LITMIR.BIZ

      A special thank-you to my proofreader, Danielle, whose sharp eyes and attention to detail are invaluable.

      ONE

      For we walk by faith, not by sight.

      —II Corinthians, 5:7

      “Hey, doll face.”

      It was a nickname—and a voice—Angela London had never wanted to hear again. She searched the crowd for the man who had betrayed her. There he was leaning against the wall near a drinking fountain, looking as though he belonged—which he didn’t. Looking as though he could be one of the businessmen leaving the monthly luncheon for the chamber of commerce—which he wasn’t. Any business he had would be on the shady side of the law.

      Tommy Manderoll was dead last on any list of people she wanted to see. Smiling as though he were welcome, he started toward her.

      “Angela,” a woman said, coming to a stop next to her. “Thanks so much for your talk. The work you’re doing is so needed. Wonderful, really.” She patted Polly, wearing her service-dog-in-training vest and sitting at Angela’s feet, then pressed a check into her hand. “You’re making such a difference with Guardian Paws.”

      “I hope so.” She glanced down at the check, the donation beyond generous. “Thank you. You’re sure you wouldn’t rather put this in the prepaid envelope that was in your packet?”

      She shook her head. “I’m giving that to my boss.” The woman squeezed her arm and moved away.

      “You are the woman of the hour,” Tommy said, coming to a stop in front of her, adjusting his tie in a gesture of preening that was second nature to him. “The outfit almost goes with the dog.”

      There wasn’t a single thing wrong with the taupe, tailored, below-the-knee skirt and knit twinset she was wearing, but she still took the statement as an insult. This was the new Angela London, the one who didn’t like men like Tommy Manderoll and who didn’t wear the flashy clothes that attracted them.

      She was prevented from answering when a deep voice inquired, “Miss London?”

      The vaguely familiar-looking man who approached her was tall, with broad shoulders and a chiseled face that would have been perfect in a razor commercial. He offered his hand. She automatically took it and had the fleeting thought that his smile was meant only for her as his broad palm enveloped her smaller hand.

      “Being here today was an answer to a prayer,” he said. “But you probably hear that all the time. I’m Brian Ramsey.”

      “Nice to meet you.” The name, like his face, was familiar, though she couldn’t have said from where. Probably thirtysomething, though his eyes seemed older somehow. The niggle that she should know him, or at least know of him, didn’t go away as she took in his aura of confidence and the superb fit of his sports coat.

      “I need a dog.” An indefinable expression chased across his face, and he took a breath before asking, “When would be a good time to call you?”

      “That’s something I’d like to know, too,” Tommy interrupted. “Miss London, when would be a good time to call?”

      Angela looked from Brian to her ex-boyfriend, the man she had never wanted to see again.

      “I’m sorry,” Brian said. “I’ve caught you at a bad time—”

      “No.” Angela touched the back of his hand when he would have walked away. She swallowed against the giddy feeling that heated her cheeks when his tawny, golden-brown gaze settled on her face. “Do you have a card so I can call you?”

      “Sure.” Shifting his wool top coat to the other arm, he retrieved a slim wallet from his navy sports coat and pulled out a card. “I look forward to hearing from you.” Then, glancing down at Polly, he asked, “What kind of dog is she?”

      “Since she was adopted from the pound when she was six months old, it’s hard to know for sure. She’s certainly got some golden retriever in her and probably some shepherd.”

      “She looks just about perfect.”

      “Thanks. I think she is.” Angela grinned.

      As if reluctant to leave, Brian took one step away, then turned back. “You will call, won’t you?”

      “By tomorrow morning at the latest,” she promised.

      He nodded once, then strode down the hall, keeping her attention on him even as Tommy said, “Brian Ramsey is way out of your league. If you think a pro ballplayer, even a retired loser like him, would give you the time of day, you’re dead wrong.”

      Brian Ramsey certainly had the physique of an athlete, but since she didn’t follow sports, she had no idea what team he had played for.

      “So you’re into dogs now.” Tommy moved into her line of vision. “I would have never figured that.”

      “What do you want?” She finally looked at him, not caring how rude or blunt her question was. When Tommy crowded into her space, she moved back a step.

      He clucked his tongue. “Now is that any way to talk to an old friend?”

      “You’re no friend,” she said softly, “and I’m not sure you ever were.”

      “Don’t

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