Home Is Where the Bark Is (6 page)

Then pay dirt.

Most of the pictures were of the dogs. Unbelievably, Brutus in a blue bandanna and Coco in a tiny white veil and glittery collar. But standing behind Cartwright in one small picture of the wedding party was a tall, beautiful, dark-haired bridesmaid.

He zoomed in on the image as tight as he could. It was Serena all right. Smiling that knockout smile. Her hair caught up behind her face but tumbling around her shoulders. Her lips painted a luscious red.

And she was . . . Well, she was hot. More than hot. Sensational. So lovely that just looking at her made his body react instantly. In a striking, figure-hugging long dress, she fulfilled all the promise of the beauty he had perceived behind her disguise. To his eyes, she outshone the bride.

“Gotcha,” he said.

Adam got up from his desk. “What have you found?”

Nick took a step aside from his desk so his partner could see his computer. Adam peered at the screen. “
That’s
the crazy dog woman? You’re sure?”

“Yes. Or it’s her double.”

Adam turned to face him. Nick was disconcerted to see the gleam in his eyes. “What did you say her name was?”

“Serena Oakley.”

Adam shook his head. “That’s not Serena Oakley. That’s Serena St. James. No wonder you thought you recognized her. For God’s sake, man, Serena St. James.”

Nick stared at him. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Where have you been? On another planet?” Adam paused. “Oh yeah. Of course you were. Sort of.”

“You know I was in Australia for two years.”

His last posting had been to the Australian capital city, Canberra. His cover—legal attaché to the U.S. Embassy. When he got back to DC it had been to the post with the promotion-blocking manager. Not long after, he had resigned.

Adam rolled his eyes in a manner Nick found disconcerting. “Serena St. James. In the time you were away she must have been on every billboard in the country.”

Adam grabbed Nick’s computer mouse. Googled again.

“This, my friend, is Serena St. James,” Adam announced.

Within seconds another image filled the screen. A breathtakingly beautiful, dark-haired woman lay seemingly naked in an old-fashioned claw-foot bathtub of liquid chocolate. Her shoulders were slightly raised as if she were about to get out of the tub. The dark chocolate streamed off her shapely, olive-skinned shoulders and molded her perfect breasts. The peaks of her nipples were visible through the layer of chocolate. Her face wore a slow, seductive smile Nick recognized instantly, and one chocolate-coated finger rested on the full lower lip of her lush mouth. Eyes the color of dark honey were lit with a multitude of sensual promises.

Nick felt like he had been kicked in the gut.

Unless she had an identical twin, this chocolate-coated goddess was Serena Oakley.

He stared so long at the screen the image went fuzzy.

Somewhere he must have seen this picture; that was why he thought he’d met her before. Though how he could have forgotten it . . .

With fingers that felt suddenly thick and clumsy, he clicked and scrolled through some of the multiplicity of websites devoted to “girl in bath of chocolate” and other salacious tags that involved the words “lick” and “eat.”

He learned how she was a part-time model who had been photographed in the bath of chocolate for Maddy Cartwright’s “The Ultimate Chocolate Fix” food feature for
Annie
magazine. The chocolate company had loved the pictures so much it had bought some of the images for their national advertising campaign. Then the photographer had sold the rest of the series for a Chocolate Girl calendar that had sold squillions.

Serena St. James was a fantasy figure to countless men. But liked by women, too, for her funny takes on chocolate and how hard she had to work to keep in shape. She’d been featured on the covers of magazines. Been interviewed on television. Appeared on
Oprah
.

He’d been on the other side of the world in Australia and missed it all.

But there could be no doubt she was the alter ego of Serena Oakley, doggy day-care director. What was her game, burying herself in disguise as a geeky animal nut?

Nick shut down the websites. Muttered to Adam he was going outside for some fresh air. In the green patch of park outside the office he slouched on a bench and stared ahead across the Embarcadero to the masts of the yachts and the span of the Bay Bridge.

He felt empty. Drained. Like he’d woken up from a dream to find he was living in a nightmare.

Serena Oakley. Serena St. James. Whatever she cared to call herself, she was famous. A modern-day pinup. A celebrity.

What hope would a regular guy from a small town have with a woman like her? Would she even look in his direction? Of course, if she was a crook, did it matter?

He cracked his knuckles so loudly the woman at the other end of the park bench glared at him and moved pointedly away.

Checkout
time from five to seven was the busiest time of the day at Paws-A-While. Serena waved good-bye to the English bulldog’s mom and the Weimaraners’ dads. She looked at her watch. Twenty after six.

She started to tidy the designer dog collars in the reception area product display. Noted that the more expensive the collar, the more she sold. She was right out of the crystal-studded style that gave no change from a one-hundred-dollar bill.

She looked at her watch again. Shook her wrist as the hands hadn’t moved at all.

She started to sort the doggy beauty bar. Who would have dreamed she would sell so many luxury fur care goodies? The mega-dollar products were doing so well she needed to find more space for the display. And the new line of organic dog treats supplied by her friend Jenna was walking off the shelves. The doughnut shapes with carob frosting were runaway bestsellers.

She tried to concentrate on calculating her profit for the month, told herself she could
not
check her watch again. Then she heard the “Who Let the Dogs Out?” door chime as the door to the street opened.

She didn’t have to turn around to know it was Nick Whalen. She recognized the sound of his footfall, seemed somehow aware of the amount of air his tall, powerful body displaced in the small room. Despite all efforts to act cool, her heartbeat tripped into double time and a flush burned high on her cheeks.

All afternoon she’d been practicing what she’d say to him. With a friendly yet not-too-friendly greeting on her lips, she turned. But the carefully memorized words dissipated like a puff of vapor.

She could see it in the way Nick forced himself to keep his gaze above her neck. That was what the nice guys did. Tried not to think about her chocolate-coated breasts. Even when it was all they could think about.

The more righteous men couldn’t hide their outright disapproval.

Dave the Valentine’s Day dumper hadn’t seen it that way. “Every man you meet imagines you naked and covered in chocolate,” he’d stormed. “They can’t help fantasizing about what they want to do to you.”

She’d protested and protested and protested that not every man who saw her posters wanted to undress her. But Dave could not, would not, believe her. And it had proved true: she had attracted unwanted attention. Scary attention.

But not from men like Nick Whalen.

It was obvious her new client was determined to act the gentleman. He looked above her head with inordinate attention at the beagle clock.

She cleared her throat. “Bessie had a good day.”

He cleared his throat. “That’s great.”

“Made lots of friends.”

“Glad to hear it.” He picked up a bottle from the counter and put it down again without seeming to register that it was labeled Sexy Beast, fragrance for dogs.

Sexy Beast.
She could think of someone else worthy of that label.

She cleared her throat again. “Do you . . . uh . . . still want to finish your tour of the facilities?”

He nodded.

Talk about an elephant-sized bathtub of chocolate in the room.

“Well, uh, follow me out back,” she said, stepping toward the door to the playroom.

Would he still treat her the same way now he had recognized her? Or follow the track of so many other guys she’d encountered? Even a hint of innuendo from him and his tour would be terminated.

As she approached the door, Kylie came whirling through it.

Serena halted. She could sense Nick pull up to stop himself from colliding with her back. She braced herself, aware that his chest must be mere fractions of an inch from her spine. If she stood still enough, she would feel his breath on her hair. If she took just half a step back, she would rest against the hard strength of his body.

She took a deep breath to steady herself. And keep her Birkenstock-clad feet planted firmly on the paw-printed floor.

Kylie greeted Nick. “Hi, Bessie’s dad. She’s all tuckered out and waiting for you.”

Serena swore she felt Nick cringe at the words “Bessie’s dad.” She frowned a warning at Kylie—she had briefed her about the new client’s aversion to the use of everyday dog-world words. But Kylie gave her the slightest and slyest of grins and a discreet thumbs-up. Serena felt the flush on her cheeks intensify. Was her interest in the new client so obvious to everyone?

 

 

Nick
found himself kissing distance away from the nape of Serena’s slender neck. Her thick plait was coming unraveled and wisps of dark hair waved away from its constraint. Her head was bowed. In what? Guilt? Shame? Or just a feminine flurry at his proximity?

He hoped it was the latter.

When she’d stopped so suddenly, he’d put on the brakes, then braced himself so that he didn’t make contact. He didn’t want her to freak like she had this morning. But she kept still. So still he knew she must be as aware of their closeness as he was.

So what was that cringe thing this morning about? Him? Men in general? Or perhaps a bad experience with a man? Maybe a coconspirator?

Was that why supermodel Serena St. James was hanging out here in disguise as mild-mannered dog nut Serena Oakley?

Nick prided himself on his ability to interrogate the most difficult of suspects. To broach the most controversial of topics. Dammit. Why didn’t he just come straight out and ask her? Tell her he knew her true identity. Present himself as a confidante. Trick her into tripping herself up over details.

Deep down he knew the answer. Adam had nailed it. He was in serious danger of losing impartiality on this case.

Trouble was, the doggy day-care director aroused more than his suspicion.

Right now he badly wanted to press his mouth to the lovely hollow behind her ear. To breathe in the scent of her—warmer, richer, and even more intoxicating than this morning. To reach around her waist and pull her to him so her back nestled against his chest.

But not only was she a possible perpetrator of a serious crime; she was also Serena St. James, chocolate goddess, who could have any man she wanted eating from her . . . well, lapping from her . . .

Whatever.

Do not think about chocolate-coated anything
.

He called upon all his FBI training to mask his feelings.

He took two steps back from her.

And made sure he stayed a good distance away as he followed her into the playroom.

After hours, the big room seemed very different. Play equipment sat idle. Just the occasional yip and yelp echoed around the walls. But the doggy cam on the wall still slowly scanned the room, its red light blinking.

Of the few dogs that remained to be picked up by their owners, most were subdued. Bessie was actually asleep, snuggling with Snowball on one of the raised dog beds that punctuated the floor space.

But the huge black dog was in virtually the same position as Nick had last seen him. He still lay on the floor, the massive head with the lopsided ears resting on his front paws. His wrinkled brow gave him a worried expression.

Nick stopped and nodded toward him. “Is there something wrong with this guy?”

“You mean Mack?” said Serena. Her voice was a downward slope of sadness. “He’s not having a good day.”

At the sound of his name, the big animal raised his head and gave a slow thump of his heavy, white-tipped tail. He had one of those appealing dog mouths that curved upward to give the impression of a smile. It seemed at odds with the depressed look in his eyes.

“I don’t get it. Is he sick?”

“His knee is injured. I guess it’s like humans; some days he feels it worse than others.”

“You mean he’s in pain?”

Serena nodded. “He’s on medication, but I don’t know that it helps much. The vet says he’s torn his anterior cruciate ligament.”

“Ouch.” Nick automatically flexed his right knee as he remembered the agony of his own injury. “I tore mine playing football.”