by Lori Foster
Darcy knew he should have seen the van coming. He’d forgotten he was in a parking lot, but he’d smelled other dogs—he’d heard other dogs—and he’d wanted to say hello. He’d wanted to bark and share his happiness with new friends. He’d wanted to play. Sam should have reminded him to watch out for traffic, but Sam had his hands full with his cup of coffee and box of doughnuts. Sam was sad. He’d been playing Johnny Cash songs again, something he did whenever he felt bad about something.
It had been, as Sam would say, “a close call.” Football talk for “luck,” the dog knew. Darcy tried to stop shaking, especially after Sam called his name. He barked as loud as he could at the van when he heard dogs barking their complaints from inside of it, but he didn’t move off the grass. Not until Sam grabbed his collar and assured himself that his hairy best friend was okay. Then Sam swore under his breath and Darcy found himself shoved into the car and told to “stay.”
It wasn’t one of his favorite words, but he knew by the look on Sam’s face that he’d better do as he was told.
Besides, he had a box of Krispy Kremes to keep him company.
“STAY!” SAM SHUT the most disobedient mastiff in Virginia in the car and hurried across the parking area to the maroon van, whose front end had collided with a Dumpster. Bad enough to have escaped a ruined wedding, but now he seemed to be dragging mayhem with him wherever he went. Sam couldn’t resist glancing over his shoulder to make sure that the doughnut shop hadn’t burst into flames or collapsed within itself.
But the barking coming from the van drew his attention back to the problem at hand: Darcy had just caused someone to drive into a Dumpster rather than hit a dog. Sam had just turned to call him back to the car when Darcy had loped toward the van. Fortunately the driver had missed the dog; unfortunately the van hadn’t missed the Dumpster piled high with construction materials from something that was being built next door.
“Hey!” he called, hoping like hell that no one was hurt. He saw a woman’s delicate profile in the window and when she turned to face him he saw that she was young, maybe midtwenties. Clouds of light blond hair framed a pretty, heart-shaped face.
Not that he was interested in women—pretty or not—right now. In fact, he intended to join an all-male gym, hang out in sports bars and take up smoking cigars to guarantee he would no longer be exposed to those strange creatures who could turn a man inside out with one look.
He was done with women. It would be a long time before he’d let another one tie him in knots and talk about honeymoons, wedding rings and whether to redecorate his apartment or hers.
The driver of the van rolled down the window, which intensified the barking sounds coming from inside the car and revealed pale skin, large blue eyes and lips that were turned down as if she was in pain. She said something he couldn’t hear, so Sam stepped closer.
“Are you okay?” he asked again, louder this time.
“I spilled my coffee,” she said. “There was a dog—”
“Mine,” he admitted.
“I tried not to hit him.”
“You didn’t. He’s fine. But you hit a Dumpster.”
“I know. This isn’t exactly my lucky day,” she said over the loud yapping of dogs he still hadn’t seen. She turned to the back seat. “Quiet! It’s okay!” The barking stopped for about ten seconds before resuming.
Several people came over to the van to look at the damage and to assure themselves that the driver wasn’t hurt.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Sam asked again after telling two elderly ladies and a cable television installer that everything was fine, the driver wasn’t drunk and the dogs were not barking from pain but from excitement.
“It’s just some spilled coffee,” the woman said, wiping her denim jacket with a wad of paper towel.
“Can I give you a lift home?”
“I’m not from around here. I was trying to get the van to Richmond to either get it fixed or fly home this weekend.”
“It was broken before this?” He stepped back and helped her open the door to climb out of a van he guessed to be about fifteen years old.
“We were limping along. I guess I shouldn’t have pushed my luck and stopped for something to eat.”
“Lady,” someone said, “looks like the radiator’s leaking fluid.”
Sam walked with her to the front of the van to look for himself. If she’d been driving a sedan, things might not be so bad, but the blunt-nosed van had taken the brunt of its collision on a corner of the Dumpster. Whatever problems the Ford Windstar had before, they were now a hell of a lot worse.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “I guess this is as far as the van is going to go for a while.”
“We can get it towed,” he offered. “We’re right outside of town, so you shouldn’t have any trouble getting someone to look at it for you.”
“Maybe it’s not as bad as it looks.”
“Maybe.” He had to admire her optimism, but anyone with eyes could see that the old clunker deserved a final resting place in a junkyard.
“You must be on your way to something important,” the woman said. She wore jeans and thick-soled boots. Her blue jacket was open to reveal a stained brown sweater and a figure that would make most men drool.
Not him, though. She wasn’t his type. He was through with women, whether they were sleek and elegant like his former fiancée, or voluptuous and covered with dog hair.
“Important?” He looked down to realize he still wore his tuxedo. The bride hadn’t thought so, but in all likelihood she’d change her mind next week and call to reschedule. Like a wedding was a dentist appointment. “No,” he said. “It’s over.”
The little blonde gave him a curious look, but was interrupted by a state trooper who pulled into the driveway and turned his flashing lights on before he stepped out of the patrol car.
“Sam Grogan?” The trooper shook his hand. “Steve Betts. I was in the stadium the day you caught that seventy-four-yard pass and sent the game into overtime.”
“That was a good day,” Sam said, wondering how many years ago that was. “Back in ninety-six?”
“Yeah.” Steve looked as if he wanted to ask for an autograph, but then he caught sight of the jeans-clad blonde and turned toward her instead. “Ma’am? What happened?”
She explained, and Sam agreed that the woman had swerved to avoid hitting his dog. He even showed the mastiff to the trooper, not that the man wanted to get too close. Darcy wagged his tail and tried to thrust his head out of the car door as soon as Sam opened it, but Steve Betts, Washington Redskins fan, backed off and talked to the woman again.
“You should get that hand looked at,” Sam heard him say as he used his cell phone to call a tow truck. “I’ll be glad to give you a ride over to the hospital.”
“Thanks,” she said, “but I can’t leave my dogs right now. I promise I’ll see a doctor as soon as I can.”
“Ma’am.” He tipped his hat and headed toward the building for a mid-morning snack.
“A doctor?” Sam followed her back to the van. “Why didn’t you say you were hurt?”
“It’s just a burn.” She didn’t seem interested in explaining. She dug through her purse with her left hand “Darn. It must have been on the seat when—”
“What?”
“My cell phone—”
She opened the door and leaned across the seat. The front of the van was a mess. He saw maps, cups, water bowls, leashes, papers, paper towels and a pile of old bath towels. She looked like she’d been on the road for a month.
The dogs started yapping again, but gave up shortly after they started. Sam figured they’d worn themselves out. He didn’t like little yappy, hairy dogs. He hadn’t exactly wanted to own one of the largest dogs in the universe, either, but his sister’s husband had declared he couldn’t sleep with his bride and a mastiff-mix mutt every night. The bed wasn’t big enough and they were newlyweds. Sam’s sister had cried, and Sam had relented, taking Darcy—named after someon
e in a Jane Austen novel—to his house to live happily ever after.
“I called a tow truck,” he began, watching her retrieve the phone from the floor, “but maybe you should try starting the engine, see if it turns over.”
“Good idea.” She hopped onto the seat and turned the key in the ignition. The engine sputtered and died. “The transmission fluid started leaking this morning and a mechanic told me I needed a new one.”
“New car or new transmission?” This was starting to sound worse and worse, and all because Darcy had taken an uncharacteristic vault across a parking lot. The damn dog was lucky to be alive.
“Either one.” She smiled, and Sam fought the urge to take her to a car lot and buy her any four-wheeled vehicle she wanted. “Look, you don’t have to stick around here. The tow truck will come and we’ll be fine.”
“I’ll wait,” he said. “The accident was Darcy’s fault.”
“Darcy?”
“The dog you didn’t hit.” He watched her fumble with the phone. “Do you have friends in Virginia who can help you?”
“Not exactly.” She left a brief message with someone named Janice before turning back to him. “I’m transporting three dogs from West Virginia to Rhode Island.”
“You’re a dog breeder?”
“No.” Once again that smile, though she winced when she started to put her hands in her pockets, then quickly withdrew her right hand. “It’s the Pekingese Underground Railroad. PUR for short.”
“Pur.” He repeated it the way she’d said it, “Pure,” wondering if he’d heard her correctly. An underground railroad for dogs sounded bizarre, but then again, it was that kind of day.
“For homeless Pekes,” she added, as if that explained everything. He decided there wasn’t time to figure it out.
“Your hand,” Sam said, reaching toward her with his own. “Let me see.”
“It’s not that bad. I’ll get some aloe and—”
“You’re burned,” he said, touching her fingertips carefully. Red marks covered three of her fingers and the back of her hand. “The coffee?”
“I was drinking and driving,” she admitted, giving him a small smile. “It will feel better if I put some cold water on it.”
“Go,” he said. “I’ll stay here with the van in case the tow truck comes.”
She grabbed a small leather purse and hopped out of the van. “Thank you.”
“No problem,” he muttered, watching her hurry toward the glass entrance of the doughnut shop. “It’s not like I have anything better to do.”
JESS SKIPPED THE REST ROOM and begged a cup of ice from one of the young men at the front counter. Her hand stung much more than she wanted to admit. If she could pretend it wasn’t that bad, then maybe she could also pretend the van wasn’t that broken and this particular transport wasn’t turning into the journey from hell.
This was the day she’d looked forward to the most. She’d been up early, anxious to drive the remaining miles to the shelter and meet the dogs. There was the scheduled visit with Hazel, stockings to deliver, fabric waiting to be picked up. All that and she’d anticipated beating the storm back to New England. A “slow-moving front,” the weatherman had assured Rhode Island three days ago. At least it wasn’t snowing.
And at least Sam Grogan, football star, had been pleasant enough to offer to watch out for the tow truck. And she’d had no choice but to trust him. The man was drop-dead handsome, with that dark hair and those wide, wide shoulders. The expression in his green eyes had held genuine concern, though he should be more careful about his dog getting loose and jumping across fast-food parking lots. The state trooper’s face had lit up when he’d recognized him. Of course, how many people in tuxedos were buying doughnuts this morning? Only the ones who’d partied late last night, Jess figured, sticking her three burned fingers into the ice. The pain eased a little, especially when she scooped ice onto the back of her hand and held it in place with a paper napkin.
She hesitated before leaving the building, wondering if she should replace the coffee that had spilled across her hand and splattered on the floor of the van, but the thought of holding a hot cup of coffee again made her feel a little queasy. She wished she’d had at least one bite of glazed doughnut before crashing. Maybe her stomach wouldn’t be so unsettled if there was food in it.
Jess stepped outside and took a deep breath of cold air before she headed to the van. The football player was inside, behind the steering wheel, sipping coffee and talking on a cell phone.
“Checking messages,” he said, when she opened the passenger door. “Or trying to. I’m still getting used to this thing. I’ve figured out how to call out, but I’m never sure if I’ve shut it off or not.” He snapped it shut and slipped it into the inside pocket of the tuxedo jacket.
“Don’t let me interrupt,” she said, taking her fingers out of the ice so she could close the door. One of the dogs barked again, setting off the other two. Jess told them to be quiet and miraculously they obeyed. “Thanks for watching them.”
He turned to face her and rested one arm on the steering wheel while he held his coffee in the other. “They’re a lot less trouble than a mastiff, believe me. Do they always stay in those little crates?”
“In the car, yes. I take them out for bathroom breaks, of course.” She put her fingers back in the ice and tried not to wince.
“Let me take you to the hospital,” he offered. “They can give you something to put on it, to take the pain away.”
“It’s not that bad,” she said. “Really, it’s not.” And even if it was, she couldn’t sit in an emergency room for hours while the dogs froze in the car.
“Are you always this stubborn?”
“Yes.”
“Ah,” he said, looking out the front windshield. “He’s here.”
“That was fast.” The tow truck, its flashing lights announcing its arrival, drove past them and then backed up alongside the Dumpster. The driver got out and waved to Sam.
“Hey, Mr. Grogan,” the young man called. “What can I do for you?”
“You know him?”
“I put in a call to an old friend.” He took his coffee and hopped out of the van. “Wait here for a sec.”
“But—”
“Please,” he said, a frown creasing his perfect, handsome face. “It’s the least I can do after the trouble Darcy and I have caused.”
The man was right, but that didn’t make it any easier to accept his help. These kinds of things didn’t happen to her. Oh, there had been transport volunteers who didn’t show up, sick dogs, a Peke that wasn’t a Peke at all—luckily she’d been able to turn him over to someone with Maltese Rescue and he’d quickly found a home with a retired schoolteacher—and more than a couple of wrong turns, late nights and hours spent waiting in traffic on Interstate 95.
But two days ago, when she’d decided to drive the entire transport herself—three volunteers dropped out at the last minute—she’d foolishly assumed her beloved van would live forever, or at least until she could afford to replace it. She’d told herself she didn’t have any choice. This was the last chance to get these dogs. They’d been in a high-kill shelter and wouldn’t last much longer. And poor little Samantha needed surgery, not euthanasia.
She would figure this out, Jess decided, watching Sam Grogan talk to the grinning driver of the tow truck. There was still a little room on the credit card and plenty of time to fix a van. She’d be on the road in no time at all.
CHAPTER THREE
“IT’S NO TROUBLE,” Sam assured the woman for the fourth time. “Well, actually it’s a hell of a lot of trouble,” he admitted, hoping she’d smile again. “But I’m not going to drive away and leave you and the yapping trio stuck at the Krispy Kreme.”
“They’re not yapping.”
No. Now they were panting. When he looked over the front seat toward the three crates lined up along the bench seat, he saw black faces and pink tongues through the cage doors. “Do they always sti
ck their tongues out like that?”
“Yes. It’s a Peke thing.” She hesitated before unhooking the seat belts that held the crates in place. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“I told you,” he repeated. “It’s not that big a deal. We’ll follow the tow truck to the repair shop. It’s not far away.”
“Well, I really do appreciate this.” She handed him a crate and started unhooking the next one. “So you’re a football player.”
“Was.” He watched her fumble with the seat belt on the middle crate. “Let me do that.”
“I’ve got it.” To prove it, she handed him another crate with a panting hairball inside. “The state trooper was impressed. I thought he was going to ask for your autograph.”
“There are a lot of Washington Redskin fans here.”
“What do you do now?”
“Now I talk about sports.”
“On television?”
“Yeah.” He turned away to take the dogs to his car. He didn’t want to talk about his job, not now. He was supposed to be on vacation this weekend—the Redskins had a “bye” and didn’t play again until a week from Monday night, in Miami. He was supposed to be in Hawaii tomorrow, on his honeymoon with the new Mrs. Grogan—not that Susan had wanted to change her name to his. Old-fashioned, she’d called it. He figured she’d change her mind. He’d also thought she’d grow to love Darcy. Neither had happened.
Darcy greeted him with a wagging tail and a slobbering kiss to his shoulder when Sam lifted the tailgate. His ears perked up when he smelled the red-haired visitors.
“Be nice,” Sam told him, setting the crates carefully on the rubber mat. “Don’t scare them.”
Darcy wagged his tail a bit uncertainly and whined as if he couldn’t understand what the dogs were doing inside the crates instead of playing with a big, lonely mastiff. The barking started up again, but stopped when Darcy stuck his nose close to one of the cages.
