The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 5 (83 page)

“He’s stealing my shoes.”

“The chewing stage can be a problem.”

“No, he’s not chewing them—anymore. He just steals them and hides them. I found my boot in the bathtub this morning.”

“He’s found a new game.” Mai ruffled his ears while the other dogs came up to bump and squeeze in for attention. “Your shoes carry your scent, obviously. He’s attracted to and comforted by your scent. And he’s playing with you. Aren’t you clever?” She gave Jaws a kiss on the nose, then rose. “It’s time to think about neutering.”

“What are you two, a tag team?”

“Read the literature I gave you. We’ll talk soon,” she said to Fiona. “Oh, cleavage or legs?”

“Legs, save the girls for round two.”

“That’s what I thought. Bye, Simon. Come on, babies! Let’s go for a ride.”

“You won’t ask,” Fiona said as she waved Mai and her dogs off, “so I’ll just tell you. She has a date—a first date—and was asking which asset to highlight.”

“Okay.”

“Men don’t have to worry about that particular area of dating ritual.”

“Sure we do. If it’s cleavage we still have to look you in the face and pretend not to notice.”

“You’ve got a point.” Since he stood on the steps, she laid her hands on his shoulders, leaned in for an easy kiss. “So, I’ve got a class in a few minutes. Did you time this visit to check up on me?”

“I returned the collar.”

“So you did. If you want you can stay for the class. It might be good for Jaws to interact with another set of dogs. It’s a small group, and we’re going to work on some basic search skills. I’d like to see how he does.”

“We’ve got nothing else going on. Teach him something else.”

“Now?”

“I need a distraction. I’ve been thinking about getting you naked since I got you naked. So teach him something else.”

She slid her hands up, brushed them over his cheeks. “You know, that’s oddly romantic.”

“Romance? I’ll pick a couple wildflowers next time I think about getting you naked. And this isn’t distracting me, so . . . where the hell is he?”

Simon scanned the porch, turned. “Oh, shit.”

Fiona grabbed his arm as he braced to run.

“No, wait. He’s fine.” She studied Jaws as he climbed up the ladder of the sliding board after Bogart. “He wants to play with the big guys. If you run or call out, you’ll break his focus and balance.”

Jaws climbed to the top, tail waving like a flag, but unlike Bogart, who pranced his way down the short slide, he slipped at the top, belly-flopped, then did a slow header into the soft ground below.

“Not bad,” Fiona declared as Simon snorted out a laugh. “Get your treats.” She walked over, calling out praise and approval in a cheerful voice. “Let’s try it again, want to try it again? Climb,” she said, adding a hand signal. “He does well on the ladder,” she said as Simon joined her, “and that’s generally the most difficult. It’s open and it’s vertical. He’s agile, and he’s watched the other dogs do it. He’s figured out how to go up. So . . . there we are, good boy.”

She took a treat from Simon, rewarded the dog when he reached the top. “You just need to give him a little help figuring out how to walk down, keep his footing. Walk. That’s it. Good balance. Good, good job.” She rewarded him again at the bottom. “You do it with him so . . . What?” she demanded when she looked up to find him staring at her.

“You’re not beautiful.”

“There you go again, Mr. Romance.”

“You’re not, but you grab hold. I haven’t figured out why.”

“Let me know when you do. Take him up and down.”

“And I’m doing this because?”

“He’s learning how to navigate unstable footing. It gives him confidence, enhances his agility. And he likes it.”

She stepped back, watched the two of them play the game a few times. Not beautiful, she thought. The observation, and the fact that he just
said
it, should’ve been a flick to the ego—even though it was perfectly true. So why had it amused her, at least for the few seconds between that and his next comment?

You grab hold
. That made her heart flutter.

The man incited the oddest reactions in her.

“I want him,” Fiona said when Jaws all but swaggered down the slide.

“You’ve got your pronouns confused. Me. You want me.”

“I admire your ego, but I meant him.”

“Well, you can’t have him. I’m getting used to him, and besides, my mother would be seriously pissed if I gave him away.”

“I want him for the program. I want to train him for S-and-R.”

Simon shook his head. “I’ve read your website, your blog. When you say train him, you mean us. Those crazy pronouns again.”

“You read my blog?”

He shrugged. “I’ve skimmed it.”

She smiled. “But you have no interest in S-and-R?”

“You have to drop everything when a call comes in, right?”

“That’s pretty much right.”

“I don’t want to drop everything, or whatever.”

“That’s fair enough.” She took a little band out of her pocket, bound her hair back with a couple of quick twists. “I could train him as an alternate. Just him. He responds to me, obviously. And any S-and-R dog needs to respond to other handlers. There are times one of our dogs is unable—sick, maybe, injured.”

“You have three.”

“Yes, because, well, I want three, and yes, because if someone else’s dog is unable, one of mine can go as backup. I’ve been doing this for years now, Simon, and your dog would be good. He’d be very good. I’m not giving you the pitch to join the unit, just to train your dog. On my own time. If nothing else, you’ll end up with a dog with superior skills and training.”

“How much time?”

“Ideally, I’d like to work with him a little every day, but at least five days a week. I can do it at your place and stay out of your way while you’re working. Some of what I teach him you’ll want to follow up on.”

“Maybe. We can see how it goes.” Simon glanced over to where Jaws was engaged in one of his favorite activities: chasing his own tail. “It’s your time.”

“Yeah, it is. Clients coming,” she announced. “You can sit this one out if you want. I can work with him solo.”

“I’m here anyway.”

 

 

IT WAS INTERESTING, Simon decided, and semi-distracting. Fiona called it The Runaway Game, and it involved a lot of running—dogs and people—in the field across her bridge. The class worked in pairs, or with Fiona as a partner—one dog at a time.

“I don’t get the point,” he said when Jaws was up. “He’s going to see where I’m going. He’d have to be an idiot not to find me.”

“It teaches him to find you on command, and to use his scenting skill—that’s why we’re running against the wind, so our scent goes toward the dog. Anyway, he’s going to find me. You need to get him excited.”

He looked down at the dog, whose tail chopped the air like a Ginsu knife. “He gets excited if somebody glances in his direction.”

“Which is to his advantage. Talk to him, be excited. Tell him to watch me when I run away. Watch Fee! Then the minute I drop down behind the bush, tell him to find and release him. Keep telling him to find me. If he gets confused, give him a chance to catch my scent. If it doesn’t work the first time, I’ll call him, give him an audio clue. You need to hold him, keep him with you while I get his attention, and run. Ready?”

He finger-combed his breeze-ruffled hair out of his face. “It’s not brain surgery.”

She gave Jaws a rub, let him lick and sniff at her before she straightened. “Hey, Jaws! Hey.” She clapped her hands. “I’m going to run. Watch me, Jaws, watch me run. Tell him to watch me. Use my name.”

She took off at a dash.

She hadn’t exaggerated, Simon noted. She was
fast
.

And he’d been wrong. When she moved, she was beautiful.

“Watch Fee. Where the hell’s she going, huh? Watch her. Jesus, she’s like an antelope. Watch Fee.”

She dropped down, out of sight, behind a bush.

“Find her! Go find Fee.”

The pup tore across the field, expressing his excitement with a couple happy barks. Not as fast as the woman, Simon thought, but . . . Then he felt a quick surge of surprise and pride as Jaws homed straight in.

A couple of the other dogs had needed the hider to call out, and one had required the visual clue of the hider waving a hand beside the bush.

But not Jaws.

Across the field he could hear Fiona laughing and praising even as his temporary classmates applauded.

Not half bad, Simon thought. Not bad at all.

She ran back with the dog happily chasing her.

“We do it again, right away. Praise first, reward, then we go again.”

“HE ACED IT,” Simon murmured when the class was over. “Three times in a row, different hiding spots.”

“He’s got the knack. You can work with him at home, with objects. Use something he likes, that he knows the name of—or work to teach him the name. Show it to him, then make him sit/stay and go hide it. Easy places at first. Go back, tell him to find. If he can’t find it, guide him to it. You want success.”

“Maybe I should tell him to find my tennis shoe. I don’t know where the hell he put it.” He looked at her, a long, thorough look that had her raising her eyebrows. “You run like the fucking wind, Fiona.”

“You should’ve seen me run the four-hundred-meter hurdles in college. I was amazing.”

“Probably because you have legs up to your ears. Did you wear one of those skinny little uniforms—aerodynamic?”

“I did. Very flattering.”

“I bet. How long before the next class?”

“Forty-five minutes.”

“Long enough.” He began to back her toward the house.

She kept her eyes on his, and he saw the laugh in them, a sparkle on the serene blue. “No ‘Would you like to?’ or ‘I can’t resist you’?”

“No.” He clamped her waist, lifted her up the porch steps.

“If I said I’m not in the mood?”

“I’d be disappointed, and you’d be lying.”

“You’re right about the lying. So . . .” She pulled the door open, tugged him inside.

But when she backed toward the steps, he shifted directions.

“Couch is closer.”

It was also softer than the dining room table, at least until they rolled off and hit the floor. And it was, Fiona thought when she lay beside him trying to regain her breath and the path to coherent thought, every bit as exciting.

“Eventually we might make it to a bed.”

He trailed, very lightly, a fingertip over her breast. “Cancel the class and we’ll go up now.”

“It’s a shame I’m a responsible woman—and one who barely has time to take a shower.”

“Oh yeah, the obligatory shower. I could use one.”

“Doubling up would only lead to shower sex.”

“Damn straight.”

“Which, while fun, I have no time for. Besides, you and Jaws can’t do the next class. It risks overtraining. But you could—” She broke off when the dogs announced visitors. “Oh hell, oh shit!” Scrambling, she grabbed her shirt, her pants, bundled them in front of her as she hunched toward the window.

“It’s James, and oh God, Lori. It’s James and Lori and I’m naked in the living room on a Sunday afternoon.” She glanced back. “And you’re naked on the floor.”

She looked so sexily flustered, a little wild in the eye and pink from her toes to her hairline.

Delicious, he thought. He could’ve lapped her up like ice cream. “I like it here.”

“No! No! Get up!” She waved her hands, dropped her shirt, grabbed it again. “Up, get something on. Go . . . go tell them I’ll be out in five minutes.”

“Because you’re taking an after-sex shower?”

“Just . . . get your pants on!” Still hunched, she sprinted for the stairs.

Grinning—she looked even more interesting running naked—he tugged on his pants, tossed on his shirt and, grabbing his socks and boots, strolled out onto the porch.

James and Lori stopped greeting the dogs. James’s eyes narrowed. Lori flushed.

“She’ll be out in a couple minutes.” Simon sat to put on his socks and boots. Jaws instantly made a lunge for a boot. Simon swung it out of reach, said, “Cut it out.”

“Nice-looking dog. How’s his training coming?”

“It’s coming. We just took in a class.”

James’s eyes stayed narrowed. “Is that what you just did?”

Simon laced up his boot, smiled coolly. “Among other things. Is that a problem for you?”

Lori patted frantically at James’s arm. “We just dropped by to see if Fiona wanted to grab some dinner after her classes. You could join us.”

“Thanks, but I’ve got to get on. See you around.” He walked to his truck. Jaws danced in place, obviously torn, then ran after Simon, leaped into the cab of the truck.

“I don’t know about this,” James muttered.

“It’s not our business—exactly.”