Stuck With You Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Excerpt

  Dear Reader

  Title Page

  About the Author

  Books by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Copyright

  “Damned if you don’t look like a heifer caught in a loading chute. You tryin’ to break in, or what?”

  Charity, stuck in the doggy door with her posterior greeting the stranger, wasn’t amused. She dropped her head to her hands in exasperation. “I’m not breaking in. I’m the house-sitter.”

  “Taking the job a bit literally, aren’t you?”

  A jokester. Just what she needed. “I’m stuck.”

  “Yep.”

  She detected laughter in that single syllable and she clenched her jaw. He seemed to be enjoying himself. But irritating though he might be, he was all she had at the moment She swallowed her pride. “Can you pull me out?”

  “Okay.” He sounded dubious.

  After a short pause, he enclosed her hips in the firm vise of his arms. She realized she should be embarrassed by being in such an intimate situation with a stranger, but instead she was grateful for the blissful warmth surrounding her bottom as he hugged her close. As the man’s fingers tightened on Charity’s behind, the dog ventured back into the room and started licking her face.

  “Cut that out,” she ordered.

  Her rescuer snorted. “If I may say so, ma’am, you’re in no position to question my technique.”

  Dear Reader,

  With the seasons changing and thoughts of winter not so far off, what better way to keep up our spirits than with a good dose of love and laughter?

  This month we are thrilled to offer two charming and wonderful books written by two very popular authors. Vicki Lewis Thompson is a regular contributor to Harlequin Temptation and Superromance. Her light and lively style makes her a natural for writing LOVE & LAUGHTER, and her story about a pair of unlikely lovers trapped together is filled with tension and humor—and a truly wacky neighbor. I think we can all relate to the heroine’s predicament: meeting an absolutely gorgeous guy while stuck in a doggy door!

  Ruth Jean Dale continues to be a writing sensation. She launched her career in Temptation but then quickly branched out into Harlequin Romance, Superromance and Historical. The Seven-Year Itch is funny and romantic, a treat to read. Ivy’s attempted revenge on her husband’s supposed infidelity backfires in the most delightful ways…

  With love—and laughter,

  Malle Vallik

  Associate Senior Editor

  Stuck with You

  Vicki Lewis Thompson

  Vicki Lewis Thompson has never installed a doggy door in her house because it’s an odds-on bet she’d get stuck in it after locking herself out. Despite a key chain loaded with enough fobs and doodads to supply a souvenir shop, she’s locked herself out of her car so often that AAA plans to institute a Golden Jimmy Bar Award in her name. The world has yet to come up with a flashing neon chain that talks, so Vicki’s friends and family have learned to herald her departure with five precious little words: Do you have your keys?

  Books by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

  484—LOVERBOY

  502—WEDDING SONG

  516—THE BOUNTY HUNTER

  555—THE TRAILBLAZER

  559—THE DRIFTER

  563—THE LAWMAN

  600-HOLDING OUT FOR A HERO

  Don’t miss any of our special offers. Write to us at the following address for information on our newest releases.

  Harlequin Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

  For Walt Nett and Gunther Burpus. Thanks a million, guys.

  1

  CHARITY WEBSTER knelt in front of the doggy door. The bricks of Nora’s back walkway sent cold straight through her wool slacks, and her knees quickly began to tingle and grow numb. She pushed one gloved hand against the magnetized flap, opening it enough to reach through and pat the polished wood floor in search of the key.

  No luck.

  With a sigh she pulled her hand back out, lowered her head and butted her way inside. Her view encompassed a small square of the honey pine floor, but the key wasn’t anywhere in sight. Too bad she’d thrown it through the door with such enthusiasm that morning. Crawling in one hand at a time, she eased forward, angling her shoulders to work them through the narrow opening. In the process the flap dragged her green beret from her head.

  As Charity wiggled through further, warm, potpourri-scented air laced with the lemon tang of floor wax caressed her face, making her chilled back end seem even colder. The key, attached to a key ring decorated with a football-shaped piece of Waterford crystal, lay almost within reach. Just a little more of a stretch and she’d have it.

  With a yelp of pleasure MacDougal, Nora’s little black Scottie, jumped from his wicker bed by the back door and trotted over, dog tags jingling, to lick Charity’s face.

  “Not now, Mac,” she said. “I can’t—damn.” MacDougal’s vociferous greeting knocked her glasses off, turning her whole world fuzzy. She groped for the glasses. Meanwhile, MacDougal, warming up to the playtime they’d shared every afternoon during the week Charity had been house-sitting, snatched her beret in his teeth and dashed into the kitchen with it.

  “Mac,” she called, “bring that—oh, to heck with it. Just don’t chew it.” She replaced her glasses and inched toward the glittering key ring. The tip of her fingers brushed the crystal just as MacDougal ran back in with the beret. In the process of skidding to a stop, he pushed the key ring out of reach.

  Charity groaned. “You are not helping, and if I don’t get that key, you won’t get your dinner, fuzz-face. Nora’s not coming back tonight after all.”

  MacDougal cocked his head. Eyes bright as polished onyx peeked at her from under shaggy eyebrows, and the green beret still dangled from his whiskered mouth.

  In spite of her frustration, Charity laughed. “If only you were a St. Bernard I wouldn’t be in this fix, mutt.”

  She was so close. She stretched until she was afraid her shoulder would dislocate. The exertion, coupled with wearing her quilted ski jacket in the heated interior, was making her sweat. It was a weird feeling, sweating on one end and freezing on the other.

  She realized she’d have to squeeze through the door a little more, but her bulky jacket made that difficult. She should have taken it off before starting this maneuver, but she hated to back out and go through it all again when she was so close. The ankles of her socks were getting wet, which told her that the snow that had been threatening all day had begun to fall.

  A little more. She gained an inch. There. Her fingers closed around the Waterford football.

  “Got it, Mac!” She started to back out again. Nothing happened. She pushed again and realized that the waist of her ski jacket had wadded up around the inside of the opening, She pushed, she squeezed, she swore. Finally she flopped forward on the polished wood floor with a moan.

  She was stuck.

  WYATT LOGAN heaved his large duffel bag out of the back of the taxi, paid the cabbie and started up the walk toward his aunt Nora’s two-story Colonial. Wet snow swirled under the brim of his cowboy hat and kissed his cheeks. Snow for Thanksgiving. He w
as suddenly very glad he was spending the brief holiday at Aunt Nora’s instead of in some impersonal hotel room in New York City. Flying all the way home to Arizona just to eat turkey hadn’t made much sense, but hopping a train to Old Saybrook, Connecticut, had been a breeze.

  He mounted the porch steps, his boots slipping a bit on the wet wood, and clacked the brass knocker several times. While he waited he glanced around. The house was the last one on a street that dead-ended at a little cove where he’d loved to fish during summer visits with his folks. He hadn’t been back since he was fifteen.

  The neatly clipped front lawn was winter-brown now, but the twin fir trees on either side of the front walk rose just as majestically as he remembered them. In the side yard a giant maple, leafless and skeletal, arched over the roofs of Aunt Nora’s house and her neighbor’s. Long ago he’d spent hours climbing it and pretending the branches were rodeo bulls. Wyatt smiled to himself. He hadn’t changed all that much in twenty years.

  From inside the house came high-pitched barking, which reminded him that last Christmas his aunt had broken her pattern of total independence and adopted a dog. She’d even sent a picture of the animal out to Arizona, the way someone would send a picture of a new baby. The dog’s name, MacDougal, had stuck in Wyatt’s mind because Aunt Nora had mentioned that it meant “son of the dark stranger” in Scottish. MacDougal was a pound puppy with an unknown daddy, apparently. His aunt seemed to adore the dog.

  Maybe she was getting lonely as she got older, just as his parents had said. For the first time Wyatt wondered if he might be as much company for her on this holiday as she was for him. It was a novel thought. His parents used to joke that beside the word self-sufficient in the dictionary there would be a picture of Nora Logan.

  He rapped again, but he was coming to the conclusion she wasn’t home. Probably ran to the market for some last-minute item for tomorrow’s dinner, he thought.

  Then he heard the call for help.

  There it was again, coming from inside. He quickly tried the front door. Locked. Abandoning his duffel bag, he pounded down the steps and started around the side of the house toward the back door. Aunt Nora wasn’t elderly by any stretch of the imagination, but he supposed she could have had some accident inside the house. He broke into a jog and nearly fell as his smooth-soled boots skidded on the wet leaves under the maple tree.

  As he rounded the house, half running, half skating, he slid to a stop and nearly fell in his astonishment. MacDougal had a doggy door.

  And somebody’s butt was sticking out of it.

  WHEN SHE HEARD the rap of the door knocker, Charity’s first reaction was fear of being discovered in such an embarrassing position. Then reason, along with the prickling pain in her knees and toes, convinced her that embarrassment was preferable to frostbite. She needed help. So she revved up vocal chords not used to the unladylike behavior of yelling, and hollered. MacDougal took off at the unexpected racket.

  She called out again, and strained to hear if there was any response. Were those footsteps, or her imagination?

  “Damned if you don’t look like a heifer caught in the loading chute,” said a male voice from somewhere behind her. “You tryin’ to break into this house or what?”

  Charity dropped her head to her hands in exasperation. “I’m not breaking in. I’m the house sitter.”

  “Taking the job a bit literally, aren’t you?”

  A jokester. Just what she needed. “I’m stuck!”

  “Yep.” The single word of agreement was followed by a long silence.

  “You still there?”

  “Yep.”

  She detected laughter in that single syllable and she clenched her jaw. He seemed to be enjoying himself. But irritating though he might be, he was all she had at the moment. She swallowed her pride. “Can you help get me out, please?” she called.

  “I’m studyin’ the situation.”

  “Can’t you just pull me out?”

  “You sure that’s what you want?”

  “Yes! Do something! My top half’s roasting and my bottom half’s freezing!”

  “Okay.” He sounded dubious.

  After another pause, he enclosed her hips in the firm vise of his arms. She realized she should be embarrassed by being in such an intimate situation with a stranger, but she was grateful for the blissful warmth surrounding her bottom as he hugged her close. She tried not to think of what the scene might look like to an observer. With luck there would be no one watching. She hoped this man was a traveling encyclopedia salesman. That way, she’d never have to see him again.

  As the man’s fingers tightened on Charity’s bottom, MacDougal ventured back into the room and started licking her face.

  “Cut that out!” she ordered.

  Her rescuer snorted. “If I may say so, ma’am, you’re in no position to question my technique.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake. I meant the dog. Just get me out.”

  “Okay. Here goes.”

  Grunting with the effort, he pulled, and she heard something rip. Her treasured ski jacket. The one her brothers had saved paper route money to buy her. Irreplaceable. “Stop!” she yelled.

  The tugging subsided, but the firm grip remained. “What’s the matter?” He sounded out of breath.

  “My jacket’s ripping!”

  “So get another jacket!”

  “I can’t! I’m sentimentally attached to this one!”

  Abruptly his grip relaxed and the comforting warmth disappeared.

  “Are you still there?” she called.

  No answer. He’d left her. Just because she didn’t want to ruin her jacket in this endeavor, he’d lost patience and left her to freeze her buns off in a Connecticut snowstorm. Chivalry was indeed dead. And she was in one hell of a predicament.

  If only she hadn’t been wearing this particular jacket. She would have sacrificed anything else in her closet, but for ten winters the jacket had warmed her, not only with its down lining, but with the memory of that special Christmas when her two brothers had presented it as if giving her diamonds. And diamonds wouldn’t have been appreciated nearly as much.

  Well, she’d just have to get herself out of this doggy door. Nora would never have allowed her fate to rest with some man who happened by, so neither would she. She’d—

  Her thoughts were interrupted by something that felt like a metal plate sliding against her hip toward the doggy door casing. She was filled with foreboding.

  “You’re doing something, aren’t you?” she called nervously.

  “Just hold still.”

  “I demand to know what you’re doing!”

  “I found a hoe leaning against the garage.”

  “A hoe? Good Lord!” She swiveled as far as possible to look behind her, and from the corner of her eye she could see, sure enough, the green metal blade of a hoe slide through the side of the doggy door. “Take that thing out of there! You’ll damage the door!”

  “It’s the door or your jacket, lady.”

  “Wait! Let’s talk about—”

  Whatever she’d meant to say was drowned out by the crack of thick plastic and the splinter of wood as the doggy door popped out, bringing her with it. She sat down hard on the brick sidewalk, the cracked frame of the doggy door still around her middle, while snowflakes pelted her face and hair.

  With a joyous bark MacDougal bounded out after her, splashed through a mud puddle and ran back to launch himself at her. With legs so short his coat brushed the ground, MacDougal could get filthy faster than any dog she knew. Mud flew into her face, dotting her glasses and splotching her cheeks.

  “Ugh.” As she held the wriggling dog, the sound of muffled laughter filtered through her discomfort. She glanced up as best she could through speckled lenses that were already steaming up in the cold. Through the speckles and the fog she managed to record cowboy boots, snug jeans, a brown suede jacket and a cowboy hat pulled low over a face burnished by the sun. She couldn’t see his eyes, but his wi
de grin revealed even teeth as white as the pelting snow.

  She deposited MacDougal on the ground. “I suppose you think this is funny.”

  “Sorry, but I think this is hilarious.” He leaned forward, still wearing that infuriating smile, and held out his hand. “Let me help you up.”

  “No, thank you.” She didn’t look at him, certain he was still amusing himself at her expense, as she tottered awkwardly to her feet. Once she was upright and could smooth the jacket over her hips, the mangled doggy door frame edged slowly down and clattered to the brick walk. She stepped out of it with a sigh of relief. Free. But she was afraid to look at Nora’s back door.

  When she finally forced herself to wipe the moisture from her glasses and take inventory, she gasped in dismay. Pieces of the wooden door had been ripped out and a ragged hole remained. “The whole door will have to be replaced,” she moaned, turning back to him. “If you’d only waited, we might have been able to think of something else.”

  He glanced up at the sky. “I figured waiting was a mistake. It’ll be dark soon, and before long you would have created a real interesting ice sculpture.”

  “I still say we could have—”

  “You said you were sentimentally attached to that jacket. I don’t reckon Aunt Nora’s sentimentally attached to her door.”

  She stared at him as the last statement sunk in. Aunt Nora, he’d said. Nora had talked about her nephew with pride and love. “You’re Wyatt Logan?”

  He touched the brim of his hat. “At your service, ma’am.”