Home Is Where the Bark Is

by Kandy Shepherd

  “You can see why I can’t keep Mack, much as I’d love to,” said Serena, indicating the room with a wave of her hand.

  Indeed Mack took up a good proportion of the floor space. The high old ceilings gave the room a deceptively spacious look. It looked both comfortable and elegant, the walls a warm neutral, the furnishings simple. Polished wooden floors. White shutters at the windows. At each side of the fireplace was a bookcase, every shelf crammed with books, right up to the ceiling. More books lay on the coffee table. The art on the walls was eclectic, a moody abstract hung next to a traditional landscape of a lake. Propped against the corner behind the sofa, a guitar case and a music stand made a pleasing composition. So she played guitar. He wondered if she sang.

  “Nice place,” he said.

  “It is, isn’t it? Though you might not say that when you see the kitchen and bathroom. They desperately need remodeling. But it’s a bit of a tight fit for this big boy, isn’t it?” Mack knew immediately she was talking about him. Nick swore his eyes lit up, and his tail wagged way more vigorously than it had for him. “But with Nick’s help, we’ll soon have you up and running about,” she said to the dog, fondling his ears.

  Then she looked up at Nick. “Thanks to you,” she said. Then she smiled.

  By helping Mack, he had earned that special luminous smile reserved, he realized, for dogs and for people she thought loved dogs as much as she did. He might as well bask in it now because when she found out the truth about what he was doing in her life, he would not be warmed by it again.

  He pointed to his folder where he’d placed it on the coffee table. “I’ve brought all the notes on the surgery and the X-rays you gave me. Let’s see if we can talk to the vet and the surgeon and get him done as soon as we can.”

  The wall between the two bow-fronted rooms had been knocked through. In the next room a table was set for a meal. Nick was aware of a delicious aroma wafting through from where the kitchen must be. His mouth watered. This morning he’d run, cycled, and put in a session pumping free weights. Breakfast seemed a long time ago. Was she expecting a visitor for lunch? Damn, there went his plans for suggesting a meal together somewhere without the dogs.

  But that was probably just as well.

  Stay detached. Remain focused. Maintain suspicion.

  He nodded his head over to the table. “Are you expecting someone? If so, we had better get straight to business.”

  “There’s no one else coming. I . . . I thought you might like to join me for lunch.” Color flamed high on her cheekbones and she didn’t quite meet his gaze.

  He caught his breath on a sharp intake of air. For the first time, Nick got an inkling that the attraction he felt for Serena might not run one way.

  The knowledge flooded him with conflicting emotions. First, a fierce, exultant triumph that was quickly overtaken by the sobering realization that this would only make his job a hundred times more difficult.

  He should pass on that invitation to lunch. Maybe even consider handing this case to Adam, asking his partner to take over. He was at risk of getting in way too deep here. Because he could no longer deny to himself that it wasn’t just Mack he was beginning to feel a tug toward.

  He took a deep breath. Filled his lungs with the scent of that rich, delicious aroma wafting from the kitchen, then, closer, a tantalizing hint of vanilla and warm, tousled-haired woman.

  “Lunch would be great,” he said.

  Eight

  Nick grit his teeth. Damn. Whatever had possessed him to agree to Serena’s invitation? By saying yes to lunch with a suspect in her own home he risked compromising his professionalism. A public restaurant he could get away with. An intimate table set for two behind closed doors was a different matter altogether.

  He could not let her get the wrong idea.

  However much he might wish this could be a date, he had to force himself to stay professional. He schooled his face to show polite interest. Nothing more.

  “Whatever’s cooking smells good,” he said with an appreciative sniff.

  He’d been cooking for himself ever since he’d been house-sitting for Aunt Alice and was getting tired of his own repertoire. No wonder this aroma had enticed him into a wrong decision. It was almost as enticing as the sight of Serena in tight-fitting jeans.

  Almost.

  “It’s lasagna,” she said. “Homemade. But I didn’t—”

  “Homemade lasagna.” He closed his eyes to better savor the aroma. If he wasn’t careful, he’d be slavering. He opened his eyes to meet hers, was surprised to realize she was on edge about whether or not he would like her choice of meal. “Bring it on. And don’t hold back on the cheese.”

  Her shoulders sagged in relief, a reaction he found unexpectedly endearing. “Thank heaven. I wondered if you would like lasagna . . .”

  “Who doesn’t like lasagna?”

  “That’s what I said to . . . uh, I mean, absolutely.” She flushed. “As soon as we’ve sorted out the stuff about Mack, we can eat.”

  Said to whom? Maddy Cartwright? Had she and her red-haired friend plotted the meal, discussed him in the girly way his sister and her friends sometimes did when a new guy was on the horizon? That was kind of cute. Not for the first time, he wished he had met Serena under different circumstances.

  Because he could not be that guy.

  “Sure,” he said. “We can eat then.”

  Nick was a big man, and he had big appetites. His stomach gave a rumble in protest at having to postpone the lasagna promised by that tantalizing aroma. Mack, in the dog bed nearby, just happened to shift at the same moment. Serena immediately assumed he was the source of the embarrassing noise.

  “Mack!” She glared at him, reprimand in her voice. Blissfully unaware, Mack thumped his tail, his tongue lolling in a doggy grin.

  She frowned, and Nick realized it wasn’t annoyance at the dog but rather anxiety that the dog was not on his best behavior. In front of a potential adoptive owner?

  There was a note of ill-disguised pleading in her voice when she turned to Nick. “I’m sorry, he does have a few problems with, uh, flatulence. But the vet says that will get better once he can be more active again.”

  “The poor animal can’t help it,” said Nick, not feeling the slightest bit guilty. “The sooner he gets that surgery, the better.” He’d forgotten how useful it could be to blame dogs for all sorts of human misdemeanors.

  “Amen to that,” she said, again her relief visible. “In the meantime, let me get you a drink. Beer?”

  “Coke’s good for me,” he said. He needed his senses on full alert.

  He knew he only had minutes while she was out of the room to survey it for clues to her contacts and lifestyle. A lead, no matter how small. Names. Numbers. Anything. He had to make it quick and make it subtle. She’d caught him once before looking too interested in her possessions. If she caught him again, he’d blow the case for sure.

  He rapidly scanned the multitude of framed photos that were propped on the mantelpiece. A posed studio portrait of Snowball. Maddy and Tom O’Brien on their wedding day with Serena standing next to Maddy. It was difficult not to stop and examine more closely how she looked in that figure-hugging bridesmaid dress.

  Same, too, with the faded print of Serena at around ten years old, hugging tight a nondescript mutt, her eyes glowing. Next was a smiling older couple, their arms slung loosely around each other’s shoulders, the man bald and spare, the woman tall and slender with a look of Serena but falling short of her beauty. Then Serena with Kylie and some of the other Paws-A-While staff around a restaurant table. Then Snowball as a puppy. Snowball wet and indignant in a bath. Snowball. Snowball. Snowball. Dog. Dog. Dog.

  Quickly, he checked out the small telephone table. It was scattered with fliers and used envelopes with shopping items scribbled all over them. On one was written “J & T—new” and an Oakland phone number that he memorized. Written underneath that was “Call Lydia Sat.” Lydia, he knew, was the vet. She had re
ferred Mack to a surgeon who had not yet seen the dog. An appointment with the surgeon was one of the things he and Serena needed to sort out today.

  On the coffee table was a newsprint magazine that on first glance he thought was from the San Francisco Chronicle but on second, astounded look proved to be a doggy newspaper entitled Bay Woof: News with Bite for Bay Area Dog Lovers. Next to it sat a well-thumbed paperback, Dogs Never Lie About Love, and a glossy picture book Winery Dogs of Napa Valley.

  Nothing there.

  He moved on to the bookshelves. Pulled out some titles. Looked for hidden files. By the time Serena came back into the room carrying a Coke for him and a Diet Coke for herself, he was nonchalantly perusing a row of books at eye level.

  “There are a lot of titles here by Valerie St. James,” he said. “And more by Leonard Oakley. Any connection?”

  He’d discovered these names in his investigation of Serena Oakley—also known as Serena St. James—but wanted confirmation from her that they were connected.

  She nodded. “Valerie is my mom and Leonard my dad.”

  “They’re authors?”

  She put the drinks down on the coffee table.

  “Yes. Mom writes about organic gardening and sustainable living. Dad’s books are on eco design. They were hippies way back in the seventies and never stopped believing. Much to their surprise, they’re right back in fashion.”

  And selling well, too, he knew from his investigations.

  “I recall you said you moved around a lot when you were a kid.”

  “Yep. All over the country. I remember more than one commune. For a while we even lived in Scotland.”

  “That must have been fun. An adventure.” He thought of his own existence in the valley. From preschool to high school, never farther than a yellow school bus ride away. He’d itched for the opportunity to see more.

  “Not so much for me.” She shrugged her elegant shoulders. “All that moving from place to place is kinda disruptive when you’re at school. Not great for your grades, not great for your friendships.”

  “I guess,” he said.

  And if you’re a certain kind of person, you learn to be a loner. To not get too attached to people. To develop the ability to put on a face—be what people want you to be. In short, to breed the kind of personality that could gravitate to fraud.

  “You learn to be independent, that’s for sure,” she said.

  That, too.

  He fought the urge to crack his knuckles. He was finding it frustratingly difficult to pin her down and categorize her.

  “Where are your parents now?” he asked.

  “At this exact moment? In DC marching against capital punishment. Placards outside the White House and all.”

  He couldn’t tell if she was embarrassed or proud. Maybe a bit of both.

  “And home is?”

  “Berkeley. A beautiful old Victorian I wish they’d had when I was a kid.”

  “Nice for you to have them close.”

  Serena laughed. “Yeah. But I am so glad I don’t share the house with them. It would be such hard work. Their aim is to leave a negative carbon footprint. They live off the grid. Only eat what they grow themselves in their yard or what comes from within a one-hundred-mile radius of San Francisco. No car. No TV. And of course no dogs.”

  “Sounds admirable.”

  “And uncomfortable. But we’re not here to talk about my parents.”

  “No,” he said. Despite his initial misgivings, he had not been able to find anything subversive in her parents’ activities. He picked up his folder. “Let’s get things sorted for Mack.”

  At the sound of his name, Mack thumped his tail and looked up at Nick with those sad, dark eyes. Nick felt he did not have to be a doting doggy daddy to read his plea for human help.

  Serena sat across her table from Nick as they ate lunch. Or rather, he ate with gusto; she played around with her salad with her fork. Maddy’s lasagna had turned out superlatively well. The cheese bubbled golden on the top and the rich, spicy filling spilled out from the layers of pasta. But Serena was way too nervous to eat.

  No matter how hard she tried to concentrate on sensible conversation about surgeon’s fees, the possibility of Mack needing to wear a cast, time span of rehab, and so on, other thoughts kept intruding.

  Of what it would be like to trace her finger along Nick’s sexy mouth. Of what it might be like to kiss that mouth. Or to skip past the kissing stage to get to her and Nick in her bedroom hot and naked and—Her nipples pebbled at the thought.

  She pulled her thoughts up short. This was insane.

  When she’d answered the door to him she’d taken one look and had to hold on to the doorframe for support. Nick Whalen in a business suit was hot. Nick Whalen wearing well-worn denim jeans, a black T-shirt, and a black leather biker jacket was a step up from hot. Right up to a stratosphere where the air became so thin she felt breathless and her heart pounded so hard and so fast she swore she could feel it knocking against her ribs.

  He pushed his plate away, empty now of his third helping. “You’re an amazing cook,” he said.

  “Thank you, but I’m not really. I—”

  “Don’t be modest. That’s the best lasagna I’ve had for a long time. Maybe ever.”

  “I’m not being modest. Truly. I didn’t—”

  “You used Italian sausage instead of ground beef?”

  “Yes. Well, I didn’t. It was—”

  “And eggplant? I liked the way you did the eggplant.”

  He seemed determined to credit her for Maddy’s wonderful, inventive cooking.

  So why not let him?

  The thought danced insistently around her conscience. What harm would it do to let Nick Whalen think she could cook?

  “It was made with garlic and fresh oregano,” she said.

  That wasn’t a lie. She didn’t say who had cooked the eggplant.

  “I like to cook,” he said. “Though nothing as impressive as this.”

  Serena knew, in truth, she was the world’s worst cook. Maddy had learned to cook from her grandma, then gone on to train as a professional chef. Fried tofu was about as creative as Serena’s mom had ever gotten in the culinary skills department. Never in a million years could Serena make anything that came anywhere near this lasagna.

  But Nick didn’t need to know that.

  “Thank you,” she said, accepting the compliment for herself. Cloaking herself in the borrowed garb of cook. And being surprised at how good it felt.

  She smiled and met his gaze from across the table. The glacial blue of his eyes had warmed a degree or two, the sharp angles of his face relaxed. He leaned back in his chair with the contented sigh of a well-fed man.

  It pleased her.

  And it surprised her that it pleased her.

  She’d never seen the need to learn to cook. The years she’d been a model she’d had to put hunger on hold and forget about the delights of food. Staying thin hadn’t come easily and she’d had to work at it. She’d gotten out of the habit of cooking much besides the basics, and that only when she couldn’t avoid it. Living single in San Francisco didn’t require expertise in the kitchen. She was surrounded by cafes and food markets where a good meal was merely a matter of the creative loading of a shopping cart.

  But this was unexpectedly . . . nice. Seeing the pleasure Nick got from the meal Maddy had whipped up in minutes. Enjoying the admiration it earned her. Wanting to impress him further. And all the time, pushing aside the guilt that she had not earned that admiration.

  Maybe she would learn to cook if she had a guy like Nick in her life.

  “What do you like to make?” she asked.

  “The usual guy things. Steak. Ribs. Chili. But I’d like to try this lasagna. Can I have your recipe?”

  This Rottweiler type of guy was asking her for a recipe? This could not be happening. Panic threatened to gag her. “Sorry. No recipe. It’s . . . uh, in my head.”

  That wasn’t too tortu
ous a stretch of the truth. After all, she had watched Maddy do it. The lasagna hadn’t actually seemed that difficult to put together.

  “So you’re an instinctual cook,” he said.

  “Uh, something like that.” World’s worst cook and world’s worst liar. “I, uh, never use recipes.” What if he asked to look at her cook-books? How would she explain she didn’t have any? Nuking Lean Cuisines was more her area of expertise.

  “That’s clever,” he said. “I have to follow a recipe. And even then I can get it wrong.”

  Frantically she sought to divert the conversation away from her culinary skills. If he wanted to swap cooking disaster stories, she’d be right in there with the best of them. And exposed for the food fraud she was.

  “Uh . . . do you make homemade recipes for Bessie?”

  He stared at her. “Recipes? For the dog? Hell no. She gets scraps, cans, and kibble.”

  “I just wondered. Plenty of dog parents . . . I, uh, mean dog—”

  “Owners?” he prompted.

  “I was going to say guardians,” she replied. “That’s the most acceptable term.”

  “Guardians. Right.”

  “They prefer to cook for their dogs. Maddy has a TV show on home cooking for dogs. And my other friend Jenna sells organic treats through Paws-A-While. They go as fast as I can stock them.”

  “Is that so?” he said. “I’ll . . . uh . . . have to try some for Bessie.”

  She got the impression he was clamping down on some other, less polite comment about gourmet treats for dogs.

  But then he turned to look at Mack. The big dog thumped his tail in recognition of the look and grinned his doggy grin. Nick seemed flattered by the recognition.

  Both Mack and Snowball had made it clear they were very interested in the lasagna. She had trained them not to beg at the table, but from where they sat in the living room, she was aware of two pairs of eyes on full alert to the movement of food from plate to human mouth. The way her stomach was tied up in knots, they were guaranteed her share in their dog bowls later on. There was only a trace of garlic for flavor, not enough to make it dog-unfriendly.