She was definitely a girl beaver because her beaver head was missing, revealing sweaty, dark hair pulled into a short, scraggly ponytail. He’d been praying for a little distraction from his own depressing company, so he threw open the door and stepped out onto the shoulder of the Colorado road. His newest pair of Dolce & Gabbana boots emerged first, followed by the rest of him, all six feet three inches of steely muscle, razor-sharp reflexes, and unsurpassed gorgeousness…or at least that’s what his press agent liked to say. Still, it was pretty much true, although Dean didn’t have nearly as much personal vanity as he let people believe. But emphasizing the superficial was a good way to keep people from getting any closer than he wanted them to be.

“Uh, ma’am…You need some help?”

Her paws didn’t break rhythm. “You got a gun?”

“Not with me.”

“Then I’ve got no use for you.”

On she marched.

He grinned and set off after her. With his extra-long legs and her shorter, furry ones, it took just a few steps to catch up. “Nice day,” he said. “A little warmer than I’m used to for May, but I’m not complaining.”

She hit him with a pair of grape lollipop eyes, one of the few curvy things about her. Most of the rest of her came to sharp angles and delicate points, from a set of fragile bladed cheekbones, to a petite, arrow-tipped nose, to a chin keen enough to cut glass. But after that, things got dicey. A razor-edged bow marked the center of a wide and startlingly plump top lip. Her bottom lip was even fuller, giving him the disconcerting feeling that she’d somehow escaped from an X-rated nursery rhyme.

“An actor,” she said with the trace of a sneer. “Just my luck.”

“What makes you think I’m an actor?”

“You’re prettier than my girlfriends.”

“It’s a curse.”

“You’re not even embarrassed?”

“Some things you have to accept about yourself.”

“Brother…” She gave a grunt of disgust.

“Name’s Heath,” he said, as she picked up the pace. “Heath Champion.”

“Sounds phony.”

It was, but not in the way she meant.

“What do you need a gun for?” Dean asked.

“Murder an old lover.”

“Is he the one who picked out your wardrobe?”

Her big ol’ paddle tail smacked him in the leg as she spun on him. “Beat it, okay?”

“And miss all the fun?”

She gazed back at his sports car, a lethal, midnight black Aston Martin Vanquish S with a V-12 engine. The machine had set him back a couple of hundred thousand, but even that hadn’t made much of a dent in his net worth. Being the starting quarterback for the Chicago Stars was pretty much like owning a bank.