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 moved to the table and gently examined each of the dog’s feet. “They do look pretty bad, but they’ll heal quickly. I’ll give him an antibiotic injection to prevent infection, and he can have some anti-inflammatories to help with the pain. Beef-flavored tablets, he’ll love them.” Cassie drew up a syringe of milky-looking fluid. “You aren’t squeamish around needles, are you?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow.
“Not at all.” Nic eyed the syringe. “But shouldn’t you be calling his owner? She’s got to be missing him by now, right?” Nic looked first at Cassie, then at Jillian. “Shouldn’t she have to approve treatment or something?”
“Normally, yes,” Jillian answered. “But we have a standing permission for treatment in Murphy’s chart. Remember, this isn’t his first time getting away. Besides, Mrs. Rosenberg won’t be home tonight. She’s over near Orlando on an overnight trip with her seniors group. She mentioned it to me when she stopped in to buy dog food yesterday. Murphy will have to stay here tonight, I guess.” She grimaced. “I hate leaving him. If he scratches at the cage door, he’s going to make his paws worse, and after his big outing, I’d rather he have someone keeping an eye on him. But my apartment manager won’t allow me to take him home, and Cassie—I mean, Dr. Marshall—is currently fostering a dog at her house that doesn’t get along with others. He’d beat poor Murphy up. So he’ll have to stay here until Mrs. Rosenberg gets home.”
Nic’s eyebrows narrowed. “You’re going to just put him in a cage?”
Cassie responded matter-of-factly, “It’s not ideal, but he’ll be safe—a lot safer than he was a few hours ago, thanks to you. There really isn’t any other option.”
“Yes, there is.” Nic was firm, arms crossed. “He can stay with me. The Sandpiper Inn is pet-friendly, and I can bring him back here in the morning or to wherever you say to take him. I’ll keep an eye on him, give him his medication and make sure he’s okay overnight.” His eyes dared anyone to disagree. “I didn’t go through all the trouble of rescuing him to abandon him in the end.”
“I don’t think that will work...we don’t even know you. Mrs. Rosenberg doesn’t know you...” Jillian floundered. In her wildest dreams, she would never have expected this man to offer to play nursemaid to a gimpy dog. Knights in shining armor might be the norm in storybooks, but that kind of thing didn’t happen in real life. Saviors, she knew from personal experience, were few and far between.
Cassie stepped in. “Why don’t I call Mrs. Rosenberg and see what she has to say? We’ll let her decide.” Turning to Nic, she continued, “I’ll need your contact information, and you’ll have to fill out some paperwork, if she agrees. Does that sound all right?”
Nic nodded in agreement, still standing stiffly, as if ready to defend his newly found canine friend physically, if need be.
While he and Cassie worked out the arrangements, Jillian clung to the soft dog. She had lost control of this situation somehow, not something she generally let happen. Watching the gorgeous man in front her, she wondered what kind of man did this, dropped everything and did whatever it took to save the day. As if sensing her bewilderment, Murphy squirmed in her arms.
Comforting herself as much as the dog, she buried her face in his fur. The dog turned his head, straining to keep Nic in view, something he had done since the minute they’d arrived. “I know how you feel,” she whispered in the smitten animal’s ear. “I know how you feel.”
* * *
Nic pulled into the parking lot of the Sandpiper Inn and turned the key, content to sit for a few minutes before he had to wrangle the dog and luggage. He still couldn’t quite believe he had acquired a pet, yet another responsibility, even if it was just for the night. But he couldn’t have left him in a cage, scared and hurt, any more than he could have left him on the side of the road.
At some point, taking on responsibility, taking care of others, had become second nature. He had always been the one to get his kid brother out of trouble, even when it meant getting into trouble himself. Later, he had tutored his sister, taking it upon himself to make sure she passed the dreaded algebra class. Then, after graduation, it had been impossible to say no to a job working for his father, eventually ending up where he was now, Nic Caruso, Vice President of Property Acquisitions at Caruso Hotels. The internationally known chain had been his father’s dream, not his, and he found no joy in traveling from city to city, scouting out properties and securing new locations for the ever-growing company. He often wondered what it would be like to settle down in one place, to meet someone that appreciated him for who he was, rather than what he could provide.
A soft woof from the passenger’s seat brought him out of his daydreams and into the present. “Don’t worry, I’m coming. I didn’t forget about you.” Grabbing his overnight bag, Nic set out with Murphy across the covered breezeway connecting the