The Money Man. Carolyn McSparren

Mark announced from behind her.

      “Great, I’m starved.”

      “You want a glass of wine?”

      “Not when I’m officially still on call, and I do have to drive home.”

      Mark wanted to tell her that she didn’t have to drive anywhere—not on his account, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to suggest she stay. The moment they had shared seemed forgotten, as she casually accepted her pizza.

      Nasdaq sat at their feet expectantly, but when Mark pinched off a bit of pizza to offer it to her, Sarah put her hand over his. It felt incredibly warm. And insistent.

      “No, you don’t. She’s probably had too much food for her stomach as it is.”

      “So she’s going to throw up?”

      “Possibly, but I doubt it.”

      She was reaching for another piece of pizza when the telephone rang. “Oh, heck.” Sarah grabbed for her shoulder bag, dug into its depths and answered the phone. “Dr. Marsdon.”

      She listened for a moment, then said, “Okay, I’m on my way.” She clicked off the phone. “Well, Mr. Scott, you got your wish. We’re going to see whether we can make do with what we’ve got. We just had a client roll in with a walking horse with a bad case of colic. Dr. Grayson thinks we may have to do an emergency bowel resection. God, I wish I had that ultrasound!” She grabbed her purse. “Open your garage for me.”

      “Sure. But can’t Eleanor handle it?”

      “It’s a very complicated and delicate surgery, and recovery rates aren’t that good at the best of times. We may even need to call in Mac Thorn.” She knelt to rub the dog’s head. “Look after our girl. See you tomorrow.”

      Mark stood in the garage and watched her drive away. Nasdaq sat at his feet—no, on his feet. Rain had begun to spatter the road once more.

      “Okay. One more bathroom run, and then you get in your nice new carrier and go to sleep. That’s what I’m going to do.”

      As a precaution, he laid papers around the carrier in the corner of the kitchen, and put Nasdaq into it before he latched its door. He hadn’t taken two steps before she began to whine—softly at first, then with increasing insistence.

      “Be quiet. That’s your new house. Get used to it.” The whining increased to a low wail.

      He turned out the kitchen light. “Go to sleep,” he said in what he hoped was his authority-figure voice.

      She didn’t seem to be impressed. He listened to her cry while he brushed his teeth and stripped for bed. Then he gave up. “How can one little dog be so much trouble?” he said as he opened her door. She trotted out in obvious triumph and followed him into the bedroom.

      “I do not share my bed with nonhumans,” he said. “You stay down there on the carpet, or I’ll put you back into that carrier thing and put a pillow over my head to keep out the sound. You got that, dog?”

      She wagged her tail and jumped up on the bed.

      He removed her.

      This time she stayed down. He turned off the light and cradled his pillow, wishing it were Sarah Marsdon. She’d probably be up all night. He sincerely hoped he wouldn’t be.

      He rolled over onto his back. He hoped she wouldn’t need that fluoroscope.

      Without warning, lightning flashed through the room. Two seconds later the thunder crashed. “Close,” Mark said, just as Nasdaq landed on his stomach in a quivering ball. He stroked her gently. “It’s okay, girl. You’re all right with me.”

      He started to shove her off the bed. “Oh, what the hell,” he said, and rolled over with the little dog cradled against his stomach. “Maybe all I’m good for is to keep you from being frightened.”

      She nestled against him and laid her head on his arm. She smelled of fancy flea shampoo and just the faintest aroma of Dr. Sarah Marsdon—a blend of disinfectant, hand lotion and newly ironed cotton. Hardly an expensive perfume, but its effect on him was the same. He found himself thinking of Sarah and recalling that kiss—even though it hadn’t even been much of a kiss. Given the chance, he could do much better.

      He would do much better at the first opportunity.…

      TO AVOID having to take Nasdaq into the offices of Buchanan Enterprises, Mark spent a good hour in the morning on his cell phone and his Internet connection at home, while the dog ran around the backyard. However, by the time she came inside, her paws were matted with mud, which she proceeded to deposit on the kitchen floor.