“You’re just being stubborn.”
“I am?” She pointed the index fingers of both hands at him. “You’re the hardhead here. What do you care who buys the cabinet? Aren’t you building to sell?”
“What do you care if a dog’s crap at training? Don’t you teach to get paid?”
“It’s not the same thing. Plus it’s usually the handler that’s crap. Case in point, Mr. C Minus.”
“I wasn’t frowning.”
“Hold that. Don’t move, don’t change expression. I’m going to get a mirror.”
He grabbed her arm but didn’t quite swallow the laugh. “Cut it out.”
“Next class I’ll make sure I have a camera. A picture’s worth a thousand, after all.” She gave him a little shove.
He gave her a little nudge.
And behind him the dog growled low in his throat.
“Stop!” Fiona ordered sharply, and the dog froze. “Newman, friend. Friend. He thought you were hurting me. No, don’t back off. Simon,” she said to the dogs. “We’re playing. Simon’s a friend. Put your arms around me.”
“What?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t be so dainty.” She put her arms around Simon, hugged, laid her head on his shoulder. “Playing with Simon,” Fiona said to the dog, and smiled. She gestured so the dog walked to them, rubbed against Simon’s leg. “He wouldn’t have bitten you.”
“Good to know.”
“Unless I told him to.” She tipped her head back, smiled again. Then gave Simon another gentle shove. “Push back. It’s okay.”
“It better be.” He nudged her again, and this time the dog used his head to nudge Simon.
“Fun.” She wrapped her arms around Simon again, nuzzled. “He reads me,” she said. “If I was afraid now, he’d know it. But he sees, hears, senses I’m fine, I’m good with you. That’s what I’m trying to get through your head about Jaws and your reactions, what you transmit. Your mood influences his behavior, so—”
She broke off when she looked up again into eyes that were very close, and very focused.
“What mood do you think I’m transmitting now?”
“Funny. It’s just an exercise,” she began.
“Okay. Let’s try advanced class.”
He closed his mouth over hers, very firm and just a little rough.
She’d known he’d be just a little rough. Impatient, direct, with no testing moves, no easy flirtation.
She didn’t resist. It would be a waste of time, effort and a very hot and healthy kiss. Instead she slid her hands up his back, let herself drop into it, let herself enjoy the warring sensations of the moment.
Soft lips, hard hands, firm body—and just a hint of chocolate on the tongue that tangled with hers.
And when she felt herself dropping close to the point of no return, when climbing back would be painful, she worked her hand between them and pushed against his chest.
He didn’t stop. Her heart went from flutter to pound. Intractable, she thought, and wished she didn’t find that quality in him quite so exciting.
She pushed again, harder.
He eased back, just a little, so their eyes met again. “Grade that.”
“Oh, you definitely aced it. Congratulations. But playtime’s over. I have some lesson planning and... things to get done. So...”
“So, I’ll see you.”
“Yes. Ah, keep working on the basics. Throw sticks. Lots of sticks.”
“Right.”
When he walked out, she blew out a breath, looked at Newman. “Wow.”
His own fault, Simon thought as he loaded Jaws into the car. Or hers, he decided. It was really more her fault. Wrapping around him, rubbing in, smiling up.
What the hell was a man supposed to do?
He hadn’t expected her to be so receptive. To just give, to just open until that subtle, almost quiet sexy peeled back a corner and showed him all the heat beneath.
Now he wanted it. And her.
He glanced at the dog, currently in bliss with his nose stuck out the two-inch opening of the window.
“I should’ve just sold her the damn cabinet.”
He flipped the radio up to blast, but it didn’t swing his mind away from Fiona.
He decided to try his own “exercise,” and began to design a wine cabinet suited to her, in his head.
Maybe he’d build it; maybe he wouldn’t. But it was a damn sure bet he’d end up going back to peel up another corner.
Seven
A trip to the vet invariably included comedy and drama, and required persistence, stamina and a flexible sense of humor. To simplify, Fiona always scheduled her three dogs together at the end of office hours.
The system also gave her and the vet, her friend Mai Funaki, a chance to recover and unwind after the triple deed was done.
At a scant five-two, Mai appeared to be a delicate lotus blossom, a romantic anime character brought to life with ebony hair curved at her gilded cheeks and fringing flirtatiously above exotic onyx eyes. Her voice, a melodious song, calmed both animals and humans in the course of her work.
Her pretty, long-fingered hands soothed and healed. And were as strong as a bricklayer’s.
She’d been known to drink a two-hundred-pound man under the table, and could swear the air blue in five languages.
Fiona adored her.
In the exam room of her offices in her home just outside Eastsound, Mai helped Fiona heft seventy-five pounds of trembling Peck onto the table. The dog, who had once courageously negotiated smoldering rubble to locate victims after an earthquake in Oregon, who tirelessly searched for the lost, the fallen and the dead through bitter winds, flooding rain and scorching heat, feared the needle.
“You’d think I hammered spikes into his brain. Come on now, Peck.” Mai stroked, even as she checked joints and fur and skin. “Man up.”
Peck kept his head turned away, refusing to look at her. Instead he stared accusingly into Fiona’s eyes. She swore she could see tears forming.
“I think he was tortured by the Spanish Inquisition in another life.”
While Mai examined his ears, Peck visibly shuddered.
“At least he suffers in silence.” Mai turned Peck’s head toward her. He turned it away again. “I’ve got this Chihuahua I have to muzzle for any exam. He’d eat my face off if he could.”
She took the dog’s head firmly to examine his eyes, his teeth.
“Big healthy boy,” she crooned. “Big handsome boy.”
Peck stared at a spot over her shoulder and shivered.
“Okay,” Mai said to Fiona. “You know the drill.”
Fiona took Peck’s head in her hands. “It’s only going to take a second,” she told him as Mai moved behind and out of eye line. “We can’t have you getting sick, right?”
She talked, rubbed, smiled, as Mai pinched some skin and slid the needle in.
Peck moaned like a dying man.
“There. All done.” Mai walked back to Peck’s head, held up her hands to show them empty of all tools of torture. Then she laid a treat on the table.
He refused it.
“Could be poisoned,” Fiona pointed out. “Anything in this room is suspect.” She signaled the dog down, and he couldn’t jump off the table fast enough. Then he stood, facing the wall, ignoring both women.
“It’s because I cut off his balls. He’s never forgiven me.”
“No, I really think it all comes down from Newman. He fears, so they all fear. Anyway, two down, one to go.”
The women stared at each other. “We should’ve taken him first. The worst first. But I just couldn’t face it.”
“I bought a really nice bottle of Pinot.”
“Okay. Let’s do this thing.”
They released Peck into the yard where he could exchange horrors with Bogart and seek sympathy with Mai’s one-eyed bulldog, Patch, and her three-legged beagle-hound mix, Chauncy.
Together they approached Fiona’s car where Newman lay on the backseat, nose pressed tight in the corner, body limp as overcooked pasta.
“Heads or tails?” Fiona asked.
“You take the head. God help us.”