The Fourteen Million Dollar Poodle

by Nancy Warren

  * * *

  The Fourteen Million Dollar Poodle

  Nancy Warren

  One

  "Vincent Elliot Grange, the fourth," intoned the family lawyer, drooling pomp and circumstance over each syllable. The man who owned the name jerked slightly in the leather club chair in the library of the New York mansion of his recently deceased great-aunt. His long-winded name sat on Vince as uncomfortably as the gray suit, starched white shirt, and muted tie he'd worn to the reading of his eccentric and very rich Aunt Marjorie's will.

  Most days Vince wore jeans and whichever T-shirt was on top of the clean laundry pile. If he had heavy-duty negotiating to do, he threw a blazer on top. It was the uniform he'd come to be known by as a labor negotiator. He liked to think his wardrobe nicely balanced the two worlds he straddled. The working guys saw him as one of them in the shirt and jeans. The jacket made him more acceptable to the suits in management.

  Vince got on okay with both sides, mostly because he was fair, always kept his word, and he'd cultivated an air that suggested it was really unwise to get on his bad side. He'd dropped the numeral and the extra names long ago. He introduced himself as Vince, but everybody called him Bulldog.

  He kept his illustrious family background as much of a secret as the fact that a girlfriend had once tried to make him watch a childbirth video to get in touch with his feminine side. He did not, he'd explained after two of the worst minutes of TV viewing in his life, have a feminine side.

  The Granges weren't a close family. His aunt Marjorie and uncle David had ended up with the Grange fortune but been childless, while Uncle David's younger brother and sister had been blessed with children and grandchildren but comparative poverty.

  Frankly, Vince was just as happy the way things had turned out. Sure, he'd gone to a snotty private school—well, he'd pretty much had to since the whole freakin library had been endowed by his great-great-grandfather—but other than that, he'd lived a normal life, gone to Cornell to study business management, and discovered he had a talent for labor negotiating. In New York City, there was plenty

  of opportunity to practice that skill.

  In place of children, Aunt Marjorie had owned a string of obnoxious lap dogs, each more spoiled than the last. The latest was a French poodle. A toy French poodle. He knew this because his aunt had told him last time he'd seen her. He'd thought part of her wig had fallen in her lap until he realized that the dog's white curly hair had the same blue rinse. When it raised its pointy little head to yap at him, he'd seen the glint of diamonds at its neck.

  The dog sat now, perched on one of the chairs, surveying the assembled group from sharp little BB ball eyes. Vince caught a flash of pink as it lifted a paw to scratch at the diamond collar, and realized its nails were painted.

  He took a moment to feel a little sorry for the thing. Who'd baby the spoiled and overgrown rat and keep it in diamonds and manicures now?

  He glanced around the room and wondered if his aunt's housekeeper might take the mutt if she was compensated. A quick glance to the left had him wondering if his cousins, Esme and Jonathon, might take on the job. They were from the snobby side of the family. No richer than he was, but they liked to put on airs. Maybe they'd like a diamond-decked toy poodle. The two of them had certainly hung around enough in the last couple of years. His mom swore they were only after the old girl's money. Well, good luck to them. From the look of the pair of them, with their designer wardrobes and the indefinable air of wealth that hung about them, they'd have a lot more clue what to do with the family millions than he would.

  Vince was obviously in the will for something or he wouldn't be at the reading. He hoped it was for Uncle David's collection of Civil War memorabilia.

  The lawyer, who'd paused to drink some water and clear his throat, piped up again, adjusting his glasses and picking up the will once more. "To my great-nephew Vincent Elliot Grange, the fourth, I leave my dearest possession and treasure. My precious pet Mimi."

  Vince blinked, stared at the pale blue fluff ball again, as though he couldn't believe his eyes, never mind his ears, and he could have sworn those beady little black eyes were laughing at him.

  Stunned silence filled the room.

  "She left me her dog?" he asked in horror. He hadn't wanted much, and he appreciated that Aunt Marjorie thought she was doing him a big favor, but he really, really didn't want a dog.

  "I work all day, what would I do with a dog?" Not to mention that his idea of a dog and Mimi were about as similar as a dandelion and a gorilla.

  He heard a hastily snuffed snicker and glanced at his cousin Jonathon, who was trying, with distinct lack of success, to pretend he was coughing.

  Waiting until the room was silent once more, the lawyer continued, "And to Mimi, my beloved poodle, my friend and companion in my final years, I leave the bulk of my fortune."

  Vince started in his chair and heard gasps from his cousins.

  "She left her money to her poodle?" Jonathon asked at last, rising from his chair, and not laughing now. He was the first one able to form words.

  "Yes. She did."

  "Well, that's just ridiculous. In fact, it's crazy."

  The solicitor removed his glasses and stared at Jonathon for a long moment. "If you are suggesting your aunt was not of sound mind when she made this will, I can assure you she was. May I continue?"

  A shrug of Jonathon's elegant shoulders had the lawyer replacing his glasses and continuing to read.

  "I charge Vincent Elliot Grange, the fourth, to care for and look after Mimi, in the manner in which she is accustomed, for the remainder of her lifetime, after which, the bulk of my estate will go to him." No one gasped at this last bit, least of all Vince himself. He suspected they were all simply too stunned.

  "However," the lawyer continued, "should Mimi die of anything but natural causes, the money will then be split evenly between Jonathon Lewis Carnaby and Esme Louise Carnaby."

  "But I don't want a dog," Vince said. No one heard him in the sudden babble of voices. Jonathon and Esme rushed forward to the desk where the lawyer now sat, the will on the desktop in front of him.

  Vince and Mimi regarded each other warily. It occurred to Vince that the coifed pooch was no more thrilled with the plan than he.

  The bulk of his aunt's estate was going to amount to a few million bucks. It wasn't that he minded the prospect of becoming a multimillionaire in a few years. But it was a lot to take in right away. And in the immediate future he'd be baby-sitting a very spoiled, very rich poodle.

  It wouldn't be that bad, he decided. He fixed problems all the time. "Listen," he said to the French woman who'd been his aunt's companion, "I'm going to leave Mimi here. It's her home, she'll be happier."

  "Mais, non!" she replied. "Mimi must live with you. It is as your aunt wished."

  Esme sent Vince her very white, very perfect I-want-some-thing smile. "Look, if you don't want a dog, I'm sure we could work something out."

  He was thinking along the same lines, but then she turned and in the most nauseating indulgent-parent-to-spoiled-little-kid tone said, "Mimi knows her auntie Esme, don't you, sweetums?"

  She squatted in front of Mimi's chair, and Vince watched as the dog looked down its nose at her. Then Esme put out her hand, and the dog made a threatening growl, then snapped.

  "She's just confused, that's all," Esme said, rising, a mortified blush darkening her cheeks.

  "Mimi doesn't like you. Never did," the Frenchwoman said.

  "Well, that is simply ridiculous. I suppose you're going to tell me that my cousin here dotes on the dog?"

  "No. But the dog dotes on him. N'est-ce pas, Mimi? Tu dimes le grand monsieur, hein?"<
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  As though cued, the dog jumped off its chair and minced across the floor to leap onto Vince's lap. She circled a few times, as though looking for the most comfortable spot, then sank daintily into a sitting position, making Vince feel like an elephant transporting a tiny, overbred princess. She smelled like Joy perfume, a fragrance he'd forever associate with his aunt.

  "Well," said Esme. "I'm sure I don't know why Mimi should be so taken with Vincent. She obviously doesn't know his nickname is Bulldog."

  "Hey, it's a mystery to me, too," Vince assured her, not needing Jonathon's smirk to tell him how ridiculous he must look—a muscular guy of six-four with a French poodle nestled in his lap.

  "If I might continue?" asked the lawyer.

  He read the rest of the will, and it occurred to Vince that neither his aunt nor her lawyer could be called crazy. They'd left nice bequests to the servants, a million bucks each to Esme and Jonathon, and his aunt had given a reasonable sum to charity. Apart from the fact that the main beneficiary was a canine, it was a perfectly sensible will.

  Except for the fact that she'd chosen Vince as the mutt's new owner. If Vince ever thought about having

  a dog— which he did from time to time—he pictured a German Shepherd, big like its owner, the kind of animal that loves to run and isn't afraid of hard work.

  A French toy poodle was not on his list.

  When Jonathon and Esme had whispered for a few minutes in the corner, Jonathon asked the lawyer, "Once all the bequests are paid out, how much goes to the pooch?"

  "After the taxes and duties are paid and all the bequests and claims on the estate settled, Mimi will inherit approximately fourteen million dollars."

  While Vince digested that, the heiress snoozed gently in his lap.

  "Now, Monsieur Grange," the housekeeper said, "when will it be convenient to move your things into the house?"

  "Oh, no." Vince said, gazing around the stuffy library. "I'm staying in my own apartment until this thing's sorted out. I want Mimi to stay here in the house with the staff she's used to. With you," he said in his tough, this-point-is-not-negotiable voice.

  "Pah, non. This is not possible. Andre—he was your great-aunt's chauffeur, you know—and I are going back to France to retire." She rose and smiled at him. "All the servants are retiring. I will have Mimi's limousine prepared to transport the two of you home," she said.

  "I drove myself here. I'll drive myself home."

  She opened her mouth to argue, checked out his expression, and shrugged in that indefinably Gallic way that says, Be an idiot, see if I care.

  "Very well. I will have her things delivered to you."

  Oh, right. There'd be a dog dish, probably some priceless antique, and the leash. If it matched the collar, he and the dog were going to be mugged every time they went outside the door.

  The Frenchwoman patted the dog on the head. "Soyez gentille, Mimi. Je t'aime," and she kissed the blue-rinsed topknot and straightened, sniffing with emotion.

  "Oh, and remember," she said to Vince, "Mimi only speaks French."

  Two

  "Viens-ici, you little rug rat," Vince bellowed, deciding that after the twenty-four hours he'd had, the little powder puff on legs better not push him.

  If she didn't come back in thirty seconds, he was going to get one of Uncle David's hunting rifles, put a bullet through the Parisian pooch, and have her stuffed to hang on his wall like a trophy.

  "I know you understand English, you little varmint." Ahead of him he saw the bouncing curls of Mimi's ears as the dog carefully squatted and squeezed out her two hundredth drop of pee. He didn't have time for this. He didn't want to be seen with this embarrassment of a dog. If the media caught wind of his new accessory, his career as a tough labor negotiator was over. Bulldog? Hah, they'd be calling him Pierre.

  Since the dog was keeping up the pretense that it didn't understand a word he was saying, he grabbed the French/ English dictionary he'd bought last night in desperation.

  "Viens-ici," he shouted. Then he flipped a few pages. "Ou je going to, going to, je va wring your hairy little neck."

  Somewhere close by, he heard a woman's soft laughter. Oh, shit. He'd taken today off, waiting until everyone was at work, and bypassed the park nearest his place in Hell's Kitchen for the anonymous expanse of Central Park so he'd be as good as invisible.

  He glanced up and promptly dropped his book on the ground. In front of him was the most beautiful woman in the world. Dark sultry eyes, rich black hair, lips so plump and red he couldn't help but

  fantasize about cherries, and a body to make a man weep with frustrated desire. She wore black pants and a black-and-white sweater that clung in a lot of very interesting places.

  "It's viens-ici," she said, in a voice that reminded him of Audrey Hepburn. "You don't pronounce the 's,' and it's "je vais, not je va," she bent down to pick up his dictionary which she handed back to him with a smile.

  "You speak French," he said in a daze.

  She laughed again, and he thought that sound ought to be age restricted. "I am French."

  "Would you do me a big favor and call my dog? She only understands French. Or so she pretends."

  The woman didn't seem to find a French dog in the middle of New York at all strange. "Of course, what is its name?"

  He cringed. "Mimi."

  "Mimi." the woman called in a clear, sexy tone. "Viens-ici, je te donnerai un petit biscuit."

  At the first words, he'd seen the little white fiend perk up its head and turn. As she spoke, its head cocked from side to side as though listening for a trick. Then, suddenly, just when Vince had pretty much decided it was either the shotgun or the pound, there was a flurry of blue-rinsed white, a scattershot of yippy-yappy barks, and Mimi was prancing at the woman's feet, her little pink tongue hanging out and a patch of dirt clinging to one of her pristine paws.

  "Oh, que tu es mignonne," the woman said, scooping the dog up into her arms, for which Vince, too stupid from lust to realize he should have grabbed the dog when he could, was more than grateful.

  "Look, children, a sweet little dog."

  Children? Vince turned around in shock to see a child of about nine and one of about five standing there regarding him. He didn't even realize he'd been fantasizing about getting to know this amazing woman better, until it occurred to him with a double shock that she was both wife and mother.

  "We're not supposed to talk to strangers, Mademoiselle Veneau," said the oldest—a humorless-looking

  girl in some kind of uniform with a kilt.

  Vince might not know much French, but he knew mademoiselles weren't married. His world began to right itself.

  "Vince Grange," he said, bowing slightly to the children and then extending his hand to the French woman.

  She took it, and he was immediately struck by how much better she looked with Mimi in her arms than he ever would. "Sophie Veneau," she said, with that gorgeous lilt to her voice that made him want to swap places with Mimi and take over the job of licking her neck.

  She passed him back the dog and said, "Come, children. We must go to the pediadentist."

  As she walked away, Mimi whined softly. Vince knew how the dog felt.

  He wanted to ask Sophie for her phone number at least, but with the elder girl glaring at him as if he were a skanky pervert, he decided against it. He had a name now. In a city of nine million people, how hard could it be to find one Sophie Veneau?

  Then little miss stuck-up did him an unexpected favor. "You know, mademoiselle, if my mother hears about this incident, she'll probably report you to the Tyler Agency."

  Sophie's response was, "En frangais, s'il te plait, Morgan."

  The pint-size troublemaker scowled and spoke in French, and soon they were beyond his hearing range.

  Vince wasn't stupid enough to put the dog down again, and since it had had plenty of exercise running away when he called it, it seemed content to be carried half hidden in his coat like a wino's bottle.

&n
bsp; But, in spite of one full day of poodle-induced torment, Vince was smiling broadly. For the first moment since he'd been saddled with Mimi, he wondered if Great-aunt Marjorie might have done him a favor.

  In the twenty-four hours since he'd inherited Mimi, Vince had discovered that he needed help. If he was out, the dog howled, his neighbors had informed him. This was bad. Worse, it needed regular trips outside and a gourmet chef to prepare its meals.

  He'd scoffed when the limo pulled up in front of his building and delivered Mimi's things, which included a Limoges china set of dishes, for the dog's exclusive use, a book of handwritten recipes of Mimi's favorite foods, and her appointment diary. She had a standing appointment at Bliss for a weekly manicure, she was scheduled for a hair appointment in two weeks, and her doctor made house calls. The doctor was French.