TURNED OUT forgetting Danny Cruise wasn’t that easy. You shouldn’t have held his hand, Madison scolded herself as she ran through her list of appointments in the small office behind the clinic’s reception desk on Monday morning. She chewed on her pen as she summoned her focus to the list.
If she hadn’t touched him, she wouldn’t be struggling to remember the exact nature of Mrs. Barrett’s poodle’s breathing disorder, yet at the same time be able to recall with perfect clarity the strength of Danny’s long fingers, the firmness of his flesh.
It was nuts—and the final proof of her insanity was that, despite the man’s rudeness as he left, she’d spent the rest of the weekend imagining there’d been some connection between them.
“Danny Cruise,” said the receptionist with a kind of gasping excitement.
Madison’s head snapped around—was she somehow broadcasting her thoughts to the entire clinic?
No, it was worse…or better. When she craned her neck she saw Danny standing at the reception desk. He wasn’t, to Madison’s regret, wearing that rain-dampened white shirt. But the black polo emblazoned with the Sports Force America logo showcased the breadth of his shoulders, tapering to narrow hips in well-fitting black jeans. Madison’s undisciplined mind immediately set about memorizing this new incarnation.
“Is Madison Beale here?” Danny said.
He was here to see her! What’s more, he was carrying a bunch of flowers, deep gold roses and red gerberas wrapped in red paper and tied with gold ribbon. Was it possible that Danny Cruise, NASCAR star and dater of supermodels, had felt the same connection?
Okay, would whoever put those butterflies in her stomach please remove them immediately?
He’s here to inquire about the dog. She pushed her chair back from the desk, stood slowly, allowing time for the heat to wash out of her face before she stepped into the reception area.
“Hi, uh, Danny.” Halfway through the greeting she realized she hadn’t addressed him by name before. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth. Around her, silence fell as every person in the waiting room realized the Danny Cruise was here. Her boss, Roger Smales, stiffened to attention.
“Madison, good to see you.” Danny stuck out his hand.
Don’t make me hold his hand again. I won’t sleep for a week. But, of course, she shook it, then accepted the flowers he offered.
“I hardly recognized you without your stocking.” He cast an appraising eye over the hair she wore loose and wavy over her shoulders.
She remembered his contempt for that stocking. “I hardly recognized you without your bad manners.”
The receptionist gaped and Roger Smales made an anxious sound, but Danny was unfazed. “I want to apologize for my rudeness on Saturday night.” He nodded at the flowers he’d just given her. “I called yesterday, but you weren’t here.”
“Apology accepted,” she told him, pleased that she managed to sound gracious rather than grateful.
“And, uh, I also came to ask for your help.” He handed her a newspaper clipping.
Madison unfolded it, scanned it. Seemed the media had misinterpreted Danny’s absence the other night. Seemed his appearance here today had nothing to do with a sudden urge to apologize.
“I’ve invited a few journalists here to verify my story about the dog,” he said.
“You mean the dog whose progress you haven’t bothered to ask about?” Her foot tapped the floor.
“Uh, Madison…” Roger, who’d witnessed Madison berating substandard pet owners before, called a nervous warning.
Danny didn’t appear to notice her tension. He shrugged. “You said he’d be fine. Is he?”
“He’s doing as well as can be expected.” Madison didn’t mention that she expected the dog to be alert, playful and champing for his freedom. She added less truthfully, “Subjecting him to the attention of a crowd of journalists might set back his recovery.”
Danny looked downright skeptical. “I get that I should have asked about the dog,” he said. “But caring about animals is your job. Mine is to win races, and I won’t apologize for putting that first. That newspaper article has done a lot of damage. If I don’t produce the dog, my main sponsor will walk.”
She folded her arms. “You’re asking me to care about that and the dog?”
His eyes narrowed. “If I lose my sponsor, I can’t race. If I can’t race, my team loses their jobs. That’s thirty-three people who work on my car. Unemployed.” He paused, then delivered the coup de grâce. “Right before Christmas.”
Darn it, he had her.
She didn’t even get to make him sweat a little longer—Roger shouldered his way into the conversation. “We’d be honored to help you out, Danny. You’re our favorite driver.”
Danny’s gaze met Madison’s and she telegraphed, “Not mine,” with her eyes. One side of his mouth quirked.
Roger insisted on leading the dog out to the reception himself. The animal tugged on the leash—like most patients, he wanted to be more active than his injuries permitted. At times like this Madison wished she could speak Dog. She’d woof, “Take it easy.” And maybe, when he got close to Danny, “Bite him.”
The dog responded to Danny’s “Hey, buster” with joyous welcome.
Then a tall woman arrived, introducing herself as Sandra Jacobs, Danny’s PR representative. Fifteen minutes later, the place was overrun with reporters and photographers, even a couple of TV crews. Danny pulled on a Sports Force America cap and posed hunkered down with an arm slung around the dog. He grinned as if they were long-lost buddies, and didn’t flinch when a long, slobbery lick landed on his cheek.
In response to the journalists’ questions, Danny recounted the story of how his truck came to hit the dog—his publicist jumped in and emphasized the wet road and terrible conditions.
Madison chipped in with answers to questions about the dog’s health. From the corner of her eye, she saw the reception grow increasingly crowded—no one wanted to go into their appointment while Danny was there. The backlog would likely last all day.
A reporter asked, “What happens to the dog now?”
“I hope the owner will see this story and come forward,” Madison said. “If not, he’ll go to a shelter, probably at the end of the week when his wound is more healed.”
At last they ran out of questions, and the media left. While the PR lady thanked Roger for the clinic’s cooperation, Danny turned to Madison. “You did great.”
She shrugged, her earlier annoyance dissipated by the realization that the media interest could be useful. “If it helps find the dog’s owner, I’ll be happy.”
He glanced down at the animal lying at his feet. “I’m glad he has someone like you looking out for him.” He smiled, with his eyes not his mouth, as he stuck out a hand.
“I’m a sucker for a stray,” Madison said lightly, trying to get the handshake over with as fast as possible. But he caught her with his other hand, trapping her fingers between his, the way she’d done to him the other night. She wondered if his bones had melted then.
For a long moment, he looked down at her hand as if he could feel her liquid response. Mortified, Madison tried to tug free. He tightened his grip. “How about I buy you dinner tonight?”
The words swam in her head in a delicious sea of temptation. Dinner with Danny… “Why? Are you planning another photo shoot tomorrow?”
He laughed. “Nope, but you never know what might come up.” A pause. “Dinner would be to say thanks for helping out when I didn’t deserve it.”
She’d bet he knew there was nothing sexier than a man acting humble. Then he glanced at his watch, and she remembered this man would happily forget Christmas, would forget anything that didn’t help him win races. He would forget her long before she forgot him.
“Thanks,” she said, “but I’m getting together with my mom and my sisters tonight to plan Christmas. It’s important.”
His eyes gleamed an acknowledgment of her put-down. At last, he relinquished her hand, and immediately she felt the loss of contact.
“It was interesting to meet you, Madison Beale.”
Before she could even regret the finality of those words, he was gone. Madison squelched a pang of disappointment as she headed to the reception desk, picked up her clipboard.
“Mrs. Barrett,” she called. A stout woman with a blue rinse and a black poodle heaved herself out of a chair. Madison smiled a greeting. “Come this way.” As she headed down the corridor, she tried not to stew over Danny’s description of their encounter as “interesting.” Surely he could have managed “fun” or “great.” She’d even settle for “nice.”
ON WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, Madison gave in and picked up the phone to call Danny. She ran a finger over the cell phone number on his business card. He must have minions to answer the phone. I probably won’t even get to talk to him.
She pressed in the number.
“Cruise.” No minion had a voice that sexy.
She cleared her throat. “Hi, uh, it’s—”
“Madison, hi.”
It felt darned good that he’d recognized her voice.
“How’s the dog?” he asked.
She collected her thoughts. “Do you really care?”
“No, but I’m too scared not to ask.”
She heard his smile, couldn’t help smiling back. “He’s fine.” She paused. “The story came out well in the papers. On TV, too.”
“The ‘bad sport’ theory has gone away,” he agreed. “And my sponsor’s thrilled to have so much off-season publicity.”
“Hold that thought, because it’s my turn to ask you for help.”
A moment’s silence. Then a cautious, “Uh-huh?”
“I wouldn’t ask if I had a choice,” she said. “We’ve been flooded with e-mails and phone calls since that story came out.”
“People wanting the dog’s autograph,” he guessed.
“NASCAR fans wanting to adopt him,” she corrected. “His real owner hasn’t come forward, but there must be five hundred people who want him.”
“That’s great.”
She tsk-tsked. “I don’t have time to deal with them. You must have people who handle your mail. They can sift through these inquiries and give me a short list of potential owners.”
Danny’s silence seemed contemplative rather than reluctant. Madison was learning he didn’t talk until he had something to say. She personally found it difficult to say nothing, so she added, “It’s just I have a—a patient about to arrive for lifesaving surgery.”
“I’ll deal with it,” he said abruptly. “I’ll see you soon.”
“I only wanted—” But she was talking to dead air.