The Cop, the Puppy and Me. Cara Colter
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sharpness of tone, his appearance in her yard, his appearance, period, and her feeling of being unbalanced grew.
She’d been totally engrossed in wresting the rhubarb from the ground. Which was what she needed from her house, her yard, her garden and her work.
There was always something that needed to be done, the hard work unending. But her total focus on what she’d been doing had left her vulnerable. Though Sarah suspected that even if you had been expecting this man, had laid out tea things and put on a presentable dress, the feeling you would have when you experienced the rawness of his presence would be one of vulnerability.
The grainy video she had seen—along with millions of other people—had not really prepared her for the reality of him. Though she had already figured out from her unanswered calls that he was not exactly going to be the kind of guy the heroic rescue of a drowning puppy had her wanting him to be.
From thirty seconds of film, from him ripping off his shirt and jumping into the icy water just past where the Kettle River ran under the bridge in downtown Kettle Bend, to lying on the bank after, the pup snuggled into the pebbled flesh of his naked chest, she had jumped to conclusions.
He was courageous. That much was in his eyes. A man afraid of nothing.
But she had thought—a man willing to risk his life for a dog, after all—that he would be gentle and warm.
If his message on his voice mail had been a touch abrupt, she had managed to dismiss that as part of his professional demeanor. But then the fact that he had not returned her increasingly desperate calls?
And now he had been downright rude to her.
Plus, there was nothing warm in those dark eyes. They were cool, assessing. There was a wall so high in them it would be easier to scale Everest.
Sarah felt a quiver of doubt. The reality of Oliver Sullivan versus the fantasy she had been nursing since she had first seen the clip of him did not bode well for her plan, unless he could be tamed, and from looking at him that seemed highly unlikely!
Sullivan was dressed casually, dark denims, a forest-green T-shirt that molded the fullness of his chest, the hard mounds of firm biceps. A hundred other guys in Kettle Bend were wearing the same thing today, but she bet none of them radiated the raw potency that practically shivered in the spring sunshine around him.
He looked like a warrior wearing the disguise of a more civilized man.
He was one of those men who radiated a subtle confidence in his own strength, in his ability to handle whatever came up. It was as if he was ready and waiting for all hell to break loose.
Which was so utterly at odds with the atmosphere in her garden that it might have made her smile, except there was something about the stripping intensity of his expression that made her gulp instead.
Despite astonishing good looks, he had the expression of a man unutterably world-weary, a man who expected the absolute worst from people, and was rarely disappointed.
Still, he was unnervingly good-looking. If she could talk him into doing some TV interviews, the camera would love his dark, chocolate hair, short and neat, slashing brows over eyes so dark brown they could have been mistaken for black. He had a strong nose, good cheekbones, wide sensual lips and a devilish little cleft in his chin.
She could not allow herself the luxury of being intimidated by him.
She just couldn’t.
Kettle Bend needed him.
Not that she wanted to be thinking of him in the same sentence as the word need.
Because he was the kind of man who made a woman aware of things—needs—she was sure she had laid to rest.
He was the kind of man whose masculinity was so potent it could make a woman ache for things she had once had, and had no longer. Fevered kisses. Strong arms. Laughter in the night.
He was the kind of man who could almost make a woman entirely forget the terrible price, the pain that you could invite by looking for those things.
Sarah McDougall didn’t need anyone looking out for her, thank you very much! It was one of the things she prided herself on.
Fierce independence.
Not needing anyone. Not anymore. Not ever again.
Inheriting this house, and her grandmother’s business, Jelly Jeans and Jammies, had allowed her that.
She could not back down from him! So, with more confidence than she felt, in defiance of his hostility, she whipped the gardening glove off her hand, wiped it on her shorts just in case, and extended it to him.
Then she held her breath waiting to see if he would take it.
CHAPTER TWO
OFFICER Oliver Sullivan looked at Sarah’s extended hand, clearly annoyed at her effort to make some kind of contact with him.
She knew he debated just walking away now that he had delivered his unfriendly message.
But he didn’t. With palpable reluctance, he accepted her hand, and his shake was brief and hard. She kept her face impassive at the jolt that surged, instantaneously, from her fingertips to her elbow. It would be easy to think of rough whiskers scraping a soft cheek, the smell of skin out of the shower.
Easy, too, to feel the tiniest little thrill that her life had had this unexpected moment thrust into it.
Sarah reminded herself, sternly, that her life was full and rich and complete.
She had inherited her grandmother’s house in this postcard-pretty town. With it had come a business that provided her a livelihood and that had pulled her back from the brink of despair when her engagement had ended.
Kettle Bend had given her something she had not thought she would ever have again, and that she now could appreciate as that rarest of commodities: contentment.
Okay, in her more honest moments, Sarah knew it was not complete contentment. Sometimes, she felt a little stir of restlessness, a longing for her old life. Not her romance with Michael Talbot. No, sir, she was so over her fiancé’s betrayal of her trust, so over him.
No, it was elements of her old life as a writer on the popular New York–based Today’s Baby magazine that created that nebulous longing, that called to her. She had regularly met and interviewed new celebrity moms and dads, been invited to glamorous events, been a sought-after guest at store openings and other events. She had loved being creative.
A man like the one who stood in front of her posed a danger. He could turn a small longing for something—excitement, fulfillment—into a complete catastrophe.
Sarah reminded herself, sternly and firmly, that she had already found a solution for her nebulous longings; she was going to chase away her restlessness with a new challenge, a huge one that would occupy her completely. Her new commitment was going to be to the little community that was fading around her.
Her newfound efforts at contentment relied on getting this town back to the way she remembered it being during her childhood summers spent here: vital, the streets overflowing with seasonal visitors, a feeling of endless summer, a hopeful vibrancy in the air.
So, handshake completed, Sarah crossed her arms over her chest, a thin defense against some dark promise—or maybe threat—that swirled like electricity in the air around him.
She wanted him to think she was not rattled.
“I have a great plan for Kettle Bend,” she told him. She had interviewed some of the most sought-after people in the world. She would not be intimidated by him. “And you can help make it happen.”
He regarded her long and hard, and then the tiniest of smiles tickled the corner of that sinfully sensuous mouth.
She thought she had him. Then …
“No,” he