Gripping her black bag more tightly, Fran walked into the streamlined stables with what she hoped was an air of confidence. Horses nickered at her from their exceptionally clean stalls, and she allowed herself the time to give each a soft rub on their blazes before she marched down a lengthy hallway looking for a man called Charlie.
But when she came to the last stall, she stopped dead in her tracks. As she stared at the amazing sight before her, her knees went butter soft, and her throat desert dry as her pulse kicked and punched in her veins.
Pitchfork in hand, his bare back to her, a man was scooping up hay and tossing the tawny flakes into an adjacent stall. With no thought of what she was doing, Fran let her gaze travel from scuffed boots upward to faded jeans that encased strong, muscular thighs and, Lord almighty, one fine, fine backside. She licked her lips, her gaze progressing. He had a tapered waist and a broad, tanned back that bunched with lean muscle and glistened with sweat.
She released a soft sigh of appreciation. To her dismay, the man turned at the sound, saw her staring and grinned.
“Hello there.” The brogue was native Llandaron, the words slipping from his firm, sensual lips like melted chocolate, coating her senses in a very satisfying heat.
Fran struggled to find her voice. Tongue-tied and awestruck was not her usual style around men. Aloof and impassive was what she strove for, but this six-foot god, with his thick, wavy black hair, chiseled features and thick brows positioned over deep-set Prussian-blue eyes, wasn’t like any man she’d ever seen.
Her gaze dipped to his chest, dusted with hair and thickly muscled. He had what the girls in her office called a six-pack. Truly sigh worthy, she mused as she balled her hands into fists to keep them from reaching out to feel that chest, feel those muscles bunch and flex beneath her palms.
With every ounce of fortitude she possessed, she cleared her throat and adopted a confident tone. “You must be Charlie.”
He leaned casually against the door frame, his steady gaze warming her blood. “I must?”
From his tone, Fran couldn’t tell if his reply was a question or an answer, but she didn’t press the matter. There was no way she was going to let this guy know how flustered and unsure he made her feel. “I’m Dr. Francesca Charming—Fran, actually.”
Comprehension lit those magnetic eyes of his. “The veterinarian from America.”
“California.”
His wicked blue gaze traveled lazily over her until he paused at her mouth. “Blond hair, tanned skin, long legs and beautiful eyes. A California girl.”
Her unsophisticated beige pants and blue wrinkle-free blouse suddenly felt like black, lacy, racy lingerie. She felt a blush creep into her cheeks and she willed it away. For Pete’s sake, she was a city girl. She didn’t blush or twitter like a blue jay in the spring. She gave guys with too much cockiness a good dressing-down—of course, all the while hoping they couldn’t tell that one big wimp resided behind her self-possessed facade.
“Have you had enough of a look?” she asked, tipping her chin up a fraction. “Or would you like me to turn around?”
His gaze lifted to meet hers, his expression littered with amusement. “I think I should be asking you the same thing.”
She swallowed thickly. True enough.
A smile tugged at his lips. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
He drew a circle in the air with one long tapered finger. “You did make the offer, Dr. Charming. And I think it’s only fair you show me yours after you had such a long look at mine.”
Her eyes went wide. “I did no such thing! And…well, there is no way I’m going to turn…I was just…that wasn’t meant as a—”
He grinned. “Maybe some other time, then.”
“I don’t think so.”
She looked away, searching for the reason she’d come to Llandaron. Her gaze scanned the large office to her right with its comfortable furnishing and windows on every wall, then paused as she finally saw what she was looking for. Over by an open bay window, lying on six feet of plush green whelping bed was a pretty wolfhound with a fat belly and liquid-brown eyes. A patch of sun filtered into the room through the window screen, bathing the dog in pale light.
Ten days ago Fran had never heard of King Oliver or his wolfhound—goodness, she’d barely heard of Llandaron—until her partner and could-be-fiancé, Dr. Dennis Cavanaugh, was offered the “royal” post. Dennis’s reputation with the pets of the rich and famous in Los Angeles had earned him invitations to fancy places all the time. But this particular time, he was too occupied with a certain young film star’s bichon frise to leave the country. So he’d recommended Fran for the job. With the generous fee and her need for a little breathing room, she hadn’t had to think too long or too hard about the offer.
The wolfhound glanced up at Fran then, perhaps wondering who she was and why she’d come. Fran smiled. “Well, aren’t you a beauty,” she said, walking the few steps to the office doorway and reaching for the handle on the gate that separated them.
But before she could lift the latch, a large hand clamped over hers, sending a jolt of heat spiraling up her arm. “Allow me, Doctor.”
A soft gasp escaped Fran’s throat as she snatched her hand out from under his.
“I hope I didn’t burn you,” he said with dry humor, opening the gate and allowing her entrance.
She walked swiftly past him. “You did nothing.”
The man chuckled and muttered a husky, “Are you sure?”
Fran walked over to her patient, her cheeks flaming. Embarrassment swam in her blood—at her silly reaction to his touch and at the out-and-out lie that his simple hand-over-hand contact did nothing to her.
If she had her druthers, she’d tell him right here, right now that he could take off, that she could handle things from here. But she knew that the wolfhound would be far more at ease with someone she knew, and the dog’s health was more important than some annoying and unwelcome palpitations.
“So you’re my patient?” Fran said with practiced calm, sitting down beside the very pregnant wolfhound. The unease she felt in the company of the stimulating stable hand began to evaporate. She was with her patient—she was where she belonged.
“Her name is Grand Dame Glindaron.” In seconds the man was at her side, bending down, his faded jeans pulling taut against his muscular thighs, his previously naked chest now covered with a worn black T-shirt. “But we call her Glinda.”
“Glinda, huh?” Fran reached out and let the dog sniff her hand. “As in the good witch?”
“The good witch?” the man repeated.
“You know, The Wizard of Oz.” She glanced over at him. “Glinda the good witch?” None of this seemed to be registering. “It’s a movie.”
He sat back on his heels. “Ah, we don’t get those here.”
Her eyes went wide. “What?”
He gave her a sinful grin.
“Very funny, Charlie,” she said dryly.
He looked down at the floor for a moment, and Fran felt relieved—like finding a patch of shade from the blistering sun—yet she couldn’t drag her gaze away from him. That highly kissable mouth, killer body. Such a package was lethal for a woman who had sworn off sex appeal in favor of sweet-natured.
With all her might, Fran tried to conjure up an image of Dennis. But it was no use. The stable hand’s mesmerizing eyes were powerful and persistent. If the guy ever wanted to quit working at the stables and go into hypnosis, he could probably make a fortune.
“Actually,