Love Is a Four-Legged Word Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2009 by Kandy Shepherd.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  BERKLEY® SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Sensation trade paperback edition / July 2009

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Shepherd, Kandy. Love is a four-legged word / Kandy Shepherd. p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-08214-0

  1. Mutts (Dogs)—Fiction. 2. Women cooks—Fiction. 3. Attorney and client—Fiction. I. Title. PR9619.4.S543L’.92—dc22 2009009998

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To all the four-legged friends

  who bring such joy to my life.

  Acknowledgments

  My thanks to my wonderful editor, Allison Brandau, and the team at Berkley who helped craft my manuscript into this beautiful book.Thanks also to my agent, Miriam Kriss.

  Top of the list of writing friends for me to recognize for their encouragement and help is Cathleen Ross. Thanks also to Anna Campbell, Elizabeth Lhuede, Isolde Martyn, and Christine Stinson—who always loved my mutt story. My gratitude also to Simone Camilleri, Beth Orsoff, Annie West, and Sandy McPhie, and to my critique group cheer squads. Thank you, too, for the incredibly supportive network at Romance Writers of America.

  A special mention to Melinda and Luke Booker for always making me feel so at home in California.

  To my neighbor Brutus Kell who—unlike my fictional Brutus—is a silky terrier of impeccable pedigree, thanks for the inspiration.

  Most heartfelt thanks of all to my husband, James, and daughter, Lucy, for their unflagging faith in me.

  One

  Madeleine Cartwright didn’t look at all the type of female who’d boink an old man to death for his money.

  Tom O’Brien saw that the second she opened the door of her apartment. His imagination had let him down big-time. How could he have got it so wrong? This woman was more girl next door than vamp. No silicone-enhanced breasts, skintight dresses, or big, bleached hair.

  Rather, her slender shape was enveloped in a white chef ’s apron smeared with chocolate, and she had flour streaked on her pretty, heart-shaped face. She didn’t have big hair. She had, well, small hair—short and feathery and kind of mussed. It looked natural, not out of a bottle; her hair was the color of marmalade.

  “You must be Tom O’Brien, Walter’s lawyer.” Her voice was sweet and musical, not sultry and seductive. “I’m Maddy Cartwright.”

  She held out a hand to him in greeting. As she was wearing a blue-and-white-striped oven mitt, Tom hesitated to shake it. For a moment her eyes widened in surprise at his lack of response, then she glanced down at the offending mitt, flushed, and laughed as she slid it off.

  “You’re early,” she said with a hint of accusation that Tom thought was quite unwarranted. “I’m right in the middle of testing a new recipe for brownies.”

  Was she serious? Tom stared at her, speechless, still unable to reconcile the mental image he had of the sexy seductress with the reality of this engaging, fresh-faced girl talking about, of all things, a chocolate dessert.

  “Come on in,” she continued. “I’ve got to get the brownies out of the oven at just the right moment or they won’t be nice and gooey in the middle.”

  She turned and headed into her apartment. Her apron was tied in back with a pert bow; the long tails of the bow pointing to a nicely rounded rear end hugged by faded blue jeans. Despite his preconceived opinion of her, Tom couldn’t help but admire the view as he followed her inside.

  She stopped suddenly and turned back toward him. Caught in mid-stride, he nearly collided with her, his briefcase banging into her thigh.

  For a second she braced her hand against his chest to steady herself, and he could feel her warmth through the fabric of his suit. She only came up to his shoulders—probably five-six to his six-two—and this close he noticed her eyes were green and that she smelled of lavender and chocolate.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, disconcerted by her closeness and his body’s instant and surprising reaction to her.

  “My . . . my fault,” she stammered as she stepped back from him. “I . . . I stopped because I wanted to ask if . . . if you liked brownies.”

  What was this woman up to? Tom was shaken at how exciting he’d found her sudden nearness. Shaken and annoyed.

  Was this disarming, down-home-girl image some kind of ploy? A clever strategy to part gullible old men from their money? Madeleine Cartwright didn’t look the part he had mentally cast her in—but that didn’t mean she hadn’t played it.

  No way would he be sucked in by her wiles. He knew what ruin lay at the end of that particular path.

  “Who doesn’t like brownies?” he said abruptly. “But, Ms. Cartwright, I—”

  “Good. Then you can help me test them. The kitchen’s through here.”

  Delicious, chocolaty smells wafted toward him, and for a moment Tom was tempted. Very tempted. He was aware he’d only had a tuna fish sandwich for lunch. But he had practice at resisting temptation. A man as determined as he to be a partner in a law firm before
he turned thirty-one didn’t let much get in his way.

  He braced himself. “Ms. Cartwright, I am not here to eat brownies. I am here to talk to you about the will of the late Walter Stoddard.”

  Maddy Cartwright stilled. “I know,” she said, and it was as if a fizzing glass of soda had instantly gone flat. Even the brilliance of her hair seemed to dim. “I’ve been dreading it.”

  Dreading it? Tom looked intently at her face, watching for excitement, anticipation, gloating greed. But all he saw was a profound sadness in her eyes and a downturn of her bow-shaped pink mouth.

  “I still can’t believe he’s gone,” she said in a voice that wasn’t quite steady.

  Tom’s eyes narrowed. Why would she say that? Shouldn’t she be turning cartwheels of joy?

  “Is there somewhere we can discuss this? Now. It’s important,” he said.

  She gestured with the oven mitt around her living room. “We could talk in here, but I really have to rescue the brownies first. Just let me dash to the kitchen, I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Still stunned by the reality of Madeline Cartwright—oven mitt and all—Tom paced impatiently as he waited for her. Not that there was much room for pacing.

  Her living room was small and decorated in a style Tom could only call twenty-first-century girly. It was way too cluttered for his taste. The walls were painted pale blue; the squashy old sofa covered in a faded floral print; and blue-and-white-patterned china was propped on every surface. On the narrow mantelpiece, tucked between a small vase of pink rosebuds and a framed photo of a smiling older woman, was a china statuette of a pony.

  There were piles of cookbooks and copies of Martha Stewart Living and Bon Appétit magazines stacked haphazardly on the floor. A well-thumbed copy of food writer Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential lay on the dollhouse-sized coffee table alongside an ancient, yellowing The Lily Wallace New American Cook Book.

  The room made him feel distinctly uncomfortable.

  So did Madeleine Cartwright.

  She wasn’t at all what he’d been expecting. Not cunning but cute. Pretty, not predatory. More Reese Witherspoon than Paris Hilton. In fact, if he were meeting her under any other circumstances, he might have been tempted to ask her out.

  But, although as a lawyer he strove to be impartial, he found what he suspected she had done despicable. And he couldn’t get past that. She couldn’t be more than twenty-five or twenty-six, and his client Walter Stoddard had been eighty-two. Yech! It made his thirty-year-old flesh crawl to think of it.

  A sudden thought had him abruptly stop his pacing. Where was the dog? That all-important dog. He looked around the room for evidence of canine occupation.

  He detected a gnawed corner of the sofa and a much-chewed toy gorilla that could indicate the animal was in residence.

  But thoughts of the dog fled as Maddy Cartwright came back into the room. Her face was free of flour. She had discarded the apron. While her breasts weren’t pumped up as he’d expected, they rounded out her pink T-shirt nicely. Very nicely. He tried not to look. Or at least make it not too obvious he was looking.

  She was carrying a plate of brownies. Cholesterol city. They looked like they were studded with macadamia nuts. His favorite. Tom felt his mouth water. How long since he’d allowed himself an indulgence like that?

  “I thought you could try one of these with coffee after we’d had our discussion,” she said in that gently chiming voice.

  After? So she was not only a temptress but also a torturess. “Right.” He nodded. “After.”

  He steeled himself not to drool at the luscious chocolate squares. Or the equally luscious woman who had baked them.

  Maddy perched on the edge of her favorite white cane chair opposite Tom O’Brien as he maneuvered himself onto her love seat. Her caller was way too big and rugged to look at ease in her tiny room.

  He looked more like a soccer player than a lawyer, his expensive suit slightly rumpled, his silk tie a bit askew as if he would be more comfortable in sweats kicking a ball around than discussing the legal ramifications of an old man’s will. His muscles were the serious kind—she hadn’t failed to appreciate that when she’d held on to him for balance.

  With his strong-jawed face, hair the color of richest dark chocolate, and deep brown eyes, he was so good-looking he’d made her heart flip like an expertly turned pancake when she’d opened the door to him. Made her completely forget she was wearing that darn oven mitt.

  She forced herself to sit still and to look attentive for Tom O’Brien. What a ditz he must think her. Stupid, stupid, stupid to try to shake a guy’s hand while wearing an oven mitt. And she hadn’t realized she had flour all over her face. To top that off she’d nattered on about her brownies. Like some kind of retro housewife. Only without the house or the husband.

  The oven mitt had blown it for her. She suppressed a sigh of regret. Too late to explain that when she was feeling down she found solace in the familiar rhythms of baking. Too late to make a good first impression on Tom O’Brien.

  Surreptitiously she checked him out as he pushed away a pretty beaded cushion from the sofa as if it would contaminate him.

  On the handsome hunk scale, Tom O’Brien’s needle was soaring past a ten. Pity he had to be so . . . disapproving. In the minutes since they’d met, the lawyer hadn’t smiled once. He seemed way too grim for a man his age—which she guessed to be perhaps a few years older than herself. Maybe he’d majored in grim at law school.

  He hadn’t actually said anything, but she didn’t need to be super-perceptive to sense that Tom O’Brien disapproved of her—disapproved of the way she looked, disapproved of the way she decorated, even disapproved of her brownies. She caught him casting sideways glances at the plate as if it were stacked with squares of poison.

  Heck, there was something untrustworthy about a man who could pass on a brownie. Especially her super-duper new recipe—star of her next magazine feature, “The Ultimate Chocolate Fix.”

  She was hoping readers of Annie magazine would succumb to their triple-chocolate charm and take her another step toward her goal: to be the cooler, more hip Martha Stewart for a new generation.

  But her special recipe wasn’t making a good impression on Walter’s dour lawyer. Why did Tom O’Brien have to be so humorless? Maybe he was one of those guys who took himself and his career so seriously there was no time for indulgences or fun. She’d met too many of that type since she’d found herself floun dering in the dating pool again.

  Studiously ignoring the brownies, Tom O’Brien hauled his briefcase onto the small coffee table between them and pulled out some official-looking papers.

  At the sight of them her spirits fell like a mistimed soufflé.

  There could be only one reason why Walter’s lawyer should want to meet with her—to evict her from the apartment. She dreaded what he would say.

  She tried to fill the silence with small talk. “I . . . I didn’t know Walter had left a will until your phone call yesterday.”

  “Really,” he said, shuffling with the papers.

  She was startled at the obvious disbelief that underlined his voice. “Why would I know anything about it?”

  “You were close, weren’t you?” he said, tight-lipped.

  Close? Of course they were close. Walter had been like a grandfather to her. But there was something odd about Tom O’Brien’s tone. And she disliked the way he didn’t meet her gaze when he spoke.

  She steeled herself to speak calmly. “Walter is . . . was my landlord. You probably know he lived in the house above—this apartment used to be the maids’ quarters years ago.”

  Number 23A was small, inconvenient, and being in illustri ous Pacific Heights, away from most of her friends who lived in hipper, cheaper parts of town. Two years ago she’d seen it as a temporary refuge, a place to hide and salve the wounds from her broken engagement.

  Now the pretty apartment tucked underneath the once-grand old house had become home. She felt like wee
ping at the thought of leaving. Instead she took a deep breath. And then let her words out in a rush.

  “So. Hit me with the bad news. Straight. I guess the house will be sold—and this apartment with it. How long have I got before I have to move out? I hope you give me a decent notice period—it won’t be easy to find somewhere where I can keep a dog.”

  Tom O’Brien leaned forward, his carefully schooled face finally showing some animation. “The dog? You’ve got Walter’s dog?”

  She bristled. “Well, of course I’ve got him. And it’s not against the terms of my lease if that’s what you’re implying. Walter asked me to look after him when . . . when he . . .”

  She intended to sound tough, assertive. But she choked up at the memory of Walter’s concern that his pet would end up in a shelter. Or worse.

  Tom O’Brien shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. Officious as he was, she felt a twinge of pity for him. It must be difficult having to evict people. He probably hadn’t realized he’d be evicting a bereaved dog as well as a human tenant.

  He watched her intently through narrowed eyes. “So you knew about the will after all.”

  His suspicious tone instantly destroyed any sympathy she had felt for him.Why didn’t he just get to the point and do whatever lawyers did when they evicted people? And dogs.

  “I told you I knew nothing about Walter’s will.” Why would she? This guy was beginning to bug her.

  Tom O’Brien’s words were scored with disbelief. Of the scathing variety. His mouth was set in tight lines. “So, Ms. Cartwright, you’re seriously telling me that you didn’t know Walter Stoddard left his fortune to his dog, Brutus? Because I’m finding it very hard to believe you.”

  Two

  Tom O’Brien’s words came from left field. Maddy stared at the big, handsome man taking up so much room in her apartment. “What?” was all she could manage to say through her shock.