The Great Dane

by Liz Stafford

  www.beautifultroublepublishing.com

  The Great Dane

  Liz Stafford

  Copyright © 2011 by Liz Stafford

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including but not limited to: printing, photocopying, faxing, recording, electronic transmission, or by any information storage or retrieval system without prior written permission from the authors or holders of the copyright.

  This book is a work of fiction. References may be made to locations and historical events; however, names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination and/or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), businesses, events or locales is either used fictitiously or coincidental. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only.

  Published by

  Beautiful Trouble Publishing, LLC

  PO Box 61

  Colfax, NC 27235

  www.beautifultroublepublishing.com

  Cover Art: Les Byerley http://www.les3photo8.com/

  Editor: Sonya Mott Young, http://legacyediting.com/

  Proofreader: Novellette Whyte

  http://authorgurunovellette.blogspot.com/

  Formatter: Jim & Zetta, http://www.jimandzetta.com/

  E-book Conversion: Jim & Zetta, http://www.jimandzetta.com/

  ISBN: (e-book) 978-1-61788-190-9

  This is for Bob, even though he has no knowledge of my alter ego.

  Note about eBooks

  eBooks are NOT transferable. Re-selling, sharing or giving away eBooks is a copyright infringement. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author or Beautiful Trouble Publishing.

  CAVEAT

  This work of erotica contains adult language and sexually explicit scenes, which are smoking hot. This book is intended only for adults, as it is defined by the laws of the country in which the purchase is made. Keep this book out of the hands of under-aged readers.

  Author’s Note

  Sometimes, just the right word is not 'available'. Consequently, the author likes to make up words now and then. In this case, a word was needed to describe the way one might look at a hunk, hence, the word droogle—drooling and ogling.

  Chapter One

  The Great Dane tilted her head to watch Rianna position the still-wet pups up to her stomach. This wasn’t the bitch’s first litter, but it was the first time she’d had trouble. At eleven last night, the owner Jannick Clausen—a Great Dane in his own right—rushed the big dog here with a breech pup caught in the passageway. It took more than an hour but she and a vet tech had worked the pup free. And over the next three hours, they’d delivered eleven more healthy wiggling babies.

  “You’re a beautiful girl, Denali.” She rubbed the floppy jowls of the tired black and white dog. “You have a gorgeous family. Not sure what I’d do having twelve kids all at once.” Rianna fed Denali a homemade treat. “Of course, your kids grow up and leave home in a few weeks. Not like our human kids who sometimes never leave.” She thought about her brother—thirty-one years old and once again rooted to his twin bed in their childhood home. Unable to hold a job or a woman, he moved home whenever things didn’t go right. Rianna was his complete opposite. From the age of six, she’d wanted to be a veterinarian with her own clinic. What she hadn’t planned was being so deeply in debt at almost forty years old and unmarried to boot, which led to thoughts of Denali’s oh-so-handsome owner. Jannick Clausen was everything a cover-boy ought to be, blond hair, muscles poking below the sleeves of his pajama top—silk pajamas!—and scruffy five o’clock shadow. Not to mention the most adorable accent. As he’d hauled/carried the huge dog into the back emergency entrance last night, Rianna had fallen instantly, hopelessly in lust with him. She should have her veterinarian’s license revoked—when she should’ve gone to work un-breeching the puppy, the first thing she did was check for a wedding ring on Mr. Wearing-pj’s-to-the-vet’s finger.

  Once she’d noted the ringless finger, she had gone to work getting the dog into the whelping box. And things carried on in a businesslike manner, especially after they’d escorted the owner from the building. She hadn’t wanted him to leave but, one—he was so over-the-top nervous, the dog was overreacting, and two—he smelled like woods and herbs and…something she kept trying to identify. And that was keeping her from focusing her attention one-hundred percent on the dog’s hiney where it should’ve been. So, they’d encouraged him back into his car, a brand new Audi, top of the line. The tech assistant had waited in the doorway till the red taillights disappeared down the road.

  Rianna sent the tech home at dawn, then stayed with Denali, making sure each pup had their first meal, and that Mom didn’t inadvertently roll on any. Rianna rose, rubbed the kinks out of her back and brushed the shredded newspaper bedding from her shirt, realizing she had on a flannel nightshirt—the tail of which was jammed into her most raggedy-ass jeans. The scent of pine cleaner hung heavy in the air. Fresh and clean. Important in a facility that cared for people’s beloved pets.

  She stopped in front of the sterilizing machine—probably a bad idea because her reflection showed bed-head of the severest proportions, along with red eyes and a face devoid of makeup. Add to that, a crease in her left cheek where she’d lain against the entrance to the whelping box for two hours.

  Just enough daylight—or was it still moonlight, she was too tired to check—squeezed between the slats of the mini-blinds to illuminate the way to the desk where Rianna flopped into the chair. She didn’t try to stop it from rolling back and banging into the wall. She should phone Mr. Clausen with the news. He’d left his business card in the center of the desk. Nice. Black with gold embossed letters that said he was an attorney, which explained the brand spanking new Audi and the silk pajamas.

  Okay, now the pajama top was all she could think about. Things she only fleetingly noticed last night—the blond hairs poking out the V-neck and once, when he bent to reassure the dog, one dark-circled nipple that set her heart to imitating a snare drum. Rianna clenched her butt muscles, hoping her underwear would absorb the moisture pooling below. That’s when she realized she wasn’t wearing any.

  Chapter Two

  Jannick paced in a circle around the desk. Why the hell hadn’t the damned vet called? She said she would. Promised.

  He knew why—didn’t want to admit it. She hadn’t phoned because Denali had died giving birth to the pups and the idiot vet couldn’t face telling him. She knew he’d slap a lawsuit as big as the state of California on her quicker than she could dispose of the body.

  God, how would he break the news to Ann?

  Another lap around the desk. He couldn’t help looking down to see if he’d worn a path in the carpet. Next circuit he’d widen the route a bit. It wouldn’t be good if he had to replace the carpet.

  Damn phone. Ring!

  Another scenario punctured his mind—of the vet going home as soon as he’d left the clinic. That was why the tech waited in the doorway. They had left Denali alone to have the pups. Acid bubbled into his throat. He swallowed the vomity-tasting stuff and dove toward the desk for a bit of ice-cold toast. The butter had long since solidified. He threw down the toast and picked up the phone. He had five of the seven numbers dialed before good sense took over.

  Okay, calm down. Sit and relax.

  He flopped into the long, leather sofa near the fireplace. God, it was freezing in here. He should light a fire. But if ashes got on the floor, he’d catch hell. Better to freeze his nuts till Ann got back. Jannick kicked his stocking feet onto the long table in fro
nt of the sofa. Sock feet shouldn’t mark the pristine finish. He forced a few calming breaths and leaned back, closed his eyes, and imagined a fire crackling and a glass of wine in his hand.

  Closing his eyes wasn’t a good idea. Images shot into his head. Of him at the clinic, helping get Denali into the whelping pen—was that the name for it?—and then getting pushed aside, jammed against the wall as the vet and her assistant went to work on the dog. The woman vet had bent over the plywood barrier, her ass encased in a pair of really old jeans. The denim was so worn he could see, well, squinted to see, the outline of her underwear. But there was none. He figured it was an anomaly till she shifted to the left. There was a hole at the bottom of the right hand pocket. All that showed through was skin. Damn! Good thing they’d been too busy to notice the knot in his own jeans. The erection he’d gotten at that moment returned. He pressed a palm on his fly, hard. Nothing like pain to dull hunger. How long had it been anyway?

  Wearing lubricated rubber gloves, the vet—he thought her name was Ryan—crammed her hand inside the dog and Jannick almost puked. He’d moved to one side, pretending to get a better view, but really wanted nothing more than to run, far and fast. He shifted to the other side of the dog pen, but the vet was just removing a squirming puppy. Looked like it was covered in—

  Well, at least the boner went away.

  What a relief when they herded him out the door. Except now, he was left with a yearning. Well, two yearnings if he were to be honest. One, of course, to hear about the dog, the second, for that vet. The pressure in his pants grew, expanded and—

  The phone rang. He shot from the couch and was saying hello before the receiver was all the way to his ear.

  “How’s Denali?” Ann’s voice squashed all emotion from his body.

  “She uh… Last night she went into labor.”

  “Ooh! How many did she have?”

  “Uh, ah…the first pup wouldn’t come out though, so—”

  Ann’s squeal had him holding the phone at arm’s length. When his ear stopped ringing, he brought the phone back to hear her say, “What the hell did you do? Is she all right? Are the pups okay?”

  “I took her to the vet. I—”

  “Which vet?”

  God, wouldn’t she let him talk? No, never had. Why stop now? “The one whose name you left: Dr. Farraday.”

  “And…what happened?”

  “I left there around midnight. I’ve been waiting for her to call.”

  The line went dead. He thumped the phone buttons a few times but the Ann was gone, probably rushing to the clinic to see her dog. Figured. He’d broken his leg once and it took her a half a day to get there.

  Jannick set the phone back in the cradle and began pacing again. He should call the vet. But she said she’d call. He hated clients who couldn’t wait when he’d promised to phone. Hated ones who bugged the shit out of him when he had no news. Who was it who said no news was good news? Well, they were wrong.

  Jannick made himself go upstairs and lie down, where he could filter pictures of last night through his head. All images of dogs giving birth were ousted, and replaced with ones of the vet—naked. The vet lying spread-eagled on his bed. The vet’s pretty face wrinkled in the throes of an orgasm that he’d instigated. That he’d prolonged with a few gentle flicks of the tongue in just the right places. The boner returned big-time. This time he loosened his pants and went to work.

  Chapter Three

  Rianna flew forward, her feet slapping the floor under the desk, the back of the chair rebounding into her head and shoving her face first onto the blotter.

  “Are you all right?” asked the receptionist.

  “Sure, Lynn. I guess I dozed a second.”

  “More like an hour.”

  Crap. She’d promised to call Jannick first thing. “Did I miss anything? What time is it?”

  “A few minutes past seven. There’s someone here—insists on seeing you.”

  Could it be Jannick had gotten tired of waiting for her call? “Who is it? Male or female?”

  “Female.”

  Not Jannick then. Nobody on this planet could mistake him for a woman.

  “Show her in. Thanks.”

  Rianna raced into her bathroom to brush her teeth and comb hair that could use a color touch-up. Normally, she kept a change of clothes but they were all in the laundry. The pj top and ratty jeans would have to do. Probably wasn’t the queen sitting out there, so her attire couldn’t be too life-changing. She pulled open the door and stepped into the office.

  The woman turned. She looked familiar, but Rianna couldn’t place the face. She crossed to the woman, who leaned forward with a hand extended. “Ann Clausen.”

  Where had she heard that name before? Rianna wanted to physically shake the sleep-cobwebs from her brain, but merely said, “Sorry?”

  “Ann Clausen. My dog came here in labor last night.”

  “Dog.”

  “Yes, a hundred and ten pounds? Black and white spots? Name’s Denali.”

  Rianna apologized. “I never got to sleep last night.” She wiggled a couple of fingers at Mrs—Mrs? Clausen? Oh God.

  The wife of Jannick—the one she’d lusted after all night!

  Damn and double damn.

  The woman was a vision of high-society haute couture in her red-skirted business suit and spiked heels. How dare anyone look that good at seven in the morning? Rianna led the woman to the whelping area. Denali, hearing footsteps, let out a loud woof that had half the pups squealing in surprise. Mrs. Clausen leaned over the wood barricade. The dog launched to her feet and wagged her tail so hard she trembled all over. Clausen cooed; the dog licked and licked. Rianna turned away. She hated dog slime, especially on her face.

  “When can my darling girl go home?”

  “Anytime. All twelve babies are doing fine.”

  “Twelve?” She turned back to the dog and began cooing again. Rianna left to have the woman’s bill prepared, swearing under her breath all the way down the long hallway. How dare Mr. Jannick Married Clausen let her droogle all over him? How dare he flaunt that blond chest hair and—

  You idiot. Get a grip. He never once indicated he was single. He never said one word you could misconstrue. Never gave you one iota of an idea that would make you fall half in love—

  What!

  No. You stupid, dumb-ass idiot. Go home. Sleep off this obsession. Oust the word love from your vocabulary. You are a career woman. A vet who saves pet’s lives, makes people happy. You have no time for love.

  Rianna didn’t feel like cooking, didn’t feel like doing anything other than climbing in the shower and staying there till the water turned to icicles, which she did. She leaned against the tile, letting the spray run down her face, the spikes of water stabbing her nipples, then losing momentum as they slid down her still-taut stomach and trickled between her legs. The two sensations—stabbing and trickling— were erotic as hell and she couldn’t keep her fingers from testing the waters—no pun intended.

  Why was she so depressed anyway? Last night had been just a fantasy. A stupid fantasy brought on from exhaustion and months without any sexual stimulation save that of her battery operated BFF. Which reminded her, she needed a new case of batteries. Was there enough juice in the thing for one more night?

  By the time the water actually did run cold, Rianna felt acres better. Good enough to cook something for dinner. She threw on a pair of comfortable, cotton underwear and an old T-shirt with a picture of Barry Manilow on the front.

  In the kitchen, she fork-scrambled three eggs in a bowl, turned on the frying pan, and popped two slices of raisin bread into the toaster.

  The ringing phone didn’t even bring a curse from her lips. “Hel-lo,” she sing-songed into the cell phone.

  “Hello, Ryan.”

  “Sorry, you have the wrong number, there’s no Ryan here.”

  “It is you, I recognize your voice.”

  “Well, I don’t recognize yours. How did you g
et this number? Don’t answer that, it doesn’t matter. What matters is, I’m not donating to whatever charity you’re calling for and I’m not voting for your candidate.”

  “You don’t even know who my candidate is.”

  “I don’t care. I don’t talk politics with anyone.”

  “For heaven sake, I’m not a politician. I’m not asking for money.”

  Suddenly, the voice inside that tiny speaker registered in her over-taxed brain. Mister Jannick Clausen. Mister Jannick Married Bastard Clausen. “What do you want?”

  “Ouch.”

  Okay, he probably didn’t deserve that. “Sorry, I’m just overtired.”

  “Then I guess you aren’t up to a thank you for saving Denali dinner.”

  Dinner? She spun toward the stove. The butter she’d tossed into the frying pan had burned. Smoke poured from it and got sucked up the vent fan. Smoke erupted from the toaster too. Rianna popped the button and out shot two slices of charcoal.

  “Ryan!”

  His voice shook her from the reality of the meal she’d been so anxious to prepare. “What?”

  “Will you let me buy you dinner to thank you for taking care of Denali?”

  “No. Thanks.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a doctor/client thing.”

  He said, “I see,” but his voice definitely indicated confusion.

  What was there to be confused about? He was an attorney; he should understand the concept. “Look, I have food burning here, I have to go.”

  Rianna hung up the phone and surveyed the mess. She heaved the toast, the pan and the bowl of eggs into the sink, snatched up a bag of cookies and shuffled to the big, old armchair in the living room. The chair was ratty and worn but it was the last thing she had from her gram who’d died last spring.