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His jaw set in a stubborn line. “The dog is a dog. I am her master, not her father.”

  Serena put her index finger to her mouth. “Shh. Don’t say that too loudly. Mustn’t risk offending people who find it unacceptable to claim ownership of a species of companion animals.”

  Nick Whalen paused. “You lost me at the dog blog.” He crossed his arms on his substantial chest. “I get it.” He nodded slowly. “You do have a test for owners. And I’m being set up to fail.”

  Serena shook her head and smiled, properly this time. “There is no test.” She had to quit teasing him, irresistible as it was when he reacted so marvelously. It wasn’t worth the risk he might take offense and walk out. She needed every dollar of every day-care fee. And she loved running Paws-A-While even more than she had imagined. Finally she had found the right career. “Lots of our guests have Facebook pages and blogs. We link to them on our website if you’re interested.”

  He put up his hand in a halt sign. “Thank you. I’ll pass.”

  “But you’re okay to have your dog registered with us as Bessie Whalen?”

  “If you must.” He followed his words with a heavy sigh of resignation.

  Again Serena was puzzled. Surely Bessie’s vet used a similar filing system. “Nick, is Bessie your wife’s dog?”

  “No wife.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “No girlfriend.”

  No girlfriend. Her pulse gave a disconcerting little flutter. “Ookaay. Do you have a shared custody agreement with an ex?”

  “No.” He frowned. “Is this line of questioning necessary?”

  “I’m sorry if that seemed a little personal. But joint custody can get tricky so it’s best we’re forewarned.”

  “I have full, uh, custody of Bessie,” he said, tight-lipped.

  “I’m glad to hear that. It’s just I wondered . . .”

  He seemed so dog clueless. Why would a guy like this book into an establishment like hers that specialized in luxury beauty treatments for dogs? She suspected he didn’t know the difference between a flea treatment and a fur extension.

  His frown deepened. “Have you got a problem with a big guy and a little dog? Is that it?”

  “Not at all. I’m sorry if I gave that impression.”

  This big-guy-and-little-dog combo didn’t seem right. Her other client, the shaven-head, muscle-bound leather man and his miniature Chihuahua in matching studded harness were perfect together. But a Yorki-poo and this man?

  She didn’t have time to waste puzzling about the discrepancy. She schooled her face to look very serious. “We’re inclusive here at Paws-A-While. Dogs of all sizes are welcome, so long as they’re suited to day care.”

  “Right,” he said.

  “Personally, I adore little dogs. In fact, meeting my Maltese, Snowball, will be the first stage of Bessie’s temperament test. Then if we accept her as a guest, he’ll be her first puppy pal and help her settle in.”

  “That’s reassuring.” The word was edged with irony but Serena refused to bite.

  “The first day of school can be scary for a kid if she doesn’t know anyone,” she said. “I figure it’s the same for a dog.”

  The word “dog-kid” hung unspoken in the air. She knew it. Nick Whalen knew she knew it. But neither of them was going to utter it.

  “So Snowball is your canine customer-relations contact?” he asked, a hint of levity lifting the corners of that so-sexy mouth.

  Again, she couldn’t be sure if he were serious or not. You never knew with dog people. Not that he seemed like a fully fledged dog person.

  She nodded. “Exactly. That’s what it says on his job description. His treat supply is linked to his performance. Unhappy client dog, no dog biscuit.”

  At her words, Nick Whalen grinned. A slow, reluctant grin that nevertheless melted the ice from his pale blue eyes. He was even more attractive when he smiled, less carved-out-of-granite, more hot-blooded male.

  She found it irresistible not to smile back, then felt heartened by his widened grin in response.

  “I’ll go get Snowball,” she said, turning toward the door that led into the adjoining playroom. She felt warmed and just a little bit excited by the exchange of smiles with Bessie’s owner.

  At one time she and her best friend, Maddy, would rate the men they met. Nick Whalen was an undisputed ten out of ten.

  He was hot.

  With no wife or girlfriend.

  Not that a professionally focused woman should be noticing. Hitting on clients was a Business Skills 101 no-no. But she sure hoped Bessie passed her temperament test and became a regular. Owner check-in and checkout times would suddenly become a whole lot more interesting.

  Her mouth still curved in a smile, she turned back to ask him to make sure Bessie didn’t follow her into the playroom just yet. To find him with eyes narrowed and all humor faded from his face as he rapidly scanned the room—from the blow-up photographs of dogs on the walls, to the shelves of doggy goodies for sale, to the computer on the desk. That look was back in his eyes. But before he masked it again she recognized it instantly.

  Suspicion.

  Nick silently cursed his premature morph from doting dog owner to private investigator. He grit his teeth. He should have waited a moment longer until Serena Oakley had closed the door behind her.

  Damn but this dog business was a bad idea. Yet how else could he legitimately get into Paws-A-While to scope out what kind of shady stuff could be going on in this place? He would never willingly have come here otherwise, that was for sure.

  Doggy day care. Beauty parlors for pups. In his book, dogs lived outside in all but the coldest weather and got hosed down if they got muddy. And they were proper dogs. Big dogs. Not cats in disguise like Bessie.

  The Paws-A-While director paused with her hand on the door that led to the next room. Her face, so warm and vibrant with laughter just seconds before, had cooled like a sudden frost in September. “Is there a problem?” she asked.

  Years of training alerted him to go straight into damage control. He smiled, an engaging, suspicion-deflecting smile. “No problem. But this doggy day-care thing is new to me. I’m fascinated by your setup.”

  She had eyes the color of dark, liquid honey. Unusual eyes. Lovely eyes. He had noticed that in the disconcerting, long moment he spent gazing into them before Bessie’s whining had brought him to his senses. Now her eyes were wary. Her dark brows drew together. “You’re not some kind of health inspector?”

  “No.”

  “An undercover reporter?”

  That was closer to the mark. She was perceptive. Thankfully he could truthfully answer in the negative. He shook his head. “I’m not a reporter.”

  Her eyes didn’t warm, but he noticed a visible relaxing of her shoulders. “You’re sure of that? You’re not planning an exposé? You know, the lowdown on the high life of San Francisco’s pampered pooches? The extravagance, the waste of money, and so on?”

  He put up both hands. “Whoa, there. I’m just looking for a place to park Bessie while I’m at work.”

  Having to lie was the one part of his job he never got used to. His FBI training had rid him of his childhood habit of crossing his fingers behind his back when he fibbed. And helped him school his expression to hide his real feelings and reactions. But he still felt uncomfortable when he misrepresented the truth.

  In his few minutes of conversation with Serena Oakley he had already done that. Bessie didn’t belong to a wife or a girlfriend, but then, she wasn’t his, either. And he was here for his job, not on his way to his job.

  “Okay, then,” she said, not seeming totally convinced. “It’s just that . . .” Her voice trailed away.

  Stay alert, Whalen. She was too smart. Too observant. In only a matter of seconds she had caught him sussing out the room. Hell, he hoped she hadn’t noticed him sussing out her.

  He didn’t know what he’d expected the proprietor of a doggy day-care center to be like. But it certainly wasn’t this t
all, graceful woman with the snarky sense of humor and the sexy curves that loose-fitting jeans and her baggy shirt with the Paws-A-While logo on the pocket did nothing to disguise.

  “It’s just what?” he prompted.

  She shook her head as if to clear her thoughts. “Nothing. This is a new business and I have to be very careful of our reputation.” She took a deep breath. “People trust me with their pets. The last thing I need is some damaging press article.”

  “I am not a journalist.”

  Finally she smiled again. Strange how relieved he felt to see that smile back and shining at him.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I’m being paranoid. Of course you’re curious about how things work. You’re welcome to a tour of the premises. I’ll answer any questions you have as best I can.”

  “I’d like that,” he said. The more he found out about this place without having to sneak around, the better.

  “Fine,” she said. “Now I’m going to get Snowball. Could you hold Bessie, please? She’s too close to the door. I don’t want her following me into the playroom where the other animals are until we’re ready for her.”

  “Sure,” he said, taking the few quick steps necessary to bring him closer to the dog. And to Serena Oakley.

  Only to be stunned when she backed away from him so fast she nearly stumbled. Panic flashed across her face so quickly he could have imagined it. For just a second too long, she braced herself against the door.

  The hint of fear in those remarkable eyes put him on instant alert.

  What was she hiding?

  He was an expert on false identities. And something was not right here.

  The doggy day-care director was a good-looking woman. But it was obvious she did everything to hide that. Her dark hair was pulled back severely from her face. She wore no makeup. Her clothes were chosen to shroud rather than enhance.

  It was as if she wanted to look as dowdy as possible. But she would need surgery and extensive use of prostheses to disguise her beauty. Who did she think she was kidding?

  He took a step back and noted the sigh of relief she was unable to disguise. He squatted down next to Bessie and looked back up to Serena, careful to keep his expression neutral. “I’ll hold her, you go through the door,” he said.

  She took a deep breath in an obvious effort to regain her composure. It was not the detached investigator part of Nick that appreciated the resulting swell of her breasts. She caught his gaze, flushed, and clutched the fabric of her shirt across her chest. She cleared her throat. “As soon as Bessie is aware of the other dogs, she’ll want to follow me. You . . . you could get a toy from the toy box to distract her.”

  “Good idea,” he said.

  Why the hell was she so nervous?

  This investigation was getting more interesting by the minute.

  He forced himself to open the cutesy toy box. It made a “ruff-ruff” sound as the lid sat back on its hinges. He suppressed a groan. Was there no end of dog paraphernalia in this room?

  The box was packed with an assortment of luridly colored balls, plastic bones, and chew ropes. But the first toy he put his hand on was a small, red, heart-shaped rubber cushion bearing the words Puppy Love in elaborate white script.

  “No! Not that one. That’s not meant to be there—” said Serena, too late, as Bessie, eager to play, snatched it from Nick’s hand.

  “Get it back from her. Please.” Her voice was underscored with urgency.

  Nick grabbed the toy and tried to pull it from Bessie’s jaws, but the little dog saw that as a game. She growled playfully, shook it from side to side, then bit down hard.

  “I love you. I love you,” the toy squeaked.

  “What the—?” said Nick.

  “Oh no,” groaned Serena.

  Bessie chewed on the love heart again. “I love you,” the toy squeaked again in that grating, synthetic tone.

  Nick laughed. He looked up to Serena, to the toy, and back up to Serena. He expected her to laugh, too. But her face was flushed and her eyes glinted. She bit down on her lower lip.

  “Drop it, Bessie!” she ordered, an edge to her voice.

  Reluctantly, Bessie dropped the squeak toy on the polished concrete floor.

  “Good girl,” said Serena. She lunged forward and bent down to pick up the love heart at the same time Nick reached for it, so his hand closed over hers.

  The movement nearly made them collide, brought her face just inches away from his. So close he was kissing distance from her lush, generous mouth. So close he inhaled her scent—something flowery—no, vanilla—no, both. Whatever, it was rich and sensual and totally unexpected in someone who dressed the way she did.

  Her face was flushed pink high on her elegant cheekbones, and her eyes were huge. He felt too mesmerized by her mouth, too intoxicated by her scent to do anything but stare at her.

  “Sorry,” she said, but she made no move to stand up, her eyes locked to his.

  He tried to say something in reply but choked on his words.

  “The . . . the toy?” she stuttered, finally looking downward.

  “Wh-what about the toy?”

  He tore his gaze from her face and followed her line of vision down to the love heart. To see his hand had imprisoned hers on top of the red rubber cushion and pushed it down to the floor. She was immobile. Not because she was struck still by the same out-of-nowhere attraction that had hit her like a heat-seeking missile but because he had, effectively, trapped her.

  Reflexively his hand tightened on hers. “I love you,” squeaked the toy.

  Nick snatched his hand away. He cursed.

  Serena stood up, still holding the toy. She squashed it in her jeans pocket where it gave a strangled squeak. Her gaze was fixed on the wall somewhere behind his head. A strand of dark hair had escaped from the tight plait behind her head and curled around her cheek. She pushed it back with slender, graceful fingers that must still be warm from his body heat. “Dumb thing. I . . . I should throw it out.”

  “Yeah,” he said, not knowing why he was agreeing, just not certain what else he could say to her. He grit his teeth.

  She was lovely. Funny. Sexy. Alluring in spite of her total lack of artifice. Intriguing because of it.

  But he could not be beguiled by her.

  He’d left the FBI to partner with a former co-worker in a private investigation business that specialized in identity fraud. It was the fastest-growing crime in the United States and there were serious dollars to be made for those who could crack it. His partner and he were working on a major case involving wealthy victims from the Bay Area and Marin County. He’d suspected it was just coincidence that, of the twenty cases of identity theft he was pursuing, twelve of the victims kept their dogs at Paws-A-While.

  But there was something about Serena Oakley’s demeanor that made him decide not to be hasty in dismissing that coincidence.

  He would have to distance himself from her.

  Deny that sudden attraction.

  Because she was now his prime suspect.

  Two

  When she returned from the playroom accompanied by Snowball, Serena still felt so awash with humiliation she could not bring herself to look directly at Nick Whalen where he stood beside the toy box. She took a step back, careful to keep at least four sets of stenciled paw prints between them. How could she endure to meet that disconcerting, see-right-through-to-your-secrets gaze?

  Instead, she watched with exaggerated interest as Snowball and Bessie cavorted around each other and, with great enthusiasm, participated in the doggy butt-sniff introduction ritual. She forced herself to take deep, calming breaths.

  She had long gotten over feeling embarrassed about the things dogs did in full public view. With each other, with peoples’ legs, and with a variety of inanimate objects. No. The reason her cheeks still flamed and her pride smarted was that darn love-heart dog toy.

  When it started its cheesy declarations of love with that grating, mechanical inflexion, she’d
wanted to climb into the toy box, pull down the lid on top of her head, and stay scrunched up and hidden there until Nick Whalen went away.

  No way could he know she’d bought the love heart for Valentine’s Day seven months ago. Not for Snowball but for herself.

  She had never confessed to anyone that, alone in her bedroom, she had encouraged her little dog to chew on the toy over and over just so she could hear someone say the words “I love you.” It was pathetic. Embarrassing. But, at the time, oddly comforting. Especially followed by a binge on Peanut Butter Cups.

  “Thank God humans have moved on from this . . . uh . . . basic level of communication,” Nick Whalen said as the dogs continued to sniff each other along the length of their furry bodies.

  “Uh, yes, very primitive,” she agreed, fighting the flush that still burned her cheeks.

  She screwed up her eyes in an effort to resist sneaking a look at Bessie’s owner’s rear view. Bet he had a great butt. Tight. Muscular. And long, strong legs. Bet he had—

  Don’t go there, Serena.

  It was her thoughts that were getting primitive. Primeval even. Hot and sweaty and—

  She shook her head to clear her wild imaginings. What if he guessed hormones she’d thought long extinct had flared into such throbbing, pulsing life?

  This hot guy with the cool blue eyes that didn’t give a thing away had her totally off balance. And not just because her body was reacting to him in such a disconcerting way. For some reason she could not fathom, he was suspicious of her.

  Was he—in spite of his denials—an undercover animal welfare officer? If so, she had absolutely nothing to hide. Health and safety regulations were followed to the letter. He could search for fault, but he wouldn’t find it. She adored her doggy guests and treated every one as if it were her own.

  But she could not shrug off the fact that Nick Whalen made her feel edgy. It was as if he were assessing her and not liking much what he saw. Could he detect the fear and hurt she was trying so hard to conceal from the world?

  Not far from the top of the list of those hurts was the fact that she—the woman who not so long ago had been voted the gal American men most wanted to lick all over—had been dumped by email on Valentine’s Day.