Home Is Where the Bark Is (2 page)

“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, outsized 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 was.

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 was 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.

 

 

Nick
silently cursed his premature morph from doting dog owner to private investigator. He grit his teeth. He should have waited a moment longer until Serena Oakley had closed the door behind her.

Damn but this dog business was a bad idea. Yet how else could he legitimately get into Paws-A-While to scope out what kind of shady stuff could be going on in this place? He would never willingly have come here otherwise, that was for sure.

Doggy day care. Beauty parlors for pups. In his book, dogs lived outside in all but the coldest weather and got hosed down if they got muddy. And they were proper dogs. Big dogs. Not cats in disguise like Bessie.

The Paws-A-While director paused with her hand on the door that led to the next room. Her face, so warm and vibrant with laughter just seconds before, had cooled like a sudden frost in September. “Is there a problem?” she asked.

Years of training alerted him to go straight into damage control. He smiled, an engaging, suspicion-deflecting smile. “No problem. But this doggy day-care thing is new to me. I’m fascinated by your setup.”

She had eyes the color of dark, liquid honey. Unusual eyes. Lovely eyes. He had noticed that in the disconcerting, long moment he spent gazing into them before Bessie’s whining had brought him to his senses. Now her eyes were wary. Her dark brows drew together. “You’re not some kind of health inspector?”

“No.”

“An undercover reporter?”

That was closer to the mark. She was perceptive. Thankfully he could truthfully answer in the negative. He shook his head. “I’m not a reporter.”

Her eyes didn’t warm, but he noticed a visible relaxing of her shoulders. “You’re sure of that? You’re not planning an exposé? You know, the lowdown on the high life of San Francisco’s pampered pooches? The extravagance, the waste of money, and so on?”

He put up both hands. “Whoa, there. I’m just looking for a place to park Bessie while I’m at work.”

Having to lie was the one part of his job he never got used to. His FBI training had rid him of his childhood habit of crossing his fingers behind his back when he fibbed. And helped him school his expression to hide his real feelings and reactions. But he still felt uncomfortable when he misrepresented the truth.

In his few minutes of conversation with Serena Oakley he had already done that. Bessie didn’t belong to a wife or a girlfriend, but then, she wasn’t his, either. And he was here for his job, not on his way to his job.

“Okay, then,” she said, not seeming totally convinced. “It’s just that . . .” Her voice trailed away.

Stay alert, Whalen.
She was too smart. Too observant. In only a matter of seconds she had caught him sussing out the room. Hell, he hoped she hadn’t noticed him sussing out
her
.

He didn’t know what he’d expected the proprietor of a doggy day-care center to be like. But it certainly wasn’t this tall, graceful woman with the snarky sense of humor and the sexy curves that loose-fitting jeans and her baggy shirt with the Paws-A-While logo on the pocket did nothing to disguise.