Bayou Sweetheart

“What do you see now?” she asked, turning.

Tomas Delacorte stood on the back terrace, staring down at them with that lord-of-the-manor frown.

“Hello.” Callie waved and Elvis took that as his cue to head on up and greet the interloper.

Callie stood up to stop the meeting of dog and man, but she was too late. “Elvis, no!”

Elvis barked with glee and went right on up the terrace steps and lifted up for a paw-hug. Tomas stepped back, his frown increasing, his hands up in the air. Elvis lifted, grabbed hold, pawed and left mud stains on Tomas’s expensive-looking gray suit.

“Elvis, get down,” Callie called as she rushed up toward the house. This wouldn’t be pretty. Tomas would probably tell her he hated dogs. Elvis would be banished from ever coming here again. And...so would she.

By the time she’d made it to the terrace, breathless and winded and wondering why she’d brought the dog in the first place, Tomas had Elvis by his collar.

“What is this?” he asked, his eyes flashing anger.

“My dog,” she said, her tone defensive. “Let him go.”

Tomas held Elvis at arm’s length. “Get him out of my yard.”

“He goes where I go,” she replied. “For protection.”

Tomas dropped his hand. Elvis immediately leaped back up against him. “He doesn’t exactly act like a guard dog.”

“He...alerts me,” she replied on a weak note.

This man made her so nervous. She wasn’t used to dealing with such a dour, unpleasant person.

Tomas gave her a pointed look and held Elvis by his paws so he could push the big dog off of his suit.

“Elvis, down,” Callie said, grabbing the dog to tug him away. “I’m sorry. Once he gets used to you, he won’t do that.”

“I don’t want him to get used to me. I want him away.”

Callie shooed Elvis out into the yard and dug in her heels for a fight. “Listen, this dog goes where I go. Sometimes I’m out in a garden alone until almost dark. He at least barks and lets me know when someone is approaching.”

Tomas brushed at his ruined suit. “And attacks.”

“I’ll have that cleaned for you.”

“No need. Just...keep him off the porch.”

“He usually sleeps or chases squirrels.”

“Fine.”

She took a breath. “We’re not sure what breed—or breeds—he is. He showed up at the nursery one day and wouldn’t leave. So he’s mine now.”

Tomas shot her a look that encompassed the meaning of that phrase. “You take in strays?”

“Not normally. Only the really good-looking ones.”

He gave her another look, surprise on his face. Did he consider himself a stray? Did he consider letting her take him in?

“You named him Elvis?”

“Yeah, ’cause he’s a hunk, a hunk of burnin’ love.”

Tomas didn’t laugh, but she saw that sparkle in the dark blue of his eyes. Okay, now they were getting down to business. She’d been reprimanded and Elvis had been banished.

Yet she had to defend her dog. “I like his company. He’s playful, watchful and he doesn’t ask a lot of questions.”

His eyebrows quirked upward. “You don’t like questions?”

“Who does?”

Tomas walked down to where she stood on the bottom step. Elvis hurried back then sniffed and took off after something that moved. Probably the wind.

Tomas surprised her by sitting back on the terrace edge. Shocked yet again, Callie thought she should tell him she had work to do. She should call her dog and leave. She should be aloof and unattainable, mysterious and standoffish.

But no, here she stood waiting for his next words. Pathetic, really. “Did you need something else?” she asked, as if she really meant it. “I did come here to work.”

He stared off into the distance. “I don’t get out in the garden much.”

“You work a lot. It’s understandable. And speaking of that, what exactly do you do?”

He loosened his tie then put his hands between his knees and stared out toward the bayou. “I buy things.”

“I can see that,” she said, lifting her hand toward the house. “You buy big expensive things.”

“Yes. Buildings, companies, factories, mostly commercial real estate.”

“People? Do you try to buy people?”

His frown turned stoic, but she saw a trace of tenderness in his eyes. “I’ve found most people can’t be bought.”

“But you’ve tried?”

“Are you asking me this because you’re curious, or because you think I’m that kind of man?”

“Maybe both.”

“What would you like to know about me, Callie?”

She had to be her usual blunt self. “Everything. Nothing. It’s not my business, after all.”

“But you’ve heard things? You want to know why I’m here.”

“We’d all like to know that.”