Need You for Keeps (Heroes of St. Helena, #1)(2)

“I’m investigating a stolen property claim,” he said, not even pretending to get the keys. “Mr. Barnwell reported his Dalmatian missing about three hours ago.” He was cool and casual, not a feather ruffled in his perfectly pressed uniform. A bad sign.

“How awful.” Shay placed a horrified hand to her chest.

“Yeah, awful,” he agreed mildly. “Have you seen him today?”

“Mr. Barnwell’s Dalmatian?” She shook her head, hoping she looked more baffled than guilty. “Nope.”

“You wouldn’t lie to an officer of the law, would you?”

“Not today.”

“Huh.” He took a leisurely sip of his coffee, which she’d bet the keys to the kennel was a plain old-fashioned drip—no frills. “That’s odd, because a Caucasian female, wavy light brown hair, about five four and a buck twenty was seen shoving Domino into the back of a late-nineties Honda Civic.”

Domino, the Great Dane, emerged from the bag of kibble and, expression dialed to woof? cocked his head at the sound of his name. He eyed Jonah’s crotch eagerly and Shay could almost see the dog vibrating with indecision.

Kibble or doggie high five to the crotch? So many choices.

Thank God the kibble won out.

“Lots of people drive Civics,” Shay challenged, tucking a light brown wave of hair behind her ear.

“Yeah, well, only one five-foot-four Civic owner is on record claiming Mr. Barnwell to be”—eyes locked on hers, he set the coffee right next to the keys and pulled a little official-looking notepad from his front shirt pocket, flipping to the middle—“cruel, criminal, and a bad neighbor with questionable hygiene.”

She’d called him a lot more in private. “He really should brush his teeth twice a day if he intends on making a habit out of yelling at me.”

“The getaway car had a St. Paws Animal Rescue sticker on the door—”

“Getaway car? Is that official cop jargon?”

“—and the shover in question was reported to be wearing a pair of faded jeans and an orange T-shirt that reads I BRAKE FOR SQUIRRELS.”

He lifted his gaze and zeroed in on the squirrel on her orange shirt.

Shay crossed her arms over the cute critter and shrugged. “Sorry, Deputy, can’t help you.”

“Jesus, Shay,” he said, sounding all put out, like he was the one behind bars. “I’m trying to help you here. My bet is that dog is worth a few grand, which means if you have him in your possession, it’s a felony. So just hand Domino over and we can call it a day.”

Either Domino had finished all fifty pounds of kibble in record time or hearing his name again was too tempting, but he lifted his head and barked. Twice. Really loud. Then bounded across the floor at NASCAR speed, skidding to a stop at Jonah’s feet, his nose going straight to the crotch for a big welcoming sniff.

“You want to change your statement?” he asked, deflecting Domino with a few complex swishes of the hand. “Or do I need to get out the cuffs and haul you in?”

Maybe she was more exhausted than she thought. Or maybe she’d just been too long without a bedmate who didn’t shed, but her entire body perked up at the thought of Deputy Serious and his seriously hot cuffs. Which was annoying because uptight, by-the-book men were not her type.

Then again, it had been so long she wasn’t sure she even had a type.

An awkward silence hung in the air while they glared at each other and Domino stared between them, panting.

Breaking eye contact, because he was better at it than she was, damn it, Shay bent over to pet Domino’s head through the bars.

He stopped, dropped, and rolled to assume the belly rub position. She obliged the best she could, her heart going heavy when his tail slapped the floor with excitement and he looked up at her adoringly.

Domino was a lover. He needed attention, affection, unconditional love—a family who wanted him, not one who felt obligated to feed and house him.

There was the perfect family out there—she just needed to find it.

Determined, Shay stood to face down one very pissed deputy, the top of her head grazing the kennel’s roof. Apparently hauling her butt in was not how he envisioned his afternoon going. Or more likely, it was all of the paperwork she’d just added to his plate.

“For the record, I didn’t lie. Domino is a Great Dane, not a Dalmatian. A Great Dane, Jonah, who weighs two hundred pounds.” She grabbed the bars and pressed her forehead against the cool metal. “Have you seen the size of Mr. Barnwell’s crate? It’s built for a Chihuahua. He can’t even stand up and he is locked in there all day long. Can you even imagine?”

“Shay,” he sighed, looking up at the ceiling as though seeking divine intervention.

“It’s cruel and it’s mean and no one will help me,” she whispered.

Jonah stepped forward until she could smell the summer heat on his skin, and that normal cool and distant expression he wore like Kevlar softened.

“Hard to do when you go breaking in to other people’s property, steal their pets, and start trouble.”

“I don’t start trouble.” He raised a disbelieving brow. “I don’t. And I called your office three times last week, when the temperatures hit surface-of-the-sun levels and I had to give him water through the bars.” She didn’t mention she’d spent most of yesterday sitting by his crate, rubbing his head, and giving him an ice pop and that she’d only decided to take him when Mr. Barnwell threw out the pamphlet she’d put on his doorstep about crate cruelty.