Page 61 of Honk if You Love Real Men (Tempting SEALs 1)

“Fine. Whatever.” Win was about to open the door but paused. She frowned at Artie. “Do you suppose I could get my hands on a rental dog?”

“Huh?”

“Can people rent dogs? You know, for protection? Is there a dog-rental place in Manhattan?”

Artie hooted with laughter again. “Why don’t you find out, then let me know, sweets?”

Winifred bit her lip. This could be the solution. The rental dog would sit at her feet while she wrote. It would sleep by the door, ears attuned to any potential danger. It would accompany her on long walks. They’d bond. She’d get one of those elegant retriever types. She wondered how much a three-week retriever rental would set her back.

She narrowed her eyes at Artie. “If I don’t like it in three days, you’ll send the car? You promise?”

“I promise. Have fun, Win. Relax. Loosen up. Flow. Write, baby, write!”

Artie watched his favorite client click her way across the parquet floors to the elevators. He might be old, but his eyes worked just fine, and that was one nice caboose Winifred Mackland had squeezed into that Michael Kors suit.

Betsy made a tsking sound and Artie glanced toward the reception desk.

“What?”

“I’ve never seen you interfere in a client’s life like this, Art. You could be doing more harm than good.”

Artie smiled and shrugged. “Win Mackland is too picky.”

“She has a right to pick her own boyfriends.”

Artie waved his hand through the air. “What she has a right to is a little surprise in her life. She needs to be shaken up, knocked on her tush. You know what they say, no surprise in the writer, no surprise in the screenplay.” Artie laughed at that. “It’s about joy, Betsy. I’m just trying to find some joy for that young lady.”

Betsy rolled her eyes.

“My sister says young Mac is still there, cleaning out his dad’s cabin. How perfect is that?”

“Yes, Artie, I know, but Judy also said he’s as antisocial as ever. He’s refused every invitation anyone on the mountain has extended to him. I don’t see how your plan is going to work.”

Artie smiled to himself. With Judy’s help, the plan would work just fine. She’d agreed to send some handymen up to the house to do a little handy loosening of fuses, stopping up of shower spigots, and unplugging of one or two vital household appliances.

“Your sister also told me that Mac Senior is doing better, making the transition to the assisted living home like a trouper.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Artie sighed heavily. One by one, his old friends both in the city and in the country were croaking, stroking, or crumbling like stale saltines. Life was short.

He watched the dark-haired youthful beauty of Winifred Mackland vanish behind the closing elevator doors. She had a scowl on her face.

Without joy, life was just too damn short.

______

His shoulder was giving him hell, and Vincent MacBeth stood on the wooden porch of the cabin and raised his left arm over his head, wincing at the pull of the staples on skin, the tight burn of the healing muscle. He was already going stir crazy, but old Mac was such a pack rat that it would be several more weeks before he could ever consider listing his dad’s property with a Realtor.

Mac had to admit there was a charm to this place, but not enough to lure him to take it off his dad’s hands. His life was unpredictable as hell, and this past week had been proof that he didn’t have the time or patience to deal with the headaches of homeownership, even in residence. He couldn’t imagine trying to arrange for gutter cleaning from the underbelly of Saudi Arabia, Yemen, Pakistan, Egypt or wherever the team went next. Second only to a woman, property stewardship was the most unappealing commitment he could imagine.

Mac moaned as he lowered his left arm to his side and slowly circled the shoulder. He’d been shot six times in fifteen years, but this last one was a doozy. He knew the longer recovery period had more to do with the twenty-foot fall he’d taken after he’d been hit, and less with the wound itself. That, or he was just plain getting old.

He’d rather not think about it.

Mac sat on a wooden front porch step and took a breath of the cool, spicy mountain air. His dad had inherited this old place from his own father, along with what was now considered an astounding five hundred acres of forest, and they both knew developers were circling like wolves, waiting to sink their teeth into the land. Within a few years, there were bound to be scores of va

cation mansions packed in here, leaving just enough space in between to give the illusion of seclusion.

He sighed, stretching his neck and looking down the ridge toward the Jacobs place, its renovated splendor hidden by a half-mile of blue spruce, oak, maple and sycamore. Old Artie Jacobs had just spent a couple weeks up here with his wife—now that had been a mind fuck. He hadn’t seen the Jacobses since he graduated from college. Artie was the same as Mac remembered him, only a lot richer and a little more stooped. Barb was well preserved. And their house—good God—they’d turned that old cabin into a sleek two-story spread of glass and pine that made his dad’s place look like an outhouse.

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