Love Is a Four-Legged Word (3 page)

As if, thought Tom.

“He didn’t have any children,” said Maddy, her voice hesitant. “His only child died when she was a toddler. Once I asked him if he had any relatives; he said none he cared to know about.”

“So he said in his meeting with me.” Walter had been very clear about that. Even naming names.

Maddy seemed to be thinking out loud. “Brutus was his baby. I’m not surprised he wanted his dog looked after. But . . . I would have happily done it for nothing. He knew that.”

Sure he had.

“Are you certain this isn’t a joke? I still can’t believe it’s happening.”

Tom nodded. “Believe it.”

“Are you sure it’s legal?”

“Yes. California law allows trusts for pets as a provision in a will.”

She shook her head disbelievingly. “It’s still sinking in.”

“You heard the terms of the will—as executor, it’s my duty to make sure Brutus survives the twenty-one days. Well, seventeen now.”

Maddy Cartwright chewed on her bottom lip. He had to admit she was very convincing. “Tell me again what happens if Brutus doesn’t survive?”

“You get a very substantial inheritance and the rest goes to a dogs’ home.”

The color flooded back into her face. “So it’s a win-win situation for me?”

Yes, and that’s the way Walter Stoddard had wanted it. He’d made that very clear to Tom on the one and only occasion they’d met just a month ago. Tom had assumed that the lucky young woman in question had been the old man’s mistress.

Walter Stoddard had been clever. Leaving his fortune in trust for the dog rather than directly to the young girlfriend made it more difficult for disgruntled relatives to contest the will. It was difficult for a dog to be seen as having undue influence over an old man’s dying wishes.

“You do understand that during those seventeen days I have to assess your suitability as Brutus’s guardian?”

Maddy was silent for a long moment, looking down at her sneaker-clad feet. When she looked up at him again, Tom was surprised at the tight set of her face and the downward twist to her mouth.

“You think I influenced Walter with his will, don’t you?” she said.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to,” she said.

Tom was glad he wasn’t the type to blush. His imaginings had definitely been of the lurid variety. He knew how foolish an older man could be over a pretty young face—and body. His father had been proof of that.

He cleared his throat. “One way or the other, whatever the reason,Walter Stoddard wanted his money to be yours.”

Her chin went up at a tilt. “Huh! And you disapprove. I sensed your hostility the second you got here.”

“Hostility? I’m not hostile toward you, Ms. Cartwright.”

Her mouth twisted. “Don’t bother lying. You’re entitled to think what you want. And I’m sure you won’t be the only one . . .”

He tried to interrupt, but she spoke over him.

“I’m not naïve. A rich old man. A poor young woman. Well, not poor, but living-from-paycheck-to-paycheck type average. For heaven’s sake, Walter was eighty-two! But some people have sick minds. I know what they’ll say when they hear about the will.”

Tom stopped fiddling with the catch on his briefcase. He was surprised at the sudden sympathy for her that surged through him. Somehow, he wanted to believe in the girl next door she gave every appearance of being.

“Walter was so kind to me. If I was the granddaughter he never had, he was the grandfather I never had. But I’m stunned beyond belief that he’s been so generous to me.”

She got up from her chair. Tom was shocked at how pale she was. Her fair skin looked almost translucent, the scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose standing out starkly in contrast.

In a nervous gesture, she pushed her marmalade-colored hair back from her face. “But I don’t expect you to believe that. You’ve obviously made up your mind about me.”

Tom wasn’t as sure of her motives as he’d been before he’d knocked on her door. But he was still suspicious enough of her not to deny her accusation. Instead he made a noncommittal, lawyerlike murmur.

Her hands were trembling as she picked up the plate of brownies. “I need to think about all this. I’ll go get a snack to take out to Brutus.Try and tempt him to eat.”

Without really looking at him, she halfheartedly offered the plate to Tom. “I’m not hungry. You have one if you like. They’re good.” Her words were stilted, as if speaking to him were an effort. As if maybe she were fighting against tears.

Tom swallowed against a dry mouth. He took the plate. But all of a sudden he didn’t feel like eating. Even a macadamia-studded, chocolate-laden brownie.

What if he really was wrong about Madeleine Cartwright? Like he had, people would think the worst of her. There would be gossip, speculation. A millionaire dog and its beautiful young guardian would make news. The newspapers would want to dig for dirt.

If she was as innocent of intent as she said she was—hell, even if she wasn’t—the next weeks would be unpleasant ones for her. “Uh, no, thanks. I’ll pass,” he muttered.

But still, he had his duties as executor to consider. And that meant not being sucked in by her story until he could be 100 percent sure of her good intentions. Apart from his desire for moral justice, it was in his own best interests to do so.

Walter Stoddard had insisted that if Brutus survived the twenty-one days, a substantial bonus would be added to Tom’s fee. The dollars should impress the senior partners in Jackson, Jones, and Gentry enough to elevate him to partner. And that promotion was what he wanted above all else.

Brutus had to live.

He watched her as she headed for the kitchen, unable to stop himself again from admiring the view. But when he saw what she brought back as a snack for the dog, all such thoughts fled. Alarmed, he stood up.

He looked at the pink-frosted cupcake in Maddy’s hand. He thought of the dog’s arteries. “Are you sure you should be giving that to Brutus?”

Maddy Cartwright’s smile was tight. “He’s got a serious sweet tooth. I want him to think it’s a human cupcake—like Walter used to give him for his birthdays. But this one is stuffed with grated apple, alfalfa, and dog vitamins.”

“As well as butter and sugar and eggs?”

“Eggs are good for dogs. Don’t worry, I’m not trying to poison him.”

“Uh. I didn’t say that.”

Damn! What was the matter with him? Where was his lawyer cool? He was getting confused here. There was something about this woman’s candid green eyes and lovely face that was turning his thoughts upside down.

“Come outside with me and check I don’t lace the cupcake with arsenic on the way, why don’t you,” she said, much too sweetly for the look of loathing she was casting his way.

“Yes, I will.Well, not to check up on you but to—” Mentally, Tom slammed himself on the side of the head. What a dumbass thing to say.

He followed it with worse. “But to meet Brutus.Yes, to meet Brutus. He is—in a manner of speaking—my client after all.”

Did that sound damn pompous or what? Why did being around this girl make his words come out so wrong? Was it because he was finding it impossible not to notice that her body-hugging T-shirt didn’t quite meet the top of her low-slung jeans and the gap revealed a few tantalizing inches of creamy skin? Or to keep from staring at the arching fullness of her mouth?

But Madeline Cartwright just looked at him with a smile so cool it was almost pitying.

“Brutus is trained to shake paws,” she said. “I’ll tell him to behave in a businesslike manner.”

Brutus. Great name for a dog. A German shepherd? Doberman? Not a Rottweiler, Tom hoped. Too big and unpredictable. After all, he’d be working with him for the next seventeen days. He’d like him to be a breed he felt happy with.

Damn! His fists clenched by his sides. This was a dog he was talking about. A four-legged dumb animal. How had a corporate attorney fast-tracking to the top gotten mixed up with this weirdo will? And stuck with a dog named Brutus for a client?

Tom hadn’t studied any protocol regarding a canine client in law school. And nothing he’d learned since graduating had taught him how to handle the contradictory and much-too-appealing Madeleine Cartwright.

He had a feeling that the next seventeen days might not be as straightforward as he had imagined.

Three

Maddy was way too aware of Tom O’Brien following her out of her apartment. After all, six feet two inches of broad-shouldered hunk didn’t come knocking on her door every day.

She had a weakness for good-looking men. And Walter’s attorney—or was he Brutus’s attorney?—was so handsome he should have warning bells attached that went off when she found herself admiring him for longer than a second or two.

In her experience, excessively good-looking men were too interested in themselves to have anything much left over for the women in their lives. Next time around she’d be seeking out bald, tubby, glasses even. A man who would support her ambitions. And who she wouldn’t have to fight for space in front of the mirror.

But that didn’t stop her from appreciating a prime male specimen. Pity this one appeared to be so humorless and officious. Why had Walter picked an attorney like Mr. Takes-Himself-So-Seriously Tom O’Brien?

Mentally, she answered her own question. Because he was the son of Walter’s friend Helen O’Brien from his church. On the occasions Maddy had met Helen, the older woman had never failed to boast about her super-successful—and single—lawyer son.

Maybe Walter hadn’t realized what a stuffed shirt the boy wonder was when he’d decided to consult him for legal advice.

Maddy fought off an errant thought—Tom O’Brien’s shirt was actually stuffed with the most amazing muscles.The guy was built.

Not that she should be noticing. Or touching. Men had a nasty habit of getting in the way of what she wanted to achieve. And she wanted to achieve a lot.

Her plan was in place: step one, food editor on a glossy magazine; step two, her own television cooking show. Why not aim high? Right now she was getting the kind of career break she’d only ever dreamed of.

Her success as chef at one of San Francisco’s most fashionable restaurants had brought her to the attention of the editor in chief of bestselling young women’s magazine
Annie
.

The magazine was published in San Francisco and had become a real player in the national market alongside titles published in New York City. She’d been approached to stand in as food editor while the regular food editor was on maternity leave. That was nearly a year ago. Now that editor had decided to resign and stay home with her baby, and Maddy was being considered for the permanent appointment. She was raring to go. And nothing—certainly not a man—was going to get in her way.

Until she’d gotten where she wanted to be, she’d sworn off all but the most casual of dating. Since her split from too-handsome Russell—who had only pretended to support her ambitions—she hadn’t broken her two-date-max rule. Or been tempted to.

Tom O’Brien politely opened the door for her and ushered her through the back door of her apartment. Her best friend, Serena, and she always rated the new men they met. For manners, she’d give this one ten out of ten. For manner—zero. Undeniably gorgeous—but way too stiff and formal for a guy his age. No temptation at all.

She paused at the top of the back porch steps, knowing that he would want to gasp at the view. People always did.

He gasped.

Wow, what a view, she whispered in her head.

“Wow! What a view,” said Tom.

There wasn’t a trace of fog and the view from Walter’s back garden encompassed San Francisco Bay right through to the Golden Gate Bridge. Maddy never tired of admiring the scene. She was a country girl from the mountains close to the Oregon border, but now she’d tasted city life, she was hooked.

“Talk about a million-dollar view,” said Tom O’Brien, with a whistle of admiration. “Correction. More a multimillion-dollar view.”

Maddy was taken aback at his mercenary comment. “I guess so. I hadn’t actually thought to put a value on a view. I just enjoy it.”

He looked at her through narrowed eyes. “Come on, this is Pacific Heights. How could you think Walter Stoddard was poor when he lived in a house like this?”

Maddy felt herself flush. She was disappointed and angry at Tom O’Brien’s inference. It was insulting to both herself and to Walter’s memory.

“I actually didn’t give it much thought except to be grateful that my rent was so reasonable for such a great part of town. And if you look a little closer, you’ll see the house is very rundown and shabby.”

She was gratified to see that he looked uncomfortable at her reply, shifting from one foot to another. “He probably bought the house years ago, anyway,” he mumbled, “before prices really boomed.”

“He did,” she said. “When he got married, he told me. His wife loved the view, too, apparently. But that’s not getting me anywhere with Brutus, is it?”

It was crazy to feel hurt by what Tom O’Brien had said but she did. She had to bite on her bottom lip to stop it from trembling. She turned her back on him so he couldn’t see what she was feeling.

“I’ll see if I can tempt Brutus out with the cupcake,” she said, walking down the stairs.

“Tempt him out?”

She stopped and turned back to him. “Don’t you know? Brutus is in mourning. I’m worried sick about him.”

“The dog is in mourning?” Tom O’Brien’s brows drew together in a frown.

“Ever since Walter passed away. Brutus howled and howled the day his master died. He knew before anyone else did. Animal intuition, you know.”

“Uh, right,” said Tom.

She didn’t like the way he said that. But then lawyers were a skeptical lot, she supposed. And judgmental if this guy was an example.

“He hasn’t come out of his kennel. And he won’t eat, no matter what I tempt him with.”