no one had prepared her for his overwhelming sex appeal.
If Erin Riley had known the author was more buff and better-looking than the guy on the cover of his action-adventure novel, she wasn’t sure she’d have taken this job as his book coach. Quite possibly she was in over her head. She’d already failed the first test by not researching the man she would be working for. He’d just answered her knock on his door and all she could do was stare.
“Are you selling something?” He glanced at her wheeled suitcase.
“No. Sorry.” She took a deep, cleansing breath. “I’m Erin Riley. Cheryl Kavanagh sent me.”
“My editor.” His dark blue eyes narrowed. “Cut the crap.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re here to babysit me.” He glanced over his shoulder and called, “Harley!”
Moments later some black-and-white creature ran outside, stopped beside Jack and looked up adoringly. Erin could respect the feeling.
Jack closed the front door and proceeded down the three steps. “Walk.”
She wasn’t sure if he meant her, but left the suitcase on the porch and hurried after him. That’s when she realized the creature was without a doubt the ugliest dog she’d ever seen. It looked like a four-legged elf, a mythical being straight out of The Hobbit. The thing was small with a hairy head that didn’t look substantial enough to hold up the ginormous ears. Stick legs had tufts of fur by the paws and some kind of garment made of camouflage material covered the skinny, hairless body.
Fascination with the dog would have to wait. She moved quickly to catch up to the man. For him and his long legs it might be considered a walk, but she nearly had to jog to keep up. He was headed toward Blackwater Lake—the body of water from which this small town in Montana took its name.
“Mr. Garner—”
“Jack.”
She assumed that meant he was giving her permission to call him by his first name. “All right. Jack.”
They passed a building on the dock that said Blackwater Lake Marina and Bait Shop. Almost all of the slips in the natural bay were full, and held small boats and some that looked more luxurious and big enough to sleep on.
The scenery was nearly as breathtaking as trying to keep up with Jack. Dark blue lake water stretched ahead of her as far as the eye could see and bumped up against some impressive mountains. Overhead, the blue of the sky was only interrupted by wispy white clouds. It was quiet and serene, a place that on the surface looked to be a perfect writing environment. But if that was the case, she wouldn’t be here.
“So, Jack—”
“Harley, stand down.”
The small dog stopped chasing and barking at the little brown birds that had been pecking in the sketchy grass beside the lake. They took off and the homely animal instantly moved into step beside his human as ordered.
“Girl or boy?” she asked.
“What?” Jack gave her a wary sideways look.
“Is the dog male or female?”
“Male.”
“That’s unexpected.”
“Meaning?”
“I would never have figured a guy like you to have a dog like this.”
“Are you insulting my dog?”
Oh, boy. How did she put into words that she’d been profiling and figured a manly man like Jack Garner would have a big, burly guy dog. Pit bull. Rottweiler. Bulldog. The problem was the ugly little animal didn’t seem compatible with a man who’d spent a good number of years in the United States Army Special Forces Operations, Ranger Battalion. She only knew that from reading his book and the short bio in the back.
Finding the words was like trying to navigate a minefield. “I just... The two of you are—” She sighed.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing.” Aside from not being very attractive. Unlike his owner, who was so attractive her toes were curling. There were a lot of things she could say. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Beauty is only skin deep. Don’t judge a book by its cover. She finally settled on a question. “Why did you pick him?”
“It’s classified.”
He could tell her, but he’d have to kill her? He looked like he wanted to do that anyway.
“Okay,” she said. “What kind of dog is he?”
“A Chinese crested.”
“I see. Sounds noble.” She knew very little about dogs.
“Don’t judge a book by its cover.”
Did she get points for not saying that? At least it was the segue she’d been waiting for. “Speaking of books—”
“Cheryl wants to know where mine is.” Anger and frustration were wrapped around the words.
“Look at it from her perspective. Your first book is incredibly successful. Even more amazing because there was no promotion.” He’d refused to do any. “Word-of-mouth has been unbelievably effective. And it’s been optioned for a movie. That’s an impressive springboard for a second book.”
“The manuscript is a little late,” he conceded.
“Nine months late. You could make a baby in that length of time.” Did she really just say that out loud? “Not judging,” she added.
The look he shot her was as black as his hair. In worn jeans and a faded olive-green T-shirt, his toned and muscular body was displayed to perfection. She’d read that it was instinctive for a woman to mate with a strong male who could protect her and any offspring she produced. Right this second her female instincts were going nuts.
“Meaning what?” His voice was low, just north of irritated, and creeping into superannoyed territory.
It was an alpha-male tone meant to intimidate, but if Erin let him get to her now, this book-coach thing was never going to work and she really wanted it to. She wanted to help. To do that, she had to stand up to him right now.
“Don’t play games, Jack. You know why I’m here. You’re late on your deadline and refuse to take your editor’s calls. Or your agent’s, for that matter. Everyone wants to build on the momentum of your phenomenally successful first book. Cheryl said you have the most raw talent of any writer she’s seen in a very long time. So, she sent me here to help you focus.”
“Why?”
“You know the answer to that question, but I’ll spell it out anyway. There’s a lot of money at stake. Millions,” she said. “Your editor is in your corner. She’ll do whatever she can.”
“No, I meant why you?”
He was asking for a resumé so she’d give him a verbal one. Harley walked over and started sniffing her so Erin stopped and bent to scratch his head. “My cousin is an editorial assistant at the publishing house and recommended me.”
“Why?”
“I have a master’s degree in English and literature. And I’ve taught high-school honors English, AP classes and community-college writing courses.”
“Why aren’t you in school now? It’s after Labor Day.”
“I’m a substitute. That means I can tell them when I’m available.” The arrangement had worked when her fiancé, Garrett, was terminally ill. The money was good and after his death a year and a half ago she hadn’t changed her status to full-time. “Do you know Corinne Carlisle?”
“No.”
“She’s one of Cheryl’s authors, a cozy mystery writer.