LITMIR.BIZ

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sputtered as the shaggy, smelly furball knocked him to his back and pinned him there, then held him down with his canine teeth hovering dangerously close to his juggler.

      Carrie shot to her feet with a scream and bumped the bottle of champagne, which toppled over and spilled down the front of Nathan’s trousers.

      After one huge lick, the dog lost interest in Nathan’s throat. Still straddling him like a WWF wrestler applying a half nelson, the moplike monster alternately slurped at the champagne-soaked blanket and snarfed up the scattered crackers and cheese while his hind feet mutilated the grapes and ground caviar into Nathan’s pant legs.

      “Oh my God,” Carrie wailed…and finally recognized the dog. “Oh. My. God,” she repeated, her shock shifting to fury as she whipped her head around to find the Newfoundland’s owner, who, she’d known, wouldn’t be very far behind.

      Sure enough, Ryan Evans burst out of the trees at a slow jog, an appropriately appalled and apologetic look creasing his brow.

      “I can’t believe this,” she ground out as he trotted toward her, a leash in one hand, an empty dog collar in the other.

      He stopped short, a little out of breath, as if he’d been giving chase, and gave her a helpless look.“Man, I can’t, either. That sucker threw his collar slicker than an oil spill.”

      Yeah, right. How neatly coincidental that a dog whose idea of exercise was licking his food bowl, would tug on a leash so hard that he’d break free.

      If rage had a tangible form, it would be a cement block and she would be breaking it over Ry’s interfering head. “Get Shamu-the-killer-whale dog off him this instant!” she demanded.

      Ry was already moving toward the dog, tugging and coaxing—and not very convincingly, she thought—him off Nathan.

      Carrie was so mad she couldn’t see anything but red. Couldn’t hear anything but bits and snippets of Ry’s aw-shucks apologies and “Here, let me help you up, Nelson,” and “Gee, so sorry about the mess,” and “Whoa…that’s really gonna stain, huh?” And the ever popular “You’re all wet, man. You’d better head home and out of those pants before you catch a chill.”

      It was all over but for the venomous looks that Nathan threw Ryan as he struggled to his feet. He slanted Carrie a glare, gathered up his blanket and basket and stomped off toward the parking lot and his car.

      Several long, humiliating moments passed as she stood there, peripherally aware of Shamu snuffling around for the last of the cracker crumbs and tidbits of cheese while Ry tried to wrestle him into his collar.

      “You, uh, okay?” Ry finally asked.

      She followed Nathan’s car with her gaze until it disappeared from sight, then slowly turned her attention to the one-man romance wrecker and his four-legged accomplice. “Do I look like I’m okay?”

      Five

      What she looked like, Ry thought, was a woman on the verge. Possibly of murder.

      He wasn’t scared.

      Much.

      But he was pretty pleased with himself. His timing could have been a little better, though. That creep had had his hands all over her, his tongue jammed down her throat by the time Ry had found them, skirted around to the edge of the woods and let Shamu loose with a heartfelt command to “Kill.”

      Of course Shamu wouldn’t kill a toad, so Beldon had never been in any real danger, but the big hairy lummox dearly loved a picnic so Ry had figured it was a pretty good plan. All in all it was—if you didn’t count the look on Carrie’s face right now.

      He could take her anger. He couldn’t take her misery. And she was a riled-up mixture of both.

      Guilt gradually took the satisfaction out of his victory. Uneasy, he scratched his jaw and tried to figure out where to go from here.

      Here was the dilemma. If he offered her a ride home, she’d tell him to go to hell and walk the twenty blocks back to her house. If he said a quick goodbye, he’d up her anger to the boiling point, but she’d probably demand he give her a ride home.

      He opted for effect.

      “Well…see ya,” he said, and with a firm grip on Shamu, who was now panting in doggie adoration at Carrie, turned to go.

      He got all of five steps before her clipped, incensed question stopped him.

      “That’s it? You ruin my Valentine’s Day and all you’ve got to say is ‘See ya?”’

      He stopped, turned and pretended to consider. “Let me think. Panic. Disorder. Chaos. Yep. I’d say my work here is pretty much done.”

      His admission of sabotage threw her for all of about two seconds. It threw him, too. He hadn’t meant to own up to it…but she looked so miserable standing there, and while he didn’t feel any guilt where Beldon was concerned, he hated to see his little Carrie-bear unhappy.

      “Why are you doing this to me?” she wailed, her fists clenched against her long coltish legs that were covered in snug, faded denim. And she literally shook with outrage; her cheeks had turned pink from the cold and embarrassment. Her hazel eyes were as big as dinner plates and misty with unshed tears.

      Oh, damn. Please, don’t let her cry. He couldn’t stand it if she cried.

      He compressed his lips, looked from her to his feet and shook his head. He couldn’t do this anymore. He had to explain. Maybe if he were able to convince her that Beldon was bad news—even though he didn’t know it for a fact—she’d come around.

      “Come on, bear,” he said softly. “I’ll take you home. We’ll talk.”

      She shot him a fierce glower, heaved a defeated breath then stomped past him toward his SUV. Without a word she jerked open the passenger door and climbed in.

      She was sitting there, her arms crossed tightly over her breasts, glaring out the window when he let Shamu into the back then climbed behind the wheel.

      He sat there for a moment, trying to figure out how to breach the tense silence when she very quietly said, “Save it, cowboy. Just drive.”

      The threat was implicit. If he opened his mouth, the only thing that was probably going to come out of it was a couple of teeth when she busted his chops. He’d seen her in action. For a girl she had a helluva right hook—in her teens, she’d used it on Trav once or twice when his teasing had stirred her into a stew pot full of temper.

      She was beyond riled at the moment and working her way toward a full-blown snit. He’d drawn a few broncs in his rodeo days sporting the same kind of attitude she was nursing right now. They’d slam-dunked him into the dirt like he’d been a wet noodle. He’d lived to ride again…but just barely.

      He cleared his throat, turned the ignition and, opting for wisdom over valor, he did exactly what the lady had said. He kept his mouth shut and he drove.

      “Inside. Now,” Carrie ordered when Ry pulled up in front of her house fifteen minutes later after a very silent ride.

      “Yes, ma’am,” he said obediently, told Shamu to “Chill for a few minutes” and quietly followed her to her front door.

      She could feel his eyes on her as she led the way up her front walk. She hoped he enjoyed the view because he wasn’t going to be seeing it again anytime soon.

      After unlocking the front door, she swung it open and, with a lift of her hand, indicated he should precede her inside. Compliant to a fault, he eased past her…then stood in the middle of her living room, hands on his hips, Resistol tugged low over his brow and waited…looking for all the world like an ad for pro rodeo or Wrangler jeans or Texas tourism, she thought in disgust as she tossed her house keys on the foyer table.

      Damn him for being so gorgeous and so clever and so successful in his mission…whatever it was.

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