Berkley Sensation ~ July 2010
ISBN: 978-0-425-23429-7
Love, Unleashed.Former model Serena Oakley will take puppy play-dates over glamorous parties any day, which is one reason why she’s swapped her stilettos for Birkenstocks – and opened Paws-A-While, an upscale doggy day care and spa in San Francisco. When a ruggedly handsome client walks through her doors, clutching a purse-sized Yorki-poo and only barely convincing when it comes to canine credentials, instinct tells her to be wary – despite her instant attraction to him.
Undercover investigator Nick Whalen has followed a series of identity frauds to Serena and is determined to dig up the secrets he’s certain she is hiding. Despite their mutual distrust, Nick and Serena find themselves bonding over an injured, orphaned dog with a serious junk food habit. And soon they’re arousing more than just suspicions.
Nick begins to wonder if one gorgeous, possibly criminal woman and one sad-eyed mutt could show him what he’s been missing out on all his life, while Serena longs to let down her guard. But when Serena’s safety is threatened – and their future together put in jeopardy – the pair must trust in love and loyalty to thwart a danger that’s circling too close to home.
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Chapter One
Nick Whalen was not a Yorki-poo kind of guy. Serena Oakley saw that right away. Alerted by the door chime – a dog barking to the tune of “Who Let the Dogs Out?” – she looked up from the check-in counter of her upscale doggy spa and day-care center.
She tried not to stare at the tall, powerfully muscled man who shouldered his way in through the glass doors from the sidewalk. Then quickly covered her mouth with her hand to hide her amusement. She pretended to cough.
In the six months since she’d opened Paws-A-While, Serena often played a game of matching owner to dog. The new client and the struggling, squirming little Yorkshire terrier–poodle cross he held tight to his impressively broad chest made perhaps the most entertaining mismatch she’d seen.
Just a few of the man’s long strides into the compact reception area and the little dog started to yap a cranky “put me down now.” At the owner’s embarrassed scowl Serena fought to keep her polite smile from breaking into laughter. She needed to be professional here and help him out. She put on her best meet-and- greet smile.
“Hi! I’m Serena Oakley. Good morning and welcome to Paws-A-While.” She stepped around the counter. “This little cutie must be Bessie.”
The Yorki-poo immediately stopped yapping, stilled, and looked up at Serena, feathery ears alert.
“And I’m Nick Whalen,” said the client. “My dog is here to be, uh, assessed for day care.”
Serena recognized the deep, gravel-rough voice from the man’s initial phone call. It had intrigued her then and it impressed her now. The voice matched the face with its strong, taut angles. And the tough, hard body that strained against businesslike jacket and pants.
“Of course, Mr. Whalen. We were expecting you. I’ve been looking forward to meeting Bessie. She looks just as sweet as I thought she’d be.”
And Bessie’s owner?
He was younger than she’d expected, only a few years older than her – around thirty-two, she guessed. Definitely a big-dog type. A man more at ease with, say, a boxer as chiseled and tough-looking as himself. Yes, she could see him with a boxer.
And the adorable pint-sized pooch with the yellow bow tied in her forelock looked as if she’d be much happier tucked into a nice older lady’s purse with just her nose peeking out.
But Serena didn’t share her thoughts. Dog care was a competitive industry in the canine-crazy Marina District of San Francisco. She could not risk even a hint she might be seen as poking fun at the pampered pooches that brought in the much-needed dollars and cents. She had a year to make her business succeed before she ran out of funds. That meant keeping her private whimsies locked safely away while she built her client base.
Serena recognized the deep, gravel-rough voice from the man’s initial phone call. It had intrigued her then and it impressed her now. The voice matched the face with its strong, taut angles. And the tough, hard body that strained against businesslike jacket and pants.
“Of course, Mr. Whalen. We were expecting you. I’ve been looking forward to meeting Bessie. She looks just as sweet as I thought she’d be.”
And Bessie’s owner?
He was younger than she’d expected, only a few years older than her – around thirty-two, she guessed. Definitely a big-dog type. A man more at ease with, say, a boxer as chiseled and tough-looking as himself. Yes, she could see him with a boxer.
And the adorable pint-sized pooch with the yellow bow tied in her forelock looked as if she’d be much happier tucked into a nice older lady’s purse with just her nose peeking out.
But Serena didn’t share her thoughts. Dog care was a competitive industry in the canine-crazy Marina District of San Francisco. She could not risk even a hint she might be seen as poking fun at the pampered pooches that brought in the much-needed dollars and cents. She had a year to make her business succeed before she ran out of funds. That meant keeping her private whimsies locked safely away while she built her client base.
Besides, it was no hardship to lavish attention on her canine customers. There was hardly a dog born that she didn’t like.
“Hi, Bessie,” she crooned to the Yorki-poo. “Are you going to come play with us?”
Serena held out her hand for the little dog to sniff, then, once introduced, she scratched her under the chin. In response, Bessie enthusiastically licked Serena’s fingers.
Serena laughed and pulled her hand back. She wiped it with an anti-bacterial tissue from the box on the wall – following her own strict hygiene rule. Cross infection was a disaster any doggy day-care proprietor dreaded.
“I think we’re going to get on just fine, sweetie.” She smiled at Bessie. Then looked up to the owner and realized patting Bessie had brought her rather too close. Close enough to notice that his skin was tan and smooth and his eyes were a pale, piercing shade of blue.
Suddenly breathless, she took a hasty step back. “And I hope we’ll all get along with you, too, Mr.Whalen.”
“So I’m here for assessment as well?” He raised his brow, and she wasn’t sure if he were serious or not. “Are you going to put me through my paces? What’s it to be? Catch? Fetch? Roll over on command?”
Serena reacted with a quick intake of breath, too taken aback to answer. Every day, gorgeous dogs came through the doors of Paws-A-While—but never a human as attractive as this man.
Handsome wasn’t the right word to describe him. His jaw was too strong, his nose too crooked, his dark blond hair cropped too short for merely handsome. But the irregular features added up to something undeniably appealing. Something that made rash, un-bidden fantasies flash through her mind of just the kind of paces she’d like to put him through.
Stunned at her own reaction, she managed to choke out a reply. “Of course not. We only have a formal assessment procedure for dogs, not people.” She was aiming for professional but feared that came out just plain pompous.
Flustered, she made the mistake of looking directly up to her new client’s face. Even in flats Serena hit five-ten, and although he was tall, she immediately connected with his eyes. Cool, quizzical blue eyes that seemed to enjoy her discomfiture and held her gaze for just a second too long.
She strained to remember the spiel she recited word perfect many times a day. “As we discussed, we cannot accept an animal for a regular day-care booking until we see proof of current vaccinations and in animals over six months old of… uh… spaying or cas… castration.”
Ohmigod. Why did she have to stumble over that word? She never stumbled on that word.
“Ouch,” he said.
Serena flushed so hot her ears burned. This was beyond embarrassing. Why did that word make her think testosterone? Levels of which this client seemed to have in abundance. The muscles. The voice. The…
Think no further, Serena.
She forced her eyes to stay at the level of his face. Her voice revved up so that she started to gabble. “Then we need to see how your dog socializes with our other guests. The other dogs I mean. And with the staff, too, of course.”
His mouth twisted. It was a sexy mouth, the top lip narrower than the bottom. Did he find her amusing? Dammit. Above all, Serena wanted to be taken seriously. To prove to both friends and critics that she could be a successful businesswoman.
“I see,” he said. “So there’s no formal procedure for checking out the owners. How do we best impress you?”
Roll over on my command.
No! She would not let her thoughts stray in that direction.
What was it about this Yorki-poo owner that made her forget she was taking a sabbatical from sex?
She cleared her throat. “Pay your bill in advance and never be late for pickup time? Always impresses.”
“Want the credit card now?”
“Sounds good to me,” she said. “You’re a point ahead already.”
“Good to know I’m in the race.” A glint of humor warmed his eyes. Humor and a fleeting glimpse of something else.
Did he recognize her?
She swallowed hard against a flash of panic. The shapeless clothes, the way she wore her hair didn’t fool everyone. Some people – inevitably men – identified her immediately.
But here she didn’t see the dawning recognition that quickly warmed to admiration tinged with varying degrees of lust.
No. What she’d seen in Nick Whalen’s eyes was something unsettling that she couldn’t put a name to. Something that skated around the corners of her mind without letting her catch it.
She frowned. “Mr. Whalen, I… ?”
“Nick,” he said.
She paused. “Nick, I…”
For a long moment she held his gaze. Crazy really, for a client she had only just met, she had an unsettling sense of questions unasked and unanswered between them. It was as if a sudden stillness had fallen. She was aware of the tick-tick-ticking of the big beagle-shaped clock that hung above the counter, of the muted barks and yelps coming from the playroom, the too-loud sound of her own breathing. And of his.
Then Bessie whimpered at the lack of attention. She twisted in her owner’s arms. She yapped a series of sharp, piercing demands.
Serena blinked. She shook her head to clear her thoughts. “Bessie. Of course. Poor little pet.” She couldn’t remember what she’d been about to ask Nick Whalen but grabbed the opportunity to switch the conversation back to his dog. “You can put Bessie down now. She seems much calmer.”
Bessie’s owner was unperturbed. “Bessie sure as hell doesn’t like to be carried, that’s for sure.”
He bent down and carefully placed the Yorki-poo on the polished concrete floor, right on top of the trail of stenciled, outsize black paw prints that led to the counter.
Serena couldn’t help but watch his every move. She found it endearing the way such a strong, masculine man was so gentle with the little animal, his big hands cradling her. How would it feel for a woman to be on the receiving end of that touch? A tremor of anticipated pleasure vibrated through her at the thought.
She forced herself to look away. She hadn’t reacted like this to a man for a long time. If ever. This was crazy.
“And she hates riding in the car,” he added, as he stood back up. “That’s why she was making such a fuss.”
“That’s understandable.” Serena made herself stop thinking about Bessie’s master and watched Bessie as she cautiously sniffed around the base of the check-in counter, pausing to investigate the interesting doggy smells. “Don’t worry. We won’t hold her fussing against her. Lots of dog-kids are nervous their first time at day care.”
Nick Whalen was silent for a long, stunned moment. He stared at Serena with such an expression of incredulity that she had to bite her lip not to laugh.
“Did you say ‘dog-kid’?”
“Yes?” Her voice rose to a question mark.
He scowled. “This animal is a dog, not a child.”
“Of course she is. But it’s not an uncommon expression, believe me. They say there are more canines than children in San Francisco.”
“But a dog is a dog.”
“Except when it’s a child substitute.”
Serena followed his gaze to where Bessie was now sniffing the custom-made doggy toy box with great interest. It was hand carved and painted and Serena was very proud of it. The toy box was also the dumbest thing she could have put there as it had become a magnet for unsupervised boy dogs to cock their legs on.
“Bessie is not a dog-kid.” A shudder of distaste ran through his big frame. “Never call her that.”
“Fur baby?” Serena offered.
“Especially not that,” he growled.
“I agree,” she said, in an attempt to placate him. “More of a cat term, I feel.”
“‘Dog’ will do,” he said, again with a growl his pint-sized pooch had no hope of emulating.
Serena frowned at his vehemence. Why would a man who tied a bow on his dog’s forehead -the exact same shade of amber as the streaks in her dark fur – object so strongly to such an everyday word as dog-kid? An everyday word in the Marina District, that is.
But she aimed to make Paws-A-While the best in this dog-eat-dog business. To prove that at twenty-eight, with a string of abandoned career attempts behind her, she could stick with it long enough to succeed. And that meant pandering to human clients as much as to their pooches.
“Got it,” she said in her most professional tone. “Bessie Whalen is only to be referred as a” – she spelled out the word – “D-O-G. I’ll mark that on her file as urgent for the staff ’s attention.” She willed any note of sarcasm out of her voice.
“Bessie Whalen?” he said. “You call her Bessie Whalen like she’s my-?”
“Kid. Yes. It’s shorthand to identify your animal. Very common. First name of dog, last name of owner.”
Why didn’t he know that’s how his dog would be registered in any dog-care facility?
Her brow furrowed further. “What do you use on Bessie’s Facebook page?”
“Facebook page? For my dog?”
“No Facebook page? What about MySpace?”
His inarticulate splutter gave her his answer.
“Maybe she blogs under her Bessie Whalen name?” she suggested, unable to resist teasing this big, tough-looking man who seemed remarkably uninformed about everyday events in dog world.
“A dog blog? You’re not serious?”
His bemused reaction made it more and more difficult for Serena to keep a straight face. “You think I’m kidding you, don’t you?”
“Are you?”
“Maybe exaggerating a little,” she admitted, giving in to a twitch of a smile. She widened her eyes. “But, Mr. Whalen, uh, Nick, thousands – maybe millions – of dogs have their own blogs. Trust me.”
He had trouble sorting his words. “Bessie will never have a blog. Uh . . . that is, I will never write a blog for her. That is . . .”
“Yes?”
His jaw set in a stubborn line. “The dog is a dog. I am her master, not her father.”
Serena put her index finger to her mouth. “Shh. Don’t say that too loudly. Mustn’t risk offending people who find it unacceptable to claim ownership of a species of companion animals.”
Nick Whalen paused. “You lost me at the dog blog.” He crossed his arms on his substantial chest. “I get it.” He nodded slowly. “You do have a test for owners. And I’m being set up to fail.”
Serena shook her head and smiled, properly this time. “There is no test.” She had to quit teasing him, irresistible as it was when he reacted so marvelously. It wasn’t worth the risk he might take offense and walk out. She needed every dollar of every day-care fee. And she loved running Paws-A-While even more than she had imagined. Finally she had found the right career.
“Lots of our guests have Facebook pages and blogs. We link to them on our website if you’re interested.”
He put up his hand in a halt sign. “Thank you. I’ll pass.”
“But you’re okay to have your dog registered with us as Bessie Whalen?”
“If you must.” He followed his words with a heavy sigh of resignation.
Again Serena was puzzled. Surely Bessie’s vet used a similar filing system. “Nick, is Bessie your wife’s dog?”
“No wife.”
“Girlfriend?”
“No girlfriend.”
No girlfriend. Her pulse gave a disconcerting little flutter. “Ookaay. Do you have a shared custody agreement with an ex?”
“No.” He frowned. “Is this line of questioning necessary?”
“I’m sorry if that seemed a little personal. But joint custody can get tricky so it’s best we’re forewarned.”
“I have full, uh, custody of Bessie,” he said, tight-lipped.
“I’m glad to hear that. It’s just I wondered…”
He seemed so dog clueless. Why would a guy like this book into an establishment like hers that specialized in luxury beauty treatments for dogs? She suspected he didn’t know the difference between a flea treatment and a fur extension.
His frown deepened. “Have you got a problem with a big guy and a little dog? Is that it?”
“Not at all. I’m sorry if I gave that impression.”
This big-guy-and-little-dog combo didn’t seem right. Her other client, the shaven-head, muscle-bound leather man and his miniature Chihuahua in matching studded harness were perfect together. But a Yorki-poo and this man?
She didn’t have time to waste puzzling about the discrepancy. She schooled her face to look very serious. “We’re inclusive here at Paws-A-While. Dogs of all sizes are welcome, so long as they’re suited to day care.”
“Right,” he said.
“Personally, I adore little dogs. In fact meeting my Maltese, Snowball, will be the first stage of Bessie’s temperament test. Then if we accept her as a guest, he’ll be her first puppy pal and help her settle in.”
“That’s reassuring.” The word was edged with irony but Serena refused to bite.
“The first day of school can be scary for a kid if she doesn’t know anyone,” she said. “I figure it’s the same for a dog.”
The word “dog-kid” hung unspoken in the air. She knew it. Nick Whalen knew she knew it. But neither of them was going to utter it.
“So Snowball is your canine customer relations contact?” he asked, a hint of levity lifting the corners of that so-sexy mouth.
Again, she couldn’t be sure if he were serious or not. You never knew with dog people. Not that he seemed like a fully fledged dog person.
She nodded. “Exactly. That’s what it says on his job description. His treat supply is linked to his performance. Unhappy client dog, no dog biscuit.”
At her words, Nick Whalen grinned. A slow, reluctant grin that nevertheless melted the ice from his pale blue eyes. He was even more attractive when he smiled, less carved-out-of-granite, more hot-blooded male.
She found it irresistible not to smile back, then felt heartened by his widened grin in response.
“I’ll go get Snowball,” she said, turning toward the door that led into the adjoining playroom. She felt warmed and just a little bit excited by the exchange of smiles with Bessie’s owner. At one time she and her best friend Maddy would rate the men they met. Nick Whalen was an undisputed ten out of ten.
He was hot. With no wife or girlfriend. Not that a professionally focused woman should be noticing.
Hitting on clients was a Business Skills 101 no-no. But she sure hoped Bessie passed her temperament test and became a regular. Owner check-in and checkout times would suddenly become a whole lot more interesting.
Her mouth still curved in a smile, she turned back to ask him to make sure Bessie didn’t follow her into the playroom just yet. To find him with eyes narrowed and all humor faded from his face as he rapidly scanned the room – from the blow-up photographs of dogs on the walls, to the shelves of doggy goodies for sale, to the computer on the desk. That look was back in his eyes. But before he masked it again she recognized it instantly.
Suspicion.