Whiskey Beach

by Nora Roberts

  as she put groceries away. He’d stopped what he was doing to pet the dog, and had that easy appreciation on his face people who enjoy dogs tend to wear around them.

  So far, so good.

  “Well, she’s pretty. Yeah, you’re pretty,” he said, rubbing as Barbie murmured in her throat and leaned against him. “You’re dog-sitting?”

  “Not exactly. Barbie’s a sweetheart. She’s four. Her owner died a couple of weeks ago. The owner’s daughter tried to take the dog, but her husband’s allergic. There’s a grandson, but he lives in an apartment with a no-pet clause. So poor Barbie lost her best pal, and couldn’t go with family. She’s been fostered for the last week or so while the local organization tries to find her a good home. She’s been really well trained, she’s healthy, she’s spayed. But people usually want puppies, so an older dog takes a bit longer to place, especially since they’re trying to stick with Whiskey Beach. It’s her beach.”

  “Beach Dog Barbie?” He grinned, crouching as Barbie rolled over to have her belly rubbed.

  Nearly there, Abra calculated. “‘Beach Bitch Barbie’ would’ve given you the alliteration, and have been accurate. But she’s so sweet, it’s hard to use the B word. Actually, I thought of taking her myself. I volunteer off and on at the shelter. But with my schedule I’m just not home enough. It didn’t seem fair when she’s used to companionship. She’s a Chesapeake Bay retriever with a little something else mixed in. Retrievers love being around people.”

  Abra closed the last cupboard, smiled. “She really likes you. You like dogs.”

  “Sure. We always had a dog growing up. In fact, I imagine my family will bring . . .” He straightened as if shot out of a rubber band. “Wait a minute.”

  “You work at home.”

  “I’m not looking for a dog.”

  “Sometimes the best things you get you weren’t looking for. And she comes with a strong plus.”

  “What?”

  “Barbie? Speak!”

  Sitting again, the dog lifted her head, obligingly sent out two cheerful barks.

  “She does tricks.”

  “She barks, Eli. I actually got the idea thinking about how Stoney’s dog barked when we walked him home. Someone’s been getting into the house, past your high-tech alarm. So go low-tech. Barking dogs deter break-ins. You can Google it.”

  “You think I should foster a dog because she barks on command?”

  “She barks when she hears anyone coming to the door, and stops barking on command. It’s in her bio.”

  “Her bio? Are you kidding me?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Most dogs bark,” he argued. “With or without bios and head shots or whatever else she has. It’s not a qualified reason to foster a dog.”

  “I think you could try fostering each other for now. Because she barks, and needs a home in Whiskey Beach, and you’d be company for each other.”

  “Dogs need to be fed and watered and walked. They need a vet, equipment, attention.”

  “All true. She comes with bowls, food, toys, her leash, her medical records—she’s up-to-date there. She was raised from a pup by a man in his eighties, and she’s very well behaved, as you can see for yourself. The thing is she really loves men, is happier around men as she bonded with one as a pup. She loves playing fetch and tug, she’s great with kids, and she barks. If you needed or wanted to go out for a couple hours, someone would be in the house.”

  “She’s not someone. She’s a dog.”

  “Hence the barking. Listen, why don’t you try it for a few days, see how it goes? If it just doesn’t work, I’ll take her, or I’ll talk Maureen into taking her. She’s a soft touch.”

  The dog sat like a lady, watching him with big brown eyes, her head slightly cocked as if asking: Okay, what’s it going to be?

  And Eli felt himself sinking. “A guy shouldn’t have a dog named Barbie.”

  Victory, Abra concluded, and stepped to him. “No one will hold that against you.”

  Barbie nuzzled her nose at his hand, politely.

  Sinking fast.

  “A couple of days.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll go out and get her things. I thought I’d start upstairs today, work my way down. I won’t vacuum up there until you take another break.”

  “Fine. You know this was an ambush. And you know I know you know.”

  “I do.” She took his face in her hands. “It was, and I do know.” She laid her lips on his, soft and lingering. “I’ll have to find a way to make it up to you.”

  “That’s pandering.”

  “It is!” She laughed and kissed him again. “Now I have to make it up to you twice. Go on back up to work,” she suggested as she started out. “I’ll show Barbie around.”

  Eli studied the dog; the dog studied Eli. Then she lifted a paw in invitation. Only a heartless man would have refused to take the offered paw in his for a shake. “It looks like I’ve got a dog named Barbie. For a couple days.”

  When he started out, Barbie fell in at his heel, tail wagging enthusiastically. “I guess you’re coming with me.”

  She followed him up, into his office. When he sat she moved up to sniff at his keyboard. Then she wandered off, her toenails clicking lightly on the hardwood.

  Okay, Eli thought, so she wasn’t pushy. A point for Barbie.

  He worked through the morning, then sat back, held an internal debate before taking the plunge.

  He e-mailed his agent, a woman who’d stuck with him since his law school days, to tell her he thought he had enough for her to take a look. Struggling to ignore all the whining voices in his head, he attached the first five chapters. Hit send.

  “Done it now,” he said, and sighed.

  And since he had, he wanted to get out of the house, away from those whining voices.

  He stood up, and nearly tripped over the dog.

  Sometime during the last couple of hours, she’d come in silent as a ghost, to curl up behind his chair.

  Now she lifted her gaze to his, bumped her tail politely on the floor.

  “I guess you’re a pretty good dog.”

  The tail picked up its beat.

  “Want to go for a walk on the beach?”

  He didn’t know the key word, or if she just understood whole sentences, but she scrambled to her feet, a gleaming joy in her eyes. It wasn’t just her tail wagging now, but her whole body.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  She trotted downstairs with him, gave another wiggle when he picked up the leash Abra had left on the counter, then added a happy yip when they stepped into the laundry room where Abra was unloading the dryer.

  “Hey there, how’s it going?” Abra set the laundry in the basket to give Barbie a rub. “Good day so far?”

  “I was going to take a walk. She opted to come.” He pulled a jacket off the peg. “Why don’t you?”

  “I’d love it, but I’m on a schedule today.”

  “Your boss says you can take a break.”

  She laughed at him. “I’m my own boss—you just pay me. Go bond with Barbie. You can have some lunch when you get back. Oh, take this.” She plucked a red ball out of a basket of dog toys on the washing machine. “She likes to fetch.”

  “Right.”

  She was right, too, about being her own boss, he thought. He liked and admired that about her, her ability to find and do work that satisfied her on so many levels. Once he’d thought he’d found that with the law, and his writing served as a kind of creative perk.

  Now he was all in, and his life—on so many levels—depended on the reaction of a woman in New York with a colorful collection of cheaters, a broad Brooklyn accent and a sharply critical eye.

  Not going to think about it, he told himself as he led Barbie down the beach steps. And because he couldn’t stop thinking about it as they walked, as the dog trotted and wiggled with joy, he stopped and scanned the beach.

  Technically, she should stay on the leash, but hell, nobody, o
r hardly anybody, was out there.

  He unclipped her, pulled the ball out of his pocket and winged it.

  She charged, sand kicking, legs blurring. She clamped the ball in her teeth, raced back to him and dropped it at his feet. He winged it again, and again. Lost count of the number of times. When he timed it right, she was fast and accurate enough to leap, snatch the ball out of the air.

  And each time she did, trotted back to drop it at his feet, they just grinned at each other.

  She didn’t chase the birds, thankfully, though she did give them longing looks.

  He argued with himself, but curiosity and the little boy inside him won. He hurled the ball over the water to see how she’d react.

  She gave a bark of sheer, unmistakable delight and roared into the sea.

  She swam like—well, a retriever, he decided, laughing all the way down in his gut until he had to brace his hands on his thighs. She swam back to shore, red ball in her teeth, wild happiness beaming from her big brown eyes.

  She dropped the ball at his feet again, shook herself. Soaked him.

  “What the hell?” He threw it out over the water again.

  He stayed out longer than he’d planned, and his pitching arm felt like overcooked spaghetti. But man and dog were relaxed and pleased with themselves when they walked back into Bluff House.

  On the kitchen island sat a clear-wrapped plate holding a cold-cut sandwich on a long roll, two pickle spears and a scoop of pasta salad. Beside it lay a Milk-Bone.

  The sticky note read:

  Guess which is whose.

  “Funny. I guess we eat.”

  He picked up the dog biscuit. The minute she spotted it, Barbie dropped her butt to the floor while the look in her eyes went slightly crazed. Like a crack addict, he thought, about to take the pipe.

  “Damn it, Barbie. You’re a good dog.”

  He went out on the deck and ate lunch in the sun with the dog sprawled contentedly by his chair.

  His life, he decided, if you didn’t count murder, break-ins and clouds of suspicion, was pretty damn good right at the moment.

  When he went back upstairs, he heard Abra singing. He poked his head into his bedroom first and, since the dog walked right in to explore, went over to see what towel art she’d left on the bed.

  Unmistakably a dog, he thought. Especially since she’d fashioned a heart out of a Post-it. On it, she’d written:

  BARBIE LOVES ELI

  He glanced over, saw Abra had brought up a wide brown cushion. It sat on the floor near the terrace doors. Obviously, the way the dog snuggled into it, it had served as her bed before.

  “Yeah, sure, make yourself at home.”

  He left the dog to follow the singing.

  In his grandmother’s bedroom, she had the terrace doors opened wide, though it was a bit cool yet. He saw the duvet clothespinned to some sort of portable pole flapping in the breeze.

  And though Hester wasn’t there, a little vase of wild violets stood on the nightstand.

  A small thing, Eli thought. Abra was good at small things that made big differences.

  “Hi. How was your walk?” She picked up a pillow, shook it out of its case.

  “Nice. The dog likes to swim.”

  She’d noticed as she’d watched them from the terrace, and as she’d watched, her heart had simply glowed—and melted.

  “It’s a perk for her, being right on the beach.”

  “Yeah. She’s in on her bed, taking a nap.”

  “Swimming wears you out.”

  “Yeah,” he said again as he skirted the bed to her side. “What are you doing?”

  “I thought since your family’s coming I’d air out the linens so they’ll be nice and fresh.”

  “Good thinking. They look nice and fresh already.”

  He backed her up until she fell on the bed under him.

  “Eli. My schedule.”

  “You’re your own boss,” he reminded her. “You can adjust the schedule.”

  She accepted defeat when his hands and mouth got busy, but tried a token protest. “I could. But should I?”

  He lifted his head briefly to pull off her tank. “I’m keeping the dog. No less of an ambush,” he said when her eyes lit up. “So you still have to make it up to me.”

  “When you put it that way.”

  Rearing up, she tugged off his shirt. “Somebody’s been working out.” She trailed her tongue over his chest.

  “Some.”

  “And eating his protein.” She wrapped her legs around his waist, stretched up, canted forward until she had him on his back. “I’m supposed to be cleaning your house, earning my pay, not getting naked with you in this gorgeous old bed.”

  “You can call me Mr. Landon, if that helps ease your conscience.”

  Her laugh was warm against his skin. “I think my conscience can be flexible in this case.”

  So was she, he thought, flexible. Those long arms, long legs, the long torso. All so smooth and fluid as she moved over him, as all that wild hair feathered over his skin.

  Muscles he’d begun to recognize again bunched and tensed as she glided her lips over him, as her skilled hands pressed, kneaded, stroked. Arousing, soothing, seducing the already seduced.

  Naked in bed. That’s how he wanted her.

  He peeled the snug, stretchy pants over her hips, down her legs, exploring her inch by inch all the way to her ankles. And up again over the taut curve of calf, the delicate back of her knee, along the firm length of her thigh to that hot, damp core.

  She arched, a hand digging into the sheet, fisting there as pleasure struck and quivered. And it built, built, built until she broke, until she cartwheeled into the tumble of sensations.

  She levered up, dragging him to her, latching her arms around him when they knelt body-to-body on the bed.

  Heat flooded her, sent even her blood to sizzling under her skin as the breeze whipped in the open doors to flow over them.

  It danced through her hair, he thought, and the sun streamed over her like molten gold. They might’ve been on some lost island with the relentless voice of the sea, the tang of it on the air, the mocking laugh of gulls winging across the blue bowl of sky.

  Now those limbs wrapped around him—demand, invitation, plea. He took what she offered, gave what she asked. His body plunged to hers while lips met in unsated appetite.

  Faster, stronger, with her head flung back and his mouth on her throat where her pulse beat in mad time.

  Then she cried out his name, just his name, and he felt even his slippery hold on control snap loose.

  He lay facedown, she faceup, and both struggled for breath. With her eyes closed, Abra slid her hand over, found his arm, trailed down until she could link fingers with him.

  “That was a hell of an afternoon break.”

  “My new favorite kind,” he mumbled, his voice muffled against the mattress.

  “I really have to get up and get back to work.”

  “Let me write an excuse note to your boss.”

  “She won’t buy it. She’s really strict.”