New York, Actually: A sparkling romantic comedy from the bestselling Queen of Romance. Sarah Morgan

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ was his second favorite game after poker. “So what time can I pick up this dog?”

Two

      Dear Aggie, if men are from Mars, when are they going back?

       Yours, Earthbound and Exasperated

      She noticed his dog first. A German shepherd who was as strong and athletic as his owner. She’d seen the two of them every day for the past week, just after sunrise. She’d allowed herself a glance or two, because…well, she was human, wasn’t she? She had as much appreciation for the male form as the next woman, especially when that male form was as well presented as it was in this guy. And besides, studying people was her job.

      Like so many other people in the park at this time, he wore running gear, but something about the way he moved told her that when he wasn’t pounding the paths, he dressed in a suit and was commander in chief of whichever empire he presided over. His hair was dark and cropped short. Doctor? Banker? Accountant? Judging from the air of confidence he exuded he was very good at whatever it was he did. If she’d had to make more guesses about him, she would have said he was focused to the point of driven, spent too long working, and found it hard to empathize with weakness. He’d have his own weaknesses of course, everybody did. Being smart, he probably even knew what they were, but he would hide them because weakness wasn’t something he’d share with others. He was the type of guy who, if he knew what she did for a living, would laugh and then express surprise that anyone needed advice on something as straightforward as relationships. A man like him would have no idea how it felt to lack confidence, to not be able to find the courage to approach a woman you found interesting and attractive.

      A man exactly like Rupert.

      She frowned. Where had that thought come from? She was careful to never think about Rupert. She had enough self-insight to know her experience with him had colored her view of the world. In particular, it had colored her view of relationships. In all probability this man was nothing like Rupert.

      The only piece of information that jarred with her impression of him was that he had a dog. She wouldn’t have expected a man like him to want responsibility for a dog. Maybe the dog belonged to a friend who was sick, or maybe it had belonged to a deceased family member, but if that was the case then she would have expected a man like him to use a dog-walking service, like the one she occasionally used for Valentine. The Bark Rangers.

      The dog was the one misshapen piece of the jigsaw that stopped her picture of him fitting together perfectly.

      Determined not to be caught staring, she ran on, her feet pounding the ground in the comfortable rhythm she now found instinctively. Running was a way of testing herself. Of pushing herself outside her comfort levels. And pushing made her aware of the power and strength of her own body. Running reminded her that when she thought she had nothing more to give, she could still find more.

      Even though it was early and the park wasn’t yet open to traffic, it was busy. Joggers mingled with cyclists riding hill repeats and dawn laps of Central Park. In a few hours they’d give way to parents with strollers, and tourists keen to explore the eight-hundred-and-forty-three acres of parkland that ran from 59th Street to 110th and east to west from Fifth Avenue to Central Park West.

      She could never decide which season in New York was her favorite, but right now she would have voted for spring. The trees were thick with blossoms and it flavored the air with a heavy sweetness. Crab apple, cherry and magnolia bathed the park in a creamy, pink glow and exotic birds from Central and South America gathered ready for the spring migration.

      She was pondering its near-bridal magnificence when Valentine shot in front of her and almost tripped her up.

      He bounded after the German shepherd, who was thoroughly overexcited and refusing to come back when called.

      “Brutus!” The man’s voice thundered across the park.

      Molly slowed her pace. Seriously? He’d called his dog Brutus?

      The dog ignored him. He didn’t even turn his head in the direction of his owner. There was no acknowledgment that they even knew each other.

      Molly decided that either Brutus was the sort of dog who loved to challenge authority, or else he didn’t often find himself in the company of other dogs and wasn’t about to prioritize obedience over a good time.

      Clearly there was one thing that power couldn’t command, and that was a misbehaving dog. Was there any better leveler?

      She whistled to Valentine, who was having fun with his new friend.

      His head came up and their eyes met across the expanse of grass. After a split second of thought he came bounding toward her, all long lines and lean muscle, and as graceful as a ballet dancer. She heard the muted thud of his paws on the soft grass, the rhythmic panting, and then he skidded to a halt in front of her, the rear end of his body moving with each swing of his tail, that canine barometer of happiness.

      There was surely no more uplifting greeting than a wagging tail. It conveyed so much. Love, warmth and unquestioning acceptance.

      He was followed by his new friend, the German shepherd, who skidded untidily to a halt at her feet, more bruiser than ballet dancer. He gave her a hopeful look, seeking approval.

      Molly decided that for all his bad-boy tendencies, he was cute. But like all bad boys, he needed a firm hand and strong boundaries.

       His owner was probably the same.

      “Well, aren’t you adorable.” She dropped to her haunches to make a fuss over him, stroking his head and rubbing his neck. She felt the warmth of his breath on her skin and the smack of his tail against the leg as he circled in excitement. He tried to put his paws on her shoulders, almost knocking her on her butt in the dirt. “No. Sit.”

      The dog gave her a reproachful look and sat, clearly questioning her sense of fun.

      “You’re cute, but that doesn’t mean I want your muddy paws on my T-shirt.”

      The man stopped beside her. “He sat for you.” His smile was easy, his gaze warm. “He never does that for me. What’s your secret?”

      “I asked nicely.” She stood up, conscious of the sweaty tendrils of hair sticking to her neck and annoyed with herself for caring.

      “Looks like you have the magic touch. Or maybe it’s the British accent that does it for him. Brutus—” The man gave the dog a stern look. “Brutus.”

      Brutus didn’t even turn his head. It was as if the dog didn’t know he was talking to him.

      Molly was puzzled. “Does he often ignore you?”

      “All the time. He has a behavioral problem.”

      “Behavioral problems usually say more about the owner than they do about the dog.”

      “Ouch. Well, that puts me in my place.” His laugh was a rich, sexy sound and heat ripped through her body and pooled low in her abdomen.

      She’d expected him to be defensive. Instead, she was the one who was defensive. She’d built walls and barriers that no one could pass, but she was sure that this man with the dangerous blue eyes and the СКАЧАТЬ