Jacob Elliott flipped his left-turn signal on and patiently waited for Mrs. Moyer to pull out of her parking space. He knew it was Mrs. Moyer because her dog, Harold, was frantically clawing at the back window of her station wagon. Jacob Elliott was not especially good at remembering people, but he never forgot a dog. He was debating the merits of this peculiarity when a gleaming, cherry-red sports car zipped around the corner and beat him out of Mrs. Moyer's spot.

The red car door instantly flew open. Two shapely legs extended themselves from the driver's side, and a delicate blonde emerged. She threw her hands into the air in a gesture of furious exasperation and gave the door a
thunderous slam, catching the hem of her swirly pink skirt in the jaws of the powerful machine. She glared at the skirt contemptuously, gave a yank, and tore herself looseâleaving half a yard of pink material held hostage by the car. Without even so much as a backward glance she flounced off to the supermarket, fists clenched, eyes narrowed, nose defiantly tipped upward.

Jacob Elliott sat wide-eyed and slack jawed in disbelief as the glossy blond curls disappeared behind the automatic glass doors. He felt a smile creep into the corners of his mouth and a disturbing rush of heat burn across his belly. He was in love.

Life, Amy Klasse fumed, was not fair. You do all the right things, and
bam
! You get kicked in the teeth. It made her furious, especially since innocent children were going to be among the hapless victims.

Wrenching a wire cart out of the cart stack, she viciously pushed it toward the vegetables. She glared at her shredded skirt. Of all the lousy luck; now, on top of
everything else, she'd ruined her favorite outfit. Darn that car. And it wasn't as if she could afford to buy another pink skirt: She was unemployed. She'd been unemployed for twenty minutes. She looked at her watch. No, make that thirty-five minutes. All because of a chicken. A
chicken
, for crying out loud! She muttered a well-chosen expletive and indiscriminately grabbed a grapefruit from a huge display. “A chicken!” she exclaimed, thunking her fist against her forehead.

Jake watched in absolute astonishment as his newfound love flung a grapefruit into her cart and took off in a blind rage. The remaining grapefruits hesitated for a moment in precarious limbo, and then hurled themselves onto the floor like so many lemmings making the final, fatal, migration. Jake stopped a grapefruit with the side of his foot and flipped it into the air, like a soccer ball. He scooped up several more and carefully lined them up in their bin.

From the corner of his eye he caught the infuriated blonde heading for the fresh
eggs. “Oh, no,” he said, groaning, “not the eggs.”

In silent horror, he watched as she chose a carton and in some magical way managed to grasp only the top lid, spilling the entire dozen eggs into the immaculate glass case. The eggs instantly exploded on their companions, oozing across gleaming shelves, sliming into pristine crevices.

The blonde stared at the eggs as if they were aliens. She shook her head and muttered something indiscernible while Jake doubled over his own cart in an attempt to abort the laughter that was rising in his throat.

In his entire life he'd never come across a female who was that outraged, that clumsy, and that sexy. She wasn't sexy by centerfold standards, but there was definitely something about her that increased his heart rate. He liked the way her short blond curls bounced when she walked. He liked her peaches-and-cream coloring and her wide cornflower blue eyes, and the way she carried her slight frame. And most of all, Jake was intrigued by the intensity of her fury, the way she could
muster her pride and walk away from disaster. She was not a woman whose life would be ruined by a broken fingernail.

A stockboy appeared with a mop and sponge. “Don't worry about it,” he told Amy. “Happens all the time.”

Amy nodded numbly. Lord, what a mess. Those eggs were like her lifeâscrambled. She decided she didn't want eggs anyway. Eggs reminded her of chickens; and you know what chickens doâthey steal people's jobs!

She proceeded down the aisles at a much more cautious pace, selecting fixings for a spaghetti dinner. She intended to go home, brew up some of her fantastic spaghetti sauce, and eat until she burst. Then she would sit in front of the TV and make the most of feeling sorry for herself. She hefted a bag of cat litter into her cart and continued on.

Jake saw the tear in the bottom of the litter bag. He could have told her. He could have introduced himself and explained that she was leaving a trail of cat litter that wound its way through the bulk-food
section and staunchly marched through sanitary products, but he didn't. It was much more fun to observe her at a distance and follow the granules.

Besides, he knew when he would make his move. Calamity Jane didn't have a purse, and there were no pockets that he could see in her bedraggled skirt. His guess was that she'd gone off in such a huff that she'd left her money behind. He pursued her at a leisurely pace, selecting a bottle of burgundy to accompany her spaghetti dinner and adding a frozen pie for dessert.

He lined up behind his quarry at the checkout, feeling an unsettling surge of affection for her while his anxiety ran amok. What if his plan didn't work? What if she was married? She didn't have a ring on her finger, but that was no guarantee. Maybe she lost her ring this morning when she was bathing the baby.

He peered over her shoulder and warily watched the fresh mushrooms and sweet peppers glide along the belt. She'd probably burned down three kitchens and poisoned countless men. Could that be why she wasn't
wearing a ring? Most likely she'd killed her husbandâaccidentally run him over with her flashy red car. Maybe he should reconsiderâ¦Nah.

The checker smiled at Amy. “Forty-three dollars and seventy-six cents.”

Amy froze. No purse. There was a sweep of momentary panic until she mentally retraced her steps and assured herself the purse was safely stowed in her locker at the station. This is what happens when you lose control of your emotions, she thought. You make an idiot of yourself in the supermarket.

Jake waited. Timing was everything. You couldn't look too eager when you were picking women up at the supermarket like this. Not that he'd ever done it before, but he just knew you had to be cool about these things.

Amy pressed her lips together in dismay. “I'm sorry. I don't have my purse with me.”

Now.
Jake leaned forward. “Is there a problem?” Lord, she smelled wonderful when you got this close to her. Sweet, like honeysuckle, he thought. And her voice was
clear and musical. Her laughter would be like that, too, he decided.

The checker looked unconcerned. “She forgot her purse.”

“Oh.” Steady, Elliott, he cautioned. Subtlety, that's the key word. You have to be subtle. He turned his big soft brown eyes to Amy. “Do you live far away? Maybe you can call someone to bring the money. A neighbor?” Slight pause. “Your husband?” Clever, he thought, very clever. Hold your breathâ¦

She looked despondent. “I just moved into the neighborhood. I don't know anyone, and I don't have a husband.”

Whew! She didn't have a husband. Jake tried to control the smile that was twitching across his mouth. “Maybe I can help. I'd be happy to loan you the money.”

“That's very nice of you, but I couldn't let you do that. You don't even know me.”

Jake studied her flushed face, allowing his gaze to roam from her cap of shiny curls to her slightly upturned nose and kissable bow-shaped mouth. Her neck was smooth and elegant, her breasts small and round.
His gaze lingered at the torn skirt, wondering at the slender legs hidden within. “That's true. I don't know you, and you do look a littleâ¦um, unkempt.”

Amy looked down at her skirt. “It was my car. It ate my skirt.”

Jake nodded sympathetically. He glanced at the bags of groceries sitting in her cart. “I'll tell you what, I'll make a deal with you. It looks to me like you've got the makings of a spaghetti dinner there. As you can see”âhe pointed to his cartful of TV dinnersâ“my culinary skills stop at defrosting. I'll pay for your food, if you'll make me a home-cooked meal. Fair?”

Now it was Amy's turn to take a long hard look at Jacob Elliott, six feet tall with broad shoulders, slim hips, and running shoes held together with surgical tape. A few crisp black hairs curled from the open neck of his shirt. His sleeves had been rolled to the elbow, displaying strong corded forearms, and Amy guessed that the shirt hid muscles in all the right places. He was perfectly yummy. Coffee-colored hair waved over his eyes and along his neck,
giving him a slightly rugged look, which was substantiated by a five o'clock shadow. Perfect teeth flashed white against a dashing smile any pirate would have been proud to own.

Amy felt a shiver run along her spine and instinctively checked to make sure her blouse was buttoned. “I don't think so,” she answered, trying to ignore the fact that her mouth had gone dry as sand.

The checkout clerk shook her head in disbelief. “What a ninny.”

Amy felt her jaw drop. “I beg your pardon?”

The older woman stood with her hand on her hip and grinned. “Wouldn't catch me turning down a chance to cook
his
dinner.”

“I don't know this man. He could be an axe murderer.”

“Honey, this is Dr. Elliott. Everyone knows Dr. Elliott. He owns the veterinary clinic just around the corner.”

The checker one aisle over leaned across her cash register. “Dr. Elliott saved Sarah Maxwell's cat when it was run over by a truck. Cat was a terrible mess, but Dr. Elliott
worked on that poor little thing and stitched it together like new.”

“And Frannie Newfarmer's beagle,” a woman two carts behind Amy added. “He nursed her beagle back to health when it was poisoned by the gardening service. Dr. Elliott slept in the office every night for almost a week, watching over that dog, till he was sure the little fella would live.”

Jacob Elliott smiled down at Amy. “See, you can trust me.”

Not by the hairs on your chinny chin chin, she thought. There was unmistakable mischief in his liquid brown eyesâbedroom eyes. And his wide mouth had a sensual curve to it that went straight to the pit of her stomach. He might be great at saving beagles, but she'd bet he was hell on single women. “I don't live far from here,” Amy explained. “I'll drive home and get some money.”

Jake slouched against his cart, counting the seconds until she realized her keys were locked in her car. When the startled expression appeared in her eyes he calmly paid for both their groceries and escorted
her to the parking lot. “The large jeep-type vehicle,” he told her. “The purple job with the big black dog.”

Amy stumbled slightly at the sight of the “purple job.” It was big and square, more maroon than purple, splattered with mud and riddled with rust. A coat hanger antenna zigzagged crazily from the hood, and a bashed-in rear bumper sported a faded sticker that read
HAVE YOU HUGGED YOUR VETERINARIAN TODAY
? She'd never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but she wasn't sure about being hauled home in a car Fred Flintstone would have rejected. It was definitely past its primeâ¦by about three hundred years.

Jake opened the door and put the groceries in back with the dog. “This is Spot. Spot, meetâ”

“Amy Klasse.” She patted Spot on the head. “One of your patients?”

“My roommate.”

The dog was black, a sleek, shiny ebony without a single white or brown hair on his entire body. “I know I'm going to regret
asking, but why is this animal named âSpot'?”

“I always wanted a dog named âSpot.'”

“Of course.”

Jake turned the key in the ignition and seemed unperturbed by the loud grinding sounds emanating from the engine. “Do you have any roommates?”

“I live with a cat.”

“That's it?” Jake asked, barely able to keep from grinning.

“Pardon?”

“Just a cat?” No mother, father, sister, brother, girl friend, boyfriend, maiden aunt? He'd never felt so lucky.

“Just a cat.” No husband. No fiancÃ©. No boyfriend. She wasn't sure why. Most likely it was her lifestyle. Her alarm rang at four
A.M.
Quick shower, fix hair, English muffin, apply beginnings of makeup, get to studio for early-morning taping. Afternoon rehearsal and promotional appearances. Supper. Early to bedâalone. And then there wasâthat. That physical, um, situation.

Amy sighed. She never sighedâespecially
not about her life. She liked her life. At least she had liked it until today, when she lost her job, ripped her skirt, made a shambles of the supermarket, and last but
not
least, entrusted herself to the care of Jacob Elliott, veterinarian extraordinaire, total stranger.

Panic rippled through her. She didn't know this man, and not only was he driving her homeâ¦he was invited for dinner. She couldn't believe she was doing this. Cautious Amy, the woman who avoided singles bars like the plague, had just gotten picked up in the supermarket. She took a deep breath and told herself to stay calm. It wasn't really a pickup. More like a rescue. And he had excellent recommendations from the checkout ladies.

Still, there was something unsettling about him. His appearance shouted laid-back slob, even though his eyes crackled with energy. He was just the sort of man she'd diligently ignored: devilishly attractive and impossible to categorize. He was the sort of man who'd certainly complicate a woman's life. And her life was complicated enough, she thought. “Definitely!”

Jake looked at her from the corner of his eye. “You're not going to break anything, are you?”

She crossed her arms over her chest and said, “Hmmm.” It was the sort of snorting sound you might expect a bull to make before charging.

BOOK: Foul Play

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