grinned again, a slower, lazier, make-a-woman-weak grin. “I can think of a lot better games to play, darlin’, especially with you as my playmate.”
If she were a braver woman, she would duplicate that wicked grin and the husky bedroom voice and issue an invitation no red-blooded man could refuse. But she wasn’t brave or wicked. She was blushing and fluttery, flattered and skittish. She was no temptress.
But, oh, how she wished she was.
* * *
Dragging a thirty-gallon trash can, Martin made his way to the Dumpster out behind the church Monday afternoon. He hefted the can, filled with debris from the remodeling job, to the lip of the Dumpster and was about to up-end it when movement inside caught his attention. Slowly he let the can slip back to the ground, then moved a chunk of Sheetrock to better see the puppy who’d been scrounging inside.
He wasn’t the sort of cute, lovable and oh-how-adorable puppy who would easily find a home. He was skin and bones, more than half starved. His coat was filthy, coarse and marked with scars from his nose all the way back to his rump, and he looked likelier to bite a hand than lick it.
“Hey, buddy.” Martin removed his gloves, then rested his arms on the edge of the Dumpster. He didn’t reach out. “If you’re looking for food, pal, you picked the wrong place. This is a church. The only time you’ll find food in this trash is when they have their annual bean supper, and that’s not for another six months.”
The dog backed into the corner, settled his rump on a two-by-four and gave him a wary look. Black and tan, he appeared to be a mix of Lab and hound and about six or eight months old.
“I have a sandwich inside. If you’ll wait here, I’ll get it.” He’d stopped at the deli on his way to work and picked up a club sub for lunch, but then he’d run into Stone and Jack, who had invited him to the diner with them. He’d decided to save the sandwich for dinner, but the dog needed it more than he did.
When he returned, the puppy was standing near the Dumpster, watching him with dark brown eyes. As soon as he crossed the invisible line of the dog’s comfort zone, the pup darted away, then turned to watch again.
Martin sat down on the ground, his back against the trash bin and unwrapped the sandwich. At the first whiff of food, the dog became still, his gaze riveted on it. Martin fed him slowly, tearing the sandwich into pieces, tossing them a few feet away. When it was all gone, he and the puppy watched each other for a time.
“Life hasn’t been too kind, has it?” He wasn’t an empathetic person, he’d told Juliet, but he could certainly relate to this scruffy, scarred creature. All the puppy wanted was food in his belly and a safe place to sleep. All he’d gotten was hunger, fear and abuse. All Martin wanted was a name of his own and Juliet. All he had was nothing.
He hadn’t seen Juliet since Saturday evening. They had finished working late, and she had stood at the door and watched until he was out of sight. He had stood in the shadows and watched until she locked up, until the lights went off in the dining and living rooms, until only one dim light had burned in the front hall. He had remained there in the dark, imagining her getting ready for bed—brushing her blond hair, washing her face, unbuttoning every tiny button on her long, flowery dress, then sliding it off her shoulders and letting it drop to the floor, leaving her wearing damn near nothing, all pale delicate skin, small breasts, narrow waist—Squeezing his eyes shut, he forced air into his constricted lungs. And so he had stayed away Sunday. He had given her a day’s peace to do all the things she’d normally done before he’d intruded in her life. He had stayed locked up in his apartment, but his thoughts had been two and a half blocks away. His desire had damn well been with her. He’d considered himself lucky to survive the day.
“Hey, Martin, what’s taking so—Oh. You found a mutt.” The preacher walked straight toward the dog, extending his hand.
“Don’t—”
The dog went still, the hair on his back rising, and a low, threatening growl rumbled through him. Before Martin could finish his warning, the puppy snapped at the preacher, closing his jaws only a breath away from the man’s hand.
“Hey, he tried to bite me!”
“If he’d meant to bite you, he would have. That was a warning. Don’t ever approach a strange dog with your hand out like that. He could take your fingers off.”
“Well, don’t encourage him to stay around here. The kids play outside after the service, and he might seriously injure them.”
“I won’t. If he’ll come, I’ll take him home with me.” As if he needed a dog in his apartment…but he knew someone who did need one in her backyard, even though she didn’t realize it yet.
After emptying the can, he left the dog with a backward glance. Back inside he picked up more rubbish while Reverend Murphy double-checked measurements for the new wall they were building. “This carpet used to be burgundy,” Martin remarked as he scooped up Sheetrock and insulation.
The preacher looked down at the plastic-covered carpet. “It’s been green since I came here, and that was fifteen years ago.”
“Then maybe before that.”
“If it’s important, I can ask some of our long-time members. A number of them got married here. It might show in their photographs.”
“Do you have a list of members from twenty years ago or so?”
The preacher shook his head. “We’re a small church, and we’re a little informal. Other than marriages, births and deaths—and our financial records, of course—I doubt we have anything going back more than ten years. I’d be happy to put you in touch with some of our older members, though.”
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