At least he hadn’t noticed. With the drip started, Dom had turned his attention to his equipment.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

He glanced around-one swift glance that said he was completely preoccupied-then turned back to what he was doing. ‘If you move you’ll hurt yourself,’ he said briefly. ‘Go back to the settee.’

‘I’m hurting because of this dog,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll call her Marilyn.’

‘Marilyn?’

‘As in Monroe. ’Cos she’s gorgeous and misunderstood.’

His mouth quirked into a trace of a smile. A damned attractive smile, her hormones said.

No, she told her hormones.

‘Marilyn it is, then,’ he agreed. Then his smile died. ‘But I need to tell you she’s not likely to make it.’

‘I can’t believe I didn’t pick up that she was in labour. I thought she was just fat.’

‘You’re hurt yourself.’ He turned back to her, refocusing. ‘Go back to the settee,’ he said. ‘Please. This won’t be pretty.’

‘You’re not putting her down?’

‘Not yet.’ He motioned to the drip. ‘I’m getting some fluid on board. She’s still having weak contractions. My guess-and I’ve just spoken to the vet in the next town and she concurs-is that she’s been in labour for some time. We think she’s got a pup stuck. Maybe that’s why she was dumped. Maybe she got into trouble giving birth, someone said they’d take her to the vet-maybe to keep kids happy-and then they dumped her. Taking a pregnant bitch to the vet costs money.’ His face tightened. ‘Dumping her would be easier. Throwing her out where you said they did-my guess is they intended her to go in the river. It’s only a guess, but people can be cruel.’

He spoke like he knew what he was talking about. He spoke like a man with ghosts. She registered it, but only fleetingly. Her foot was hurting, her hormones had taken a back seat to discomfort, and she only had so much registering space possible.