LITMIR.BIZ

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saw it coming. I pushed his hand away but our combined weight broke the door just as Samson lunged for the suspect. We all went over into an old elevator shaft. There was another struggle.” He stopped here, not ready to go into detail about his own wounds. “I managed to get a shot at the suspect. The suspect died and Samson suffered a broken hip.” He sat silent, then breathed deep again. “That was over three months ago. He’s doing pretty good—he does have a noticeable limp at times, if he’s been too active. He’s just not as alert and fast as he used to be. If we don’t get him back into shape, he’ll have to retire.”

      “I see.”

      She stood there, so quiet Clay wondered if she had a squeamish stomach. She looked pale, her wide lips drawn together. There was more to the story, but he wasn’t about to tell her that part. He was here to help Samson.

      “So what do we need to do now?” he finally asked.

      Freddie looked up at him, her eyes going wide. “Oh, well, of course you need to exercise him.” She flipped through the medical folder, then moved her hand down Samson’s right front leg. “This one, right?”

      Clay touched Samson on the head to steady the big dog. “You might need to muzzle him. He’s still sensitive there.”

      Freddie whispered something in Samson’s ear as she stroked his leg, then moved her fingers over his hip joint. “He seems to have healed up nicely. Some obvious signs of limping, you said?”

      “Not as often now. The vet in Atlanta did a great job. And we’ve been through several weeks of intense therapy already. You know, the cart—that wheelchairlike thing—a leg trolley, then water therapy and the treadmill.”

      “We’ll need to continue that,” she said, her gaze moving over Samson. “He seems in good spirits.”

      “He’s recovering slowly. But my supervisor isn’t ready to release him back on to full duty yet.” Or me, either, he thought.

      “So…you brought him here to get him back in tiptop shape?”

      Clay nodded, glanced out the big window off to the side. “I thought the sand and water might be good for him. We can run the beach, he can climb the dunes and bluffs. And Stone says we can use the pool at Hidden Hills so Samson can swim to improve his range of motion. We’re staying out there, watching the place while Stone is away on his honeymoon.”

      “I’d also suggest a Swiss ball and some dancing,” Freddie said with a grin aimed toward the dog.

      Clay smiled, too, relaxing again. “Okay. I’ll get Samson a Swiss ball and…I’ll take you dancing.”

      “Not me,” she replied, turning all business again by refusing to look at Clay. “Samson needs to dance.”

      “Oh.” Clay hoped he wasn’t blushing—he hadn’t done this much foot-in-the-mouth since high school. But he pressed on, determined in spite of his stupidity. “Well, Doc, how come he gets to dance and I don’t?”

      “You can dance with him,” she replied. “Here, I’ll show you.” She motioned for Samson to hop off the table, then held her hands in the air. “C’mon, boy.”

      At least Samson wasn’t stupid. He lifted up his two front legs, his big tongue flopping in an excited grin.

      “The trick is,” Freddie said as she gently held Samson’s paws, “to make him use his legs, to rebuild the muscles. Even though his front thigh and hip were damaged, he needs to stay strong all over. So we dance.”

      With that, she moved Samson around the small examining room, the dog’s thick hind claws tapping on the clean linoleum floor while Freddie’s sneakers squeaked in an answering rhythm. “That’s it. See, that’s not so bad, is it?”

      Clay stood back, amazed at how relaxed his dog was with this woman. Why couldn’t he relax like that, instead of making dumb comments?

      “You’re a very good dancer,” Freddie told Samson. The dog glanced around at Clay, as if to say “she likes me better than she does you.”

      Clay could see that without the dog pointing it out.

      Fredrica Hayes was a nice, accommodating veterinarian, a woman who obviously had a way with animals. She’d be great with Samson’s extended therapy and healing.

      But she obviously didn’t like men as much as she liked animals. Or maybe it was just him, Clay reasoned.

      Maybe she just didn’t like him.

      Which was a shame.

      He could use some healing, too.

      Chapter Three

      “I like him, but I don’t date cops.”

      Freddie saw the meaningful looks pass between the group of women she was having lunch with at Ana’s. She wished she hadn’t blurted that bit of information, but it was so nice to have other women with whom to share, she’d just relaxed her guard too much and let it slip. Living here on the island did that to a person. The whole town was laid-back and unhurried, carefree and pleasant. All the things she’d missed so much during her nine years of a hectic, chaotic marriage. A marriage that had sadly ended in tragedy and violence, because of her husband’s lifestyle.

      “Why don’t you date cops?” Tina asked with wide-eyed interest. “I mean, yum-yum. You know, a man in uniform.”

      “Yeah,” Charlotte added, her grin widening. “And Clay Dempsey is just adorable. In uniform, or in a tux. Did you see him at the wedding reception? He was so sweet, looking so nervous when he made the toast. Just a cutie-pie.”

      Ana smiled over at her co-workers. “Don’t you two have napkins to fold or something?”

      “Nope,” Tina said, shaking her head. “You do give us a lunch break, remember? And according to my watch, we have ten minutes left.” To emphasize that point, she popped another miniature chicken-salad puff pastry into her mouth.

      Jackie, Ana’s capable bookkeeper and hostess, came out onto the porch where they all sat. “Just booked us another one of those romantic Saturday-night private dinners, boss. What’d I miss?”

      “Freddie doesn’t date cops,” Tina explained, rolling her brown eyes. “Such a shame.”

      “Really?” Jackie sank down on one of the bistro chairs. It was midafternoon, so the tearoom was empty for now. A cool breeze ruffled the red geraniums filling several pots on the long, inviting front porch where they had gathered. “Hey, Clay Dempsey is a cop, right?”

      “Right,” Charlotte said, nodding. “And he’s been flirting with Freddie.”

      “I didn’t say he’s been flirting,” Freddie responded, wishing again she’d never brought Clay Dempsey’s name into the conversation. “I was just telling Ana that he’s…you know, made pointed remarks…to me.”

      “Suggestive remarks?”

      Freddie shook her head at Ana’s question. “No. He’s, well, he is a sweetie. It’s rather endearing, really. He blurts out things, then freezes in a kind of nervous, self-conscious way.”

      “He’s interested,” Charlotte confirmed with a toss of her curls. “Yup, he’s sure interested, all right.”

      “And you know this because…?” Jackie asked, her eyebrows lifting.

      “Because I went to school with Clay. We graduated from high school together. And…he never flirted with me. Clay was the quiet Dempsey, always trying to please everyone around him. He worked hard at school and played hard at all kinds of sports and vowed the whole time that he was leaving this island for the big city. He always wanted to be a policeman.” She tapped her finger on the table. “But now he’s back and he’s…flirting. Clay never flirted unless he was serious. He had to get up his nerve. Yup, he’s interested,” she said again, her tapping picking up its tempo.

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