The dog howled again. It was the bluetick coonhound, and now Dax recognized the sound for the victorious cry of freedom that it was. The hound stood near the fender, chest puffed out, nose pointed to the heavens. The other dogs circled around him before bolting for the park-like area. The bluetick looked as proud as if he’d freed his friends and led the rebellion himself. Like a smaller, and hairier, version of William Wallace.
Dax assessed his own condition. A slowly spinning head, but nothing severe enough to indicate a concussion. Sore legs and stomach from the dogs bouncing down on him. But all in all, no major damage.
A gorgeous cascade of wild curls popped into view.
He blinked, but the vision didn’t disappear.
The woman underneath the curls stood in the open doorway of the van, chewing on her bottom lip. Her entrancing blue eyes glowed from her light-brown face. A small band of tiny, multicolored beads circled her slim throat. She raised her hand to the top of the frame to steady herself, and the triangle hem of her paisley top rose an inch. “Are you okay? Those little guys were really excited to get out of here.”
“What . . . who . . . what . . . you!” Dax rose onto one elbow. “Who are you and what are you doing in the back of my van?” He sat up, saw stars again, and held his position.
She hopped down, and the hem of her top fluttered up above the belly button of her toned stomach.
Dax swallowed.
“Hi. I’m Annelise, but call me Lissa.” She reached back into the van and grabbed the bag full of leashes that sat near the door. “We’d better get these guys rounded up. Don’t want them to become gator bait.”
Dax looked from her, to the now-empty van, to the dogs rollicking about them. He slowly shook his head. “Where did you come from?”
“The French Quarter. I needed a ride.” She shrugged. The small strap of her top slid down her shoulder, and she pushed it back up.
“You needed a ride,” he repeated, and pinched the bridge of his nose. He must have hit his head harder than he’d thought. “You needed a ride, so, what? You decided to hitch one in the back of a van moving rescue dogs up to Michigan?”
“Michigan? Is that where we’re going?” She unwound one leash from the bunch and chased down a small terrier.
“We’re not going anywhere.” Dax grabbed the bumper and hefted himself up. “I’m going home. You’re going”—he flapped his hand toward New Orleans—“wherever the heck you belong.” He looked at the van’s doors and jiggled the lock. It worked. “How did you get in here?”
“On Royal Street, you left the doors open for a moment.” She snagged a small mutt and held his squirming body in one arm while trying to attach the leash with the other. “These guys don’t like being cooped up. I think on the rest of the drive up to Michigan we should let them outside of their cages.”
Dax gripped the back of his neck with both hands. “I repeat: We are not going to Michigan. I am. You are going back to . . . a psychiatric facility?”
The edges of her pink lips curved up, and she rolled her eyes. Like he was the one with a screw loose.
“A halfway house?” He planted his hands on his hips. “Are you jumping parole?”
“Don’t be absurd.” She looped the end of the leash around her wrist and grabbed a corgi as it trotted by. “I’m a painter. I was getting tired of New Orleans and decided to try somewhere else.” She tilted her head. “Michigan sounds as good a place as any. Does it get really cold there?”
“Freezing.” He took a step closer to her and ignored the scent of honeysuckle coming off her skin. “If you want to move, you call a moving company. Pack more than a backpack’s worth of stuff,” he said, nodding at her pack wedged in the corner of the van. “You do not, I repeat, do not hop in the back of a stranger’s van full of rescue dogs.”
She attached a second leash to the corgi’s collar. “All I need are my brushes. Everything else is replaceable. Are we going to Detroit? I hear their music scene is almost as good as New Orleans’s.”
Dax stared at the sky. A puffy white cloud was its sole occupant aside from the sun. That celestial object had started its descent toward the horizon, a reminder that daylight was burning and he was on a schedule. “Look, I’ll call a cab for you. I’ll even pay—”
“No, thanks.” She shook her head and the waterfall of curls shimmered in the light. “Besides, why waste money on a taxi when we’re going the same way?”
“You must have family who can help you if you want to move.” The bluetick nudged Dax’s hand with his cold nose. Dax bent for his collar, but the hound took off at a sprint for the tree line. Perfect. “Why don’t you ask them for a ride?”
“My parents live in a Winnebago. I’m not sure what state they’re in today.” She handed him the two leashes and took off after the husky that was rolling in the dirt nearby.
“Siblings?” he yelled after her.
“Nope!”
Dax rubbed his forehead. It was beginning to throb. His dad had taught him to be a gentleman. He couldn’t leave a woman alone on the side of an interstate. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t picked up hitchhikers before. But those people had asked for a ride, not stowed away in the back like a fugitive. He was getting a bad vibe from this chick. And no matter how beautiful she was, he couldn’t let his hormones override his good sense.
“How about friends?” he shouted. “You must have friends you can call.”
She dove for the dog, missed, and landed on her butt. The husky trotted up to check on her and she snapped on the leash. “Other artists,” she called back. “Complete flakes.” Standing, she brushed grass off her behind and sauntered back toward the van. Her blue jeans were molded to her hips, and each step she took toward him was a seduction.
He swallowed, trying to bring moisture back to his mouth. He dragged his gaze up to her face and met her mesmerizing eyes. That didn’t help. He gave it one last try. “Look, I’m not a taxi service. I don’t pick up strays unless they’re of the four-legged variety.”
She arched a dark eyebrow and gave him a smile worthy of the sphinx. “Well, then, consider me your latest rescue.”
photo: Spencer Kauffman
Donna Kauffman is the USA Today and Wall Street Journal bestselling author of more than 70 novels, translated and sold in more than 26 countries around the world. Born into the maelstrom of Washington, D.C., politics, she now lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, where she is surrounded by a completely different kind of wildlife. A contributing blogger for USAToday.com, she is also a DIYer, a baker, a gardener, and a volunteer transporter for the Wildlife Center of Virginia and Rockfish Sanctuary. Please visit her online at www.DonnaKauffman.com.
Allyson Charles is the author of humorous, small-town contemporary romance, including the Forever series and the Pineville Romance series. Born in California, Allyson now happily resides in Colorado in order to avoid the outrageous gas prices and the soul-sucking traffic of the Golden State (although it really does have the best weather). She worked as an attorney for more than a decade before deciding that writing about men’s briefs was a lot more fun than writing legal ones. To find out what she’s up to next, visit her Web site at www.allysoncharles.com.
USA Today bestselling author Kate Angell lives in Naples, Florida. She’s an animal lover, avid reader, and sports fan. She embraces sunshine and walks at the beach. Bookstores are her second home. She takes coffee breaks at Starbucks. And enjoys deli sandwiches and bakery sweets. Please visit her on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/authorkateangell or at www.kateangell.com.
grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share
The Bakeshop at Pumpkin and Spice Page 32
