Baby, Hold On. Stephanie Bond

foster the perception she was “mystical.”

      “Hello,” he said coolly.

      “I was just wondering how Sheridan is feeling.”

      “He seems better,” Mike lied.

      “That’s good,” she said cheerfully. “The fresh air up here is good for every living thing, don’t you think?”

      He grunted.

      “See you around,” she said, then left on a breeze of some citrusy scent that tickled his nostrils.

      He rubbed his nose and watched her leave, collecting people as she went along, who apparently wanted to talk about their pets. Outside, a dozen or so dogs of all shapes and sizes were tied up along a railing, food and water within easy reach. When she walked out, tails wagged and ears perked and they all began to bark in a canine symphony. Lacey stopped to pat and coo to each one, moving down the line like a celebrity receiving her fans.

      Mike pushed his tongue into his cheek. It was as if she was the Pied Piper of Pooches.

      When she stepped into the sun, brilliant rays of light glanced off her white-blond curls, setting them afire. For a moment, she did look a little magical, he conceded. Then his mouth went dry. Because starkly silhouetted against the voluminous clothes she wore was a surprisingly willowy, womanly figure.

      Lacey Lovejoy had secrets, all right. She was hiding a hot little body under all that useless fabric.

      She bent over, tilting a pretty spectacular behind into the air. His body responded to the way she moved, and erotic images popped into his head. An Irish setter was licking her smiling face, and Mike was struck with the most absurd pang of…jealousy?

      The sound of a man clearing his throat brought his head around. Clancey, the cook, was standing there, staring at him pointedly. “See something you like?”

      Mike realized with a start that his mouth was open and his tongue was practically hanging out. He straightened and closed the menu. “Blue plate special.”

      “Coming right up.” The beefy bald man gave him the once-over, then sauntered back to the grill.

      Mike frowned at the man’s back, then chanced another glance out the window. A sun-bathed, shimmering Lacey was walking away, and all the dogs at the railing were straining against their leashes to follow her.

      Mike felt the pull of her on his own body…and acknowledged, with a disturbing twinge, that he was no better than the other hounds. He dragged his gaze away from her and murmured, “Down, boy.”