A Dog and a Diamond (3 page)

“But,” interrupted his superior, “as Muffin may have been stolen he
is
our responsibility. I assure you we will do our best to find him and return him to you and get to the bottom of all this.” He gestured around him at the mess.

“Thank you,” Chelsea said, standing. She saw the two men to the door and then grabbed a ball cap off a hook on the wall near the door. It appeared to be the only thing in the whole place left untouched. She tugged it down onto her head and was about to step through the front door when she turned back, as if suddenly remembering him.

“And thank you for everything too, Callum,” she said. “You've been beyond generous with your help and if there's anything I can ever do to you to repay the favor...”

“Forget it.” He waved his hand. “You going out looking for Muffin again?”
Stupid
question.

“Yes. I want to have a thorough search of the neighborhood on foot before it gets dark.”

“I'd offer to help,” he said, “but someone should stay here and wait for the security guys instead.”

Her face fell and it was obvious she hadn't given one thought to her unsecured house. “Oh. No, you don't have to do that,” she said quickly. “You've helped enough already.”

Damn straight he had and he couldn't really explain why he'd offered, but neither could he just walk away. He liked animals as much as the next guy, but he'd never seen anyone quite so distraught over a dog as Chelsea appeared to be. She really shouldn't leave her house unattended the way it was or someone might come in and loot the place. “My conscience says otherwise. Now go find Muffin. Unless you don't trust me.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I don't trust anyone, but I also care little about the contents of this house.” And with that, she turned on her heels and hurried down the front steps, the sight of her cute ass in her tight business trousers making his gut clench.

Alone and cursing his red blood cells, Callum called his sister again and told her he'd be out longer than he'd first imagined. Although he heard the curiosity in her voice, she didn't pry and for that he was thankful.

His life had suddenly become very complicated, and he wasn't sure he could explain everything that had happened today even to himself.

Chapter Three

C
allum glanced at his watch, hoping the security company he'd called wouldn't be too long, and then once again looked around the cottage-sized house surveying the mess. The cops had done their thing—although he didn't think they were taking this burglary as seriously as they should be—so he could start the cleanup without fear of disturbing evidence. Although this wasn't his house, he'd never been the type of guy to sit around and twiddle his thumbs. Putting his phone and keys down on the kitchen counter, Callum pushed up the sleeves of his shirt, wondering where to start. Not wanting to overstep the mark by rifling through Chelsea's possessions, he chose to begin with gathering up the broken glass and other damaged goods.

He found plastic trash bags in a drawer in the kitchen and a vacuum in the cupboard in the hallway. Taking his time not to throw out anything that looked important or of sentimental value, he went through the house collecting the big bits of unsalvageable debris. On the kitchen table were a few pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. He glanced down and saw hundreds of other tiny pieces scattered on the floor. Collecting them back up into the box took a while and he hoped he'd found them all. Next he righted the furniture that had been upturned in the invasion and put the pieces of her computer back on her desk. As he did so, his gaze caught on a photo—miraculously it didn't appear to be a victim of the carnage—and he realized something that had been bugging him about Chelsea's home since he stepped inside. The one-and-only photo Chelsea had on display was of an old man sitting in a tattered armchair with a teenage girl standing behind him, her arms wrapped around his neck. To him, it seemed almost unfeminine not to surround yourself with photos of memories and loved ones; it was just something he'd taken for granted as part of the female way. Until now.

Without thinking, he picked up the frame and stared down at the photo. The young girl had to be Chelsea, all that unruly caramel-blond hair hanging over her shoulders. Yet, although her mouth was stretched into a massive grin, her eyes weren't smiling—instead they harbored an anxious, unsettled look, exactly the same as the expression she'd been wearing today. He frowned in response and found himself wondering what her story was. Why didn't she have other photos? Was this man her only family? There were all these prints of affirmative quotations on the walls—All That I Seek Is Already within Me, Allow Your Soul to Sparkle, You're Never Too Old to Wish Upon a Star—as if she were trying to create a safe happy haven, but there was something missing here. Something warm, something real.

A knock on the open front door startled Callum from his reverie. “Hello! Anyone home?” called an overly chirpy male voice.

Callum rolled his eyes. Exactly how many people left the door open if they went out? And if they did, well, they probably deserved to be burglarized. “Yep. Come on in,” he called, putting the framed photo back down on the desk and turning toward the front door.

A short but very buff guy, dressed in a tight-fitting uniform stepped inside and raised his eyebrows as he looked around. “Someone sure went to town on your place.”

Callum didn't correct him or comment that he'd already tided up a lot of the mess. He just wanted this man to leave again. Instead, he nodded. “I need you to replace the locks on all the doors, replace the glass that's broken and,” he added almost as an afterthought, “can you also install proper locks on the windows?” Chelsea's current locks wouldn't even keep out a small child, and for some reason, knowing what she did for a job, he didn't like the idea of her living in an insecure house. Even he, a relatively levelheaded man, had felt a surge of rage toward her when she'd first “dumped him,” so he could imagine there were men out there who might get a little heavy-handed after such mortifying rejection. He didn't like the thought of that one bit.

“No problemo,” said the security man, dropping a toolbox to the floor and then stooping to open it. He started immediately, and although he whistled while he did so, he worked quickly and efficiently and of that Callum approved.

While the worker changed the old locks and installed new ones, Callum continued tidying up. The noise of the security man's machine blocked out his whistling and Callum experienced a sense of achievement when he finally switched it off and examined his progress. Callum's mom would be proud—she always harped on about raising new-aged heroes—and Bailey didn't know what she'd lost.

Bailey
. He was beginning to wonder if she hadn't done him a favor. She was right—he didn't have the time at the moment to give her what she wanted as all his energies needed to be piped into reviving the distillery.

He simply wished she'd had the guts to tell him to his face.

Callum sighed at that thought. His dad had done a stellar job of pretending everything was okay, but the truth had startled him when he'd finally gotten his hands on the business's books. McKinnel's Distillery wasn't in dire straits but it was pretty damn close. He put this down to the fact his father refused to move with the times, despite the number of other boutique distilleries and breweries that were popping up all around them. Every time he'd raised this issue when his dad had been alive, every time he'd suggested a new idea that could raise revenue, Conall had pooh-poohed whatever the latest proposal was and reminded his son who was in charge.

Sometimes Callum couldn't believe he hadn't cut and run from the family business years ago, but the truth was, he loved the distillery almost as much as Conall had. You had to wonder though whether the stress of declining business had contributed to his father's fatal heart attack.

If only you'd let me help, Dad. If only you'd given me the chance to prove myself.

But Conall McKinnel had been a hard man, almost impenetrable to anyone except his wife, for as long as Callum could remember. Mom put it down to the tragic loss of his twin brother, Hamish, which had happened not long after the two had established the distillery.

“I'm all done,” announced the security dude, appearing suddenly beside Callum in the living room and offering him a bunch of shiny, new keys. “You've done a good job of cleaning up here too.”

At the other man's tone, Callum almost expected him to give him a pat on the back. “Thanks,” he said, referring to the work done, not the compliment. He dragged his wallet out of his pocket. “How much do I owe you?”

The man quoted what sounded like an exorbitant amount, but Callum handed over his Amex without question. “Can you give me a receipt for the insurance company?”

“Sure thing, buddy.”

Callum flinched at the term of endearment and bit his tongue, which wanted to say that they weren't “buddies” at all. According to his mom, sisters and even Bailey, he had a tendency to be unnecessarily grumpy. Quite frankly, he thought much of the population had an unnecessary tendency to be jovial.

When the workman realized Callum wasn't the type for idle chitchat, he left, beeping his horn and waving as he reversed out Chelsea's drive. Once again Callum found himself alone at this stranger's house. Standing on her front porch, he looked up at the darkening sky and then down at his watch. Chelsea had been gone a few hours now and he guessed this meant she hadn't found her mutt, but surely she couldn't stay out all night looking. He'd called the shelters, the cops and neighbors knew the dog was missing—what more could she do?

With this thought, he decided to go look for her himself. Callum found a scrap of paper, scribbled down his cell number in case she returned before he found her and needed to get inside her house, then stuck it onto her front door. Ensuring her house was indeed secure, he locked the door, popped her new bunch of keys into his pocket and then jogged toward his SUV. Although he'd grown up in Jewell Rock, he'd never spent much time in Bend and he'd certainly never driven around this end of town.

He drove slowly down the surrounding streets, getting the occasional odd look from locals who wondered who this stranger patrolling their neighborhood was, but the only woman he wanted to pick up was the intriguing Chelsea Porter. A rush of blood shot south at this thought, catching him off balance. He wasn't in the market for a hookup. All he wanted was to get Chelsea home safely, so he could get on with his life.

Finally, he saw her and let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Miss Porter was a damn sexy woman and he was defenseless against his pounding red blood cells.
Calm the hell down
, he told them, as he pulled his SUV over to the side of the road and wound down the window.

“Chelsea!”

She turned and blinked at him as if he was the last person she expected to see. Although she didn't speak, her eyes were bloodshot and mascara was streaked down her cheeks. His heart turned over in his chest at the sight.

“You've got new locks on your house,” he said, hoping this might give her a lift. It didn't. She blinked as if wondering what that had to do with the price of eggs. “How about I take you home? It's getting dark.” Left unsaid was the fact that if she hadn't found the dog by now, it was unlikely she would.

Chelsea shook her head, a few golden locks that had escaped her ponytail swishing across her face in the process. “I can't. Muffin is out here somewhere. All alone. He needs me.”

Her desperation told him she likely needed the dog more than the dog needed her. Callum curled his fists around the steering wheel, but refused to let his frustration show on his face. What was he supposed to do now?

“How about you get in...” He leaned over and opened the passenger door. “And I'll drive you around a bit more.” Maybe once she was in the confines of his SUV, he could convince her to go home and call it a day.

She looked at him skeptically a few moments, then sighed and climbed into the vehicle. “Why are you being so nice to me?” She asked as she tugged the seat belt over her breasts and clicked it into place. “After what I did to you today?”

“That wasn't personal. Besides, I'm a nice guy,” he replied, although the thoughts he was currently having about her breasts contradicted this statement.

She shrugged as if she didn't believe in the fairy tale of nice guys—smart chick—but at least she was in the car. He didn't need to win her approval, he simply needed to get her home and hand over her keys, so he could leave in good conscience.

As he steered the SUV back onto the road, Chelsea spoke again. “You can take me home and I'll grab my car,” she said matter-of-factly. “I'll be able to cover more ground that way.”

“It's fine,” he said. “Two sets of eyes are better than one. I'll help you.”

“Thanks,” she whispered, almost too quiet to hear, and then settled back into the seat.

“How long have you lived in Bend?” he asked as they circled her extended neighborhood a few times. So far they'd witnessed two fat cats having it out in someone's front yard and a teenager who was learning to drive reverse into a fence, but they'd seen no sign of her cocker spaniel.

“Just over a year,” she said, as if that was the end of the conversation, but stuff it, he was playing chauffeur here and for some bizarre reason wanted to know more. His mom always said he was like a bear with a bee in his bonnet when he wanted something.

“Where was home before?”

She mumbled the name of a suburb in Portland, her gaze never veering from out the window.

“What brought you to Bend, then?” he asked. “Family? A boyfriend?” There hadn't been any signs of either in her house, and he found himself hoping it was because the latter didn't exist. Which was ridiculous. It's not like he wanted to play the part.

She turned her head to glare at him, her nostrils flaring slightly. “Are we playing a game of twenty questions that I don't know about?” Even with bloodshot eyes and all that runny mascara,
especially
with the edge of irritation in her voice, she was gorgeous. Quite simply one of the most stunning creatures he'd ever laid eyes on.

His mouth quirked at the edges. “Sorry. You don't have to tell me anything.”

She sighed and crossed her arms over that delicious rack as he kept driving. “My grandfather—the only family that mattered to me—died fourteen months ago and I needed a change of scenery. I had no boyfriend, a dead-end job, no family, so I saw no reason to stay in Portland. I decided to get in my car and drive until something inside told me to stop and put down roots. I had plans to go much farther afield, but something about Bend got to me. Maybe it was the fact that apparently 49 percent of people here own dogs? Besides, I found out Muffin wasn't big on road trips.”

He chuckled. Despite being obviously distraught, she had a sense of humor.

“I'm guessing you've lived in these parts all your life,” she said, indicating discussions about herself were done.

“Yep. Born and bred in Jewell Rock. I was recently considering spreading my wings a little, but then my dad died and, well, now I'm needed at home. At the distillery.” Which was what he'd always wanted—he just hadn't wanted his dad to be pushing up daisies in order to make it possible.

“Were you and Miss Sawyer going to move?”

Truth was, Chelsea was the first person he'd confessed to about the fact he'd been considering leaving the family business. Guilt made his gut heavy at the thought. “We were in discussions,” he lied.

Silence reigned a few more moments as they both kept their eyes on their surroundings, then, when they neared a famous chicken fast-food joint, Callum's stomach rumbled so loudly he felt certain Chelsea must have heard it too. He hadn't eaten since breakfast and he guessed she hadn't eaten in hours either.

Without a word, he pulled into the drive-through.

“Hey,” she exclaimed, “what are you doing?”