Okay-he'd just felt up the veterinarian. Maybe Rollo was right-he'd gone way too long without a woman, no matter how legitimate his reasons.

Thomas watched, embarrassed, as the molestee tossed the paper towel in the trash and regained her professional composure. Then she began a physical examination of his… his… dog. After ten days of cohabiting with Hairy while trying-and failing-to find a real home for him, maybe he should just see the picture for what it was.

It was the picture of a chump and his dog.

Thomas shifted his weight, rubbed a hand over his face, and groaned internally, the only place he allowed himself to groan or shout or laugh these days, it seemed.

He watched the way the vet stroked the dog with the gentlest touch, and noticed that Hairy's trembling eased with each moment he spent in her hands.

He could see how that might happen.

The vet was extremely pretty, in a farm-girl kind of way. The creamy skin of her face, neck, and hands looked warm and silky. Those guileless eyes were the exact shade of her blue jeans. Her smile was genuine and sweet and pushed her whole lovely face into an expression of welcome.

It was pointless, of course, but Thomas couldn't help but wonder what it would feel like to grab hold of that thick braid and yank her up against him. He couldn't help but wonder what all that gorgeous hair would feel like once he'd unraveled it-would it be straight and glossy like polished wood? Would it be wavy and fall in heavy sections in his hand?

As the woman bent over his dog, he let his eyes peruse the rest of her-subtly of course. He was highly trained in the art of covert observation, after all.

She filled out those battered jeans quite thoroughly, from where the denim stretched over her round hips and curvy thighs all the way down to where the straight legs ended in a pair of scuffed-up leather clogs. A nice, full, and hospitable package of feminine flesh she was, not all bony and pointy like some women. And under that long-sleeved T-shirt, he could make out the soft but sturdy shoulders, the ripe swell of her breasts, the inward curve of her waist. It was painfully obvious that those weren't buttons he'd felt poking up beneath the paper towels. This Emma Jenkins, DVM, was easy on the eyes-and the hands. Maybe the DVM stood for "Damn Voluptuous Mama."

Then he stopped himself, as he always did, and wondered what the doctor's dark side looked like. Sure, the woman was pretty, but he knew all too well that even pretty people had ugly sides, and they could be mighty ugly indeed.

Which one of the four great appetites had ensnared the lovely Emma Jenkins? he wondered. Guns, drugs, money, or sex?

She didn't look like a gang-banger, but after running the Murder-For-Hire Task Force for seven years, he wasn't surprised by anything anymore.

She didn't look like an addict or an alcoholic, but he'd known plenty who managed their masquerades just fine-scout leaders, teachers, ministers-you name it.

No, in his experience it was usually money that motivated women to make stupid choices. Less often it was sex. So the question was which of those two evils did Emma Jenkins serve, and how low did she go?

If it was money, maybe she had a habit of bouncing checks. Maybe she shoplifted steaks from the Super Fresh butcher case. Or maybe, desperate for prestige and a comfortable lifestyle, she'd cheated on her vet school admission tests.

Or it might be more complicated for her, Thomas thought, like a combination of material greed and the desire for sexual control. Maybe the lovely Dr. Jenkins had lied to some rich loser about being pregnant, then trapped him into a marriage he didn't want!

He nodded silently, watching the vet bend toward Hairy's shivering body and listen with the stethoscope. That had to be it-the poor bastard! But she didn't wear a ring, so maybe he'd discovered her deception in time to make a clean break. Good for him.

Thomas sighed, bemused by the truth of it: A man couldn't afford to turn his back for one damn minute.

Which brought him right back to sex-perhaps the greatest weakness of all. How many men had he seen sit across a table from him babbling, crying, driven to acts of sheer idiocy simply because of a woman? Too many to count.

He'd seen sex turn brilliant businessmen into cretins. Powerful men into milquetoasts. Moral men into felons.

He'd seen it turn decent lives to shit.

Thomas checked his watch, then crossed his arms over his chest. How much longer could this possibly take? Wasn't this where she handed him some puppy uppers, collected her outrageous fee, and sent them out the door?

But the vet was now peering into Hairy's eyes, nose, ears, and throat. Then she closed her own eyes in concentration and felt along the dog's ribs and into its soft belly.

Resigned to waiting a bit longer, Thomas leaned back against the cabinets and allowed himself to watch her work, watch how her slim, sure fingers moved, how she breathed quietly, how the little frown line puckered between her pretty eyebrows. Thomas felt himself go still inside.

Strangely quiet.

And he wondered how good it would feel to have her stroke his belly, maybe while he rubbed his cheek against hers, breathing in the faint flowery scent that seemed to pulse from her skin and hair.

He wondered how glorious it would be to settle in for a nap with his face buried in those stupendous breasts, so comforting, so welcoming, so female-so damn erotic…

"So is he eating well?"

"What?" Thomas yelped.

"Eating. Food. Does Hairy do it?"

He straightened. He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. Why the hell was he fantasizing about the breasts of a lying, cheating, sirloin-stealing man-hater?

"Uh, not much eating, actually. He doesn't seem hungry."

"And what are you feeding him?" Emma noticed that Thomas Tobin had taken a step toward her, and that he was frowning.

Thomas could barely remember her question. "Uh, dog food?"

She winced, then continued the examination. "Could you be a little more specific, please?"

"Sure. Those hard crunchy things. The forty-pound bag."

Emma straightened and put her hands on her hips. "Thrifty is fine, Mr. Tobin-and forty pounds ought to take care of Hairy for a good portion of his natural life-but how big are the individual pieces of food? Did you purchase kibble designed for the smallest breeds? What brand? And do you soak the food in warm water before serving it?"

He tried not to gape at how the stethoscope hung straight down from her neck, separating the two luscious, all-natural spheres straining under wet fabric. They looked like two fresh-baked cupcakes, topped with cherries, covered in a tight film of cellophane.

His blank stare was all the answer Emma needed, and she sighed. Who in God's name would hire this guy as a consultant? He might be eye candy, but he was about as sharp as a bucket of mud.

"Have you ever tried to chew a baseball, Mr. Tobin? Have you ever, say, while drunk at a fraternity party, tried to shove a baseball in your mouth and chew on it?"

He blinked. "Not that I recall."

"Well." Emma pursed her lips. "Hairy needs teeny-weeny pieces of food for his teeny-weeny mouth. A lot of Cresteds aren't even blessed with a full set of choppers. Here. Have a look-see."

She pulled back a pink speckled lip to expose a random display of teeny-weeny teeth.

"Got it," he said.

She sincerely doubted that.

"I could use a hand here. Please hold him-gently-while I clip his nails. How long has it been since you trimmed his nails?"

"I never have," he said.

She reached behind her for a small set of clippers, then bent her head to the task, coming so close to Mr. Buy-in-Bulk that she caught the whiff of smooth, woodsy aftershave mellowed on warm male skin.