though they had always called her "the girl," but a young woman holding Jagger. She was not pretty in the face: plain, angled, intense. Elegant satin pants followed long legs up to a slim waistline set off by a vest and a sleek white blouse, a feminine echo of his own tuxedo. She had thick golden-brown hair pulled back and tamed into a kind of knot at her neck, ends curling farther down her back and her eyes were so deep-set he could not see their color.
She frowned at the dog, her gaze sweeping across the area, and he saw a wrongness in her face that gave him pause, before he identified it. One eyelid drooped ever so slightly, sleepily, as did the line of the mouth under it. Stroke, he thought, or some sort of weakness on the right side. That could explain why she'd had the dog to begin with.
Jagger gave a tiny bounce in greeting, front paws off the lawn, settling back down into an eagerness that was almost puppylike. He had filled out a little in the many months since Rubidoux had had him, and he was a handsome specimen of the breed.
John ordered his face into a neutral expression, knowing the dog would read his body language, smell his scent, and listen to the tones in his voice almost simultaneously, and ordered, "Down."
Jagger licked his chops, then dropped to the lawn, relaxing in the harness almost instantly. The young woman almost staggered back onto one heel, the weight of him leaning heavily against her suddenly gone.
She looked at him, her eyes neither blue nor gray, but a mixture of both, as though they were the reflection of a changing and complicated sky. Relief was suddenly replaced by a slight suspicion. "Do you always give orders to other people's dogs?"
"Only when I've trained them and I see them misbehaving," John answered. He forced himself to look down at the dog to hide the momentary jolt he felt when he looked at her. The golden looked up at him, happiness glinting in his eyes. The misgivings Rubidoux had felt during those weeks of training him eased slightly at Jagger's confidence. He obviously still thought he was a good dog. Which, indeed, he was.
John bent over and ruffled the dog's ears. Jagger leaned into his touch and made a little chuffing sound of contentment. When John glanced up, his eyes met hers and he realized close up that the tiny weakness in the corner of her eyelid and mouth only enhanced natural attractiveness, giving it a slightly beguiling slant. If she worried about her disability, it did not show as she offered her right hand. He shook it, measuring his grip carefully, surprised to feel some calluses and roughness in her fingers.
"I'm Charlotte Saunders," she said. "Charlie to friends of Jagger."
"And I'm John Rubidoux."
She nodded. "Ruby," she said softly, as if wondering if his nickname bothered him and if it did, making sure not to let anyone else hear her say it.
"That's me." He found himself defensive, as her blue-gray eyes measured him.
"My father," she added, "could not decide if he loved you or hated you."
John remembered Quentin Saunders as a hard-nosed CEO who had worked his way up through the blue-collar ranks into his position and money. He demanded results without excuses and either got them or found somebody else. Quentin Saunders had not been too happy with the work John had done with Jagger, but had finally capitulated when Rubidoux had insisted on not ruining an intelligent animal with training contrary to his instincts. They had compromised on what to do with Jagger, though John had never felt happy with that compromise. "I could say the feelings were mutual."
Charlie shifted weight and scanned the grounds imperceptibly before looking back to him, and he wondered whether he was detaining her or if she always felt ill at ease… or perhaps she was just a little self-conscious. He looked back down at the golden retriever. "How's he working out for you?"
"Oh, he's my best guy." Charlie leaned over and scratched Jagger's chin. The golden
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