Muriel Jensen - Man With A Message

Momentarily blinded and unable to move, she felt a cold chill as she heard a menacing growl just above her.

“Fred!” Trent shouted. “Down! Now!”

She heard the dog’s claws connect with the hardwood floor.

Fred? Cameron Trent had been viciously attacked by a dog named…Fred?

CAM WAS SURE HE WAS hallucinating. First of all, there was a woman in his bedroom, and that hadn’t happened in a long time. Second, she appeared to be an avenging angel determined to rescue him from Fred’s morning wake-up ritual. An angel he’d rescued himself just last night. Only, she hadn’t reacted like much of an angel.

It took a moment before he realized her determination to save him included hitting his dog with a leather purse that resembled something Evander Holyfield would hang from the ceiling and beat with boxing gloves. And then he reached up and caught her foot.

She plopped down in the middle of his mattress, skirt halfway up her legs, one shoe off, the other dangling from her toe. He experienced a sudden visceral need to put his hand to the back of her thigh and explore upward.

Fortunately—or unfortunately—his foster parents’ civilizing influence had taken root in him and he simply freed her ankle and got to his feet. Then, remembering he was wearing only white cotton briefs, he wrapped an old brown blanket around his waist as she rolled over.

She wasn’t happy.

He wasn’t surprised.

For an instant he simply absorbed the steamy look of her in his bed. She wore another long-sleeved silky blouse, pale blue this time, and another long skirt—black. Her hair was in a tight knot at the back of her head; her cheeks were flushed from exertion.

Nothing about her should have been seductive, but there she was amid his rumpled bedclothes, knees bared, one tendril of dark hair falling from her right temple. Her eyes smoldered.

He concluded that expression was probably fueled by anger or embarrassment, but what it contributed to the picture she made was powerful. He wanted her. Badly.

But what was she doing here?

Fred, standing near the edge of the bed, leaned a long neck and tongue forward and slurped her bare knee.

She shrank back with a little cry.

“Fred!” Cam caught the dog’s collar and made him sit. Fred complied, apparently totally affronted.

“I’m sorry,” Cam said quickly as Mariah looked around herself, her cheeks growing rosy. So it was embarrassment. “I know that appeared brutal, but it’s a game we play. Fred’s just seven months old and very frisky. The snarling and teeth flashing are phony. He’s just trying to get me up for breakfast.”

She drew a deep breath and something inside her seemed to collapse. He wasn’t sure what that meant, but he didn’t like the look of it. Her eyes lost their smolder and filled with the sadness he’d seen in them last night.

Instinctively, he reached for her waist to pluck her off the bed and stand her on the floor. In her stocking feet, she barely skimmed his shoulder. “I appreciate the rescue, though,” he said, his hands still on her. “I’ll bet that purse packs a wallop.”

She put her hands on his and removed them from her waist. “Where is my purse?” she asked stiffly.

It had gone over the side of the bed when she’d fallen. He went to retrieve it for her. It weighed a ton.

When he came back with it, she was hunting for her second shoe. Then she looked beyond him and gasped. Fred, whom he’d lost track of when he’d scooped her off the bed, had it in his teeth.

“Fred, give me that shoe!” she demanded, going toward the dog with a hand outstretched.

“Mariah…” Cam began to caution, but he was too late. The dog had darted off toward the living room, tail wagging, and Mariah went in pursuit.

Cam followed, catching up with them in the kitchen. Mariah had one end of the shoe and Fred the other. This could not end well.

“Mariah, don’t pull!” he ordered. Then to the dog, he said in the authoritative tone he’d learned in obedience class, “Fred, give!”

It never worked in class, either. Fred was an independent thinker.

Cam finally grabbed the dog around the jaw and pried the shoe from his teeth. There was a small tooth hole in the side of the black leather flat, and slobber on the toe. He wiped it off with the tail of the blanket wrapped around him and handed the shoe to her.

She snatched it from him and slipped it on, the smolder back in her eyes. “Thank you!” she snapped. “I came here in an attempt to be a thoughtful human being, and thanks to you and Mr. Astaire here—” she pointed in the direction of the dog “—or is it Flintstone? Regardless, I’ve been harassed and embarrassed!”

“I’m sorry you were embarrassed,” he said reasonably, “but I didn’t expect visitors this morning.”

“Then you should have locked your door.” She marched back to the bedroom, where she’d left her purse. “I thought you were being killed!”

He tried to placate her with “You were very heroic.”

“No, I was mistaken.” She made that correction grimly as she shouldered her purse.

“Is that such a terrible thing?” he asked quietly. “Or is it just that making mistakes is new to you?”

She blew air scornfully. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes. But I’m trying to change the pattern.”

Fred had followed them back to the bedroom and she leaned down to stroke the dog’s head. He reacted with his customary enthusiasm and was about to lick her face.

Cam caught him before he could connect, but Mariah surprised him by leaning down to take one of Fred’s kisses, then laughing as she nuzzled his face with her own.

“It’s okay, Fred,” she said. “I know you didn’t mean any harm. I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

Cam, now completely confused about her—and just as captivated—asked innocently, “Aren’t you sorry you yelled at me?”

HE WAS GORGEOUS NOW THAT she observed him with all her faculties at work. She hadn’t appreciated the width of his shoulders last night, the odd gold color of his eyes. His good looks weren’t a feature-by-feature thing but rather a whole impression made by confidence and humor playing in the rough angles.

She frowned and folded her arms. “Did I yell at you?”

He pretended hurt feelings in a theatrically dramatic sniff. “Yes, you yelled at me. You blamed me for what you called your ‘embarrassment,’ and here I was the one wearing nothing but my skivvies when you burst in. And in danger of being puppy chow, if you’ll recall.”

She wanted to laugh. Nothing made her laugh these days—except children and dogs. “You assured me you were in no danger.”

He folded his arms over that formidable chest and looked away in a gesture of emotional delicacy. “Because I didn’t want you to risk yourself further on my behalf.”

She still managed to keep a straight face. “Well, I appreciate that. I have to go.”

She headed for the door again, but he caught her halfway across the living room and turned her around. His hand was warm and strong and stopped her cold though he applied no pressure.

“What was the thoughtful reason you came?” he asked. There was something urgent in his eyes.

“Oh.” She sighed, realizing she’d never offered her apology. “I forgot.” She angled her chin, hoping to put him off by appearing haughty. Men usually hated that. And she did not want to be attracted to this one. “I came to apologize for slapping you last night. I was…” What was it she had rehearsed? He was gazing into her eyes and she couldn’t remember. “I was sort of dreaming and you…and I…” She stopped, hating that she was stammering like a twit. She squared her shoulders and tried to go on. “When I woke up, I thought you were…” She did everything humanly possible to avoid completing that sentence, avoid uttering the word that dangled unspoken.