handsome?” She ran her hands along the dog’s back and along his sides, feeling through the thick coat. “Murphy’s a favorite of mine, smarter than most dogs, but as likely to get into trouble as his name implies.”
“His name?” Nic looked down at the dog in his arms, confused.
“Murphy. As in Murphy’s Law?” She picked up the front leg and continued to check him over for any obvious open wounds or signs of pain.
“Ah, I take it this isn’t his first misadventure, then?” Nic could relate to that. He’d had his own stretch of mishaps growing up.
“Oh, no, Murphy makes trouble his hobby. It’s really not his fault—he’s just a smart, active dog without enough to keep him busy. Border collies are herding dogs—they need a job to do, some way to channel their energy. Mrs. Rosenberg is very nice, but she’s in her seventies and just not up to giving him the kind of exercise and training he needs. So our boy here finds his own exercise. He’s broken out of her apartment a few times before, but I’ve never known him to make it all the way over the bridge. That’s quite a hike, even for an athletic dog like Murphy.”
Annoyed by the owner’s lack of forethought, he asked, “If she can’t keep up with him, why did she get him in the first place?” His whole life was nothing but responsibilities; the idea of someone being so irresponsible, even with a pet, rankled him.
“She didn’t, not exactly. Her son, who wouldn’t know a collie from a cockatiel, gave him to her for a present. Said a dog would keep her company. As if she needed company—she’s a member of every committee and social group in town. She tried to talk me into taking him, but my apartment building doesn’t allow dogs.” She paused, bent down to look at something more closely and then frowned. “Nic, can you hold him on his side for me, lying down? I want to get a better look at his paws. I think I know why he was limping.”
Nic complied, concerned that she might have found something serious. Had he missed something? He hadn’t stopped to check the dog over before getting back on the road. His only thought had been to find somewhere that would take the dog off his hands. When he saw the sign for the Paradise Animal Clinic just past the bridge, it had seemed a good bet. Second-guessing his handling of the situation, he gently but firmly turned the dog on his side, careful not to hurt or scare him. Then, while he held the dog in place, Jillian carefully checked each paw.
“See this? His paws are raw. He’s worn the pads right off. The hot, rough asphalt acts like sandpaper on them. Poor thing…that has to really hurt.” Big blue eyes the color of a cloudless sky looked away from the dog and up at him. Eyes filled with sympathy and determination. “I’m going to call Dr. Marshall. Murphy will need some pain medication, and maybe some antibiotics.” She picked up a phone hung on the back wall of the small room and placed the call. “Hi, Cassie…yes, I’m still here. We’ve got a little problem. Murphy Rosenberg is here. Someone found him on the side of the road again. He seems to be in good shape for the most part, but he’s really done a number on his paws this time. I think you’d better come take a look.”
As he listened to her make arrangements, he let himself look his fill. The concern on her face did nothing to detract from her beauty. Pale blue eyes were a stark contrast to the mass of ebony curls attempting to escape the clip she’d secured it with. Her skin was fair, her cheekbones prominent, and then there was that mouth, those perfectly pink lips that she pursed when she was concentrating. A man would have to be blind not to want to kiss those lips.
That doctor had better show up soon; if he was alone with the sexy vet tech much longer, he might end up panting as badly as the dog in front of him.
Jillian hung up the phone, relieved that help was on the way. And not just for Murphy’s sake. Being alone with his rescuer was making her a bit nervous. Not that she was afraid of him; she couldn’t be afraid of someone willing to stop and help an injured animal the way he had. He just made her…uneasy. Especially when he looked at her with those intense brown eyes, as if he were examining her, looking inside her. Raising her chin, hoping she projected more confidence than she felt, she asked, “Can you carry him into the treatment room for me? We can clean him up a bit while we’re waiting.”
He easily lifted the dog, once again making the movement look effortless. “Just show me where.”
Jillian held the rear exam room door open, allowing him to pass through into the heart of the veterinary hospital. She wondered how it appeared to him. To her the stretches of gleaming chrome and spotless countertops, the bank of cages filling the back wall, the tangy scent of disinfectant were all more familiar than her own apartment. However, she knew the microscopes, centrifuges and bright lights could be intimidating to the uninitiated. Some people actually got a bit queasy. But Nic, who was waiting patiently for her to indicate where to place the dog, seemed unaffected by the medical surroundings.
Pleased by his composure, she pointed to the long, shallow treatment basin covered by a steel grate. The six-foot-long sink was table height, and would allow her to bathe the dog carefully while checking for any other wounds she might have missed. He placed the dog on the grating, and Murphy, no stranger to a bath, behaved himself as she uncurled the spray handle from the end of the table, then rinsed and lathered.
Nic made an excellent assistant; he had rolled up his sleeves, exposing tanned, well-defined forearms that easily maneuvered the soapy canine according to her direction. Thankfully, she could lather and rinse the pleasant-smelling suds on autopilot, because those muscled arms were proving quite the distraction. Worried he might have noticed her staring, she bent down to retrieve a clean towel from the stacks kept below the sink. She tried to focus on toweling the dog off, rather than on the larger-than-life man across the table. But he wasn’t making it easy.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Nic said, unbuttoning his shirt. “This thing smells like, well, wet dog.” He shrugged out of the wet, muddy fabric with a grimace, leaving him standing in an almost as damp, but considerably cleaner, sleeveless undershirt and dress slacks.
Jillian nodded, eyes drawn to his broad, bare shoulders, then down to the impressive biceps that had restrained Murphy so easily. The revealed bronze skin spoke more of Mediterranean ancestry than hours in the sun. The tight undershirt did little to hide the chiseled chest underneath or the flat abdominals below. She might have continued to stare, basking in all that male beauty, if the sound of the front door hadn’t snapped her back to reality.
“Jillian! Jillian! Where’s the doggy? Is he hurt? Can I kiss his boo-boo? Who’s that?” Emma Marshall, four years old and the spitting image of her mother, barreled into the room. Her strawberry-blond ponytail swished as she looked from Emma to Nic, blue eyes blinking rapidly.
“Emma, I told you that someone found a doggy and brought him here so I could help him.” Cassie appeared in the doorway behind her rambunctious tyke. “Hi, I’m Dr. Marshall. Thank you for helping our Murphy here. I’m afraid he’s a repeat offender, but we all love him, anyway.”
“I’m Nic.” Brushing away the compliment, he offered a tired smile and said, “He seems like a nice dog, now that he’s cleaned up.”
“Murphy was a mess when Nic brought him in, covered in mud and God knows what else. He helped me bathe him, but his shirt was a casualty,” Jillian explained.
“My shirt, my tie and my suit jacket. But, hey, who’s counting?” Nic shrugged his shoulders, and then returned his attention to the women in the room. “Can you do something for his paws? They look pretty awful.”
Cassie
