Breakfast In Bed. Ruth Dale Jean
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His ears pointed toward the door, which was slightly ajar, then slicked back flat against his broad head. Flexing his claws into the tough fabric of her jeans, he arched up on tiptoe.
“What is it, boy?” She tried to distract him by rubbing his tummy, which usually worked but this time fell flat. “Do you hear something?” She couldn’t imagine how, over the swelling strings of the musical accompaniment to the sad tale of love and sacrifice unreeling on the television screen.
Every bright hair on the cat’s body stood on end. Brooke, more curious than alarmed, followed the path of his hostile glare.
“What is it, Gable?” She tried again to soothe him. “There’s nobody in the house but you and me—”
The door flew open with a resounding crash and Brooke stared at the creature standing there—a dog! A small, black-and-white, terrier-looking creature who seemed to be all fangs and claws. What in the world was a dog doing inside Glennhaven, the refuge of all creatures feline?
Gable, for one, wasn’t interested in hanging around to find out. With an awful screech, he bolted from Brooke’s lap. The sudden movement startled the little dog and he let out a yelp of alarm, quickly followed by a staccato yapping that scared the woman almost as much as the cat.
With a shriek of alarm, Brooke leapt to her feet. The terrier didn’t even seem to notice her, too intent upon poor Gable, hotfooting it across the room. The straightest path between dog and cat, unfortunately, led through Brooke. Without hesitation, the dog took it.
Brooke panicked. In her haste to escape, she leapt in the wrong direction and one of her feet came down on the dog’s paw. He let out a howl, which further unnerved her.
So did the deep and unfamiliar voice coming from the hall outside. “Larry? Larry, where are you, you miserable hound?”
The cat made it to the fireplace and, without pausing, leapt to the top of the broad mantelpiece. Once there, he turned to face his attacker. Gable’s normally placid face wore a savage expression and he arched his back like a Halloween cat.
The dog, Larry, gave one final indignant yelp and threw himself at the fireplace, plowing into the elaborate stained-glass screen. It tottered, then fell, shattering on the hearth. The dog took no notice, too busy flinging himself into the air, trying—and failing—to reach his furry orange target.
And he yipped, and he yapped, making so much racket that Brooke wanted to scream. Instead, she turned and ran toward the door. She needed a weapon: a broom, a mop, anything to drive off that horrible creature threatening Cora’s beloved Clark Gable.
Instead of finding help, she found herself face-to-face with a stranger. He looked as startled as she—and then she found herself in his arms, unable to halt her forward momentum.
He held her easily against his broad chest. A whiff of his faint, woodsy aftershave surprised her, as did the strength of his impersonal embrace. Then he stood her on her feet and looked at her with a slightly puzzled smile curving his lips.
While she... stared. He was gorgeous, from his thick, midnight-dark hair to golden-hazel eyes alight with intelligence and curiosity. There was strength in the high cheekbones and square jaw, but humor in the quirk of the lips and tilt of his eyebrows when he looked at her.
And then she realized that blasted dog was still yapping and trying to climb up the fireplace to kill Miss Cora’s innocent cat, who’d been minding his own business prior to this vicious and unprovoked attack.
“Is that your dog?” She almost gasped the words while pointing a trembling finger. “Make him stop!”
The handsome stranger frowned. “Yeah, what’s got him so worked up?” His gaze swung smoothly from Brooke to the barking dog, then up to the big orange cat hissing and spitting his fury from on high. He recoiled. “That’s a cat!”
“Well, yes, of course it’s a cat.” Brooke edged around until the tall stranger was between her and the animals. She’d face any cat anytime, anywhere, but dogs sent her into shock—even quiet ones, which this one certainly wasn’t.
“What’s a cat doing here?” the man demanded. His golden eyes narrowed. “For that matter, what are you doing here—not that I object, you understand.”
“I’m taking care of things until the new owner—” She stared at him while understanding dawned. “Oh, dear.”
“Exactly.” Smiling, he offered his hand. “I’m Garrett Jackson. And you must be... Brooke Hamilton?”
“Yes.” She touched his hand with hers, too lightly to be called a handshake. She hadn’t meant to be unfriendly but she felt a jolt of electricity at even that slight touch. Not too unusual in bone-dry Colorado, she assured herself; nothing to worry about. “Please,” she pleaded, “will you do something about that dog? I don’t think he can reach Gable but—”
“As in Clark?”
She nodded. “That barking is making a nervous wreck of me.”
Garrett shrugged. “Guess I’m used to him.” Kneeling, he snapped his fingers and spoke in a coaxing voice. “C’mon, Larry, old boy, come to papa.”
Larry didn’t do any such thing; in fact, after one derisive glance over his shoulder, he yipped louder.
“Larry! Get over here!” Garrett spoke firmly, pointing to the priceless Oriental rug upon which he knelt.
Larry didn’t even bother to look around this time, just kept trying to scramble up the fireplace stones.
“Damn!” Garrett rose to his feet. “What’s wrong with that mutt? He’s obnoxious but he’s never been this bad before.”
“Maybe that’s not Larry at all,” Brooke couldn’t stop herself from suggesting. “Maybe it’s his evil twin.”
Garrett laughed, little smile lines curving at the corners of his generous mouth. He was extraordinarily attractive when he smiled. Well, in all honesty, he was extraordinarily attractive when he didn’t smile.
“Very funny,” he admitted. “But I know how to handle him.”
“This I’ve got to see,” Brooke muttered dubiously. She glanced anxiously at Gable, who no longer seemed so much frightened as annoyed. In fact, he seemed as curious as she to discover what would happen next.
“You doubt me?” Garrett’s golden eyes narrowed speculatively. “You wouldn’t want to put your money where your mouth is, would you?”
“Huh?”
“Wanna bet?”
“Not a chance! I’m not a gambling woman.” Too true; Brooke didn’t take chances when she could avoid them. “All I want is for you to get that beast away from my cat.”
“Okay, okay, I can take a hint.” Stepping around her, he stuck his head into the hallway. He was wearing sky-blue shorts and a white T-shirt, with white leather sneakers. His body was as attractive as his face, which hardly seemed possible.
Or fair.
“Molly!” he called. “Will you come in here, honey?”
Brooke’s brows rose. “Wife? Girlfriend? Significant other?”
His grin broadened, became almost challenging. “Daughter.”
Brooke felt a little jolt of relief. “I see.”
“You don’t, but that’s okay.”
A small form appeared in the doorway and his smile became less predatory, more gentle. “There you are, sweetheart. Think you can call old Larry off the lady’s cat?”
The little girl nodded gravely, then looked at Brooke with solemn curiosity. “Hello,” she said. “My name is Molly Jackson.”
“My name is Brooke Hamilton. I’m pleased to meet you, Molly.”
“Thank