One Man's Promise
Diana Whitney
Fabulous FathersTHE DADHis daughter was in love–with a dog! Richard Matthews had nothing against Rags, but the dog's owner, lovely C.J.Moray, was another matter. With a charming grin, she tempted him into very unfatherly thoughts….THE DAMSELC.J. saw Richard's struggle with fatherhood, and longed to help. But how?THE FAMILYOnce Richard saw the joy that C.J. brought, he didn't want her to go. Could he convince the wary woman that the best things in life start with two–and go on to four?Fabulous FathersHave more than enough to share!
“Well, I guess I should go,” (#u446599ea-8ff6-5449-b183-e17acf3a8aa5)Letter to Reader (#ufc2211d2-24dd-5d6f-a228-8548ce775355)Title Page (#u32347be0-0711-532c-982e-6885860b51d7)Dedication (#ud024af93-3ac4-55eb-866a-ab57f46f4e56)DIANA WHITNEY (#u3614519b-5ecd-51ff-9776-65204aaf4765)Chapter One (#udbf19b09-b045-5fa3-b55e-76e06f80c218)Chapter Two (#u144a63c2-c6b8-575a-971e-8c7021e9ae71)Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“Well, I guess I should go,”
Richard said.
“Wait.” C.J. met his gaze, was instantly swept up in the power, the intensity, the heat. It was all she could do to keep herself from touching his freshly shaved chin, from pressing her palm against his face and whispering that there was nothing on earth she wanted more than to spend every evening of her life with him, and only with him.
She forced her thoughts away from that desire. “Umm. Would you like to take some cookies home for your daughter?”
“No,she’s allergic to chocolate.”
“That makes two of us,” C.J. murmured as Richard helped himself to a cookie and took a slow, melting bite.
“Too bad,” he said. “It’s the food of the gods.”
“Yes.” It came out on a sigh. She reached out to wipe a crumb from his lips. “Better than sex.”
Her eyes widened in horror. Had she actually said that out loud?
She had.
Dear Reader,
July brings you the fifth title of Silhouette Romance’s VIRGIN BRIDES promotion. This series is devoted to the beautiful metaphor of the traditional white wedding and the fairy-tale magic of innocence awakened to passionate love on the wedding night. In perennial favorite Sandra Steffen’s offering, The Bounty Hunter’s Bride , a rugged loner finds himself propositioned by the innocent beauty who’d nursed him to health in a remote mountain cabin. He resists her precious gift...but winds up her shotgun groom when her father and four brothers discover their hideaway!
Diana Whitney returns to the Romance lineup with One Man’s Promise, a wonderfully warmhearted story about a struggling FABULOUS FATHER and an adventurous single gal who are brought together by their love for his little girl and a shaggy mutt named Rags. And THE BRUBAKER BRIDES are back! In Cinderella’s Secret Baby, the third book of Carolyn Zane’s charming series, tycoon Mac Brubaker tracks down the poor but proud bride who’d left him the day after their whirlwind wedding, only to discover she’s about to give birth to the newest Brubaker heir....
Wanted: A Family Forever is confirmed bachelor Zach Robinson’s secret wish in this intensely emotional story by Anne Peters. But will marriage-jaded Monica Griffith and her little girl trust him with their hearts? Linda Varner’s twentieth book for Silhouette is book two of THREE WEDDINGS AND A FAMILY. When two go-getters learn they must marry to achieve their dreams, a wedding of convenience results in a Make-Believe Husband...and many sleepless nights! Finally, a loyal assistant agrees to be her boss’s Nine-to-Five Bride in Robin Wells’s sparkling new story, but of course this wife wants her new husband to be a permanent acquisition!
Enjoy each and every Silhouette Romance!
Regards,
Joan Marlow Golan
Senior Editor Silhouette Books
Please address questions and book requests to:
Silhouette Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
One Man’s Promise
Diana Whitney
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Rae Lovald, a doggy-mom extraordinaire, who has been so very generous with her kindness and support. Thanks a bunch, hon. Your friendship means so much.
DIANA WHITNEY
says she loves “fat babies and warm puppies, mountain streams and California sunshine, camping, hiking and gold prospecting. Not to mention strong romantic heroes!” She married her own real-life hero twenty years ago. With his encouragement, she left her longtime career as a municipal finance director and pursued the dream that had haunted her since childhood—writing. To Diana, writing is a joy, the ultimate satisfaction. Reading, too, is her passion, from spine-chilling thrillers to sweeping sagas, but nothing can compare to the magic and wonder of romance. She loves to hear from readers. Write to her c/o Silhouette Books, 300 East 42nd Street, 6th floor, New York, NY 10017.
Hi, folks!
No one ever said being a father was easy. I knew it would be tough. I just didn’t how how tough. Of course, my daughter, Lissa, can be a bit difficult at times. Not that I blame her. I mean, so what if she gets a little cranky now and again? It’s not her fault that she’s not like other kids. Lissa has always been fragile. Growing up motherless hasn’t been easy for her, and I suppose I haven’t been quite as strict as I should have been. It’s hard to discipline a child who’s been through so much in her young life. I’ve been worried about her.
But that was before C. J. Moray swirled into our lives with a dazzling smile and a zest for living that just naturally makes a person laugh out loud. C.J. has a way about her, a way of wriggling into a man’s heart before he even knows what hit him.
As for Lissa, well, it seems I don’t understand my daughter as well as I thought. But C.J. understands her all too well.
Oops, I’ve got to go. That nutty dog just crashed his skateboard again.
Sincerely,
Richard Matthews
Chapter One
Dear God, it was him. That hair, those eyes, the cocky strut. It had been so long, so achingly long.
C. J. Moray stomped the brake pedal, twisted the wheel to squeal a sloppy U-turn on the quiet residential street. Rubber burned, tires spun, screeched and hit the curb with a bounce, startling the daylights out of a jogger huffing up the sidewalk.
Jamming the car into Park, she leapt out with her heart in her throat, eyes focused on the one who had been such a huge part of her life for so very, very long.
He hadn’t changed, was just as she remembered. So handsome, so regal, so deliciously wicked.
A young girl was talking to him, smiling, laughing, hugging him with the same affection C.J. herself had once lavished on him. As always, he reveled in the attention, dark eyes intensely focused, riveted on his giggling companion without sparing so much as a glance at the winded jogger.
The panting man bent over, propped his hands on his knees, gaping in astonishment as C.J. joyously rushed forward with open arms to call her beloved’s name.
Perky ears twitched, a furry head swiveled, dark eyes blinked bright and gleaming.
“Rags! Come here, boy, c’mon!”
With a gleeful yelp, thirty pounds of quivering canine excitement sprinted down the sidewalk and bounded into her waiting arms.
Laughing and crying at the same time, C.J. hugged the warm, wriggling body of the animal she had raised from a pup and adored beyond measure. “Oh, Rags—” She sputtered under a frantic assault of wet doggy kisses. “Wait...stop...silly boy!”
When the affectionate assault eased, she felt the lump rise back in her throat, softening her voice to a smoky whisper. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
Rags barked in her face, licked off her eye makeup. C.J. felt as if her heart would explode from sheer happiness.
Then their joyful reunion was interrupted by a distressed wail. “Da-addy!” The abandoned girl stamped her feet. “That lady is stealing my dog! Make her stop, Daddy, make her stop!”
Rags responded by leaping down and dashing back to comfort the tearful youngster, who clamped a proprietary hand on the animal’s collar and fixed C.J. with an eat-dirt-and-die look.
C.J.’s lungs deflated like a pricked balloon. She forced a smile, and since the child was kneeling beside her bright-eyed pet, she squatted down to their level. “My name is C.J. Actually it’s Cecelia Jane, but that’s quite a mouthful, so my friends call me C.J.” The child continued to glare silently. C.J. sucked a breath, tried to keep her smile from flattening. “So, now you know my name. Perhaps you’d like to tell me yours?”
The girl, a brown-haired, pigtailed nymph who appeared to be nine or ten, narrowed her eyes, clamped her lips together and continued to glower at C.J. as if wishing her dead.
“Her name is Lissa Matthews, and she’s not usually so rude.” The jogger, having recovered his breath, stepped forward, waited until C.J. stood before extending his hand. “I apologize for my daughter’s lack of courtesy, Ms.—?”
“Moray.” His grip was warm, firm. Damp tendrils of dark hair the same shade as his daughter’s clung to a face attractively average, yet more appealing than most. She smiled through her scrutiny. “Please call me C.J.”
A pleasant light gleamed in eyes that were neither gray nor green, but a hazy combination that reminded her of heather sage. “Richard Matthews. Please call me Richard.” His hand lingered, withdrew slowly. “Well.” Clearing his throat, he shifted uncomfortably, rubbed his knuckles across a strong, slightly clefted chin. “May I assume you and my daughter’s pet share more than a passing acquaintance?”
C.J. confirmed that with a nod. “Rags and I were together for nearly six years.” Stupidly, tears stung her eyes at the sight of her shaggy-faced best friend firmly ensconced in the arms of another. “He disappeared a couple of months ago, while my roommate was moving our things to a new apartment.”
Richard Matthews didn’t seem unsympathetic, but was clearly concerned about the effect C.J.’s sudden appearance was having upon his daughter. His eyes narrowed just a touch, an expression of contemplation, or perhaps puzzlement. “We adopted the animal from the shelter. It’s quite legal.” Skimming a worried glance at the tearful child, he clasped his hands behind his back, facing C.J. with stiffened resolve. “Except for the collar engraved with his name, the animal had no identifying tags.”
“I know—”
“Nor was there a proper dog license from which the owners could be located.” The man tightened his jaw, angled a reproachful glance. “Not the behavior of a responsible pet owner, I’d say.”
“You’re right, of course, it’s just that—” C.J. licked her lips, nervously flexed her fingers. “Both tags were on a collar ring. My roommate had removed it to replace the old address tag with the new one when the movers broke a vase or something, and Rags bolted out the front door. She put up flyers all over the neighborhood—”
“And you were where when all this happened?”
“I was, er, unavailable.” She slipped a glance at the prancing pup, and her heart melted. God, she’d missed him so much. “I still have the tags. I can show them to you, if you wish.”
Richard’s chin wobbled. “That won’t be necessary. I believe you. Still, this is a most unfortunate situation.” He heaved a sigh, rubbed his face, peered over his fingertips. “Clearly, we have a legitimate conflict of ownership. The question is, what shall we do about it?”
Direct, straightforward, cut right to the chase. C.J. liked that.
Apparently Lissa didn’t. She let out a howl that sent shivers down C.J.’s spine. “Ragsy is my dog,” she screeched. “Mine! Daddy, you promised, you promised—” Her face reddened as she sucked a wheezing breath. “You can‘t—” gasp “—let her take him—” gasp “—you can’t—”
Richard sprang to his daughter’s side. “Shh, punkin, no one is going to take your dog away. Deep breaths, sweetheart, take slow, deep breaths.” He dug through the pocket of his sweatpants to retrieve a white plastic inhaler.
The child pushed it away, continued to wheeze until her face was suitably purple and her father’s concern escalated into full-fledged fear. Only when Rags pawed her arm, whining with alarm, did the girl accept the inhaler. The attack subsided as quickly as it had begun.
Lissa hugged the tousled fur of Rags’s neck, scraped C.J. with a look and made no attempt to soften a gloating grin. “Rags loves me,” she purred. “He won’t ever go away, ’cause he knows how sick I get when I’m sad.”
C.J.’s heart sank to her toes. A manipulating child, a protective father, a shadowy specter from the past. Pain. Loneliness. Sad memories.
“Perhaps,” Richard said, pocketing the inhaler and extracting a slim leather wallet, “we can come to an equitable—”
He was drowned out by Lissa’s horrified shriek. “Rags, no! Come back!”
But the gleeful animal was three houses away, hot on the trail of an orange-striped cat streaking toward a neighbor’s yard.
Richard dropped the wallet. “Oh, Lord. Waldo.”
“Waldo?”
C.J.’s question died in chaos as the screaming child bolted after her wayward pet, ignoring shouts from her harried father. “Lissa, stop! Don’t exert yourself!” He spun, stared at C.J., his face puckered with baffled annoyance that under other circumstances would have been amusing. “In six years, you couldn’t have taught your dog some manners?”
With that, Richard sprinted forth to join the fray.
The orange cat, presumably the infamous Waldo, dived beneath a raised stoop. Rags followed, wriggling through the small opening and barking madly. A yowl, a hiss, a flurry of joyful woofs. An orange blur shot out from under the stoop. A shaggy mass of brown-and-white fur squeezed out, dodged Richard’s grasping hands, used the stunned man’s head as a springboard before dashing after the cat without so much as a backward glance at the frustrated man and the wailing child pursuing him.
It was utter pandemonium. C.J., who hadn’t moved a step since the chaos began, watched with a combination of stunned disbelief and amusement that was, she supposed, wholly inappropriate for the situation. Little Lissa was clearly distraught, and her poor father was obviously as upset about his daughter’s emotional state as he was about capturing the cavorting pooch.
Still, it was an amusing display of dueling wits. Rags appeared to be winning. C.J. was content to observe the comical chaos until the cat suddenly swerved toward the street with Rags still in hot pursuit. Instinctively touching two fingers to her lips, she emitted a shrill whistle.
Rags instantly skidded to a stop.
She whistled again and the animal plopped his quivering rump on the curb, staring expectantly. C.J. lifted one arm. Rags dropped to his belly. She twitched a finger. The dog rolled over. She raised her hand. He stood. She flicked her wrist. He performed a flawless back flip, then stood with his gaze focused and his tail whipping madly to await the next command.
When she touched her breastbone, Rags made a beeline straight for her. He skidded to a stop a few feet in front of her, waited until she tapped her hip, then zipped around to “heel” position and sat smartly by her side.
“Good boy,” she whispered, and was rewarded by a tongue-lolling grin.
C.J. struggled to keep her own expression impassive while the astounded dog-chasers limped back to the starting point. Lissa arrived first, her eyes enormous, followed by her father, who stared at Rags as if the animal had metamorphosed into a small, shaggy god.
C.J. cleared her throat. “Rags—” the animal gazed up adoringly “—you’ve behaved badly. Please apologize to Lissa and Mr. Matthews.”
Rags issued two contrite whines, laid a forepaw across his muzzle.
“Good boy,” she murmured, then redirected her attention. “Now, Mr. Matthews, you were saying something about manners?”
Richard paled three shades. Then and only then did C.J. allow herself the indulgence of a proud smile.
“All right, how much?”
C. J. Moray’s lips slackened, then firmed. “Rags is not for sale, Mr. Matthews. I thought I’d made myself clear on that.”
Richard angled a glance toward the modest home where his daughter peered out the front window with huge, tearful eyes. After exerting herself by chasing Rags, she’d suffered yet another asthma attack, after which Richard had escorted her into the house with her beloved dog, hoping he could resolve this matter logically, reasonably. Now he swallowed a twinge of panic, yanked all the currency out of his wallet and thrust it at the startled woman. “Two hundred, cash.”
“Mr. Matthews—”
“If you want more, I’ll have to write you a check.”
C.J. extended a hand, then let it drop, shaking her head violently enough to vibrate the short, blond curls massed like golden spirals around a tanned face that he suspected was not as young as it appeared. “I know this is a difficult situation, but Rags and I...well, we have a very special relationship. Do you see that I can’t give him up?”
Exquisite amber-gold eyes pleaded for understanding, understanding that Richard couldn’t afford to bestow. Lissa was counting on him. “You’ve already given him up, Ms. Moray. Legally the animal belongs to us.” He shifted, avoided the pain in those incredible golden eyes and fortified himself by angling a glance at the window behind which the child he loved more than life itself waited hopefully. “My daughter is very special, too. That dog means the world to her. It would break her heart to lose him.”
“I know.”
The emotion with which the words were whispered caught Richard’s attention, as did the woman’s obvious unhappiness at having caused his daughter grief. He studied C.J., saw the subtle droop of her shoulders, stress lines creasing her forehead, a mouth that was soft and vulnerable, lightly tinted by faint remnants of pale rose lip color.
Her clothes were casual, nondescript—a loose knit shirt, white, with short sleeves and a sports logo on the pocket, beige linen slacks and sneakers that were broken in but not quite worn-out.
His attention returned to her mouth. A flash of white as a tooth scraped her lower lip, a glimmer of pink as her tongue darted out for moisture. She cleared her throat. “I’ll buy Lissa another dog, a puppy of her very own. I’ll even teach her how to train it—”
“No.” He flinched at his strident tone, softened it. “It’s a generous offer, and I thank you for it, but Lissa won’t accept another dog. She wants Rags.”
“I know that, too.” C.J. regarded him with peculiar sadness, and a hint of understanding that was oddly troubling. “And Lissa always gets what she wants, doesn’t she?”
Richard stiffened at the truth. “My daughter is not like other children. She can’t run through blooming meadows, ride her bike or play softball in the park, and she’s spent more time in hospitals than most children spend in school. It’s not her fault that she’s fragile and ill. It’s not her fault that she’s doomed to grow up without her mother. It’s not her fault that she has been denied the normal joys of childhood, which is all any child wants and deserves.” He gritted his teeth, spoke through them. “So the answer is no, Ms. Moray, Lissa definitely does not always get what she wants.”
“Please, I meant no disrespect—”
“But if you’re implying that I try to compensate for all my daughter has lost by indulging those few pleasures still available to her, then I plead guilty as charged.” He jammed the bills and wallet into his pocket and folded his arms, more angry at himself than the woman whose acute perception was more accurate than he cared to admit.
Richard was a father, but he wasn’t a fool. He knew perfectly well that Lissa wasn’t above faking illness to get her own way. His daughter could be difficult, but she had reason to be. Along with a plethora of food and environmental allergies, Lissa’s asthma was a serious, sometimes life-threatening condition. The child was physically vulnerable, emotionally fragile and motherless. Despite the difficulties of single parenthood, Richard adored his child, had devoted his life to protecting her and making her happy.
At the moment, happiness hinged on the outcome of a canine custody dispute centered upon one very specific, slightly devious and undeniably clever little dog. It was a dispute Richard dared not lose.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmured. Her voice was husky, like wafting wood smoke. A tingle warmed his arm where she touched him. “I know how much Lissa loves Rags, believe me, I know. But they’ve only been together a few weeks. Rags has spent his entire life with me. I’ll give you whatever you ask for him. Five hundred...a thousand...ten thousand. I’ll take out a loan, sell my car, I’ll do anything.” Her fingers trembled, tightened their grip above his wrist. “I know I’m a grown woman and your daughter is only a child, I know I must seem shrill and selfish, and maybe I am, but I’m desperate. You don’t understand, you don’t know what Rags and I have been through together.”
To his horror, tears swelled, spurted, careened down her cheeks.
“Children are resilient....” Her voice quivered, her gaze slid to the window, behind which Lissa sobbed openly, hugging the shaggy mixed breed that consoled her with frantic face licks.
C.J. stared for a moment, then turned away, shaking her head. “My God,” she murmured. “Listen to me. I can’t believe that I’m actually willing to break a child’s heart to protect my own.” She wiped her face with her hands, propped one fist on her hip and stared at the ground. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. There’s no excuse.”
Before Richard could respond, Lissa shot out the front door, sobbing her heart out. “No, Daddy, no, Ragsy is my dog! Don’t let her take him away, please, please—” gasp “—don’t let her take—” wheeze “—him—”
As Richard snatched out the inhaler, C.J. laid a restraining hand on his arm as she squatted down in front of the wheezing, red-faced child. “I’m not going to take your dog away,” she said quietly. “But there are some things about Rags you need to know. If you love him as much as I think you do, you’ll calm down now, so you can listen and learn how to take good care of him.”
To Richard’s shock, the strained gasps ceased, the child’s breathing deepened as she focused a skeptical stare. “I already take good care of Rags.”
“I’m sure you do, but did you know, for example, that Rags loves bananas?” The girl’s eyes widened. “That’s right, but if he eats more than two bites, he gets really, really sick, so you have to be sure to keep them out of reach. He likes apples, too, but again, you have to be careful how much he can have. There are certain brands of dog food he won’t eat.”
The girl brightened. “Daddy had to buy three different kinds before he found one Rags liked.”
“You see? You’ve already discovered one of his secrets. He’s finicky, and as long as you feed him apples and bananas, he figures he doesn’t have to bother with stuff he doesn’t really like. You have to be careful only to give him treats that are good for him. His tummy can be sensitive.”
Lissa nodded solemnly. “Is he allergic, like me?”
“Well, he reacts badly to fleabites, I’m afraid, but that can be controlled. I have some medicine that helps him. I’ll—”She paused, bit her lip, then managed a tremulous smile. “I’ll bring it to you.”
The child cocked her head. “You will?”
“Yes. I’ll bring you all of his vet records, and his favorite toys, too, but you have to promise me that you’ll watch him carefully, especially when he’s on his skateboard, because sometimes he doesn’t pay attention to—”
Richard interrupted. “Skateboard?”
C.J. glanced up with a shaky smile that made his heart quiver strangely. “Rags is quite the little sports dog. He also jumps rope, surfs and knows how to ride a windjammer. I was planning to take hang gliding lessons this summer, and had a special harness made so he could come with me....” Her voice drifted away.
Lissa’s eyes were appreciatively wide. “Gee, Rags does lots of tricks, doesn’t he?”
“Yes.” It was a whisper. C.J. cleared her throat, offered a bright smile with quivering corners. “But he can also be quite a rascal. He’ll try to get away with lots of things that are dangerous. You’ll have to learn how to protect him, and keep him safe. You have to train him to respond to you. I can teach you how, if you like.”
It was a generous offer. For a moment, Richard thought Lissa might actually accept. Instead, the child’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“I can do it all by myself.” Lissa spun, strode to the front door, paused with a triumphant gleam in her eyes. “Ragsy is my dog. He doesn’t need you anymore.”
“Lissa!” Richard flinched as the front door slammed, then faced the shaken woman rising to her feet. “I’m sorry.”
C.J. shrugged. “It’s all right. This has been difficult for her. I understand.” Oddly enough, he believed that she did. She raked a hand through her hair, took a deep breath, then suddenly fumbled in her slacks pocket and extracted a business card. “I’ll forward Rags’s things. If you have any questions or problems, you can reach me here.”
He absently glanced at the card, did a double take. “‘All That Jazz Academy of Dance’?”
“If I’m not there, that number will forward to my beeper.”
She licked her lips, blinked rapidly. Too rapidly. “Please give my regards to Lissa. Tell her I’m glad Rags found such a good home.”
“Ms. Moray—”
But she’d spun away, crossed the yard and was already climbing into her car. A moment later, she drove down the street and disappeared, leaving Richard both relieved and conflicted.
For the sake of a child she did not even know, C. J. Moray had relinquished all claim to the pet she clearly adored. He was grateful, of course, but he was also deeply saddened by the niggling sense that this might have been one battle his daughter should not have won.
“You just left him there?” Under the best of circumstances Bobbi Macafee was an imposing woman, tall, broad shouldered, with a thick mane of ebony hair and a horsey face that oddly enough was not unattractive. When perturbed, that face tightened into a furious mask, reddened like a neon beet and was frightening enough to have once cowed a professional wrestler, who’d unwisely refused to pose for a photograph, into hiding behind his trainer to escape her wrath.
Now Bobbi loomed large and intimidating, jammed her fists on her hips and gaped at C.J. as if she’d just confessed to abandoning an infant on a doorstep. “How could you do such a thing? I mean, Rags is family! You might as well have given up your own child!”
“There wasn’t any choice,” C.J. mumbled, retrieving the palm-sized glucometer from a kitchen shelf. She pricked her finger, smeared a blood drop on a test strip, which she inserted into a slot at the side of the machine. “That little girl loves Rags. She would have been devastated to lose him.”
“What about you?” Bobbi insisted. “Don’t your feelings count?”
“I’m a grown-up. She’s a child, a sick, lonely little girl who desperately needs love.” C.J. checked the digital readout for her blood sugar level, then put the glucometer away, measured a precise amount of orange juice into a glass and prepared a lean turkey sandwich for lunch.
Behind her Bobbi paced and fumed, ranting about the injustice of the world. C.J. ignored her. Although fiercely loyal and opinionated to the point of irksome, Bobbi was first and foremost a dear friend. They were like sisters, had been since their college days, and C.J. understood that the guilt of having been responsible for Rags’s loss in the first place weighed heavily on her roommate’s conscience.
Not that C.J. blamed her. Moving an entire household wasn’t easy, even for a woman who could bench-press two hundred pounds without breaking a sweat. It wasn’t Bobbi’s fault she’d been left to tackle the task alone. If anyone was responsible for Rags’s loss, it was C.J. herself. She should have been there to protect her precious pet during the move.
“You should sue,” Bobbi announced, nodding so vigorously that her spectacles slipped down her nose. “I know a lawyer—”
“No.”
“But the county was negligent! Honest to God, Ceejz, I called the shelter six times a day for two solid weeks after Rags ran away, and every dadgummed time they said no animal of that description had been picked up. They lied, they screwed up, they gave your dog away, for Pete’s sake! Someone has to be held accountable for that.”
Heaving a sigh, C.J. set the orange juice down. “No lawyers, no lawsuits. It’s over. I’ve made my decision. Rags is happy, well cared for, and loved. Please, can’t we drop it now? This entire subject is...painful.”
Bobbi’s face crumpled in despair. “Oh, hon—” She stepped forward, stopped when C.J. raised a palm to signal that she was perfectly fine and didn’t wish to be fussed over.
Of course, C.J. wasn’t perfectly fine and Bobbi clearly knew that. She also understood C.J.’s aversion to being the subject of worry or concern, and respected her silent request even if her furrowed brow displayed disagreement with it.
Frustrated, Bobbi straightened her glasses, heaved a deflating sigh. “Look, I have to go. The magazine is sending me out to interview an over-the-hill jockey who’s accusing some racing association of age discrimination.”
CJ. nodded without comment, took a bite of sandwich while her roommate hustled around the cluttered room gathering her briefcase, pocket recorder, camera and other tools of the journalistic trade.
Pausing at the front door, Bobbi shouldered the briefcase strap, raked red-tipped fingers through her thick tangle of long black hair and regarded her friend with blatant concern. “Are you going to be all right, Ceejz? I can reschedule this thing—”
“I’m fine,” C.J. assured her. “You go, do your job.” She enforced that edict with the brightest smile she could muster, and tipped the orange juice glass in salute. “Knock ’em dead, tiger.”
Bobbi responded with a thin nod, an even thinner smile, then slipped out the door.
Alone now, C.J. slumped against the kitchen counter, forcing herself to finish the tasteless sandwich. Eating was more ritual than pleasure. Her body required food whether she wanted it or not. At the moment, her stomach twisted, her head hurt and she was angry with herself for being so emotional.
The reunion with her beloved pet had been bittersweet. Although deeply grateful that Rags was alive and happy, the emptiness in her heart seemed suddenly overwhelming again. For the past six years that crafty canine had been her constant companion, from romps on the ski slope to ocean surfing excursions, and had even shared a hot-air balloon trip she and Bobbi had taken to research one of her roommate’s magazine articles.
Rags was the only creature on earth who accepted C.J.’s quirks without question. He never criticized, never furrowed a doggy brow with worry, never gave scolded warnings or repeated medication reminders. He was thirty fur-covered pounds of unconditional love and acceptance that C.J. desperately needed.
But little Lissa needed it more.
The Matthews child had put a mirror to C.J.’s own lonely childhood, a poignant reminder of how much a friend—even a shaggy canine friend—means to a sick and lonely little girl.
Since C.J. wouldn‘t—couldn’t—take that away, she set about fulfilling her promise to forward Rags’s possessions. Retrieving a box from her bedroom closet, she examined the contents. Tiny tags, still snugged on Rags’s collar ring; his old training collar and leash; special ointment for the skin condition that flared occasionally, along with a folder of medical records, all meticulously maintained from the day she’d brought him home as a feisty ten-week-old pup; his favorite chew toys, the plastic Frisbee he adored; a tiny wet suit for beach excursions, a warm saddle coat for snow trips; and of course, his beloved skateboard.
There were photographs, too, a record of their time together, of the adventures they’d shared. But the pictures were hers, and hers alone. All she had left were those images, and the memories they evoked. Good memories. Joyful memories.
Memories of mountain hikes and walks in the park, of the reassuring bed lump that always crowded her legs, of the rushed vet visit when a wasp had stung his tongue.
Memories of warm fur and a cold nose and wet, doggy kisses that made her sputter and laugh. Memories of friendship. Memories of love.
C.J. remembered it all, relived it all. And she smiled through her tears, content in the knowledge that there would be more memories of friendship and love created between a big-hearted pooch and the lonely little girl who needed him.
Chapter Two
“I can have the revisions done by the end of the week.” Shifting the telephone, Richard spread the curled blueprint over his drafting table, readjusted the corner tape to hold it flat. “The changes you’re suggesting shouldn’t have more than a minimal impact on cost—”
“Daddy!”
“But I’ll run the new specs through the computer and give you an update—”
“Daa-ddy!”
“In a day or so.” Richard sighed as Lissa stomped into the secluded den that served as his architectural office. “Listen, Jay, can I get back to you on this? Thanks.”
“Ragsy won’t play with me,” Lissa announced as soon as he’d cradled the receiver. “He won’t play dress-up or chase his ball or do anything ’cept sit on the back of Gramps’s chair with that dumb Frisbee in his mouth and look out the window.”
Richard swiveled on his drafting stool, and squeezed the back of his aching neck. As he opened his mouth to speak, one of a half-dozen antique clocks displayed throughout the office began to chime the half hour. Seconds later another chimed in, then another. The sound soothed Richard, offered a moment of calm retreat. He loved clocks, particularly the old ones, with rich embellishments, gilded etchings and intricate carvings crafted by long-ago artists who took pride in their work. His collection of such treasures was a source of great joy to him, and he could spend hours restoring a neglected piece to its original luster.
After a few seconds, the clocks fell silent, and Richard returned his attention to the sulking child beside his drafting stool. His voice was firm, but not particularly convincing. “Lissa, you know you’re not supposed to interrupt me while I’m working.”
She poked her lip out, folded her arms. “I want to play with Rags.”
Heaving a frustrated sigh, Richard motioned his daughter over, pulled her into his lap. “Rags doesn’t want to play right now, punkin. He’s feeling sad.”
Lissa’s lip quivered, then clamped in anger. “It’s that mean lady’s fault. Gramps even said so.”
With some effort, Richard kept an impassive expression. Thompson McCade was rich, powerful, smoothly controlling and as devoted to his grandchild as was the man’s timid, beleaguered wife. Richard considered his father-in-law a tyrannical bully, but had always kept that opinion to himself out of respect for his wife’s memory, and because he didn’t want to alienate Lissa from her grandparents’ love and attention.
Now, as always, Richard tried to straddle a fine line between supporting McCade’s inappropriate blame-mongering, and openly contradicting his daughter’s beloved Gramps. “I can understand your grandfather’s concern, punkin. He hates to see you upset. But you have to remember that Gramps hasn’t met Ms. Moray, so he’s really not in a position to comment on her motives. I believe she only wants what’s best for Rags, and for you, too.”
“I don’t care. I hate her.”
“That’s not a nice thing to say.”
“Well, I do hate her, I do. She’s trying to steal my dog and I just wish she’d dry up and die.”
“That’s enough.” Speaking sternly enough to startle his daughter into attention, Richard enforced his position. “It’s okay for you to feel bad, and it’s okay for you to be angry, but it’s not okay for you to say mean things about people even when they’re not around to hear them.”
“But it’s not fair,” Lissa wailed. “Ragsy is my dog.” Pulling away from her father’s embrace, the child leapt down, kicked at a cardboard blueprint tube lying beside the drafting table. “He was real happy before she showed up, and now he won’t eat or play or do anything at all. He’s no fun anymore, and it’s all her fault.”
After emphasizing her pique with another kick at the hapless mailing tube, Lissa spun on her heel and marched out. A moment later, her bedroom door slammed.
Richard pushed away the contract file with which he’d been working, leaned back on his stool and rubbed his eyelids until they stung. As annoyed as he was with his father-in-law’s interference, he still couldn’t blame Lissa for feeling helpless and frustrated, particularly when he felt that way himself.
Ever since C. J. Moray’s less than fortuitous appearance, Rags had shown every symptom of an animal grieving himself sick. The poor little dog had eaten nothing for four days now, and even the neatly packed box of toys, bowls and other doggy belongings that had mysteriously arrived on the front porch hadn’t helped dissuade the animal’s melancholy mood. If anything, the pooch seemed even sadder, carrying the pathetic Frisbee in his mouth as he wandered from room to room, then returned to his vigil at the front window and stared dolefully outside as if awaiting his mistress’s return.
Yesterday Richard had decided a romp in the neighborhood park would perk Rags up. The moment the front door opened, the dog had shot to the very spot in the front yard where C. J. Moray had been standing, then followed her scent to the curb. Had the animal not been leashed, there was no doubt in Richard’s mind that Rags would have chased the scent as far as possible in pursuit of the mistress he had never forgotten, and still clearly adored.
Rags was obviously heartbroken. Richard feared the stoic little pooch would grieve himself to death, and was convinced that something had to be done. He’d already formulated a plan. Lissa wouldn’t like it, of course.
But she’d like the alternative even less.
The dance studio was situated in a tidy corner of a bustling strip mall, the kind where neighborhood residents gathered for groceries, a quick video rental, or to peruse the aisles of a local bookstore. Richard parked, paused outside the studio’s glass front to read a few posted flyers announcing beginning ballet lessons, tap dance classes and the like.
He swallowed a guilty twinge. Lissa had always wanted to take ballet lessons. The request had been denied, as had her desire to participate in playground softball and other such athletic endeavors, because Richard was worried such physical exertion would exacerbate her asthma.
Lissa’s asthma was no joke. She’d nearly died twice, and had been hospitalized more times than Richard could count. Doctors hoped the condition would ease as she matured, but so far there’d been no perceptible improvement. Attacks came on suddenly, without warning, and could escalate to life-threatening proportions with hideous speed. It was a terrifying situation, not for the faint of heart.
Lissa’s mother hadn’t been able to deal with the terror, the helpless horror of watching her only child slip to the edge of death time and time and time again. Richard had understood his wife’s fear. He’d even understood her guilt, and the secret sense of failure at having given birth to a frail and sickly child. What Richard hadn’t understood, still couldn’t understand, was why a mother, any mother, would give up on her own child by giving up on herself.
Despite years of emotional withdrawal during which Richard and his wife had become virtual strangers, he’d been nonetheless shattered by her death.
Now he gazed into the glass window, his own reflection revealing the bitterness of that memory. It hurt. It would always hurt. He’d failed as a husband. He was determined not to fail as a father.
Squaring his shoulders, he yanked open the dancestudio door and walked into chaos.
Beyond the partitioned entry, blaring music vibrated the walls, the floor and his back molars. Bongos bonged, cymbals crashed, tambourines tonated in a wild calypso cantata that was part Caribbean reggae and part “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies,” with a jarring jab of New Orleans jazz tossed in for good measure.
Richard would have hocked everything he owned for a sturdy set of earplugs.
Above the deafening musical fray was a voice, sharp, firm and familiar. “And one and two... twirl, twirl... hands high, Shelly, reach for the sky...that’s good, very good. And bend, twist, and bend and twist... come on, fairies, high on your toes, stretch those arms...fluid, graceful, hands flutter like fairy wings.”
Sidling along the partition, Richard chanced a peek into the heart of the bustling studio, where over a dozen exuberant youngsters pirouetted through choreographed routines. In the center, a sleek blonde in black leotards accented by a hot-pink-and-fuchsia thong darted around the dancers, clapping rhythm with her hands and occasionally pausing to straighten a child’s saggy shoulder, or lift a droopy chin.
To Richard’s astonishment, the blond instructor paused in the center of the melee, where a young girl in a wheelchair extended swaying arms in the air. “Marty, Susan, take Shelly’s chair now and turn slowly, slowly.... Shelly, hon, keep those arms high, hands graceful...that’s wonderful!” The instructor clapped quickly now, increasing the pace. “The dragon is coming, the dragon is coming! Fairies leap, leap, drop to a crouch. Shelly, cower in fear... turn the chair faster, girls, faster, faster... that’s it, terrific....”
She spun toward the sidelines, where a rhythm section of youngsters perched anxiously on the edge of their seats clutching a variety of tambourines, shakers and bongo drums. “Dragon is—” she pointed at a pale boy with a pair of cymbals held at the ready “—here!”
The youngster slammed his cymbals together with a proud, gap-toothed grin.
“Curtain!” The instructor threw up her arms as the music ceased abruptly. “Wonderful class, you were all just perfect!”
A din of happy voices erupted as children scampered—or rolled—toward a scatter of adults, presumably proud parents, seated in a makeshift gallery of folding chairs surrounding a refreshment table. The rhythm section dropped their instruments, blasted across the room to attack the cookie-and-juice buffet with gusto appropriate to a pack of sweaty, starving prepubescents.
And in the center of bustling activity, C. J. Moray dabbed her face with a towel, listening to the excited ramblings of a small, dark-haired princess who was apparently so enthused by her own performance that she felt compelled to review each step of it in painful detail. Ms. Moray listened as if raptly fascinated, offering affirmative nods and bright smiles that left the little girl puffed with pride, and clearly thrilled.
Under other circumstances the child’s joy would have been mesmerizing, but it was the woman upon whom Richard’s attention was riveted. Her face was flushed and glowing, with damp blond tendrils clinging to her cheeks likes strands of gleaming gold. Eyes like sparkling amber wine, a smile bright as a sun-drenched rose garden, a laugh so husky and melodic that it warmed his blood and sent chills marching down his spine at the same time.
Richard couldn’t take his eyes off her.
Suddenly her smile hesitated, her eyes clouded. A pucker of sensation touched her brow. She looked up, met his gaze, held it. Time stopped. A minute. Two. Ten. He didn’t know, didn’t care. For those moments, those indefinable instants of eternity, nothing else existed but this woman, this incredibly beautiful woman whose mesmerizing gaze sucked the breath from his body, drained the reason from his mind.
He was aware of her subtle movement, noticed when she touched the child’s shoulder, murmured something that sent the girl scampering happily away. He knew he should do something, say something, but was rooted in place, helpless as an insect pinned to a corkboard.
She studied him a moment longer, then draped the towel around her neck, glided toward him so gracefully he wondered if her feet actually touched the floor. The leotard left nothing to the imagination, revealing a swell of round breasts, a sleek torso with hips that rolled smoothly as she moved, legs long and strong enough to wrap a man’s body and lift him straight to heaven.
A smile touched her lips, lush lips, devoid of artificial color yet naturally pink, pearlescent, enticingly moist. The lips moved. “Mr. Matthews, what a pleasant surprise.”
Richard wanted to respond. He really did. His brain told his mouth to speak, commanded it to do so, but there must have been some kind of short circuit, because to his horror he felt his head jerk in a cruel caricature of a nod.
She cocked her head, regarded him with a mixture of amusement and anxiety. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“Yes.” The word slid out on a breath, the poignant sigh of a lovestruck adolescent. He coughed, cleared his throat and yanked his gaze away, concentrating on the pandemonium of scampering youngsters until he felt the peculiar numbness seep from his mind. “This is not what I expected.”
She studied him a moment more, then followed his gaze. “It’s a little crazier than usual. Things get wild the week before a recital.”
He chose not to correct her errant assumption that he’d been referring to the dance class rather than his unanticipated physiological response. “I’m surprised at the, er, variety of participants.”
“We try to integrate special needs children in our regular dance classes. Shelly—” she nodded toward the laughing child in the wheelchair “—was born with a spinal defect. She can’t walk, but as you may have noticed, she’s an excellent dancer.”
“She did seem to be enjoying herself.”
“But—?”
He chanced a look, recognized the question in her eyes. “I’ll admit I was surprised to see how well the other children accepted her.”
“Unless taught otherwise, children are naturally accepting of people’s differences. Besides, many of our students have limitations of one kind or another, although they might not be as noticeable as Shelly’s. Donna, for example—” she nodded toward a tall girl wearing a colorful paisley scarf “—is undergoing chemotherapy. The treatment saps her strength, so we’ve choreographed a part for her that requires minimal stamina and endurance. That way she can continue to participate with her friends, and isn’t made to feel different.”
“But she is different,” Richard noted, stunned that the girl’s parents would allow such strenuous activity. “She’s a very sick child.”
“Yes, she is.” C.J. grasped the towel hem with both hands, shifted her stance to angle a sideways glance at Richard. “Even sick children need to belong. They need friends, and fun, and the joy of accomplishment.”
“They need care and treatment.” The response was more forceful than intended, although C.J. neither flinched nor disputed it.
“I require a medical release from all my students,” she said. “If a child has special needs, I consult with his or her physician on a lesson plan that is within medical guidelines.” Snapping the draped towel, she suddenly spun to face him with a gaze so acute he squirmed at its intensity. “But I suspect you didn’t drive all the way across town to discuss dance lessons.”
“Ah, no.”
Her eyes widened. “Is Rags all right? Oh, God, the skateboard. There’s been an accident, hasn’t there? Is it bad?” She flung the towel away, dashed to a coatrack in the foyer. “Where is he, what vet hospital do you use—?”
“There hasn’t been an accident.” Richard caught up with her at the front door, grasped her elbow as she was struggling into her jacket. “Rags is fine.”
Her arms fell limp, her eyes filled with relieved moisture. “He’s not hurt?”
“No.”
She touched her face, closed her eyes. “Thank God.” A shuddering sigh, a moment to compose herself, then she squared her shoulders, cast him a curious glance. “Then why are you here?”
“Well, it does have to do with Rags, I’m afraid. Is there somewhere we could talk?”
Behind the closed doors of the tiny, cluttered office that had once been a janitorial closet, CJ. rested a hip on the edge of her wobbly desk, and frowned. “Let me get this straight, you’re offering me joint custody of Rags?”
“Not exactly.” Richard jerked as the folding chair shifted, then leaned forward, planting his hands on his knees as if preparing to leap should the unsteady seating device suddenly collapse. “More precisely, I’m suggesting a visitation arrangement, specific schedules whereby you and Rags could, er, spend time together.”
“And you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart?”
He appeared stung by the inference. “Contrary to popular belief, I am not utterly devoid of feelings. Clearly, you’re fond of the animal and he, likewise, is fond of you.” His gaze darted, and the subtle slide of presumably damp palms over his slacks did not escape notice. “A change in ownership is traumatic for any pet. I thought regular visits might lessen his anxiety.”
C.J. nodded. “Rags has stopped eating, hasn’t he?”
Richard deflated before her eyes. “Yes.”
“How long?”
“Four days.”
She sucked a shocked breath, let the air out with a hiss. “Four days? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’m telling you now.” His gaze narrowed. “Has he done this sort of thing before?”
She nodded absently, chewed her lip. “It’s his way of pouting.”
“You could have warned me.”
Flinching at the reproach, C.J. offered a limp shrug. “It didn’t occur to me. I mean, he’d already been with you for weeks and there hadn’t been a problem.” She raked her hair, wished the office was large enough for her to pace. “When can I see him?”
Richard stood, smoothed the suit coat that made him look considerably more dapper than the saggy jogging suit he’d worn over the weekend. She had to admit he’d cleaned up nicely. Very nicely.
He offered a brusque nod. “You can see him whenever it’s convenient.”
“My last class ends at six. I could be at your place by half-past.” When another curt nod indicated the timing was acceptable, C.J. broached a more sensitive subject. “What does Lissa think of this arrangement?”
With a pained shrug, he shifted to avoid her gaze. “Lissa loves Rags. She will do what is best for him.”
As he reached for the doorknob, C.J. touched his wrist. Her fingertips brushed bare skin, tingled at a tickle of soft hair. “Thank you,” she whispered.
His eyes darkened, black pupils expanding inside a ring of soft heather sage. For a long moment he said nothing, simply stared with an intensity that left her breathless. Then he blinked, nodded, opened the door and was gone.
C.J. stood there, vaguely aware that her knees were trembling. She touched her mouth, transferred the tingling from her fingertips to her lips. In a sense, it was their very first kiss. It would not, she decided, be their last.
Woman-and-dog reunion part deux was every bit as exuberant and joyful as the first had been. Rags shot out the front door barking madly, leapt into C.J.’s arms and covered her face with familiar wet kisses. C.J. laughed and sputtered, hugged his wriggling body so tightly it was a wonder the poor animal’s eyes didn’t bulge.
Richard Matthews watched from the open doorway with a peculiar look on his face, while his clearly heartbroken daughter stared through the front window with wide and haunting eyes. The image was pitifully sad and sobering.
C.J. gave Rags another hug, then whispered, “Go get your Frisbee.” The dog leapt down, dashed between Richard’s legs and disappeared into the house. Although C.J. spoke to Richard, she couldn’t take her eyes off the tearful child in the window. “I thought I’d take him for a run in the park, if that’s all right.”
“That’s fine,” Richard murmured, but C.J. wasn’t listening. She was mesmerized by Lissa’s pale face, the small, quivering mouth and eyes filled with yearning for a childhood denied her.
Just as childhood had once been denied another young girl. Images of the past marched through her memory, a thoughtful reflection of that other lonely youngster who’d watched from a sickroom window as her father and siblings played ball in the front yard. She remembered the pain, the longing, the resentment that festered into fury. She remembered the rage, the uncontrollable anger lashing out at those she’d loved the most.
Most of all, she remembered the loneliness.
Because C.J.’s own childhood, like little Lissa’s, had been one of isolation, medication and excessive parental protection. It had been a loving prison, but a prison nonetheless, and she’d spent her adult years overcoming—some would say overcompensating for all those lonely years and lost adventures.
Now C.J. saw herself in the reflection of the sad child behind the window. She understood how it felt to read terror in a parent’s eyes, to be shunned by other children. To be different.
She knew, she understood and her heart broke for that lonely little girl. And for this one.
“It is an outrage.” Clearly furious, Thompson McCade tapped the bowl of his pipe on a crystal ashtray. “You disappoint me, Richard.”
“I did what was necessary.”
“Necessary?” The imposing man strode across the room, seated himself in the extravagant recliner that he’d claimed as his own, and bit down on the stem of the unlit pipe so hard his teeth clicked. He fumed a moment before removing the pipe and cradling the unlit bowl in his palm. “Since when is it necessary to put the superficial desires of a stranger above the needs of your own child? Allissa is devastated by your callous disregard of her feelings, Richard, and quite frankly, so am I. Melinda would be horrified—”
“That’s enough,” Richard said quietly, although his jaw twitched in warning.
A vein pulsed on McCade’s forehead. “How dare you speak to me like that? Melinda was my daughter, my only child—”
“She was my wife.” With some effort, Richard unfurled his fisted fingers, reminded himself that his daughter was in the kitchen with her grandmother, close enough to overhear. He lowered his voice. “I’ve asked you before, and I’m asking you again to refrain from using Lissa’s mother as a club with which to beat me into submission each and every time we have a disagreement. I’m perfectly willing to listen to your opinions, Thompson, but Lissa is my daughter, and I will make the final decision as to what is or is not in her best interest.”
A flush of red fury crawled from McCade’s beefy neck to a face flexing with indignation. He was an impressive man, barrel-chested and large in stature, with a thick shock of gunmetal gray hair and a bulbous nose that would have been clownish if not for the piercing, pitiless intensity of eyes that demanded respect, but rarely bestowed it. Thompson McCade was not accustomed to argument. He was a man to be reckoned with, ruthless, relentless and powerful.
He was also a royal pain in the butt.
“I’ve made my decision,” Richard repeated calmly. “Either Lissa learns to share her pet, or she’ll have to give him up entirely. The choice is hers.”
“That is grossly unfair.” McCade’s face darkened to a worrisome purple. “I won’t allow it.”
Richard heaved a weary shrug, chose not to point out that when it came to this home and this family, McCade was not in a position to allow or disallow anything. The older man clearly understood that, although ego prevented him from acknowledging any limitation of the power upon which his entire self-image had been built.
So Richard let his father-in-law sputter and rant without contradiction. He didn’t agree with the man’s point of view, but he didn’t exactly disagree with it, either.
In truth, Richard didn’t care for the current situation any more than McCade. He loved his daughter dearly, understood how wounded she was by her pet’s affection for the athletic blonde with a pocket full of dog biscuits and a boisterous laugh that McCade would most certainly label as bohemian. Richard hated to see his child so unhappy, but he certainly couldn’t disregard the needs of a helpless animal. It wasn’t Rags’s fault that Lissa was overindulged and selfish. In a sense, it wasn’t Lissa’s fault, either. Richard blamed himself.
“Daddy?”
Richard blinked, turned just as Lissa scampered from the kitchen to clamber into her grandfather’s lap.
She beamed hopefully. “Do I get Rags back, Daddy, do I, huh, do I?”
From the corner of his eye he saw Sarah McCade hovering shyly in the kitchen doorway, wringing her wrinkled hands. “Of course you get Rags back, punkin, just as soon as Ms. Moray returns from the park.”
“Then I won’t ever have to share him again, right, Daddy?”
Richard sighed as McCade’s eyes narrowed in warning. “We’ve already been through this, Lissa. Ms. Moray will be visiting with Rags two evenings a week, and have him all day Saturday.”
Horrified, the child spun on her grandfather’s lap. “But you promised, Gramps, you promised that you’d make Daddy give me my dog back.”
To Richard’s surprise, Sarah McCade, who rarely said anything beyond “good morning,” and even then felt guilty about verbalizing the observation, suddenly stepped forward. “Sweetheart, we talked about this in the kitchen. You don’t want your doggy to be sad or sick, do you?”
The child’s chin jutted stubbornly. Tears leaked from her eyes. “Gramps promised.” A small wheeze, then a louder one followed by an interminable, rasping gasp.
Richard nearly moaned aloud.
“Look what you’ve done,” McCade boomed. “Now she’s having an attack. Sarah, get the child’s medication.”
The woman hovered frantically before dashing off to do her husband’s bidding. She’d barely left the room when her gasping granddaughter glimpsed a familiar form dashing across the front yard. “Rags!” the child shouted, then leapt from her grandfather’s lap and shot across the room, her asthma attack instantly and miraculously abated. She yanked open the front door, clapping gleefully. “Rags, Rags!”
The animal literally flew through the door,. greeted Lissa with a series of joyous kisses, then dashed into the kitchen. Lissa ran after him, nearly knocking into her bewildered grandmother, who’d just emerged clutching the child’s inhaler.
Richard stood, offered his mother-in-law a thin smile. “Thank you, Sarah, but apparently Lissa is feeling much better now.”
On cue, Lissa leaned out of the doorway with an exploding grin. “Rags is eating, Daddy, he’s gobbling up everything in his dish!”
“That’s nice, punkin,” Richard murmured, distracted by the breathless woman hovering in the doorway with a grass-stained Frisbee clutched in one hand. He took a step toward her, jerked to a stop as Sarah McCade hurried past, gushing.
“You must be Ms. Moray,” she murmured, pumping the startled woman’s free hand. “I’m so happy to meet you. I’m Lissa’s grandmother—”
“Sarah!” McCade boomed.
The woman flushed, fell silent, backed away clasping her hands as McCade studied C. J. Moray with undisguised contempt. “So you’re the one.” There was no mistaking the disdain in his voice.
To her credit, C.J. cocked her head as though sizing the older man up, then offered a smile that was somehow sincere and cautious at the same time. “You must be Lissa’s grandfather. I’m pleased to meet you.”
Richard stepped between them before McCade could say something even more blatantly rude. Cupping C.J.’s elbow, he ushered her to the porch. “I’m sorry about that. I wish I could tell you that beneath that gruff exterior beats a heart of gold, but the only thing beneath that gruff exterior is a gruff interior.”
Her laugh was soft, smoky. Enticing. “I understand.”
For some odd reason, he believed her. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For everything.” He was mesmerized by her smile, hypnotized by the amused sparkle in her dark eyes. This was without doubt the most intoxicating woman he’d ever laid eyes on. She was also the most perceptive, a thought that was soon to be proven yet again as she gazed past his shoulder.
The sparkle drained from her eyes, replaced by a tender warmth that was, oddly enough, even more alluring. “Hello, Lissa. It’s nice to see you again.”
With some effort Richard followed her gaze, saw his daughter on the porch looking sullen and angry. She jerked a thumb at the Frisbee C.J. held. “Leave that here,” she commanded. “It belongs to Rags.”
Still smiling, C.J. held the Frisbee out until Lissa stomped down the steps to retrieve it. “Is Rags the first dog you’ve owned?”
Lissa paused, issued a sharp nod that was more an expression of annoyance than agreement.
“Pets can be difficult, can’t they?” Lowering herself, C.J. sat on her heels so her face and the child’s were on the same level. “Having a dog is kind of like having a naughty child and an irritating kid brother all at the same time. Except, of course, my irritating kid brother never drank out of the toilet. At least, I don’t think so. He was pretty weird.”
Despite an obvious intent to remain angry, Lissa couldn’t prevent a smile from tweaking the corners of her tightly clamped mouth. “Do you have lots of brothers?”
“Two, one older than me and one younger. I also have two older sisters.”
“You musta had lots of fun playing and stuff.”
“Yes, we had fun. Sometimes we hurt each other’s feelings and made each other mad, but we never really meant to.” She paused a beat before adding, “Just like Rags never meant to hurt your feelings or make you mad. He loves you very much.”
The child’s lip quivered. “Then how come he wants to go play with you?”
“Because he loves me, too. Dogs have room in their hearts to love lots of people.”
“Uh-uh.” A look of disbelief.
“It’s true, cross my heart.” She drew an invisible X on her chest, flashed a dazzling smile. “You love Rags, don’t you?”
Lissa sniffed, nodded.
“And you love your daddy, too, just like you love your grandpa and your grandma?” C.J. waited for the child’s limp shrug. “How would you feel if someone told you that you had to choose only one of them to love, and you weren’t allowed to care about anyone else ever again?”
Another limp shrug. “Bad.”
“Of course you’d feel bad, but even more important, you wouldn’t be able to do it.” C.J. hesitated, then took the child’s hand, sandwiched it between her own palms. “You couldn’t stop loving your daddy or your grandparents just because someone told you to, and Rags can’t stop caring about me, either, but that doesn’t mean he loves you any less.”
To Richard’s astonishment, Lissa bent to whisper something in C.J.’s ear. The child smiled, then laughed. A moment later the two females were giggling madly, whispering like old chums. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he wouldn’t have believed it. His sullen, selfish child was engrossed in clearly joyful conversation with the very same woman she’d demonized only moments ago.
C.J. stood suddenly, skimmed a glance at Richard. “Rags and I are taking a nature hike on Saturday. Would it be all right if Lissa came along? You’re welcome, too, of course.”
“Please, Daddy? I wanna go, I really, really do. Please?”
Richard’s initial instinct was to refuse. Outings with Lissa were difficult, tension-filled affairs that must be tediously prepared for with medical precision. Still, there was something fascinating about C. J. Moray, her vibrancy and infectious zest for life, the ease with which she’d transformed his sulking daughter into a happy, hopeful child.
“Absolutely not!” Thompson McCade loomed in the doorway, red faced and furious. “I will not have my granddaughter traipsing through muck and mud until her lungs explode. I will not allow it.”
All doubts dissipated instantly. If McCade was dead set against something, then Richard was dead set in favor of it. He met his father-in-law’s angry stare with one of cold determination, but it was C.J. to whom he spoke. “What time Saturday?”
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/diana-whitney/one-man-s-promise/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.