Mackenzie watched with increasing discomfort as Kylie rummaged in a paper sack on the table.
“I know it’s in here somewhere.” Her long hair fell in a golden mass around her face, and Mackenzie felt an odd constriction in his throat. Watching her from out a window had been disturbing enough. Her eccentric actions had amused and confounded him, but he’d never felt any need to try and understand her.
Now, watching as she exclaimed with triumph and pulled a large plastic bone from the bag, he found himself struggling with the inexplicable desire to discover why she did the things she did.
Why, for example, she had stood in the middle of his living room a few moments ago staring at him, a strangely tender look on her face. It had taken every ounce of self-control not to jump off the couch and go to her and . . .
Forget it, St. Clair! She’s not your type. Remember? Do yourself a favor and stick with a woman you can relate to.
Amanda. She was his type. Sleek. Sophisticated. A woman who thought the way he did, whose every action was logical and easily understood. You’d never find her standing there, tearing the packaging of a dog bone apart as though it were some wonderful treasure.
Kylie directed a smile his way. “It’s a chew toy. Chicken flavored. Zsuzsi’s favorite. I figured our friend here would like one too.” She held it out to the dog.
“You got him a toy?”
“Of course.”
“Let me get this straight. You spent good money on a toy for a dog?” Her expression told him she didn’t see the problem. “I suppose your dog has a closet full of toys.”
Her mouth curved. “Not exactly. She has a Nylabone that she likes to chew in her crate, a tennis ball she loves to chomp on while we’re sitting on the couch watching TV—”
“You let that beast of yours up on your furniture?”
Kylie’s bell-like laughter rang out. “Sure. A couch is just a couch. It doesn’t bring me joy or comfort or laughter. Zsuzsi does all of those things and more.” She shrugged. “Possessions are to be used, Mac. What does it matter if it’s me using them or Zsuzsi?”
“Mackenzie.”
She didn’t seem to notice. She was too busy kneeling beside the crate, petting the dog. Well, this was one habit he intended to break before it got started. “It’s Mackenzie, not ‘Mac.’ ”
She stood to brush the fur from her jeans—the dog seemed to leave a cloud of it wherever he went!—and moved to lay out a small rug near the crate.
“I already told you, I don’t do nicknames.” The sternness he’d injected into the sentence seemed to have no effect. She filled one bowl with water and watched as the dog trotted over to circle the rug three times, then plop down with a contented sigh. Kylie turned and beamed that beautiful smile at him, but he refused to be moved.
“I don’t believe in them.” He was talking through gritted teeth now.
She blinked. “In what?”
“In nicknames—” He frowned. “Have you heard a word I’ve said?”
Her expression was one of utter innocence. “Oh dear, were you talking to me? I’m sorry! I thought you were scolding the dog again.”
How did she do that? Melt away his determination to be firm and unmoved. Maybe it was her eyes. They were an extraordinary shade of green—
“Now, what were you saying?”
He’d never seen eyes quite that color before.
“Mac—I mean, Mackenzie?”
They were a deep, rich green in the center, circled by a ring of darker green. But what struck him even more than the startling color of her eyes was the artless serenity they held. It was . . . “Beautiful.”
She started, her eyes widening a fraction. Then a slight grin quirked her mouth. She moved over to tap her knuckles against his forehead. “Hello? Anybody home?”
The warmth of her touch jarred him, and he stiffened.
She pursed her lips. “Are you OK?”
“Fine. Absolutely. No problem.”
“OK, then what did you want to tell me?”
“About what?”
“About whatever you were saying to me.”
“When?”
She laughed. “When I wasn’t listening.”
Oh yes. The nickname.
“Are you sure you’re OK?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” Though he felt far from it. Maybe he was coming down with a fever. “As for whatever I was saying before, well, never mind. It doesn’t matter.” If he and his peace of mind were lucky, she wouldn’t be around often enough to call him much of anything.
Her shoulders lifted. “All righty then. So, what are you going to name him?”
“Name who?”
She looked at the dog, then back at him.
The dog? She wanted him to name the dog? “Why would I give it a name? I’m not going to keep it.”
“You have to call him something.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Dog should suffice.”
“It most certainly will not suffice!”
Mackenzie fought a grin at her vehemence. But the grin won out when he took in the spark in her eyes, the mutinous tilt of her chin, her arms crossed over her chest.
“I don’t know why not.” That won him another glare.
“Well then, contrary to popular opinion—meaning your own—you obviously don’t know everything, Mackenzie.” She whirled away from him and knelt beside the dog, burying her fingers in the animal’s thick fur. “I know”—the look she cast him was pure mischief—“how about ‘Bubba’?”
“Bubba?” She couldn’t be serious.
“No? Well . . . there’s always ‘Buddy.’ Or how about ‘Spot’ or ‘Precious’?”
“I refuse to call that animal—or anything else, for that matter—‘Precious’!”
“Fine.” She stood with a flourish. “Then you come up with a name. Unless, of course, that’s too much of a challenge for you. You know, too creative?”
He fixed her with a warning look, which only resulted in a burst of muffled laughter. He gave the dog a long look. So the beast needed a name, did he? “I’ve got it.” He looked at her, but his voice caught in his throat when their gazes connected. She really did have the most amazing eyes—
“Yes?”
He started. Oh. Right. The dog’s name. “Ivan.”
She looked at the husky. “Ivan.” She seemed to be testing it. The dog stretched, yawned, and tipped his head back to peer up at them. “Ivan.” Her excitement was almost contagious. “It’s perfect. I had a friend in college whose name was Ivan. If I remember correctly, it’s the Russian form of John, which means ‘gracious gift from God.’ It fits.”
He looked at the dog, then back at her. “Actually”—oh, she was going to hate him for this—“I was thinking more of Ivan the Terrible when I suggested the name, not Ivan the gift from God.”
She planted her hands on her hips. “Mac!”
“Hey, he nearly destroyed my house.”
She bit her lip.
“And my white towels—which, I might add, are very expensive—will never look the same.”
She glanced at the dog and laughed. “Well, OK, so we know your meaning is appropriate. But I still think—” she waggled her eyebrows—“my meaning is better.”
He laughed. “Never say die, eh?” He glanced down at the dog, who watched them with an adoring look in his mismatched eyes.
Kylie started for the door. “And isn’t it nice that you have three weeks to discover whether or not I’m right?”
Before he could come up with an appropriate retort, she slipped out the door. But he could hear her chuckles all the way down the walkway.
Mackenzie stretched and yawned. It had been a long day—his gaze drifted to Ivan, who sat beside him on the floor, leaning against his leg. After Kylie left, he’d spent the rest of the evening cleaning up the dog hair.
The stuff seemed to materialize out of thin air!
As though sensing Mackenzie’s attention, Ivan looked up at him, intent eyes wide.
Mackenzie frowned. “What is it, boy? What do you want?”
Ivan stared at him, then at the couch where Mackenzie was sitting.
“Forget it.”
The dog kept staring.
“No way.” Mackenzie crossed his arms. “You’re not getting up here.”
If anything, Ivan only looked more forlorn. “Manipulator. You’re as bad as my sister.” She knew exactly how to get around his most determined refusals. Well, he was not going to be cajoled by a four-footed fur ball.
Mackenzie leaned down to look Ivan in the eye. “Couches are for humans. Floors are for dogs.”
Ivan licked Mackenzie’s nose.
Mackenzie straightened, aware of an odd warmth somewhere in the region of his heart. He glanced at the couch cushion beside him. I can’t believe I’m even considering this. This couch cost me a bundle! No way am I going to let this fur machine up on it!
At a gentle touch, Mackenzie glanced down to find the dog resting one paw on his knee. “A couch is just a couch.” Kylie’s voice echoed in his mind.
“Just a minute.” He sighed, got up, and went to rummage in his cedar-lined linen closet. A few moments later he returned with a large beach towel in hand. He spread the towel over the cushion, then sat down—and patted the spot beside him.
Ivan jumped up, circled three times, then plopped down. By the time the movie Mackenzie had clicked on was rolling the credits, Ivan’s head was in Mackenzie’s lap. He stroked the soft ears, amazed at how calming the action was.
Shaking his head, he patted Ivan’s side. “Up and at ’em, boy. Time for bed. Which means you go in your crate.”
Ivan stretched and slid from the couch. He followed Mackenzie to the crate and went inside without argument.
“Good boy, Ivan. Now go to sleep.”
He headed for his bedroom. Why on earth had he been worried? This dog thing was a breeze.
A horrific wailing sound split the night.
Mackenzie scrambled from bed, grabbed his robe, and raced for the living room. Ivan sat in his crate, staring at him, howling his heart out.
“That’s enough!”
Ivan stilled, but his expression clearly told Mackenzie that his heart was breaking.
“Save it for the women, buster.” Mackenzie turned and stalked back to bed.
No sooner had he slid beneath the covers than the howls began again. The mournful sounds bounced off the walls and reverberated all around Mackenzie. With a groan, he pulled his pillow over his head.
It didn’t help.
He jumped up and went into the bathroom. He threw open the medicine cabinet, grabbed a handful of cotton balls, and stuffed them in his ears. All it did was waste the cotton.
Nothing blocked out the pitiful sound of Ivan’s anguish. Finally, around 3 a.m., Mackenzie threw back the covers.
“All right. You win.”
He opened the door of the crate. Ivan bounded out, jumping in ecstasy, dancing around Mackenzie like a Mexican Jumping Bean. “I should have named you Tigger.” Ivan raced down the hallway, and Mackenzie followed, certain Ivan would be in the middle of the bed when he got there. But much to his surprise, the dog was sitting beside the bed, waiting for him. Too tired to question, Mackenzie slipped under the covers. Ivan stood up, turned three circles then lay down with a plop—beside the bed.
Mackenzie reached down and rested a hand on the dog’s soft head. Just before he drifted off to sleep, Mackenzie felt a grateful lick on his hand.