“The Aussie terrier, Pepper? Oh, yes, she’s fine and home now. But she was a barker.”
“Then Meatball’s all alone.”
“Don’t worry about him. He still needs rest, and I’m afraid the other dogs would excite him if we put him in the kennels.”
He gave a little grunt. “Solitary’s still solitary,” he muttered.
She didn’t respond, which was what she often did when he made even remote references to prison. He never talked about it, or his childhood, and Molly was never sure what she could or should ask him about.
“How are the pain meds? Could you take him off them today?”
“Not completely,” she said as she opened the door to Meatball’s recovery room. “As you know, he doesn’t do well with pain.”
That made Trace laugh. “Dog’s a total baby.”
There was only one large cage, up on a sturdy table so the patient was always eye level, with two very soft lights on either side. Meatball slept peacefully on a fleece bed, covered with a light blanket. He lifted his head when they walked in.
“Hey, Meatball,” Molly whispered as she approached the cage. “How’s my best patient doing?”
The dog scooted closer, his intense green eyes on Molly.
“Hey, bud,” Trace said.
Meatball didn’t even look at him, but gave a huge dog sigh and dropped his head back down.
“Uh oh,” Trace said. “He’s pissed.”
Molly opened the crate, not bothering to disagree. “Give him a second. He’ll respond to you.”
Sure enough, when Trace reached into the crate and placed both hands gently on Meatball’s head, the dog looked up at him with the most pathetic expression Molly had ever seen. He all but screamed, “How can you do this to me?” Then he turned away, looking toward the wall instead of Trace.
“He’s a little dramatic,” Trace said, making her chuckle, but she heard the hurt in his voice.
“It’s not unusual for a dog to pull away from their owner after this kind of trauma,” she said. “He’s got to blame somebody.”
Trace stroked the honey-colored fur slowly and steadily until Meatball lifted his head. “He’s the best dog, right, Meatman? You’re the best.”
Meatman responded by pushing up a little, getting on his haunches, but he stared at Molly, making Trace choke softly at the insult.
“He’s looking at you the way he used to look at me,” Trace noted.
“I’m the one who doles out the meds.” Molly stepped back, trying to give them a chance to rebond. “And you have been gone all day.”
As Meatball worked his way closer, getting his head out of the cage, Trace responded in kind, wrapping his arms around the dog as if he’d climb right into the crate with him if he could. Trace kissed his head, closing his eyes, so affectionate with the animal that Molly could literally feel the love.
She watched, a little mesmerized, a little moved. She often judged people by how they dealt with their animals, whether that was right or wrong. It said a lot about a person to her. And this moment reminded her how wrong she’d been about Trace. He was strong, quiet, gentle, and not anything like the troubled teenager she remembered.
Molly wasn’t sure quite how long she watched, but it was long enough to feel her heart slide into a place it had no right going. But there it was, headed where it had threatened to go for a week now. Attraction. Pure, simple, and as real as the affection she was witnessing.
“I take it you don’t know his breed or who his parents were,” she said, trying so hard to be a vet in the room, and not…a woman watching a man do something sweet and sexy.
“Does it matter? I mean, obviously there’s pit.”
“It matters medically, to some degree. Some breeds heal faster than others. He’s definitely a Staffy, which is a very strong dog. And Lab, I’d guess. But there could be other breeds in his line.”
He inched away from Meatball, but kept one hand on his head. “I imagine his dad was a big bad pit bull who was constantly in trouble, and his mom was a fluffy, flighty Lab who couldn’t get serious about anything.” He shot her a look with a half smile. “My shrink would say I’m transferring my own parents’ story to poor Meatball.”
She drew back, not sure what surprised her more—the revelation about his parents or that he had a shrink.
“Most inmates have therapists,” he said, no doubt in answer to her questioning look. “Many have psychiatrists ’cause they dole out the drugs. But I had a therapist.”
“That’s…good.”
“Actually, it’s great. Wally—his name is Jim Wallace—not only became my best friend in prison, he fought like hell for me to keep this dog when I got out. It’s unusual for dog trainers to get to do that, but he went before the warden and made the case. Not sure what he said, but it worked. I left with Meatball and my head on straight.”
While he talked, he never took his hands off Meatball, and Molly could see both man and dog changing before her eyes with the touch. That low-grade buzz of tension that seemed to vibrate around Trace evaporated. His broad shoulders relaxed. His jaw loosened. Even his dark eyes seemed less sharp and wary.
And Meatball’s body changed, too. His lips pulled back in an attempt at a smile, and the stiff tendons around his paws softened.
“You never mention your father,” she said.
Trace lifted a shoulder as if that didn’t matter at all. Or his father didn’t matter. Instead, he loved some more on Meatball, who accepted the affection but didn’t exactly return it.
“I can see why they let you take him,” Molly said, placing her hand on his forearm to make her point, but always struck by how strong and warm his ink-covered skin was. “He’s truly therapy for you.”
He looked down at her hand as if he felt that same heat, too, staring at her fingers on the red and blue swirls and curls and words that she suddenly wanted to read. Slowly, he lifted his gaze and met hers, narrowing thick lashes, saying nothing.
But she still couldn’t take her hand off his arm. It was like a magnetic connection that caused a sensation of pure pleasure somewhere deep in her belly.
“You know what you’re doing, Irish?”
And another jolt of pleasure, this one from the sexy softness of his low voice and that ancient nickname that did crazy things to her heart. “Where the dog’s health is concerned, I do.”
He put his hand over hers, his fingers completely covering her hand, hiding it, sandwiching it between his forearm and palm. “What about where I’m concerned?”
A pulse jumped in her neck as her heart rate picked up speed. “I’m just reassuring you.”
“You’re touching me.”
She swallowed. “Is that not allowed?”
He leaned an inch, maybe less, closer to her. “It’s fine. It’s…powerful.”
“Oh.” The sound slipped out, more moan than word. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He held her gaze, his eyes dark and dizzyingly intent. “But I want you to know I feel it.”
“That’s kind of the point of a touch, isn’t it?”
He exhaled slowly. “The last time I was with a woman was the back of a minivan squeezed next to a dog kennel,” he admitted in a husky voice.
“The…last…” That couldn’t be. But if he was arrested the next day, she supposed it very well could be.
“I want you to know that,” he added. “I want you to know that you weren’t forgotten. And wouldn’t have been, even if I hadn’t gotten arrested the next day. I just want you to know it wasn’t, you know, a meaningless one-night stand.”
For some reason, the words touched her with the same force as his hand on hers. “I see.” Although the only thing she could see were the deep, dark, bottomless eyes of a man making a confession that scared and thrilled and mystified her. “I’m glad it wasn’t meaningless. But not glad that you’ve been alone. I’m sorry you’ve been alone.”
He finally lifted his hand. “I’ve learned how to deal with it.”
/>
“That’s good.”
“But I do remember. Frequently.”
Heat whirled through her, tugging at her insides, twisting things in knots that suddenly ached to be unraveled, making her cheeks burn.
“I’m sorry if that embarrasses you. I’m blunt sometimes. My therapist taught me that was the best way to get through things that make me uncomfortable.”
“Embarrassment isn’t what’s making me blush, Trace.”
He laughed, low and sexy in his chest. “Gotcha.”
She studied him, seeing the way the laugh made his face less angular but no less handsome. “You looked like him just then,” she whispered.
“Him? Who?”
“The Trace Bancroft I remember.”
“Oh, really?” His brows rose in amusement. “Not sure I want to hear who that guy was.”
He was the senior in high school she’d tutored in chemistry and crushed on. The risky youth who’d barely graduated. The local boy who drifted in and out of town long enough to get in trouble and sneak off to have sex in a van, then disappear.
“He was intimidating,” she confessed. “Attractive, intriguing, and a little scary.”
“That’s funny. You just described everything you were to me.” He leaned a little closer. “And still are.”
“I’m not scary.”
He burned her with a look. “What’s scary is how hard it is to stand this close and not kiss the holy hell out of you.”
Kiss the holy hell out of you. The words from their one night together drifted through her memory banks and caused a reaction not unlike the one she’d felt that night. A jump of her heart, a tightness in her chest, a crazy excitement way down in her belly.
“Don’t worry, Irish. I won’t.” But she could have sworn he moved ever so slightly closer. She could smell the bit of cool air that clung to him, and she could remember that night, too. The heat of his mouth against her skin, the smoothness of his hands as he took off her clothes, the way he filled her…
She felt her eyes shutter closed as she tried to push the thought away. “I’m not worried.”
“You sure? ’Cause you look kind of worried.”
“I’m not. I trust you. And…” She opened her eyes and met his gaze. “I remember, too.”
For a long time, they looked at each other, both of them remembering.
“Then you won’t be surprised…” He put a finger under her chin, tipping her face up, searing her skin. “That I had every intention of coming back after that night.”
“For more?”
“For you.” He lifted her face one more centimeter, lowering his face a bit, ready to—
“Mom!” They both whipped around at the word, uttered with nothing but shock and that undertone of a reprimand that only General Pru could deliver. “What are you doing?”
* * *
She knew it. She totally knew it. Pru wasn’t imagining that Mom acted a little too weird every time this guy’s name got mentioned.
Pru stayed frozen in the doorway, completely forgetting the real reason she’d run over here. Not to witness that. Were they going to kiss? Was Mom out of her freaking mind?
He was a murderer.
“Hi, honey.” Even Mom’s voice sounded tight and weird. “You got here fast.”
“No, I’ve been at the house for like ten minutes waiting for you.” She finally looked at Trace, who nodded a silent hello and suddenly was really interested in Meatball, while Mom turned to the workstation like some monitoring device needed attention.
“Everyone’s here for dinner,” Pru added with a tiny bit more insistence.
“I’ll be over in a minute, Pru.”
“I’ll wait here with you.” Otherwise, Mom and Mr. Shawshank Redemption might start looking all hot for each other again.
“Then maybe you can help me ask your mom a big favor,” Trace said.
What? He wanted to kiss her? ’Cause that was kind of obvious. “Maybe. What is it?”
He gave a sideways look to Molly. “Any chance Meatball can sleep in my room tonight? I really think he’s forgotten who I am.”
Mom considered the request, but Pru knew that narrowed-eyed look too well. That would be a no. “I know you want him to, Trace, but he’s really better off here. He needs a good, soft bed, and any excitement, like a new environment, could be bad for him.”
“I understand. Thanks.” He glanced at Pru, something really strange in his look. Probably guilt, because it was so obvious he had the hots for Mom. “And thanks, Pru.”
“For what?” she asked, hating that the question came out sharply and really hating the look Mom gave her. “I didn’t help you.”
He took a moment to close the crate door, which made Meatball whimper and cry. “For keeping your mom in good spirits while she takes care of the world’s whiniest dog,” he said. “I better get going. See you tomorrow then.”
He nodded to both of them and hustled out, leaving Pru staring at her mother, who was now focused on getting the lighting right in the recovery room. And not looking at Pru.
“Mom, what were you doing with him?”
“Talking. Let’s go.” She sailed right past Pru, jingling office keys as she marched to the lobby, gesturing for Pru to go outside, and then locking up with efficiency. “I’m starved, Pru. Aren’t you? I hope Crystal made something with pasta. I have a total carb craving. Did you have a nice ride over with Andi? I guess it’s Aunt Andi now, so—”
“You were not talking,” Pru said through clenched teeth. “He was touching your face.”
Mom’s eyes fluttered for a moment, then she pulled off some kind of look that said she hadn’t even noticed how close they were. “Really? Maybe I had something on my chin. Or—”
“Something on your chin?” Pru practically choked. “He was going to kiss you.”
She gave a light laugh. “Oh, Pru. Your imagination is a thing of beauty.”
Pru grabbed her arm and stopped her mother as she strode toward the house. “This was the real reason you skipped the Outer Banks, isn’t it?” Pru demanded. “Not because of a dog that Grandpa could have handled. But because you like him.”
She blinked. “Like…like like like?”
Normally, that would have been funny to both of them, but this wasn’t funny at all. “Mom, he’s an ex-con.”
Her mother’s eyes flashed with fury. “Which makes him good enough for you to use for a community service project but not good enough for me to talk to?”
“And flirt with.”
Mom’s eyes tapered to angry slits. “Watch it.”
Pru swallowed and corralled her thoughts, knowing she was pushing hard across an unspoken line of respect she rarely crossed. “Look, I understand Grandpa wants us to be nice to him and treat him with respect even though he killed a man, but you don’t have to kiss him! When I said you should date someone, I didn’t mean…him.”
The minute she said it, she knew it was wrong. She braced for Mom’s expected shot of discipline, but her mother took a step backward instead. Her eyes filled a little as she looked at Pru, clearly upset but weirdly silent.
“You’re right, Pru,” she said softly.
Oh God. “About what? That you like him, or that he’s an ex-con?”
“There is…another reason I didn’t want to go to the Outer Banks this past weekend, and don’t want to go for a while.”
Pru stared at her, waiting.
“I’m not ready to tell you yet.”
“Really?” Frustration pressed on Pru’s heart. It was all she wanted, really. The truth about who her father was. And Mom had promised to tell her right after the start of the new year. In January. She’d promised. “You’re not?”
“I need some more time.”
“How much?”
“Whatever you’ll give me.”
Well, she couldn’t really go out of town until the service project was done, anyway. “I forgot to tell you my big news,” Pru said, remembering why she’d come t
earing over to her mother’s office in the first place. “Mr. Margolis approved the project. Said it sounded ‘ambitious and outstanding.’”
“Oh, wow.” Mom pulled her a little closer and planted a kiss on her head. “Just like you.”
“I can’t be alone there with him, so I have some friends lined up to work with me. And you, I hope.”
“Of course.”
“So I guess it’s okay if we wait to take our trip until after that’s done.”
Pru could feel her mother’s whole body relax a little. “Yes, that’s perfect.” She added another head kiss. “And, honey, I…I don’t want you to misjudge Trace.”
“Mom, he’s already been judged,” she whispered. “And spent the equivalent of my life in prison.”
Mom flinched a little. “There are two sides to every story. You should get his.”
She gave a slight shrug. “Maybe I’ll ask him when we work on the project.”
Mom nodded and suddenly got that gooey sad look that usually preceded a hug, kiss, and I love you.
Right on cue, she slid both arms around Pru and pulled her closer, kissing her hair. “I love you, Pru.”
Pru laughed softly.
“What? You don’t love me back?”
“Yeah, I do. You’re so predictable.”
“Beats confusing.”
Pru slipped her arm around her mother’s waist, and they walked together to the house. “You’re confusing, too. I mean, do you like that guy?”
“I don’t dislike him.”
“Were you really going to kiss him?”
Mom just squeezed her really hard and didn’t say a word as they walked up to the porch. She didn’t have to.
Chapter Eleven
She was the kind of female who wrapped around a man’s heart and owned it from the very first featherlight kiss. Trace was enamored of everything she did.
Natasha—whom he’d started to call Tashie from the moment they met, knowing it was important he have a name that only he used in training—was born to be a service dog. She was responsive to every touch, easily connected, and obeyed basic commands even as a tiny puppy.
Bad to the Bone Page 12
