Never Say Sty (4 page)
Authors: Linda O. Johnston
“Okay,” I said after swallowing a mouthful of greens bathed in delicious whipped vinaigrette. “So you looked around and decided to sell stuff to pet owners. How did you get started?”
“Small at first,” he said. “A store here, and when it did well, a store there. I especially enjoyed selling the upscale end of things—jewel-studded dog collars and leashes, for example. But I always made sure there was also an adequate supply of ordinary nylon ones. And rhinestone-decorated accessories for in-between.”
“Smart,” I said. “But . . . well, forgive me for being nosy.” Or don’t. I didn’t care . . . did I? “How did you start in the first place? Did you have investors?” Or were you already wealthy?—though I didn’t ask that. Nor did I ask whether, if he’d already had money, he had earned it by honest means.
Somehow, I had a sense that this man could accomplish anything he imagined—but didn’t necessarily have the scruples to wait patiently while dribs and drabs of ordinary income flowed his way.
“I chose to start conservatively,” he repeated, “and do it all on my own. And I was lucky.”
And smart. And . . . a scintilla crooked? But I didn’t ask. I’d no reason to assume so—except for an indefinable yet unignorable intuition.
“That’s impressive,” I said.
Soon, we were discussing the merits of dog breeds. And rescued animals—of utmost importance to Dante. I’d already discovered, after Googling him, how many shelters he supported. Most took in pets for adoption—and had an inviolable no-kill policy. Other shelters took in injured or otherwise endangered wildlife that could not be released back into the wild.
The chateaubriand was scrumptious. So was the company.
Later, we lingered over coffee and crème brûlée. Then, all too soon, it was time to leave.
The chauffeur brought the limo to the door as we exited. He drove slowly back into the Hollywood Hills—not to my home, but up to Mulholland Drive, where he pulled into a turnout, and Dante and I observed the mega-acres of lights illuminating the eastern San Fernando Valley.
Was I surprised when this man drew me into his arms and gave me the hottest, sexiest kiss I could recall having in forever? Not. But would I have torn off his clothes and mine had we been inside and alone?
Not. I knew exactly how awful my judgment about men was. I’d only recently ended a relationship I’d thought would never need to end.
It was way too soon to tango.
Plus, as amazing as Dante seemed to be, there was too much about him I didn’t know.
Mostly, how gently would he handle my badly bruised heart and ego, if I ever left either vulnerable to him?
Which I wouldn’t.
“Oh, Kendra, you are such a surprise,” he breathed as we ended that kiss.
“You don’t know the half of it, Dante,” I replied, my lips still settled against his. Okay, I could flirt even if I’d no intention of it going anywhere.
“But I will,” he said with no dribble of doubt.
Don’t count on it
, I thought. And I was all but certain I stomped on his enormous male self-esteem when, at my place, I kissed him goodbye at the front gate without inviting him inside.
, I thought. And I was all but certain I stomped on his enormous male self-esteem when, at my place, I kissed him goodbye at the front gate without inviting him inside.
But I’d done my duty. I’d had dinner with him, satisfied that condition of his backing our baby reality show.
Sure, I’d see him again. At negotiations for the actual agreements that would be needed before filming could begin. On the set. Wherever.
But as sexy and appealing as I found the man—and as sleepless as I remained that night, hugging only my dear Cavalier Lexie in my arms and thinking about dinner and its unfulfilled sensual suggestions—I knew better than to dream about having Dante DeFrancisco insinuate himself further into my highly satisfactory life.
Chapter Three
“SO ALL THAT buildup, and you haven’t heard back from the guy?” asked my best bud in the whole world, Darryl Nestler.
A week had passed since my dinner with Dante. Now, I sat in the messy but comfy office of Doggy Indulgence Day Resort, where I’d come after my morning pet-sitting rounds to drop off my beloved Lexie. She needed some extra indulgence, which here involved playing with other pups when she felt like it. If not, she’d relax in her favorite of the large room’s multiple pet-pampering areas: the one with the plethora of people furniture.
And I needed some TLC, too, via talking to the tall, lanky guy who’d been my moral support through all sorts of upsetting situations over many months—not the least of which was that I’d become a murder magnet. But fortunately, after helping to solve the last one, a few weeks back, I was free of felonies to figure out.
Darryl had also introduced me to the Hayhursts and made some suggestions for our initial
Animal Auditions
ideas.
Animal Auditions
ideas.
“Nope, haven’t heard a word.” I didn’t intend that to erupt as a grumble, but it did. Which irked me even more. I should feel relieved. Of course, I had a meeting scheduled tomorrow with Dante’s attorney to go over final details of the agreement we’d been negotiating. All the conditions he’d asked for were agreed on—other than the coerced dinner with me, but that was now a done deal. But the new location, broadening the types of animals cast, and mega-promotion for HotPets were all there.
I’d also put together a nice new limited liability company for those of us involved in the
Animal Auditions
production. We were all members now—Charlotte LaVerne, with her unequaled reality show background; Rachel; the Hayhursts of Show Biz Beasts; and, of course, moi.
Animal Auditions
production. We were all members now—Charlotte LaVerne, with her unequaled reality show background; Rachel; the Hayhursts of Show Biz Beasts; and, of course, moi.
Oops. There was that dratted French that kept coming to mind after my evening at the château with Monsieur Dante DeFrancisco. Not that I allowed him to remain too prominently in my tête—er, head.
“I’d thought,” Darryl said dryly, peering over his wire-rims, “that the guy had the hots for you, which was why he insisted on a date before committing to spend lots of money on your reality show production.”
“No, he wants to promote HotPets. He doesn’t give a damn about someone like me, whose role with
Animal Auditions
will be minor once we get going.”
Animal Auditions
will be minor once we get going.”
“We’ll see, but I have a sneaking suspicion you haven’t seen the last of him.”
“Nothing earthshaking about that,” I responded. “I intend to be there for at least some of the
Animal Auditions
tapings, and Mr. DeFrancisco may attend, too.”
Animal Auditions
tapings, and Mr. DeFrancisco may attend, too.”
“Mr. DeFrancisco? I thought you were on a first-name basis. Not that you told me a lot, but I had the sense, when you described your dinner, that it ended with a major clutch in the car, chauffeur chaperoning or not.”
“Yeah, well, that was then and this is later, in the light of day and all that. Dante DeFrancisco is about to get the deal he wanted, so he doesn’t have to schmooze the production company’s lawyer—me—anymore.”
“Maybe,” Darryl said. “So . . .” He looked at me with a sudden, big smile lighting his long face.
“So what?” I’d known him long enough and well enough to assume that expression suggested a secret. “Spill it, Nestler.”
“Spill what?” His tone resounded with assumed innocence.
“Whatever it is that you want me to pry out of you.”
He raised his eyebrows above his spectacles’ frames. “Who says there’s anything like that?”
A knock sounded on his office door. His expression changed to an odd combo of irritation and relief as he called, “Come in.”
Kiki, one of Darryl’s longtime assistants, opened the door, and a couple of pups popped in at her feet. Lexie was one, and she leaped onto my lap.
“Hi, girl,” I crooned, though I had to speak up since now the sounds of barks barged in from the animal area.
“Sorry to bother you, Darryl,” lied the ill-tempered blonde bombshell who, like many around the area, aspired to become a star. Good thing she obviously loved dogs, for they clearly loved her back. And she hadn’t been cast in anything I knew about. “An owner is here and asking about long-term pet-sitting. I explained we don’t do it . . . but that you sometimes give referrals.” She shot a dagger of a glare at me, followed by a too-sweet smile.
“Come on, Kendra,” Darryl said. “I’ll introduce you, and if it’s an assignment my favorite pet-sitter doesn’t want to take, you can refer the owner to a fellow member of the Pet-Sitters Club of Southern California.”
“Fair enough.” I deposited my darling pup on the floor as I followed Kiki and Darryl out the office door and into the enormous chamber where dogs of many sizes mingled, with careful human supervision. Before we got to the front desk I touched Darryl’s arm. “Don’t think our conversation is over,” I said. “I want to know what you weren’t telling me.”
“It’s no big deal,” he said, but the way his face lit up shouted otherwise. “It’s just that I’ve got a new girlfriend.”
With that, he turned and started talking to the guy who stood at the sign-in desk, a golden retriever at his side.
I was too floored to join them as I swallowed my surprise. I knew Darryl dated now and then, even spoke of fixing him up with a friend once. But for the entire length of our friendship, I’d always dumped my tales of woe in the relationship arena on him, not vice versa.
Now he was not only dating, but whoever it was had been elevated to the position of girlfriend without his even hinting of it? Well, I’d hide my hurt and swallow any advice . . . for now.
I needed to know who it was—and whether she was good enough for my best buddy Darryl.
I WAS STILL a whole lot irritated with Darryl the next day, when I entered the Yurick & Associates offices. The attorney representing Dante DeFrancisco was coming in shortly to finalize our contract negotiations.
“Hi, Kendra,” chirped Mignon, the Yurick firm receptionist, as I entered the former restaurant building. Perky as always, her auburn curls bobbing, she sat at the front desk in the area where greeters must once have shown hungry patrons to their tables. “I’ve got the conference room reserved for you all morning, okay?”
“Great,” I told her. “The other lawyer should arrive in about an hour.”
I was wrong. The other lawyer arrived in half an hour. His name was Glen Elizarian. He was a partner in a major downtown law firm, mid-forties, and mighty sure of himself, judging by his condescending smile. No business casual for him; he was dressed to impress in an obviously expensive navy suit and silk tie.
And he wasn’t alone. Dante was with him. Well, why not? It was his dollars we’d be dealing in here. I shook their hands, showed them into the former bar that now served as the Yurick firm’s conference room . . . and we came out fighting.
Guess I shouldn’t have been surprised, but it took two hours to hash out final details. At times, the discussion grew so contentious that I wondered whether Dante would walk.
To his credit, he hung in and even instructed his attorney to give in on some positions. We discussed how much he’d expend and how, and the way HotPets promotion would be incorporated into our production.
And when we were done, Dante gave me a genuine smile. “No wonder your ‘animal dispute resolution’ seems to go so well. But I’ve been watching you. I really don’t know how you’ve managed, in addition to your excellent lawyering skills, and your growing pet-sitting business, to become an amateur sleuth, too. If you explain that to me, we’ll have a deal.”
“What?” I stood, unsure I’d heard him correctly. Well, hell, of course I had. “My . . . unfortunate affinity for people in difficult situations”—like victims, or suspects, in miserable murder situations—“is irrelevant to what we’re talking about here.”
Besides, he probably knew too much already. The guy was smart. Savvy. Undoubtedly Googled many people he met. And my past connections with solving murders weren’t exactly secret. In fact, I’d sometimes made use of my acquaintanceship with a paparazzo of sorts, Corina Carey, outspoken and brazen reporter for TV’s
National NewsShakers
show, when publicity made sense for helping to solve a crime.
National NewsShakers
show, when publicity made sense for helping to solve a crime.
But still . . .
“Are you worried that working with me on the show might endanger your life, Dante?” I demanded oh, so sweetly.
“I can take care of myself,” he replied. “But I’m interested. We’ll let it slide for now, though. Glen, put what we agreed to in legalese, and then we’ll be through with this negotiation. Okay?” He looked at me.
“This murder magnet couldn’t be happier,” I responded with a smart-alecky smile. “That’s how I think of myself these days—unfortunately or not—not ‘amateur sleuth.’ ”
“Got it, murder magnet. So, now that we’re done, join me for dinner tonight.”
No way. The guy took me out a week ago, then ignored me till it came time to do business. He could eat alone. Or with his high-powered, high-priced legal counsel who didn’t appear at all pleased that we had reached an agreement that would contain clauses he hadn’t championed.
So why did I feel so bad when I said no? “Maybe once we get this deal all signed up,” I replied.
“Fine. Tomorrow, then.” When I opened my mouth to protest, he said, “Glen will have the revisions by then. And you’ll be at the first potbellied pig program tomorrow, won’t you?”
Other books
Mr Right for the Night by Marisa Mackle
Seeing Spots by Ellen Fisher
Her Midnight Cowboy by Lauri Robinson
The Lady Submits by Chloe Cox
The Chronicles of Kale: Dawn of Retribution (Book 2) by Knight, Aya
Still Life by Louise Penny
The Gentleman and the Lamplighter by Summer Devon
Gilt Hollow by Lorie Langdon
The Voyeur Next Door by Airicka Phoenix
