One Man's Promise. Diana Whitney

wholly inappropriate for the situation. Little Lissa was clearly distraught, and her poor father was obviously as upset about his daughter’s emotional state as he was about capturing the cavorting pooch.

      Still, it was an amusing display of dueling wits. Rags appeared to be winning. C.J. was content to observe the comical chaos until the cat suddenly swerved toward the street with Rags still in hot pursuit. Instinctively touching two fingers to her lips, she emitted a shrill whistle.

      Rags instantly skidded to a stop.

      She whistled again and the animal plopped his quivering rump on the curb, staring expectantly. C.J. lifted one arm. Rags dropped to his belly. She twitched a finger. The dog rolled over. She raised her hand. He stood. She flicked her wrist. He performed a flawless back flip, then stood with his gaze focused and his tail whipping madly to await the next command.

      When she touched her breastbone, Rags made a beeline straight for her. He skidded to a stop a few feet in front of her, waited until she tapped her hip, then zipped around to “heel” position and sat smartly by her side.

      “Good boy,” she whispered, and was rewarded by a tongue-lolling grin.

      C.J. struggled to keep her own expression impassive while the astounded dog-chasers limped back to the starting point. Lissa arrived first, her eyes enormous, followed by her father, who stared at Rags as if the animal had metamorphosed into a small, shaggy god.

      C.J. cleared her throat. “Rags—” the animal gazed up adoringly “—you’ve behaved badly. Please apologize to Lissa and Mr. Matthews.”

      Rags issued two contrite whines, laid a forepaw across his muzzle.

      “Good boy,” she murmured, then redirected her attention. “Now, Mr. Matthews, you were saying something about manners?”

      Richard paled three shades. Then and only then did C.J. allow herself the indulgence of a proud smile.

      

      “All right, how much?”

      C. J. Moray’s lips slackened, then firmed. “Rags is not for sale, Mr. Matthews. I thought I’d made myself clear on that.”

      Richard angled a glance toward the modest home where his daughter peered out the front window with huge, tearful eyes. After exerting herself by chasing Rags, she’d suffered yet another asthma attack, after which Richard had escorted her into the house with her beloved dog, hoping he could resolve this matter logically, reasonably. Now he swallowed a twinge of panic, yanked all the currency out of his wallet and thrust it at the startled woman. “Two hundred, cash.”

      “Mr. Matthews—”

      “If you want more, I’ll have to write you a check.”

      C.J. extended a hand, then let it drop, shaking her head violently enough to vibrate the short, blond curls massed like golden spirals around a tanned face that he suspected was not as young as it appeared. “I know this is a difficult situation, but Rags and I...well, we have a very special relationship. Do you see that I can’t give him up?”

      Exquisite amber-gold eyes pleaded for understanding, understanding that Richard couldn’t afford to bestow. Lissa was counting on him. “You’ve already given him up, Ms. Moray. Legally the animal belongs to us.” He shifted, avoided the pain in those incredible golden eyes and fortified himself by angling a glance at the window behind which the child he loved more than life itself waited hopefully. “My daughter is very special, too. That dog means the world to her. It would break her heart to lose him.”

      “I know.”

      The emotion with which the words were whispered caught Richard’s attention, as did the woman’s obvious unhappiness at having caused his daughter grief. He studied C.J., saw the subtle droop of her shoulders, stress lines creasing her forehead, a mouth that was soft and vulnerable, lightly tinted by faint remnants of pale rose lip color.

      Her clothes were casual, nondescript—a loose knit shirt, white, with short sleeves and a sports logo on the pocket, beige linen slacks and sneakers that were broken in but not quite worn-out.

      His attention returned to her mouth. A flash of white as a tooth scraped her lower lip, a glimmer of pink as her tongue darted out for moisture. She cleared her throat. “I’ll buy Lissa another dog, a puppy of her very own. I’ll even teach her how to train it—”

      “No.” He flinched at his strident tone, softened it. “It’s a generous offer, and I thank you for it, but Lissa won’t accept another dog. She wants Rags.”

      “I know that, too.” C.J. regarded him with peculiar sadness, and a hint of understanding that was oddly troubling. “And Lissa always gets what she wants, doesn’t she?”

      Richard stiffened at the truth. “My daughter is not like other children. She can’t run through blooming meadows, ride her bike or play softball in the park, and she’s spent more time in hospitals than most children spend in school. It’s not her fault that she’s fragile and ill. It’s not her fault that she’s doomed to grow up without her mother. It’s not her fault that she has been denied the normal joys of childhood, which is all any child wants and deserves.” He gritted his teeth, spoke through them. “So the answer is no, Ms. Moray, Lissa definitely does not always get what she wants.”

      “Please, I meant no disrespect—”

      “But if you’re implying that I try to compensate for all my daughter has lost by indulging those few pleasures still available to her, then I plead guilty as charged.” He jammed the bills and wallet into his pocket and folded his arms, more angry at himself than the woman whose acute perception was more accurate than he cared to admit.

      Richard was a father, but he wasn’t a fool. He knew perfectly well that Lissa wasn’t above faking illness to get her own way. His daughter could be difficult, but she had reason to be. Along with a plethora of food and environmental allergies, Lissa’s asthma was a serious, sometimes life-threatening condition. The child was physically vulnerable, emotionally fragile and motherless. Despite the difficulties of single parenthood, Richard adored his child, had devoted his life to protecting her and making her happy.

      At the moment, happiness hinged on the outcome of a canine custody dispute centered upon one very specific, slightly devious and undeniably clever little dog. It was a dispute Richard dared not lose.

      “I’m so sorry,” she murmured. Her voice was husky, like wafting wood smoke. A tingle warmed his arm where she touched him. “I know how much Lissa loves Rags, believe me, I know. But they’ve only been together a few weeks. Rags has spent his entire life with me. I’ll give you whatever you ask for him. Five hundred...a thousand...ten thousand. I’ll take out a loan, sell my car, I’ll do anything.” Her fingers trembled, tightened their grip above his wrist. “I know I’m a grown woman and your daughter is only a child, I know I must seem shrill and selfish, and maybe I am, but I’m desperate. You don’t understand, you don’t know what Rags and I have been through together.”

      To his horror, tears swelled, spurted, careened down her cheeks.

      “Children are resilient....” Her voice quivered, her gaze slid to the window, behind which Lissa sobbed openly, hugging the shaggy mixed breed that consoled her with frantic face licks.

      C.J. stared for a moment, then turned away, shaking her head. “My God,” she murmured. “Listen to me. I can’t believe that I’m actually willing to break a child’s heart to protect my own.” She wiped her face with her hands, propped one fist on her hip and stared at the ground. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. There’s no excuse.”

      Before Richard could respond, Lissa shot out the front door, sobbing her heart out. “No, Daddy, no, Ragsy is my dog! Don’t let her take him away, please, please—” gasp “—don’t let her take—” wheeze “—him—”

      As Richard snatched out the inhaler, C.J. laid a restraining hand on his arm as she squatted down in front of the wheezing, red-faced child. “I’m not going to take