Primal Force (3 page)

After a few seconds more, she realized that he had stopped pouring and was staring off to one side. She followed his gaze to the refrigerated cases next to him. She could see his reflection clearly in the glass door.
Oh.
If she could see him that meant he could see her, too. He wasn't staring at the drinks, but at her.

The impact of his gaze hit Jori with a scorching effect. It was intimate, exhilarating, and completely male. Which was saying a lot, considering his stare was reflected by chilled glass.

Embarrassed to be caught eyeing him, she hitched up a hand in greeting.

He didn't respond but, after another second, opened the door and reached for a bottle of water.

She turned away, uncertain about what had just happened. Maybe he hadn't been staring at her, after all. Yet the hot knot of sexual awareness balled in her stomach told her he'd seen her, all right. And dismissed her.

She grabbed a bag of chips at random from a rack as she hurried away.

Okay, so they hadn't exactly gotten along the past three days. The intensity of the way he watched her work with the dogs and other vets unnerved her. Though she'd been working with WWP for six months, this was her first experience working directly with the vets. Maybe it showed. Unless he had figured out what she thought she'd been successful at hiding.

“You'll fall a little in love with all of them.” Kelli Miller, the owner of Warriors Wolf Pack, had warned her when she began working full-time at the WWP main office near Conway. At the time, she thought Kelli was talking about the service dogs they lived with and trained every day. Now she suspected Kelli had meant something else.

Most veterans brought along family members or a friend when they first visited Warriors Wolf Pack. Many were young men and women in their prime when war brutally ripped from them vital parts of their physical functioning. Years of military training and strong families had helped them work through a defined set of objectives and treatment to get to the point where they could manage a service dog. Once a trained animal was added into the mix, their efforts at self-reliance became downright jaw-dropping.

But there were others, loners by circumstance or choice. They had no support system. Battise had come alone.

Jori resisted the impulse to glance back over her shoulder. Not that Battise looked like a stray. He seemed more like a lone wolf. The kind that wouldn't run long with any pack. Instead, he prowled around the edges, watchful and alert. The missing leg seemed to be a mark of his courage, as if he were a wild animal willing to gnaw off his limb to retain his freedom.

Jori shook her head to dispel her fanciful notions. Battise was at WWP for a PTSD dog. That meant he was plagued by demons he alone understood. She knew about personal demons.

“Don't.” She said the word under her breath as she hurried toward the cash register. She didn't need to cloud her judgment with too much compassion.

“Hello, Miss Jori.” The clerk smiled a toothy smile as she stepped up. “Looking good today.”

“Thanks, Sanjay.” Sanjay was so polite, he'd say that if she came in wearing a paper bag. “How's Mena?”

“Not so good. The tooth pains her.” He tapped his upper jaw. “I tell her, go to the dentist. But she says no. She's using ground cloves for the pain.”

“If the pain continues, she'll need to see a dentist.”

“I try to tell her. Lottery ticket today?”

“Only if you can guarantee it's the winner.”

Sizzling sounds coupled with the mouthwatering smells made her glance sideways at the pigs-in-a-blanket in the warming case next to the cash register. Her stomach gurgled. “Are those fresh?”

“Made this morning.” Sensing a sale, Sanjay reached for his tongs and waxed paper bag. “With or without cheese?”

“I shouldn't.” Jori sighed and set aside her chips. “Well, maybe this one time.”

“You going to buy something today?”

Jori looked around at the sound of that terse voice coming from behind her.

The shallow span of Battise's face visible between his cap brim and bush of beard contained black-lashed eyes the sludge-gold color of high-quality crude oil. He held a coffee cup in one hand and a water bottle in the other. Tucked in his right fist was a cellophane bag through which she could see an apple cruller. She wondered fleetingly what it would feel like to be that cruller.

She inhaled and went light-headed at the smell of clean salty sweat wafting faintly off him.
Oh God.
She was about to embarrass herself by drooling.

Mustering her most professional voice, she shifted her gaze to his face. “Hello, Mr. Battise.”

“Law will do.” His dark-amber gaze dipped and hovered at her mid-chest long enough for her to remember she wasn't wearing a bra. She'd ducked out for cat food wearing her sleep tee tucked into a pair of cutoffs. To judge by his fractional squint, her body must be reacting to his bold gaze. Yep, her nipples definitely tingled. Damn. Her hormones were in overload.

When that black-gold gaze returned to her face, Jori felt both the attraction and the repulsion of a force mightier than her own. “I'll ask again. Are you planning to buy something today?”

“Yes, of course.” Jori dumped her things on the counter. What a grouch.

When she had paid, she turned back to him, determined to show him the kind of manners he didn't seem to possess. “See you shortly.” No need to prolong the moment. Not when her senses were outmaneuvering her brain.

“Wait a second.” He pulled a twenty from his pocket and handed it over to the cashier before continuing. “Might as well tell you, I'm turning the dog back in today.”

Surprise darted through her. “Samantha? Why?”

He gathered up his items and change before turning fully toward her. “Let's just say I'm not a doodle kind of guy.”

It didn't take effort to process that bit of macho attitude. No doubt a poodle mix was too cuddly for his image.

She offered him a sly look. “Too much dog for you?”

He slanted a stare-down at her that made her vividly aware of the six-inch difference in their heights. Did he have to make everything a contest? Yes. Probably. Because he could so easily win. Walking intimidation.

She held on to her smile. “Come on, Mr. Battise. Sam's so well trained, a two-year-old could handle her.”

“Do I look like a toddler to you?”

What he looked like was a man-sized helping of trouble for a woman with too much imagination, and too little opportunity to exercise it. But he wasn't offering her a chance to dance. The
back off
sign was bright in his gaze.

He slid on his shades, finishing the impression that he was barricaded behind his cap and beard. “Give the dog to someone who needs her.”

Jori quickly recalibrated. Kelli wouldn't be happy if she didn't at least try to dissuade him from that action.

As he moved toward the exit, she fell into step beside him. “If Samantha's not behaving, I can sort her out for you. You wouldn't be the first client who hasn't had a dog before. You'll get the hang of it.”

Instead of stepping through as the automatic doors whooshed open, he paused and looked down, his stare zeroing in on her ninety-nine-cent flip-flops. One was neon green, the other bubble-gum pink. Each sported colorful plastic flowers over the big toe.

Some emotion rounded his cheeks above his tangle of beard as his gaze rose quickly up her bare legs and torso to her face. “What do you get out of bossing grown men around?”

The question was meant to back her off but Jori absorbed it with a blink. “What I get is results, Mr. Battise. See you later.”

She moved first through the exit.

“Nice butt.”

He said the words so softly she wondered if he meant her to hear him. She turned around, eyes narrowed. “In your dreams, Mr. Battise.”

“All the time.” He smiled then, the first time she'd seen anything like humor in his expression.

She turned and put one flip-flop in front of the other, ignoring the slapping sounds they made as she moved out across the parking lot. But she was smiling.

Yep. He held in check more force of personality than most men possessed. The reason she was sweating was entirely her own fault. Battise was hot. All he had to do was appear and she was all sweaty slut in heat. At least she had good taste. Battise was prime slut muffin material.

But not a nice man. He was rude, and curt, and condescending. And he was probably troll-ugly beneath that beard. Yeah, gorgeous body but a weak chin, buck teeth, and pizza-textured skin from years of bad acne, or steroid abuse, or both. He probably lived in a room that smelled of stinky socks and sweaty balls. That's why he was so rude. He knew women were turned off by his—

“Oh hell!” Jori laughed out loud. He'd be gorgeous without a head. And he didn't smell. Well, only of fresh sweat. She was just annoyed that he didn't seem to find her, despite his comment, attractive. His pupils never dilated when he looked at her.

Jori caught her reflection in a passing car window and gulped. With her non-matching flip-flops, bed-head braid, and homemade cutoffs, what was there not to like?

The November breeze made gooseflesh of her thighs as she hurried across the parking lot. Yet the sun rising clear and bright through the remaining autumn leaves promised a true warm Indian summer day.

Once behind the wheel of her vehicle, two thoughts struck Jori. One, she couldn't really afford the pig-in-a-blanket she was about to devour. And two, Samantha hadn't been with Battise. Service dogs were supposed to go everywhere with their owners.

She looked up and saw Battise standing next to a truck several yards away. It was an F-150 Super Cab with a narrow second row of seats. Painted a no-nonsense gunmetal without trim work or even a bumper sticker, it reminded her of its owner: big, practical, yet impressive. Samantha had poked her muzzle through the open space in the passenger window and was watching him eat his cruller. As she watched, he offered the dog a bite. Samantha wolfed down the entire remains of the fried dough in a single gulp.

“Huh.” Jori sat back and unwrapped her own meal. Not good canine nutrition but at least Battise was interacting with his dog.

Just as she took a bite, she saw him reach for the back of his T-shirt and pull. The deep valley of his spine came into view like a canyon. The edge of his shirt slid higher, revealing skin the color of copper pulled tight over dense muscles that rippled and bunched as he moved. The broad mesas of his shoulder blades appeared as he pulled the tee over his head.

The glorious male striptease was not all that had her paused in mid-bite. There was a series of long scars running like silver through the bronze contours of his lower back and around his left side before disappearing into the waistband of his shorts. Suddenly the violence that had taken his leg was all too real for her.

He tossed the damp shirt in the back of the truck then moved around to the driver's side, revealing a slight limp he could no longer hide. Jori followed him with her eyes. The keep-out intimidation of his attitude suddenly had another interpretation. Pain. The emotion in his gaze, so sharp, so familiar—was it an echo of his lingering pain?

She'd read a lot about the needs of disabled veterans in preparation for the week. Pain both real and what was called phantom, because it came from limbs no longer there, was often a constant companion for amputees.

Jori let her breath out slowly. She hadn't needed a whopping helping of sexual magnetism to start her day. Especially when there was nothing she planned to do about it. But the scars made Battise all too real.

She felt a twinge of shame. She'd been ogling him as if he were some book cover model showing off his perfect body for her enjoyment. But he was all too human. His arrogance was more likely the shield of a proud man who had lost, and suffered, and survived.

Jori set her breakfast aside uneaten. Suddenly all she wanted to do was make his life better. If he'd let her.

Jori put her SUV in gear, wincing as the gears of the 150,000-plus-mile vehicle clunked before meshing. Trust her to fall for the moody guy who wouldn't know a good time if it fell on him. Maybe if
she
fell on him …

That's just prison talking, Jori.

 

CHAPTER THREE

“Maybe if we paired him with Bruno?”

“Bruno's not ready.” Kelli Miller, owner of Warriors Wolf Pack, sat with her sneakers propped on the desk in her office. “Besides, the dog chooses the vet. That's our policy.”

Jori nodded. Samantha had practically Velcroed herself to Battise the first day. She wouldn't leave his side even when beckoned by other vets. “But Mr. Battise said, I quote, ‘I'm not a doodle kind of guy.' I don't think he even likes dogs.”

“That's your impression?” Kelli's lips twitched as if she knew something Jori didn't. “Hold that thought.” She rose from her chair.

Immediately the coal-black Lab mix named Troy, dozing at Kelli's feet, sat up and thrust his muzzle forward as he gazed up at her for instruction. Kelli made the sign for
stay
then went to push her office door closed before turning back to lean against it as she faced Jori.

“Veterans come to us for help. We don't need them to be grateful, happy, or all fuzzy about what we do. Mr. Battise came for a reason. What do you know about him?”

Jori shrugged. “He suffers from PTSD.” And he was hot. But she doubted Kelli wanted to hear that.

“Anything else?”

Jori shook her head. “Unlike the other veterans, he doesn't talk much.” And then only in intimidating terms.

“Then I suggest you make it your business to get to know him. I'll pair you two together today for individual work. Once you know his story, I'm sure you'll be able to find a way to make Samantha work for him. That's the most important part of our job.”