The Man Behind the Pinstripes. Melissa Mcclone

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      Maurice’s ears perked.

      “Do you hear Gertie?”

      The two dogs ran in the direction of the patio.

      Becca quickened her pace. She rounded a corner.

      Gertie and a man sat at the teak table underneath the shade of the umbrella. Five dogs vied for attention, paws pounding on the pavement. Gertie waved.

      The man next to her turned around.

      Whoa. Hello, Mr. Gorgeous.

      Tingles skittered from Becca’s stomach to her fingertips.

      None of the dogs growled or barked at the guy. Points in his favor. Dogs were the best judges of character, much better than hers.

      She walked onto the patio.

      The man stood.

      Another wave of tingles made the rounds.

      Most guys she knew didn’t stand. Didn’t open doors. Didn’t leave the toilet seat down. This man had been raised right.

      He was handsome with classical features—high cheekbones, straight nose, strong jawline. The kind of handsome women showed off to girlfriends.

      The man stepped away from the table, angling his body toward her. His navy pinstriped suit was tailored, accentuating wide shoulders and tapering nicely at the hips. He moved with the grace of an athlete, making her wonder if he had sexy abdominal muscles underneath.

      Very nice packaging.

      Well, except for his hair.

      His short, cookie-cutter, corporate hairstyle could be seen walking out of every high rise in downtown Boise. With such a gorgeous face, the man’s light brown hair should be longer, a little mussed, sexy and carefree, instead of something so … businesslike.

      Not that his hair mattered to Becca. Or anything about him.

      His top-of-the-line suit shouted one thing—Best in Show.

      She might be a dog handler, but she didn’t handle his type.

      They didn’t belong in the same ring. He was a champion with an endless pedigree. She was a mutt without a collar.

      She’d tried playing with the top dogs, the wealthy dogs, once before and landed in the doghouse, aka jail.

      Never again.

      But looking never hurt anybody.

      Gertie looked up from the dogs at her feet. “Becca. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

      He was tall, over six feet. The top of her head came to the tip of his nose.

      Becca took two steps closer. “Hello.”

      His green eyes reminded her of jade, a bit cool for her taste, but hey, no one was perfect. His eyelashes more than made up for whatever reserve she saw reflected in his gaze. If she had thick, dark lashes like his she would never need to buy mascara again.

      She wiped her hand on her shorts then extended her arm. “I’m Becca Taylor.”

      His grip was strong, his skin warm.

      A burst of heat shot up her arm and pulsed through her veins.

      “Caleb Fairchild.” His rich voice reminded her of melted dark chocolate, rich and smooth and tasty.

      Wait a minute. Fairchild. That meant he was …

      “My grandson,” Gertie said.

      The man who could make Becca’s dream of working as a full-time dog handler come true. If the dog products sold as well as Gertie expected, Becca would have the means to travel the dog show circuit without needing to work extra part-time jobs to cover living expenses.

      Caleb Fairchild. She couldn’t believe he was here. That had to mean good news about the dog products.

      Uh-oh. Ogling him was the last thing she should be doing. He was the CEO of Fair Face and wealthy. Wealthy, as in she could win the lottery twice and not come close to his net worth.

      “Nice to meet you.” Becca realized she was still holding his hand. She released it. “I’ve heard lots about you.”

      Caleb’s gaze slid over her as if he’d reviewed the evidence, passed judgment and sentenced her to the not-worth-his-time crowd. “I haven’t heard about you until today.”

      His formal demeanor made Jane Austen’s Mr. Darcy seem downright provincial. No doubt Mr. Fairchild thought he was too good for her.

      Maybe he was.

      But she wouldn’t let it bother her.

      Her career was not only at stake, but also in his hands.

      “Tell me about yourself,” he said.

      His stiff tone irritated her like a flea infestation in the middle of winter. But she couldn’t let her annoyance show.

      She met his gaze straight on, making sure she didn’t blink or show any signs of weakness. “I’m a dog person.”

      “I thought you were a consultant.”

      A what? Becca struggled for something to say, struggled and came up empty. Still she had to try. “I … I—”

      “Becca is a dog consultant,” Gertie said. “She’s a true dog whisperer. Her veterinary knowledge has been invaluable with product development. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

      If Becca wasn’t already indebted to Gertie Fairchild, she was now.

      Gertie shot a pointed look at Caleb. “Perhaps if you dropped by more often you’d know what’s going on.”

      Caleb directed a smile at his grandmother that redefined the word charming.

      Not that Becca was about to be charmed. The dogs might like him, but she was … reserving judgment.

      “I see you every Sunday for brunch at the club.” Caleb’s affection for his grandmother wrapped around Becca like a thick, warm comforter, weighing the scales in his favor. “But you never talk about yourself.”

      Gertie shrugged, but hurt flashed in her eyes so fast Becca doubted if Caleb noticed. “Oh, it just seems like we end up talking about you and Courtney.”

      “Well, I’m here now,” he said.

      Gertie placed her hand over her heart and closed her eyes. “To dash all my hopes and dreams.”

      Becca’s gaze bounced between the two. “What do you mean?”

      Caleb touched Gertie’s arm. “My grandmother is being melodramatic.”

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