by Elaine Fox
In the corner of the entryway, trained on the porch, was what looked like a surveillance camera. She looked around and spotted two more. She had no doubt the house was covered with them.
She rang the bell again, sure that he wasn’t home. After all, if he were looking through that camera he’d see that she had his dog.
She was surprised, however, that there was no hireling to answer the door. She rang the bell again, for the heck of it, wondering how long she was going to be stuck with this puppy, who was now winding itself in an intricate pattern around a topiary tree in a large pot next to the front door. Just as she noticed the dog had actually threaded itself through the railing too, the front door opened to reveal the man himself.
In an instant Megan noticed three things: first, he was taller than she’d expected; second, he was much better looking than his picture; and third, his expression was every bit as intimidating as Forbes, or Fortune, had portrayed.
Baywatch let out a yelp and lunged for the door, only able to move about two inches, which was enough to shake the topiary tree in a way that startled all three of them.
Megan and Sutter Foley backed away. Baywatch cowered backward and cried, thereby setting up a continuous loop of cowering—shaking the tree—cowering, etc.
“May I help you?” His words were polite but his tone was sharp and his expression grew, if possible, darker.
Good lord, he was British, she thought. Did she know that? And had his eyes been so green on that cover? Maybe it was the casual clothes, the width of his shoulders in the untucked white shirt and the way he filled out his worn jeans, but she felt shocked at his youth and vigor.
He wasn’t the colorless corporate giant he’d appeared on the magazine cover.
Megan jolted herself into action. “I’m sorry she got so tangled up. I wasn’t paying attention and as you probably know she’s awfully fast.” She leaned down to unhook Baywatch’s leash so she could pull it free without having to drag the dog back through the motions.
“Why on earth would I know that?” he asked, sounding impatient.
She looked up at him from the corner of her eye as she yanked on the leash, sending some kind of evergreen needles from the topiary into her face and hair.
Not only was the arrogant jerk not helping her, he seemed annoyed that she was even here.
Giving up on the leash, she pulled Baywatch out by the collar and sat her forcibly in front of the man.
“Because she’s your dog,” she answered, pulling an evergreen needle from her hair. “I’m sorry if I interrupted something. I just wanted to return her. So you didn’t worry,” she added archly. With that she gave the pup a little push and sent her careening into the house.
“What the—” Sutter Foley jumped away from the animal as if she’d just loosed a gator in his direction and glared from her to the cavernous interior of the house into which Baywatch had disappeared. He turned back to her. “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?”
“Returning your dog,” she insisted again, but something began niggling at her brain. He did not look like a man overjoyed to see his pet. Indeed, his expression bore absolutely no recognition for the animal.
He took two steps back into the hall, gazed into some adjoining room, then faced the door again.
“I don’t own a dog,” he said through what seemed like clenched teeth. “I don’t know what the devil you’re about, but get that animal out of here before I summon the police.”
Trepidation curled her stomach but she stood her ground. “The tag had this address. And no phone number. Which made sense what with you being such a…” She lifted a hand up and down in his direction.
“Such a what? Dog lover?” He was utterly condescending. “Tell me, do you see any evidence of my owning a dog? Muddy ruts in the garden? Messes in the grass? Cheesy little plastic toys lying about?”
Megan put her hands on her hips and answered with equal impatience. “Forgive me. I didn’t stop to examine the yard. The address on the tag was enough evidence for me.”
Foley ran a hand through his hair and looked from her back into the house.
“Look,” he said finally. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but if you’ve come for—”
The sound of breaking glass reached both of them at the same time.
Foley’s face froze and he looked at her as if she’d just discharged a shotgun into the front hall.
“Well? Aren’t you going to do something?”
“Are you saying,” Megan asked dumbly, becoming aware of the enormity of her mistake and wondering if she had possibly misread the tag, “that’s not your dog?”
“No, it’s not my bloody dog,” he roared as another crash sounded.
Megan raced past him into the house, following the noise, vaguely registering the luxury of the appointments, until she found the puppy. She was tangled in some curtains by a rear French door, hurling herself at the windows in an apparent attempt to vanquish a squirrel. The crashing they’d heard came from an ornately carved breakfront filled with crystal, between the French door and which Baywatch was bouncing. The breakfront was filled with wine glasses of all shapes and sizes, many now in much smaller sizes as they lay shattered on the shelves.
She grabbed the puppy by the collar and dragged her from the door, noticing as she did that she was now in a cozy dining room, complete with fireplace and velvet flocked wallpaper in deep green and gold. It was opulent and old world and utterly charming.
Foley was right behind her. “I don’t know what your angle is but you’ve seen the house, now I’ll thank you to leave. And if any photos or descriptions of the place turn up in the tabloids I shall know whom to have arrested for trespassing.”
“Wait just a second,” she snapped. “I was trying to do you a favor. I thought this was your dog.”
“Well it’s not my bloody dog.”
“Okay, we’ve established that.” She shook her head and sat down on one of the dining room chairs. “Does this room have a light, by any chance?” It was a sad fact of her character that Megan usually countered condescension with impertinence.
He looked at her as if no one had ever said ‘boo’ to him before.
“I want to check her tag again,” Megan explained.
With a long-suffering sigh, he turned on a light, adjusting the dimmer to its brightest.
Megan took the quick opportunity to look at the rest of the room. One corner held a rack filled with wines, and a selection of serving platters stood on a sideboard. The carpet was a rich dark green that was springy under her feet and revealed their footprints in its just-vacuumed pile.
Foley stood in front of her with his arms crossed over his chest.
Refocusing on the task at hand, she turned Baywatch’s collar around as the puppy sank to the ground, exhausted by her early morning adventures. 17 Washington Ave., Fredericksburg.
She looked up at Foley. “Take a look.”
He leaned down and glanced at the tag, giving her the chance to smell shampoo, laundry soap, man. He straightened abruptly, looking disturbed.
“That’s not my dog,” he said again, with much less force this time. “Surely it’s not difficult to get a false…” He trailed off.
Megan had to concede this. “That’s true. Anybody can go to PetsMart and get a tag for five bucks, but I assure you I didn’t. And I don’t know who did. I just live a few blocks away and this dog found its way into my bedroom this morning. I was only trying to return her to her owner.”
She glanced around the room again and into the living room through which she’d run to find the dog. It too was lushly furnished and immaculately clean, quiet, and dark. Almost as if no one lived here.
“Are you all alone?” she asked. Then, realizing how provocative that sounded, added quickly, “I mean, I just thought you’d have like a butler or housekeeper or something. You know, a whole staff of people.”
He was studying her with a curiosity that made his expression much less forbid
ding.
She smiled and shrugged, her fingers idly petting Baywatch as the dog drifted off to sleep. “Just curious.”
“I don’t like having a large staff,” he said, the words emerging almost reluctantly. “I dislike people wandering about when I’m trying to concentrate. Quiet is very important to me.”
“So…I can imagine Baywatch and I have been a pretty unwelcome distraction.” She laughed lightly, watching him.
His eyes flitted over the tangled curtains, the jostled breakfront with its broken glasses, back to her. “A distraction indeed,” he murmured.
“I’m sorry. I had no way of knowing the tags were faked.” She stood and found herself closer to him than she’d anticipated, looking up into his handsome face, those green eyes steady and unnerving.
To her amazement, he lifted one hand gently toward her face. Was he going to kiss her? Touch her cheek? What? Instinctively, she jerked her head back, then could have kicked herself. If a good-looking, fabulously wealthy, famous man gets an urge to touch you, give him the benefit of the doubt.
Even more unbelievably, his cheeks colored. “I was just—there’s a spider, there, in your hair. Must have come from the plant outside. I was going to remove it.”
It took Megan a minute to absorb his words, then her hand flew to her head and her fingers felt the insect. “Oh my God.” Suppressing a squeal, she flung it away and rubbed her hands over her hair to be sure there were no others.
He gazed impassively in the direction she’d hurled the bug.
“Sorry,” she said.
“Listen,” he said finally, “I think I might know what happened. I just had to let my groundskeeper go. He was living in the carriage house and to the best of my knowledge he did not have a telephone. A down-on-his-luck sort. I was hoping to…well, in any case, the dog might well have been his. Indeed upon further notice it does look a bit…familiar.”
He frowned in the direction of Baywatch, who had made herself completely at home and was stretched out sideways on the plush carpet.
Megan exhaled, relieved, and gave him a smile. “Oh, thank goodness. I was afraid you didn’t believe me. I’m not a fame whore, I swear.”
He looked startled. “A what?”
“You know, one of those people who wants to get close to the rich and famous no matter what the means.” She paused, then extended her hand. “I’m Megan Rose. I’m the new veterinarian at Rose’s Animal Hospital.”
He took her hand in his. This was no milquetoast handshake, no wimpy clasping of her fingers, this was a warm, palm-to-palm embrace. Megan’s heartbeat involuntarily accelerated, even faster than when she’d felt the spider. Or when Baywatch had woken her up this morning. Come to think of it, she wasn’t sure her heart could take much more adrenaline this morning.
“Sutter Foley,” he said quietly, his eyes on hers. After a second, he gave a ghost of a smile. “But you knew that.”
She laughed. “I knew that. Yes.”
The moment drew long, until Megan realized she was holding her breath. With an unladylike exhale she dropped his hand and looked away. “Okay, well, I’ll just get going. You, uh, you can have the leash on the front porch, I’ve got a million of them. So, um, sorry to disturb you.”
She stepped over the sleeping dog and headed for the door.
“Just a moment,” he said after she’d gone several paces.
She turned, the absurd hope that he might ask her to dinner springing like a cartoon light bulb into her head.
“You’re not leaving it here, are you?” The imperious tone was back. “The dog?”
“You said you knew whose it was.”
“Yes, but he’s gone. I don’t know where.” He looked at her expectantly.
She raised her brows. “Can’t you find him? Don’t you have references or an application or something?”
“No, I—well, he…” He stopped, frustrated, then said, “I don’t have a way to trace him. He left…rather abruptly.”
“Well, I can’t find him. I don’t even know what he looks like.”
“He’s quite distinctive, actually. Short, with some tattoos on his arms, rather a shifty expression—”
Megan laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding. Maybe he’ll come back for the dog.”
Foley seemed to be remembering something, perhaps an ugly scene upon firing the man. “I sincerely doubt it.”
“I’m sorry, but the dog obviously feels that this is home.” She indicated the place where Baywatch lay.
“That dog has never been in this house,” he said firmly.
“That you know of.” She paused a significant moment, as the plausibility of her words sank in, then turned to the door.
“You can’t just leave it here,” he insisted, stopping her again. “It’s not my…” he started. Then, realizing that tack had already taken him nowhere several times, he reached into his back pocket and extracted a wallet. “Here, listen. I’m sorry to further impose, but why don’t you just take the dog down to the pound. Here’s some money, enough for a donation and…and something for your time.” He extended a wad of bills toward her.
Megan hesitated. She could take the dog to the shelter. It wasn’t far out of her way. But something about Sutter Foley made her think he needed this dog. Not to mention that the dog needed him. Maybe it was the fact that he was all alone, maybe it was the sterile silence of the house, maybe it was the arresting depth she saw in his eyes…In any case, she figured she had nothing to lose. “You’re used to that, I suppose. Solving problems with money and never having to leave your…” She opened her arms and gazed around the room. “Sphere.”
His arm sank. “I beg your pardon?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be insulting. But maybe you should take this as a sign. The universe might be telling you you’re spending too much time alone or something.” She shrugged, smiling.
He gave her a look dripping with disdain. “Am I to believe you’re here to speak for the universe?”
She felt her resolve harden. “What I’m trying to say is, why don’t you keep the dog? It could be good for you. Humanizing.”
For a moment he looked shocked, then he laughed. It was short—incredulous more than amused—but his face was so transformed she found herself smiling automatically in response. He looked completely different than Mr. Forbes, or Fortune, whichever.
“You must be joking,” he said. “I don’t want a dog.” He said it as if the idea were preposterous.
She frowned. “Why not? You’ve got a yard. You’ve got this enormous place.” She spread her arms again, thinking of the cramped cage the puppy would likely be put in to await an adoption that might never materialize. “Why put another dog on death row when you’ve got what must be unlimited resources to look after it? Think about it. What possible reason can you give for not sharing some of your abundance with that poor little creature?” She gestured toward Baywatch, still sleeping sweetly upon the deep green carpet, looking like a prop for a Town & Country photo shoot.
Foley seemed momentarily struck by the picture as well. But he turned back to her and said coolly, “The reason is, I do not want a dog. I’ve never wanted a dog. I don’t even like dogs.”
Megan could not have been more disappointed in him if he’d ripped off his own handsome face to reveal Darth Vader underneath. “You don’t want a dog,” she said finally, choosing the least offensive statement.
“That’s right.” He reextended the money. “Now please. You needn’t look at me as if I’ve just confessed to kicking small children. I really haven’t time to deal with a dog. Especially one as…as unwieldy as that one. Please, just take it to the pound.”
She took a deep breath. “Look, if you don’t want her that’s one thing. Though I don’t know how on earth you live in this big empty place all by yourself. But I’m not going to do your dirty work for you. You’re going to have to take her to the shelter yourself. I’ve got to go.”
She turned on her hee
l and headed for the door. Once there, she turned back to see Sutter Foley, corporate cover boy, staring morosely down at the sleeping puppy.
“I’m leaving the leash,” she called, and as she opened the door she saw Baywatch’s head rise.
She slipped out the door before the puppy—or the man—could ask her for more.
Two
Times like this, Sutter Foley wished he did have an entire staff milling about waiting to do his bidding. After sacking Charlie, however, all he had left was Martina, his housekeeper, who had Sundays off, and Berkley, his chef, who did not live in. He eyed the sleeping dog distrustfully, remembering how quickly it had darted into the house and created mayhem.
That vet was right about one thing. The dog certainly seemed at home here. In addition to Charlie’s other infractions, he’d obviously had the mutt in the house, probably when Sutter was away on one of his many business trips.
He ran a hand through his hair. He hadn’t slept well in a week and it was starting to show. He was irritable and exhausted, and his workload—usually so energizing—felt overwhelming. The last thing he needed to deal with was this damn dog.
He looked malevolently at the sleeping pup, thought about opening the door and letting it go, then pictured it getting hit by a car and shook his head. Sod it all, he thought, he was going to have to do something with it. Leave his “sphere,” as the cheeky vet had said.
He smiled grimly to himself. She’d actually been right about that. He’d been cooped up in his home office all weekend. Though he didn’t employ much household help, he had enough that he never had to leave the house if he didn’t want to, not even to retrieve the mail.
Maybe that was what was the matter with him, he thought. His internal clock was off. He hadn’t seen sunlight in days so his body didn’t know when it was supposed to sleep.
Sounded like something the vet would conclude, he thought. Maybe the universe was trying to tell him something.
It was telling him to leave the house before the bloody dog woke up.
