blue that would make his eyes sparkle if he weren’t so determined to hide behind a mask of cold indifference. Alexander Bishop, Master of Blank Expressions and Bland Comments, controlled every word he said and every gesture he made.
Unlike Francie, whose face revealed her thoughts before she could, and whose words said volumes more than intended.
She advanced into the room and stood beside George, who lay half-sprawled, half-curled on the large, overstuffed chair. He lifted his head to sniff the air a few seconds, opened one golden eye, and content with his findings, sank his big head back onto the soft cushion.
Of course, George remained oblivious to the major conflict he’d created. His tail thumped against the arm of the chair as Francie ran her fingers through his thick coat and concentrated on her next words.
“Well,” she said, clearing her throat, “George certainly is clever, isn’t he?”
“Clever?” Alexander took a step toward her.
“Oh, yes, clever for finding his way inside the house three times.”
“Onto my favorite chair,” he added, taking another step.
Why didn’t he seem angry? He should’ve been furious if he’d been spouting off tales of turning George into a rug. But the closer he got, the better Francie could see him. She didn’t miss the slight flaring of his nose or the strong set of his jaw. And then there was the muscle that twitched on the right side of his cheek, just enough to indicate extreme agitation. And the scar. It was white.
Alexander Bishop may not show it, but he was furious.
Best to get George out of there. Fast. Francie let out a little laugh that sounded like a squeak. “Well, yes, there is that. I think I’ll just take him with me now and get him settled in the barn.” She turned her attention to George who had both eyes closed and was snoring. “Come along, George. Wake up. It’s time to leave Mr. Bishop to his business.” The dog opened one eye but didn’t budge.
Alexander now stood so close she smelled his spicy cologne. Nevertheless, when he spoke, his voice mere inches from her ear, she jumped.
“You seem to be having a little problem, Francie.” The way he said her name, a low velvet rumble wrapped in a whisper, made her go all hot and cold inside. She didn’t like it when he lowered his voice. He was toying with her.
“No,” she answered, avoiding his gaze. “I can control George.” She slipped her fingers under his thick leather collar and pulled. “Come along, George.” The dog didn’t budge. “George!” She yanked and the dog rewarded her with an irritated grumble. Alexander cleared his throat. “You do indeed exhibit immense control.”
Francie ignored his sarcastic tongue as she straightened and moved behind the chair to George’s hindquarters. “I can control my dog, Mr. Bishop.” She pushed at the animal’s back legs. “It’s just…” She gave another push. “He’s not used to...” She tugged. “Sitting...on...furniture.”
“I see.”
Her head snapped up. She thought she heard a hint of laughter in his voice, but when she met his gaze it was blank, his face expressionless. She looked like a fool. George was her protector. Her best friend. Why then was he lying there, like twenty sacks of flour, all soft and half-dead?
“George!” She hooked both hands in his collar. “Down. Now!” Francie yanked with all her might. George yelped and leapt forward, barreling into her with the force of a horse. Francie’s legs flew out from underneath her as she collided with Alexander, sending them both toppling to the ground.
She landed square on top of him, or more specifically, on his muscular legs and the region in men deemed unmentionable. Francie tried to roll off, but a sharp pain shot through her right shoulder and she groaned as she fell back, clutching her shoulder.
“Francie? Are you all right?”
Did she hear concern in his voice? No. If he had his way, he’d probably let George have another go at
Unlike Francie, whose face revealed her thoughts before she could, and whose words said volumes more than intended.
She advanced into the room and stood beside George, who lay half-sprawled, half-curled on the large, overstuffed chair. He lifted his head to sniff the air a few seconds, opened one golden eye, and content with his findings, sank his big head back onto the soft cushion.
Of course, George remained oblivious to the major conflict he’d created. His tail thumped against the arm of the chair as Francie ran her fingers through his thick coat and concentrated on her next words.
“Well,” she said, clearing her throat, “George certainly is clever, isn’t he?”
“Clever?” Alexander took a step toward her.
“Oh, yes, clever for finding his way inside the house three times.”
“Onto my favorite chair,” he added, taking another step.
Why didn’t he seem angry? He should’ve been furious if he’d been spouting off tales of turning George into a rug. But the closer he got, the better Francie could see him. She didn’t miss the slight flaring of his nose or the strong set of his jaw. And then there was the muscle that twitched on the right side of his cheek, just enough to indicate extreme agitation. And the scar. It was white.
Alexander Bishop may not show it, but he was furious.
Best to get George out of there. Fast. Francie let out a little laugh that sounded like a squeak. “Well, yes, there is that. I think I’ll just take him with me now and get him settled in the barn.” She turned her attention to George who had both eyes closed and was snoring. “Come along, George. Wake up. It’s time to leave Mr. Bishop to his business.” The dog opened one eye but didn’t budge.
Alexander now stood so close she smelled his spicy cologne. Nevertheless, when he spoke, his voice mere inches from her ear, she jumped.
“You seem to be having a little problem, Francie.” The way he said her name, a low velvet rumble wrapped in a whisper, made her go all hot and cold inside. She didn’t like it when he lowered his voice. He was toying with her.
“No,” she answered, avoiding his gaze. “I can control George.” She slipped her fingers under his thick leather collar and pulled. “Come along, George.” The dog didn’t budge. “George!” She yanked and the dog rewarded her with an irritated grumble. Alexander cleared his throat. “You do indeed exhibit immense control.”
Francie ignored his sarcastic tongue as she straightened and moved behind the chair to George’s hindquarters. “I can control my dog, Mr. Bishop.” She pushed at the animal’s back legs. “It’s just…” She gave another push. “He’s not used to...” She tugged. “Sitting...on...furniture.”
“I see.”
Her head snapped up. She thought she heard a hint of laughter in his voice, but when she met his gaze it was blank, his face expressionless. She looked like a fool. George was her protector. Her best friend. Why then was he lying there, like twenty sacks of flour, all soft and half-dead?
“George!” She hooked both hands in his collar. “Down. Now!” Francie yanked with all her might. George yelped and leapt forward, barreling into her with the force of a horse. Francie’s legs flew out from underneath her as she collided with Alexander, sending them both toppling to the ground.
She landed square on top of him, or more specifically, on his muscular legs and the region in men deemed unmentionable. Francie tried to roll off, but a sharp pain shot through her right shoulder and she groaned as she fell back, clutching her shoulder.
“Francie? Are you all right?”
Did she hear concern in his voice? No. If he had his way, he’d probably let George have another go at
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