Home Is Where the Bark Is Read Free Page A

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 . .