Chasing Her Tail
Authors: Katie Allen
Chasing Her Tail
As a first-grade teacher, Bridget thinks she’s prepared for anything a classroom of six-year-olds can throw at her. So it’s a bit of a shock when she’s bitten by a were-puppy and transformed into a dog.
As if peeing outside, excessive furriness and squirrel-chasing urges aren’t enough, it seems as if everyone is after Bridget—including a billionaire with an unhealthy interest in the paranormal, and Micah, the smoking-hot uncle of her were-puppy student.
When she takes refuge with Hammer, a kind stranger who has the body of a god and feeds her hamburgers, Bridget thinks she’s safe. Micah’s hot on her trail, however, and the crazy billionaire isn’t about to let a were-dog slip through his fingers.
Meanwhile, Hammer is determined to discover the truth about the mysterious woman who visits his bedroom at night—wearing nothing but a black leather collar.
Chasing Her Tail
features a cameo by Hammer’s friends Harry, Beth and Ky. Get to know
the trio more…intimately…in Katie Allen’s
One-Two Punch
.
An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
Chasing Her Tail
ISBN 9781419925306
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Chasing Her Tail Copyright 2009 Katie Allen
Edited by Kelli Collins
Photography and cover art by Les Byerley
Electronic book publication November 2009
The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
CHASING HER TAIL
Katie Allen
Trademarks Acknowledgment
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Girls Gone Wild: MRA Holding Corporation, Ltd.
Google: Google, Inc.
PBS: Public Broadcasting Service
Penthouse
: Penthouse International, Ltd.
Plexiglas: Rohm and Haas Company
Volkswagen: Volkswagen Aktiengesellschaft
YouTube: Google, Inc.
Katie Allen
Jodi popped her head into Bridget’s classroom. “What are you still doing here?” she asked.
Bridget glanced up, startled, and then smiled at the sight of Jodi’s freckled face.
“Parent conference,” she explained.
“Let me guess—Sam Foster?” When Bridget nodded, Jodi rolled her eyes. “What a wild child. Nadine was so happy when the school year was up last spring so she could pass the hellion on to you…and she only had him half-days.”
“He’s not so bad,” Bridget protested.
Jodi snorted. “Sure, he’s an angel. That’s why you’re having his parents come in for a conference two weeks into the new school year.”
Bridget just shrugged and smiled.
“Well, come join us over at the Blue Donkey for a drink when you’re done,” Jodi told her.
“I’ll try,” Bridget said but Jodi shook her head sternly.
“Don’t just try—come. You need to get out more, have some wild nights before you’re old like me.”
“Please,” Bridget scoffed. “You’re not old. You have another good ten, twelve years ahead of you.” Laughing, she ducked when Jodi lifted her bag as if she were going to chuck it at Bridget’s head.
“You’d better show up,” Jodi threatened one last time before disappearing from the doorway with a final wave.
Bridget gave an answering wave before dropping her eyes back to the papers on her desk and picking up her pen. Jodi’s visit had distracted her, however, and the pen sat idle in her fingers. Bridget doubted she would go to the bar—she very rarely did.
Her looks were fine, she supposed, although nothing flashy—just brown hair and brown eyes and a mildly pretty face. Her plain-Jane exterior, combined with her tendency to say idiotic things when she was nervous, made going to bars uneventful at best and downright embarrassing at worst. It was so much more pleasant to curl up at home in her pajamas with a hot cup of tea and a book.
“Ms. Grace?”
Bridget jumped and dropped her pen, her startled gaze flying to the doorway.
When she saw the owner of the gravelly voice, she swallowed. This man had to be Sam’s dad—the two were an exact match, from the tousled, dirty blond hair to the full, sulky bottom lip. Well, an exact match except that Sam’s dad was huge and quite definitely grown up.
6
Title
“Mr…ah, Foster?” She flinched inwardly at the hesitation in her voice. Bridget was small enough and young enough to give parents doubts about her ability to control twenty-five rowdy first-graders. She tried to project confidence during parent conferences, to speak clearly, shake hands firmly and offer plenty of eye contact. Sam’s father, though—he threw her off her game.
When he nodded, she gestured to a chair next to her desk. For conferences, she always borrowed an adult-sized seat from the teachers’ lounge. There was nothing more uncomfortable than spending an hour crouched on a chair meant for a six-year-old.
Mr. Foster crossed the room and Bridget swallowed again at his approach. As he lowered himself onto the chair, she had to keep herself from pushing back from her desk. For some reason, this man made her feel as if she were being stalked.
Shaking her head to clear it, she forced a polite smile and opened her mouth to speak but Mr. Foster beat her to it.
“What did Sam do this time?”
Bridget blinked at him. “What?”
“Was it the hedgehog thing again?”
“Hedgehog thing?” she repeated faintly.
“Is he messing around with that Jack kid? In Sam’s defense, that Jack’s a little shit.”
Bridget covered her snort of laughter with a cough. She had to agree with him on that one. “Mr. Foster—”
“Whatever Mrs. Schiller’s told you, Sam’s really a good kid,” Mr. Foster interrupted again. “Just…sensitive.”
“I know. I—”
“I don’t want him to be blacklisted in every class just because he had a few problems adjusting in kindergarten.”
“Mr. Foster.” Bridget used her biggest voice, the one she used to cut through the babble of a classroom full of kids hopped up on Valentine’s Day candy. It was his turn to blink at her.
“Mr. Foster,” she started again more quietly. “Sam did nothing wrong. He’s a nice little boy. I
like
him.”
“Oh.” He chewed on that for a few seconds. “So why am I here?”
“Your son—”
“Nephew,” he corrected.
“You’re not his father?” she asked in surprise. He was truly a grown-up version of Sam, down to the same blue-green eyes. Sam’s changed color with his mood—intense, vivid green when he was excited or happy and moody blue when he was upset. Bridget found herself wondering whether his uncle’s eyes changed as well and forced herself to concentrate on his answer.
7
Katie Allen
“No. My brother—his father—is on tour. He’s in a band,” he explained. “Sam stays with me when he’s on the road.”
“His mother?” she asked.
“Gone.” His tone was clipped and his eyes did go stormy blue, to Bridget’s reluctant fascination.
Focus
, she ordered her brain. “The reason I asked you to come in is because Sam has drawn a…disturbing image.” She pulled the marker drawing out of a manila file and offered it to Mr. Foster. “It’s unusually violent for a six-year-old.”
He looked at the picture, his face expressionless.
“Did you have a small pet die recently?” she probed when he didn’t say anything.
“A rabbit, perhaps?”
“No,” Sam’s uncle said slowly, his eyes still on the paper. “He saw a dead rabbit the other day, though. The neighbor’s dog had killed it.”
Relief washed through Bridget. The day before, when Sam had drawn the picture, she had been walking up and down the aisles during the students’ art time, admiring the pictures of rainbows and cars, houses and stick people, when she had first glimpsed the drawing that Sam was bent over, coloring with fierce concentration.
The picture showed a large, hairy creature, fangs bared, standing over the blobby brown shape of a small animal with bright red marker blood pooling around it. Sam had watched her hopefully, waiting for praise, and Bridget had tried to keep her expression impassive. She had finally murmured something about the picture being
“very colorful” but she knew he could tell something was wrong. His eyes had darkened and dropped to his marker-flecked hands.
“Is this from a movie?” Bridget had asked gently. After a quick, guarded glance, Sam had returned his gaze to his hands and shook his head. Bridget had asked if she could have the drawing and Sam had nodded without looking up. She had brought the picture back to her desk, her stomach clenched in dread, terrified that something was very wrong with sweet little Sam.
Not Sam
, she had wailed silently, glancing at the top of his bent, dark blond head.
Although she tried to be fair, Bridget had to admit to herself that, just two weeks into the new school year, Sam was already her favorite.
“Good,” she sighed and then shook her head at Mr. Foster’s bemused expression.
“Not good about the dead rabbit. I mean…it just…I was afraid that it indicated something much worse.”
Sam’s uncle nodded. “I’ll bring him to his doctor; see what he recommends, just in case.”
“That’s a good idea,” Bridget said. “I’m sure the drawing was just a reaction to seeing the rabbit, but it wouldn’t hurt for him to talk to someone—especially with his father’s absences.”
8
Title
“Sure,” he agreed, his eyes lightened to green now. “So everything else is good? No hedgehog issues? No problems with the little sh— I mean, Jack?”
“None.” Bridget beamed. “Sam’s an absolute joy to have in class.”
Mr. Foster raised an eyebrow. “Really. Well, good. He’s crazy about you, by the way. Everything is Ms. Grace this and Ms. Grace that.”
“I’m glad.” She tucked the picture back into the folder, feeling as if fifty pounds had been lifted off her back. “He’s lucky to have you. With his dad’s travels, I’m sure you’re his rock.”
He shrugged as if embarrassed by the compliment. “Could I have that picture?” he asked. “To show to the doctor.”
