Voices echoed and rumbled from behind the massive hand-carved cherrywood door. Trying not to be impatient, she raised her hand to knock, and the door swung slowly open. Almost like it was welcoming her in.

Morgan hesitated. The voices grew louder.

“Hello?”

She waited a bit longer, then poked her head in. The foyer made her want to sink to her knees and praise the godlike interior designer who’d completed such work. Gleaming marble, a curved staircase to rival Scarlett O’Hara’s, perfectly cut thick crown molding lining the ceiling and walls with intricate carvings she wanted time to study. Maybe the doorbell didn’t work, and the house was so huge, no one could hear her. She took another tentative step in, glancing around for any human activity, then froze.

Two massive dogs sat at the bottom of the steps, staring at her.

Not regular dogs. No, these were Cujo-size dogs, gigantic bodies and heads in a mottled brown color. Saliva dripped from their mouths as they both panted, never taking their gaze from her as if she were a delectable piece of meat who’d wandered in for lunch.

She was going to die.

Fear strangled her. She fought it back, having read something about dogs sensing the emotion, making them even madder. Her throat dried up, and she stilled, trying not to breathe or make a move.

Down the hallway, voices rose and fell in a conversation that was definitely beginning to turn into a fight. Two men. Lots of curse words. Morgan tried to dredge up some spit so she could call out for rescue, but the dogs began to shake in a strange way, looking at her with a need she’d never seen before. Not that she had experience with dogs. Her parents disliked animals of all types for their messiness and complications and had instilled in her a healthy fear of strange creatures great and small.

“Help,” she called out. Her voice came out in a tiny whisper, locked down from her terror. Dammit, now she knew if she were trapped in a horror movie, she’d be the too-stupid-to-live heroine who just stood there while she got hacked up by the serial killer. Morgan tried again. “Help me.”

The dogs got up.

A squeal broke from her lips, but her legs still wouldn’t move. “Umm, good boys, good dogs, oh, God, please don’t eat me, good, good dogs!”

The dogs leaped from their stance and fell upon her.

Her ankle turned as she tried to flee, and she collapsed on the slippery, polished marble, her cushy butt hitting the floor with a whoosh. As Morgan waited to die, she held up her hands, curving her fingers into claws, ready to fight to the death for her life.

Then got a whipping, lashing tongue bath.

The giants wriggled and squirmed in pleasure, licking her everywhere, wet noses and slobber dripping onto the bare skin of her legs. She fought them off, but they were stronger and more competent, until Morgan desperately crawled to her knees in an effort to escape.

She got smacked in the face by a wagging tail and kissed damply on the back of her neck, which almost made her burst into giggles, before finally scrambling to her feet. They could’ve eaten her in one gulp, and now they wanted to kill her with affection.

By now, the low rumblings from the hallway had grown to deep, enraged shouts.

“I told you to stay out of my way and I’d take care of the damn cabinets!”

“Are you kidding me? You switched the order on them, and now I have to step in and fix it!”

Crash. Bang. Was that glass shattering? The dogs, now having bonded with her, kept bumping her from each side in a competition to see who she liked the most.

“I’m done with this shit! You lied—you still want to control me, just like Dad. You want a servant, not a partner.”

Morgan imagined gritted teeth and pure fury from the deep growl. A shiver worked its way down her spine, but she eased closer. If someone was in danger, she had a responsibility to help. Funny, though, the dogs didn’t seem to sense any danger, barely glancing over at the noises floating in the air. Cujo #1 tried to grab the heel of her shoe and pull it off her foot.

“Don’t do that,” she whispered. “My shoe. Leave me alone.”

Cujo #2 gave her a sloppy grin and drooled on her ankle. Ugh. What type of animals were these? Didn’t builders usually have well-trained Labs for pets, or was that just canine profiling?

“The client wanted pine cabinets. Pine, you moron! You have to go get fancy with your tigerwood and show off, and now we’re behind schedule, and I’m still not sure they’re gonna like it! I give you one lousy job, and you manage to screw it up.”

“Yeah? I know what I’m doing, and pine would’ve looked awful. How about this? Screw you! I’m done.”

Morgan jumped as a man covered in sawdust and wearing faded jeans came storming out and stopped before her. His long hair brushed his shoulders, and she caught the impression of toffee-colored strands, burning blue eyes, and swirling frustrated energy. Her mouth opened at his fierce scowl. The Cujos quickly left and swarmed around the man’s feet in adoration. He snapped his fingers, but they just jumped higher in obvious disobedience. “Who are you?” he grunted.

Her fingers clasped her throat. “I’m—I’m, umm, here to see Caleb Pierce?”

The man jerked his dirty thumb toward the door he’d just exited. “In there. Tell the asshole I quit.”

“Oh! I—I—”

He stomped out with the Cujos at his heels and left her alone. Morgan glanced at the half-open door. Low mutterings and tinkling glass drifted to her ears. This wasn’t how she pictured their first meeting, but then again, she had a job to do. Did this bode well? Running a family business with crazy dogs and family feuds seemed a strange way to retain and grow a client base. She paused for a moment, gathering her thoughts and trying to straighten out her clothes. A streak of mud from dirty paws now marred the clean white fabric of her skirt. Her right ankle throbbed, and the blister burned on her left heel. Dog hair clung to her once-spotless white jacket. Sweat had definitely done a job on her flawless makeup. Nothing like the adrenaline rush of looking death in the eye to put a healthy glow on a woman’s face.

Didn’t matter. She had to get it together and make her pitch. Morgan’s job was to make sure her clients were satisfied by getting the perfect house built to specs. Pierce was the best. She’d settle for no less. Steeling her posture ramrod straight, she walked through the door without hobbling and waited.

The man had his back to her. He had a somewhat filthy mouth, judging from the colorful curse words lighting up the room. Average height, but his shoulders were quite broad, with a plain white T-shirt stretched to the limit over a mass of bunched muscles. He seemed to be fumbling with a decanter, finally splashing amber liquid into the target, then shifting so that she caught his profile. The man brought the glass to his lips and tipped it back with one neat, smooth movement. Her belly did a slow flip-flop as those carved lips closed around the rim of the glass. The tanned, powerful column of his neck worked as he swallowed, and for some strange reason, she was fascinated by the almost pornographic images of the other things he could accomplish with such a mouth that were flaring to life in her mind. His hair was a mass of thick hazelnut strands that looked finger combed and a bit damp. Her gaze followed the line of his impressive back to his rear, and her blood suddenly heated.