Courting Chloe (Hudson Valley Heroes Book 1) Read online

  “Okay.”

  “All right, then. Why don’t we do this: why don’t you and your Uncle Ian just meet some of the dogs here, and then we’ll see if there’s one that you might like?”

  “And if there’s not?”

  “If there’s not, there’s not.” Chloe gave an encouraging smile and stood. “Boy. I’m glad we had this conversation now, and not at the restaurant.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? You know what they call it when somebody cries on their pizza?”

  Preston shook his head. “What?”

  “Soggy pizza.”

  Preston’s lips pursed. He let out a small, unrestrained giggle.

  Chloe gently placed her hand on his back. “Why don’t you go blow your nose and wash your hands, and then we’ll head into town and eat, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Stunned, Ian watched his nephew dash off toward the bathroom. He listened to the faucet creak on, to the water splash in the sink. Average everyday sounds, but phenomenally different in this context. He shook his head, unable to process what had just transpired. Preston had been upset, anxious, afraid. Not unusual, unfortunately. Normally Ian would have handled it. He certainly could have handled it. But he hadn’t needed to. Someone else had stepped in to help.

  The whole episode, which had lasted less than ten minutes, had left him feeling strangely off-kilter. Like he’d spent the last sixteen months on the deck of a battered ship navigating a turbulent sea, and now that he was back on solid ground his legs didn’t seem to work properly anymore.

  He looked up to find Chloe standing at the open front door. Beyond her, darkness had fallen, but the storm had dwindled to a light, misty rain. The breeze that swept in around her was gentle—a shot of fresh air into an otherwise stale room. Her fingers lightly gripped the knob, as though she was in the act of stepping outside. As though she were completely unaware of the minor miracle that had just occurred.

  She was saying something about grabbing her purse, meeting them back at the main house. But his expression must have stopped her. She cocked her head and looked at him, her soft brown eyes quizzical.

  “Hey,” she said. “We’re good?”

  “Yeah,” he managed. “We’re good.”

  Chapter Five

  Chloe climbed into Ian’s Lincoln Navigator, settled in the deep leather seat, and surveyed the cavernous cockpit. She pursed her lips in disapproval. Exactly what she pictured Ian Dowling driving: a shamefully expensive, ridiculously large, gas-guzzling, exhaust-spewing, road-hogging vehicle.

  “Big car,” she murmured.

  “Safe,” he clipped back, his tone making it clear he hadn’t missed her censure. She gave a mental shrug. Subtlety had never been one of her strengths.

  As soon as Preston was buckled into the backseat—looking absurdly small sitting in the middle of the massive bench—they got underway.

  Determined to put them on better footing, she shot Ian a friendly glance. “Have you ever been to the Hudson Valley?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “You’re in for a treat then. It’s beautiful this time of year.”

  No response at all to that.

  Oh, well. So much for conversation. Abandoning further attempts at polite discourse, Chloe limited her comments to guiding him down darkened rural roads toward the small town of Benton, taking advantage of the ensuing silence to surreptitiously study him.

  He was good-looking, but definitely not her type. Too aggressively rugged for her taste. She’d always been drawn to lean, educated, worldly types. Men who resembled her father… and Jeff. The realization gave her an unpleasant start. Maybe, she thought, she needed a new type.

  But definitely not Dowling, despite the thousand dollar suit he wore. What, she wondered, did the man do for a living? Someone else she might have asked directly. It was an innocuous enough question, after all. But something about his cool self-possession didn’t invite confidences or personal questions.

  So she attempted to puzzle him out on her own. He had money, that much was clear. Money he earned through his own efforts; she highly doubted his funds came from a family trust. Her initial assessment of Ian Dowling told her he did something physical. He radiated male force of will the way a heater radiated heat. He was tall, thickly muscular, and moved with the confident stride of someone fully at ease in his body. His profile presented a strong jaw, sharply sculpted cheekbones, and a nose that had been broken at least once. So a cop, maybe, or a professional athlete.

  But neither occupation quite seemed to fit. It took Chloe a minute to puzzle out why. Then it struck her—everything about him, from the way he moved to the way he spoke, even the way he gripped the steering wheel—suggested that he was used to being in charge. This was a man who routinely, probably unthinkingly, sized up situations, gave orders, and took control. Not someone who answered to a boss. She’d noted his commanding presence from the moment she’d first laid eyes on him, and again later when he’d tossed that check on Sara’s desk, determined to get his way.

  She’d resented the hell out of him for it. And yet… there was another side to Dowling she couldn’t help but be intrigued by. Once, years ago, a group of friends had dragged her along to a boxing exhibition at Madison Square Garden. She’d hated the event, hated the spectacle of two men beating each other senseless and calling it sport. But there had been one moment that had caught her attention and held her in thrall. One fighter was clearly outranked by his opponent, losing badly. He was on his knees, beaten and bloodied. He should have given up. Thrown in the towel—literally. But he didn’t.

  Ian Dowling didn’t strike her as the kind of man who would quit fighting, either. Even—maybe especially—when he was losing.

  “This is it?” he asked, as they road they were on hooked into Benton.

  “Yup. This is it.”

  Once a thriving mill town, it had happily settled into its current incarnation as a small, artsy community with traditional hometown flair. The town boasted a broad Main Street lined with thriving shops, cafes, barbershops and beauty parlors. Benton had its own fire department, library, and town hall, but shared the local sheriff and his deputy with an adjacent community. Fortunately the crime rate was low, so that hadn’t been a problem.

  “Larger than I thought.” His gaze swept the buildings. “What does everyone around here do for work?”

  “Well, a lot of people telecommute,” she replied. “They do most of their work online, but go into the city a couple of times a month for meetings. There’s a regional hospital not too far from here, a local college, and a plant that assembles computer electronics.”

  He gave a grunt of acknowledgement. “Where to?”

  “Right there’s fine.” She gestured toward a parking space in front of Williams Store. Being Sunday night, the town was mostly deserted. “We should probably grab whatever you need first, before Williams closes. Then we’ll head across the street for pizza.”

  He nodded in agreement as they parked and went inside. Williams Store was the closest thing to a department store Benton provided, though Chloe supposed it more properly fit the category of ‘general store.’ Once part of an old mill, the building had been repurposed for retail and now carried a little bit of everything, from mousetraps to bubble gum, wire mesh for mending torn screens, toys, clothing, reading glasses, cough syrup, and lamp oil.

  Chloe loved the store’s rustic charm, loved its rough wooden floors and open display cases, but upon stepping inside, she wondered if maybe it wasn’t a bit too rustic for someone from out of town. “The mall’s not too far away, if you’d rather wait until—”

  “No,” Ian replied, scanning the store. “This’ll work just fine.”

  They split up. She meandered toward the front counter to speak to Bob Williams, the proprietor, while Ian and Preston headed toward a display of fall clothing. They returned a short time later, their arms stacked with jeans, khakis, flannel shirts, Carhartt jackets, and fall boots, along with assorte
d toiletries. Preston, she noted, had selected two pair of pajamas: one populated with miniature dinosaurs, the other decorated with tiny soccer balls. No pajamas for Ian. Presumably he slept in boxers, a package of which crossed the counter to be rung up.

  Or naked. Yep, that was it. More likely, the man slept entirely naked.

  Heat flushed Chloe’s skin as her mind conjured up an image of his tall, broad, muscular—and entirely naked—body tucked between the camp’s soft flannel sheets. Good Lord. Yes, the man was attractive, but he and his nephew were clients. Besides, she could almost guarantee he had a girlfriend—possibly even a wife—back in the city. He didn’t wear a ring, but that didn’t signify. With his money and looks, it was highly improbable the women of New York City would allow him to remain unattached. With that thought in mind, she turned away, giving him a modicum of privacy to finish making his purchases.

  He scrawled his signature on the credit card slip as Preston wandered a few feet away to rummage through a bin of plush toys. “You ready?” he asked, shooting her a sideways glance.

  Chloe nodded. “Almost. Just trying to make up my mind.”

  She stood in front of a display of hand knit clothing: socks, hats, scarves, mittens, shawls. It was all lovely, but every time she came to William’s, Chloe found herself gravitating toward the socks. Each pair was stunningly crafted and cleverly named. Sherwood Forest mingled yarns of deep purple, pale violet, shades of emerald green, and rich indigo. Chantilly Lace blended subtle skeins of cream, ivory, and white. Birthday Party was an outrageous mix of hot pink, turquoise, and lime green. Autumn Spice wove together chunky strands of russet, orange, berry, and chocolate.

  Ian edged closer. “Impressive,” he said, examining a scarf. “This is more art than clothing. Whoever does this would make a killing in the city. She could charge five times these prices.”

  Chloe smiled. “I agree. In fact, I’ve been encouraging Olivia to market her work to some of the shops in SoHo and the East Village.”

  “Oh? You know her?”

  “Hmm-mm. Olivia Mater’s her name. She was a client of mine at the camp last year.”

  “Ah.” Ian’s expression cooled slightly. He set down the scarf he’d been holding. “She’s disabled?” There was politeness in his tone, but distance, too. Whatever enthusiasm he’d had for her work had been summarily extinguished.

  Chloe bit back a surge of irritation. “Blind, actually.”

  “Blind? But how—”

  “She has the patterns transferred into Braille. Her sight didn’t fail until she was nine, so she has an excellent color memory. She divides, groups, and labels the yarns when she buys them.”

  “Hmm.”

  “A disability is no longer a death sentence, Mr. Dowling. Nor does it diminish someone’s innate talent, personality, or intelligence.”

  His gaze pivoted back to her. “Hold on. Did I say that it did?”

  Chloe drew in a calming breath. Like a mama bear defending her cubs, she did have a tendency to overreact at perceived injustice, to lecture people. She recognized that unbecoming trait in herself and wasn’t proud of it. At the same time, it was hard not be indignant when so many of her friends and former clients constantly battled societal prejudices, both subtle and overt.

  “Not exactly,” she hedged, “but you might as well have. Your enthusiasm for Olivia’s work faded the moment you heard she was blind. I saw it in your face.”

  “Maybe I was just surprised.” He pinned her with a cool stare. “And maybe I need a little time and space to adjust to all this.”

  “This?”

  “This…” He slashed his palm through the air, the frustrated gesture encompassing everything and nothing at all. “You, the camp, the dogs... All of it. Maybe being here isn’t exactly my dream come true.”

  His dream come true? She bit down hard to block the sharp retort that sprang to her lips. Of course he didn’t want to be there. So what? While Ian Dowling might be singular in his ability to write a check large enough to bump him to the front of the line, that didn’t make him any different than anyone else.

  No one wanted to be there. No one in their right mind would ever want to lose a limb, lose their hearing or sense of sight, or suffer a devastating illness or injury. No one wanted to see a loved one suffer. Chloe sympathized. Really. But in the end, all the sympathy in the world wouldn’t change reality. There was still work to be done.

  She drew herself up and tilted her chin, returning his stare without blinking. This was the opening she’d been waiting for, and she wasn’t going to waste it. He wanted a little space? Too bad. She pressed in closer.

  “Look, if you want to sulk about being here, do it on your own time. Don’t waste mine.”

  “Sulk?” His dark brows shot ceilingward. “Did you just accuse me of sulking?”

  “Use whatever word you like. Sulk, brood, pout—”

  “Pout?”

  “Whatever.” She waved his objection away. “The precise term doesn’t matter. What does matter is your attitude. Coming here was your choice—and personally, I think it was a damned good one. In fact, I think you’ll be astonished by how much a canine assistant can help Preston. But writing a check isn’t enough. We’ve only got four weeks to make this work. That’s not much time. It’s important that you understand that most of the exercises we do are based on trust. You can’t fake it. You can’t hold back, make a half-effort and think that’s enough. I’ll know it, and so will the dogs. It would help me tremendously if you’d enter this process with an open mind.”

  “Fair enough. And while we’re on the subject of what we need from each other, it would help me tremendously if you wouldn’t be so quick to claim the moral high ground. Just because I’m uncomfortable and occasionally—”

  “Mr. Dowling, I don’t think—”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  Chloe blinked. “Calling you what? Your name?”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “I’m thirty-one. So if we’re going to do this, I think Ian and Chloe make more sense, don’t you?”

  Ian and Chloe. She considered that for a moment, searching for a reason to deny him the right to use her first name. To keep him at arm’s length. But of course, she couldn’t demand his trust and not return it in kind.

  “Unless you prefer Nurse Edmonds?”

  Ugh. Absolutely not.

  “Fine,” she replied tersely. “Of course. No problem.”

  “Thank you, Chloe. I assume that’s a step in the right direction.”

  Humor glinted in his eyes. For just a second, he went from cool to warm. That effortless, unexpected transformation surged through her like an electric jolt, a firm reminder to be wary where this man was concerned. Not only was he sexy as hell, apparently Ian Dowling could wield charm like a weapon. Good to know.

  “All right, then.” She took a deliberate step away from him. “So what kind of pizza do you and Preston like, Ian?” Perfect, she thought, silently approving her tone. Polite and professional. After all, he was just another client. He’d be on his way in four short weeks. All she had to do was remind herself to focus on her job.

  “Pepperoni!” Preston sang out, returning to join them after having exhausted his interest in the plush toy bin. And then, “I like the purple ones.”

  It took Chloe a second or two to understand that he meant purple socks, not purple pepperoni. “Me, too,” she agreed. Then, “Hey, I just remembered a few other things I need. Why don’t you guys go across the street and grab us a table? I’ll meet you there in a minute.”

  She watched Ian and Preston move toward the exit, their arms brimming with their purchases. The odd tension that had filled her earlier slowly began to dissipate. Excellent. She was in charge here. She had everything perfectly under control. Now if she could just get her equilibrium back long enough to—

  “Hey, Chloe.”

  She looked up to see Ian framed in the doorway. The pose was uninte
ntional, but striking nonetheless. He looked like he’d stepped from the pages of a high-fashion men’s magazine: a ruggedly attractive man, his dark hair still vaguely damp and slicked away from his face, his exquisitely cut suit a stunning contrast to the rough timber walls of the store.

  Her heart stuttered as his hazel eyes locked on hers.

  How very odd. She wasn’t sure she even liked him—in fact, she was fairly certain she didn’t—yet her response to the man was a physical thing. He rattled her. Rattled, shook, and stirred her. She hadn’t experienced anything like it since she’d been an undergraduate and had fallen under the spell of her ex-fiancé. Look how well that had turned out.

  “Yeah?”

  “Better not keep us waiting too long,” he said. “Or I just might pout.”

  Well… hell.

  Chapter Six

  Ian couldn’t remember the last time he and Preston had been out in public and had actually enjoyed themselves. If they were alone, the specter of an impending medical crisis always seemed to loom over them. Ian considered himself fairly competent in most regards, but a seizure wasn’t something he was entirely comfortable handling on his own, particularly not when surrounded by a gaping audience. He’d hired private nurses to mitigate that necessity, but that was a challenge in Brooklyn. The ones who were appropriately credentialed came from services that rotated clients, thus he and Preston had never made a personal connection with any of them. Invariably the nurses had trailed after them like bored chaperones, making everyone uncomfortable.

  Nothing he’d tried had worked. Until tonight. Chloe Edmunds radiated kindness, intelligence, and competency. She was also fun to be with—at least as far as Preston was concerned. She mostly ignored him, choosing instead to lavish her attention on his nephew, which was fine by him. Their pizza finished, he watched as she propped her elbows up on the table and leaned toward Preston, the unmistakable glint of challenge in her eyes.

  “So,” she said, “this whole Aquaman thing. What’s the deal?”