by Traci Hall
Sarah couldn’t lie, so she kept her mouth shut.
“You like him?” He smacked her wrist with a twisted napkin.
“No.” There were so many things she didn’t like about Franco. Yet he did crazy things to her heart rate. “Of course not.” She didn’t really know him.
“I think you do. When was the last time you went on a date?”
“That is none of your business!” She tried to free another treat but it was glued to the pan. Had it been since she broke things off with her fiancé?
“I’ve known you for almost a year now and not once have I seen you so much as flirt with a customer.”
“They’re animals. It’s against the law.” Sarah uncapped a bottle of water and drank half in one go. Franco’s handsome face wouldn’t leave her mind. His full lower lip, his smooth-shaven jaw.
“You know what I mean,” Martin said, gesturing toward the heavens with a flourishing hand. “You work your fingers to the bone. Let me see your nails. Manicure? Ha!”
“I don’t just work. I swim, or hang out at the pier. Paddle board. None of those things require that I paint my nails.”
“You are an attractive woman.”
Sarah snorted. She compared herself to the type of woman that Franco might date and her confidence slipped. He probably had super models calling him all the time.
“What? See what I mean? You have forgotten your femininity!”
“I have not.” Oh no. Was he right? He was right. “I don’t see the point...”
“To get a date. To dance and have drinks and make love under the moon light.”
Making love?
Martin got up, took her hand and pulled her to her feet. He swung her out, and twirled her back in. “You’ve got good hips. Made for dancing.” He hiked his brows suggestively. “And other things.”
Embarrassed, Sarah yanked from Martin’s grip—which was stronger than it looked. “I don’t dance.” She walked around the table to the sink and started the hot water running. If she didn’t soak the bowls they’d be ruined. “I’m not that kind of girl. Even in high school I knew that I wanted to work with animals, so I volunteered at the local zoo. I didn’t really go to parties.” The kids her own age seemed way too young, wanting to drink and get high when she preferred studying with her dog on the beach.
Martin turned the water off. “We can clean up later. Sarah, you have too much to offer to be alone.”
“I’m not alone.” She twisted the faucet back on and gave Martin a raised brow. “I was engaged, you know.”
“You were?” Martin leaned against the counter and watched her wash dishes, reaching down for a dry towel from the drawer behind him. “It is too painful to talk about?”
“No. I broke up with him. He was the vet I interned with. I was his assistant before I decided that I wanted to save unwanted pets, not stitch them up.” She rinsed and handed him the bowl.
He dried it and put it in the strainer on the counter. “Sounds like a good match. What happened?”
“We both cared about the well-being of animals. But my passion is rescuing them, which he thought was a waste of time and talent.” Sarah smacked the counter. “And money.”
“He didn’t support you?” Martin sighed with disappointment.
“He wanted to control “us” as a partnership, and I, silly me, thought I should be an equal member of our relationship. I loved him, but I couldn’t stay.”
“Men can be such idiots.”
Sarah laughed and rinsed the last dish, stacking it on top of the other bowls. “He thought I was a fool for leaving. I need a man that realizes I can make my own decisions, mistakes and all. A man who understands I don’t need rescuing. Until then, I am happy with who I am.”
He held up his hands. “You will find him, Sarah. Stay strong. Speaking of strong women, Diana calls.” Martin fluttered his lashes provocatively. “That Diva used every ounce of her sensuality to entice.”
“I’m not like that, Martin.”
“You have your own Sarah-ness that is very sexy. You should let her out to play once in a while.” He made a growling sound in his throat and walked out the door.
The man knew how to make an exit.
For reasons she didn’t want to over-evaluate, Franco remained front and center in her head. He wasn’t the sort of man she usually found attractive. He exuded masculinity, disrupting her balance. He’d had her subconscious in knots trying to mesh the arrogant shop owner with the caring single dad.
Sexy? Definitely?
Full of himself? Yes. So not her style.
Her mind couldn’t get beyond how gorgeous he’d been, standing in the baking aisle, staring at her as she helped Bella choose between chocolate and butterscotch. Mr. de Silva to you.
Cheeks hot at the memory of his set-down, Sarah doubted he’d be asking her out on a date anytime soon. Who was she kidding, giving him a starring role in her fantasies?
Laughing at herself, she danced around the kitchen table, the dogs at her heels. The phone rang and she waltzed toward the desk. “Pet Rescue, how may we help you today?” She sank into the chair and rolled a few inches back.
“Sarah? This is Franco de Silva.”
Fun and games came to a halt. Her heart thumped in her chest. Painfully. “Yes? How may I help you?” Well, that couldn’t have sounded stuffier.
“Bella and I are wondering if you’d like a cookie?”
Sarah could just imagine Bella tugging at her dad’s arm until she got her way. It would be very mean to keep him hanging. “Sure.” Be friendly, Sarah.
“We can drop them by. Bella wants to see your animals.”
And does Dad do everything Bella wants? She sat up straighter in the chair. She had no business judging how anybody reared their kid. At least he was sticking around, which was more than her dad did. “All right. When would be a good time?” Next week? Next year?
“We’re here now. In the parking lot.”
“Oh,” Sarah squeaked. She looked up as the door opened, the chime over the top alerting her to their arrival. “Come in.” She hung up the phone. Well, hell.
*****
Franco rather enjoyed the flash of panic as it crossed Sarah’s usually calm face. He took in the soft beige foyer of the facility. Books on pet ownership lined waist-high shelves. Brochures sat on the top, next to a few framed photos of various animals and owners. Satisfied customers, maybe?
Light brown tile led to an open area to the right, where Sarah had her desk and chair, creating an office space. A kitchen was behind that in the farthest corner. A large door next to the shelves was closed and he wondered if that was where the animals were kept. Was it a garage?
A cat sat on a cushion in the window, but didn’t give him the time of day. Two small dogs raced around the desk, avoiding Bella as she chased them. Giggling.
He sniffed. “Smells like pumpkin,” he said. Burned pumpkin, to be exact.
Sarah stayed in her chair—something with wheels that could be gotten from any office supply store. A large blue dog bed was at the corner of the faux-oak desk. “Sit, Benny. Good girl, Pippa. Hi, Bella.”
“Hi!”
“They won’t bite?” he asked.
Lifting her head with obvious annoyance, Sarah answered, “Not unless Bella bites them first.”
Bella laughed and plopped down on the floor, cross-legged, as the dogs scrambled to the bed with nervous barks. “I won’t,” she said.
Franco shouldn’t care that Sarah’s tanned knees poked below her khaki shorts, or that her calves were nicely shaped.
He shouldn’t notice that her blonde hair, usually in a tight serviceable ponytail, had come loose, sending tendrils around her face to soften the sharp planes of her cheekbones.
Or that the way she filled out her navy blue polo let him know she had curves to go with her no-nonsense attitude.
He appreciated her kindness, touching Bella’s shoulder, petting her dogs so they felt safe as his daughter enthusiastically (and
not so gently) scratched their ears.
But he didn’t want to. He was in the enemy camp and it was hard to let go of his anger toward her, knowing that she had it in for him. Listening to Bella’s laughter reinforced why he was here. His daughter’s happiness meant everything to him, and if it meant riding out this liking she had for Sarah, then so be it.
The faster he could get out of here, the better.
Franco followed the smell of burned pumpkin. The kitchen area was tiny, with just enough room for a circular table, three chairs, sink, refrigerator and stove. Nothing like his state-of-the art kitchen in the condo.
A cooking tray with burned and broken bone-shaped cookies was in the center of the table.
He leaned down and sniffed. Molasses?
“Uh, those didn’t come out well,” Sarah called, getting up from her office chair. Bella and the dogs got up too.
“I see that.” He studied the tray. “Didn’t you use a cooking spray?”
“Of course I did.” Cheeks crimson, she pointed to the can next to the stove.
“What is in them?” He had the idea that Sarah was too busy “saving the world” to spend much time in the kitchen.
She bristled, jamming her hands into her pockets. “Chicken stock. Molasses. Rye. I followed the directions. I must have done something wrong.”
Bella scooted up to the table to peer at the tray. “Do they taste good?”
“No. I tried them.” Sarah scrunched her nose. “Too dry. The rye is bitter. Even Benny didn’t like them.”
“Which one is Benny?” Bella asked.
“The Chihuahua.” Sarah leaned over and tugged at his wagging tail.
“A dog with discerning tastes,” Franco decided, looking down at the mostly brown-eyed dog. Cataracts. Old. But sweet-tempered, for a rat chaser.
“I like Pippa,” Bella declared, picking up the black toy Pomeranian. “She’s pretty.”
“She just likes food, really, so she isn’t much fun,” Sarah said somewhat apologetically. “But if you have a tasty treat? I’m pretty sure she could learn any trick in the world.”
Pippa strained toward the tray, her small pink tongue dangling to the right as her bead-like black eyes focused on the pumpkin bones.
“Nothing the matter with knowing what you want,” he said. The dog was like her owner. He sensed that Sarah, too, went after what she wanted.
“You don’t like them,” Sarah reminded the dog.
Pippa barked in protest, never taking her eyes from the tray.
Bella put her down and Pippa wobbled away, but not too far from the action.
“What’s the matter with her leg?” Franco asked.
“Bad hips. Surgery gone wrong. But at the end of the day?” She speared him with a hard, green stare. “Puppy mill. Over-breeding for a beautiful face. Genetically, she’s a mess.”
“Was she a rescue?” He leaned against the spindle-back chair.
“From the puppy store you bought and took over.” She tensed.
“Ah.” Well, that somewhat explained her anger. “I don’t operate that way. Dr. Wilton approves every animal we have for sale.”
“Really?” Sarah relaxed and nodded at him. “The previous owners didn’t care at all. They just wanted something flashy. Expensive.”
“And so you closed the shop?”
She crossed her arms. “Yup. It took me six months to prove what they were doing. But I did it—we caught the people who were breeding the puppies and selling them with false papers, too. They made a bundle, taking advantage of the tourists.”
“And you just assumed that I was going to pick up where they left off?”
“How should I know what you’re planning?”
He liked that she stood up for what she believed in, but she had no reason to distrust him. Other than that bucket of mop water during the first week he’d been open, he’d done nothing wrong.
“Daddy, are you mad?” Bella pulled at his fingers.
“Not at you, princess.” He was mad that there were people willing to do anything for a dollar, but that wasn’t a conversation for right now. He supposed that if their roles were reversed, he would be just as vigilant as Sarah.
“I’m sorry,” Sarah said, touching his arm. “I’m not being a very good host. Would you like some juice? I have carrot, apple and berry.”
“You have carrot juice?” Bella wrinkled her nose.
“It’s actually very good,” Sarah said, chuckling. “Want to try? Or would you prefer something else? I also have bottled water, or I can make coffee.”
She said the last to him, but he was more interested in trying her juices. “I’ll taste the carrot. What do you use to sweeten it?”
“Honey. Locally harvested.”
Probably a hard-core vegan. Save the planet, save the world. So not his type, and a bore at cocktail parties. “Are you a vegetarian then?”
“No!” She laughed with surprise, the sound natural. He’d bet she’d never spent any time being anybody other than herself. “I’m not that healthy, really, but I don’t always eat regularly so if I make these juices ahead of time, I know I’m getting some vitamins with my cheeseburger.”
“Glad to hear you’re a meat eater.” Would she appreciate his cooking? He was good at it. Why do I care?
Bella piped up. “I like veal and steak and chicken marsala and,”
“I’m raising a carnivore too,” he said, his stomach tensing. Why should imagining Sarah tearing into a t-bone get his blood simmering? “In Brazil we have churrasco, which is barbecue meat, sometimes skewered on a sword.”
Sarah tossed her head and laughed. “What else do you eat? Does everything come with a weapon?”
“The national dish is beans, pork and beef. Feijoada. Like a stew. Just a spoon, and some crusty bread for scooping.” Maybe she’d like his milanesas, tender breaded steak, served with duck ragu?
God, what was he thinking? It was time to get home before he did something stupid like offer to cook for her and no matter how much he loved Bella, he was not making Sarah a meal.
“My dad is the best chef,” Bella said. “Maybe he can help you with your dog treats, Sarah. Can you, Daddy?”
“Nothing nasty in here?” he asked again, meeting her eyes and lifting the end of the tray. Was it warped?
She tucked strands of hair behind her ear and shook her head. “Four ingredients. Rye, pumpkin, chicken stock. Molasses. And the spray oil that was supposed to keep them from sticking.”
He reached out and broke off a piece, putting the smallest bit on the tip of his tongue. Part of his success was his amazing palate, which he’d gotten from his mother and his grandmother. “Hmm. Have you tried honey for sweetness instead of the molasses? Maybe cut the rye with wheat flour, for a softer biscuit. I’d suggest garlic, for savory, but I read somewhere that it’s bad for dogs.”
“Garlic?” Sarah repeated it as a question. She got three glasses from the cupboard and took a pitcher of orange-colored juice from the refrigerator. “I worked with a vet and he suggested garlic—we’re talking a pinch—added to food to keep away fleas, ticks and mosquitoes.”
Franco opened the cupboard, looking for spices. “Very interesting. Herbal flea control and no vampires.”
Sarah’s smile lit her face. “I never would have pegged you as believing in vampires.”
“Vampires are just pretend.” Bella drank some of her juice and licked her upper lip. “This is yummy.”
“I’m glad you like it.” Sarah squeezed his daughter’s shoulder and then turned her bright gaze toward him. “Well? What’s the verdict? Should I give up, or try again?”
“Daddy says you always have to try.” Bella put her glass on the table.
Sarah leaned against the counter, juice in hand. “Your daddy sounds like a pretty smart guy.” She addressed Bella but then lifted her eyes to his as if offering a possible truce.
Franco cleared his throat. “I have the occasional good idea. With Bella to keep me in line, how c
an I go wrong?” He glanced at the clock on the plain white stove. “4 o’clock already? Come on, Bella. We should get going.” Now that he knew where Sarah worked, he could stop wondering about her. About what she did when she wasn’t harassing him. That would be good.
“My daddy makes the best steak. I already did my homework.” Bella skipped across the room after Nashville, who did her best to avoid the little girl’s eager embrace. “Sarah, can you come to dinner tonight?”
Hell, no. Franco ground down on his back teeth before the words actually left his mouth. He wished he could haul his daughter out of the shop, take back her innocent invitation, stop her attachment to Sarah before it went any further.
“I,” Sarah hedged, raising a confused expression his way. In fact, the sudden drop of color beneath her tan let him know she was uncomfortable, too. “Mr. de Silva?”
“Franco, please.” So, he’d been an ass. She brought out the worst in him. When he thought about expanding Bella’s community, it was with people who didn’t make him think about sex. Or his lack of having sex. Like Bob, or Dr. Wilton.
He didn’t want to care about anybody else in an intimate way.
“I don’t know...” Sarah said, looking uncertain.
“Why not?” he asked, his gut clenched as if hovering over a twenty-foot drop off. “I make a mean t-bone, and we’ve got an amazing view.” No way would she agree. They had nothing in common.
“I’m sure,” she said with a repressed smile that made him wonder if she was laughing at him. “Nothing but the best, if I recall.”
He winced. He hadn’t been much of a gentleman.
“Come, Sarah, come! Please?” Bella put her hand in Sarah’s. “I’ll show you my room.”
Franco immediately pictured Sarah in his bedroom. With a glass of wine. Candles. In khaki shorts? He shook the thought from his mind.
“Okay,” Sarah said. “You’ve tasted my cooking, now I’ll get to taste yours. What time?”
Chapter Six
Sarah pinched her wrist, still not quite believing she’d agreed to have dinner in the penthouse with Franco de Silva, her sworn enemy, and his adorable, motherless daughter. God, she couldn’t even afford to bring a decent bottle of wine. Maybe a six pack of dark beer. Guinness went well with beef. Right?