, their upcoming schedule, Triple-A? She hadn’t a clue. The man was complex. “Umm . . .” was all she had.
“Nothing to talk about.” He ended their conversation.
A sputtering engine claimed her attention, as an orange and white 1966 Volkswagen bus crawled down the road toward her. Unleashed Dog Day Care, the address and phone number, stood out in bold, block letters on both sides of the vehicle, along with painted images of numerous breeds of dogs. Her friend had arrived.
The VW slowed, stopped, backfired at the curb. “Wow, cool haircut,” Lori admired. She peered around Stevie, eyed Joe on the bench. “You’re looking Zoo-posse-hot.”
“No posse,” Stevie was quick to say. “It was superhero day for Joe. He and two other Rogues passed through Kuts for Kids.”
“Sorry I’m late,” Lori apologized.
“You’re here now—that’s all that matters.” Her friend had saved her from riding with Joe.
“Blame Otis,” Lori explained, referring to the bus. “I left Unleashed an hour ago. Transported a cocker spaniel, a collie, and a Doberman to their designated homes. Then stopped to get gas and add oil. Chug-chug. AC went out, and I opened the front Safari split-windows. Felt like a fan in my face. A police officer pulled me over for driving too slow. Couldn’t be helped. No ticket, I got off with a warning. Otis is on his last set of tires.”
Stevie understood the delay. “I tried to call you.”
“I forgot my iPhone in my hurry to load the dogs.”
The back of Stevie’s neck prickled, and she realized that Joe had joined them at the curb. He slapped his bounty hunter hat against h
is thigh, eyed the bus. “Unleashed? I’m in need of dog care. Is that where you work?” he included both women.
Stevie shot Lori a no-info look, which her friend ignored. “Stevie’s aunt Twyla owns Unleashed. Twyla recently broke her leg, and we’re in town to help out. The dog care is on Outer Drive. A big old Florida Victorian set on twenty acres.”
“My aunt may have a full house,” Stevie discouraged. “What kind of dog do you have?”
“A two-year-old Rottweiler, Turbo.”
The middle linebacker of dogs. “Obedience school?” she asked.
“Homeschooled.”
Which meant the dog was as unruly as Joe.
“I’m sure Turbo will fit in just fine,” said Lori. “Twyla prefers pets over people, and she always manages to squeeze in one more. You’d need to call ahead, though, to fill out an application and be interviewed. Twyla’s available on Sundays.”
Joe took it all in. “I’ll phone Twyla this evening, and set up an appointment for tomorrow.”
“Morning is best for her,” Stevie put in. “If you’re able to rise and shine.”
He grinned then, slow and sexy. “I’m up early. I’m never one to waste a morning—”
Erection. She heard the word without his saying it.
“Jog.” He winked, waved, left them.
“Mmm-hmm.” Lori watched him round the front of the VW bus and cross the street, all confidence and swagger. “He brings new meaning to leather pants.”
Stevie silently agreed. Nice fit. Soft leather on a hard body. He was one fine superhero, about to hit the bars and use his powers for sex.
Three
Sunday early, Twyla Lawrence sat behind her office desk, her broken leg elevated on a footstool. Stevie admired her aunt. She defied age, looking more fifty than sixty with her silver-blond hair, clear hazel eyes behind teal reading glasses, and a smile that felt like a hug.
Sunshine spirited through the bay window of her office, trying to warm up the sixty-degree morning. Two red pottery mugs and matching plates offered up breakfast. A strong Colombia brew laced with cream, and slices of cinnamon-raisin toast.
“Ruler,” her aunt requested of Stevie. It lay inches beyond her reach. Stevie passed it to her. Her aunt hiked up one side of her baggy sweatpants, revealing her plaster cast, which stretched from knee to ankle. “Itchy,” she muttered, carefully sliding the plastic ruler inside. She scratched, then soon sighed her relief.
Setting the ruler aside, Twyla shifted her weight, straightened. She then flipped open her daily planner and scanned her appointments. “Interview with Joe Zooker and his Rottweiler, Turbo, at eight,” she noted. “Lori mentioned you’ve met the Rogue. I’d like you to sit in on our meeting.”
Stevie inwardly cringed. She wished Lori hadn’t shared about their encounters. She wanted to decline, but she couldn’t deny her aunt’s request. Twyla was family. A triplet. Stevie’s mother was her younger sister by sixty seconds. DJ’s mom, third youngest by two minutes. All close-knit.
She took a sip of coffee, evaded. “You’re certain?” Hoping her aunt might change her mind. She and Joe had crossed paths three times on Saturday. Twice on the boardwalk and once at the hospital. She wasn’t ready to see him again today. Too soon.
“I want your input, sweetie,” Twyla assured her. “You’re managing Unleashed during my recovery. We can take up to twenty dogs at the day care, and we presently have four openings. You’ll make the final decision. I want you to be comfortable with the dogs we choose.”
Comfortable? Joe made her crazy. He was too rugged, sexual, raw. Should she accept his application, she’d be facing him at both the morning drop-off and the evening pickup. Twice a day was twice too much. Chances were good that he’d also board his dog when the team went on the road. Turbo would be a four-footed reminder of the man even when he was gone.
She had yet to confide in her aunt that her cousin disliked Joe. It would serve no purpose—it was just a guy thing. She and Lori resided in two of the four bedrooms on the second floor of the old Florida Victorian. Twyla had occupied the master suite until her fall. Since navigating the stairs on crutches had become daunting, she’d temporarily moved to the guesthouse, located behind the garage at the back of the property. It was quiet and convenient for her healing. She’d discussed renting out the third bedroom, but she hadn’t advertised or acted on it. It would take a special person to live at a dog care.
Having Joe’s dog on the premises would irritate DJ. Big-time. Her cousin dropped by often. DJ was focused on his future, and a possible transition in his career. A huge advancement that would require skill and a lot of luck. He didn’t need any distractions. Or a confrontation with Joe. She would try to find a reason for rejection in Turbo’s paperwork, a nice way to politely decline him for the day care. To keep peace within the family.
“More coffee?” Stevie offered her aunt.
Twyla held up her mug. “Top it off, please.” Stevie poured from the Mr. Coffee. Her aunt glanced at her watch, went on to suggest, “Why not set out a cup for Joe? He’ll be arriving shortly.”
Twyla had stacked guest mugs on a bookshelf. Stevie added a third. Less than a minute later, a sleek convertible Jaguar XKE turned down the circular driveway. Navy, classic, phallic. The driver parked, opened his door, and his dog climbed over him, beating him out of the sports car. Stevie and her aunt watched through the window as Joe Zooker attempted to bring Turbo under control. There was tugging, chewing on the leash, then more tugging.
“A muscle dog,” Twyla murmured.
Stevie checked out Joe and the tensing and flex of his body as he brought the Rottweiler to heel. “A handful.”
Her aunt’s eyes twinkled. “The man or his dog?”
Heat crept up Stevie’s neck. “Turbo, of course.”
“That’s who I thought you meant.”
The two crossed the wraparound porch and soon faced the door. A thumb-punch to the doorbell, and it barked. A deep woof-woof-woof.
Stevie didn’t move.
“You might want to get that,” Twyla nudged.
“I could . . .”
“You should.”
Stevie slowly rose. She caught her reflection in a wall mirror next to a filing cabinet. With a hint of bed head, her short hair appeared more spiky than feathery. Her expression was drawn, her lips flat against her teeth. She’d dressed casually in a soft yellow polo with Unleashed scripted over the pocket. Brown shorts and sandals. No garter. She dragged her feet to the front door. Slowly opened it. Not looking forward to their meeting.
Taken in by Joe’s grin, she missed Turbo’s lunge. His front paws hit her square in the chest, and she lost her balance. Went down. Turbo stood over her. Licked her face with sloppy kisses.
“He likes you.” Joe seemed pleased.
Turbo nuzzled her chest.
“Really likes you.”
Her jaw clenched. “No manners.”
“You look good flat on your back.”
She struggled to sit up. “Get him off me.”
“Better him on you than me.”
Had he really just said that? Unbelievable. She glared.
“Sit, Turbo,” he commanded.
The big dog parked on her thighs. Squashed her hips.
“Stand,” from Joe.
“He’s not listening.”
“He listens when he wants to.”
“Make him listen now.”
“I’m working on it. Up, dude.”
Turbo wagged the stub of his tail. “Not a good first impression, Joey.”
“We already know each other, Stewie.”
“You’re here for an interview. Best foot forward.”
“I’m meeting with Twyla.”
“And me,” she said flatly. “The decision is mine.”
His grin turned to a grimace. “Seriously?”
“As a judge.”
“Give us a chance, woman.”
“I could say no right now,” she threatened.
> “But she won’t.” Twyla’s voice of reason reached them. Her aunt stood in the doorway to her office, leaning on one crutch. She patted her good leg, said, “Come, Turbo. Let’s get acquainted.”
The Rottweiler obeyed. He rolled off Stevie and trotted over to Twyla, stubby tail wagging. He allowed Twyla one pat on his head before darting into her office. To explore. Stevie exhaled sharply. She accepted Joe’s hand, held out to her. Strong grasp. Callused palm. He pulled her up so fast, she fell against him. His body caught her. His arms wrapped her tight.
She lost all sense of self. Her concentration was solely on the man who held her. She looked up. Wide shoulders, jawline scruff, the slight quirk to his lips, the flare of his nostrils. His gaze was narrowed, dangerously dark. His thoughts impossible to read.
He widened his stance, and she found her legs between his own. His faded blue cotton T-shirt brushed her breasts. His male heat escaped his torn and laddered jeans, warming her thighs.
She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Could only mock. “Sunday best?” she asked of his clothes. “Hardly presentable.”
“The appointment’s all about Turbo. He’s had a recent bath.”
“You should’ve showered. You smell doggy.”
He pulled out the front of his shirt, sniffed. “Downy, not doggy. Careful, babe. Insulted, I bite.”
She hadn’t meant to be mean. It went against her nature. But Joe had pushed her buttons. On purpose. Words slipped out that she couldn’t recall. She breathed him in. An inconspicuous sniff. His scent, musk and masculine. Fabric fresh. Dominant and desirable.
“How bad could you bite? ” she wondered. Aloud. Kicking herself afterward. Did she really want to know?
She’d provoked, and he responded. Her shorter haircut left her neck bare, vulnerable. He tucked his chin against her pale throat. Her tender skin. His whiskers scraped. Abrasive. He nipped her. Grazing teeth and sucking. A love bite. The Rogue had marked her—his.
Awareness shivered through her body. Arousal stoked. Her belly felt fluttery. Sexual thoughts invaded. Flustering her. She couldn’t think straight with him so close. He overpowered her.
She jerked back, as mad at him as she was at herself. She touched her neck. Felt the warm moistness of his mouth. The slightly raised flesh, certain to bruise. “No, no, no,” she gasped. “What have you done?”