Dianne Drake - Lady And The Scamp

“Will do,” Cassie agreed. “And I’ll even call Louise and see if she won’t fix us a pan of her award-winning lasagna.”

“And after dinner, maybe we can sneak over to Nick Hardin’s house and smother him in his sleep.”

Cassie snorted. “I’d rather see his head roll out from under a guillotine blade, myself, but that wouldn’t be torturous enough for the creep.”

Dee laughed. “See you at seven. I’ll bring the wine.”

Cassie returned the receiver to the holder on her desk, then propped her elbows on her blotter and placed her head in her hands. After massaging both of her temples for several seconds, she searched through the numbers her mother had compiled for Duchess’s care before she left for Europe. When Cassie found the name she wanted, she decided Houston Baumfarger was an appropriate name for a man who devoted his time delving into the minds of the animal world. And had Cassie’s own mental state not been so rattled from the morning’s hectic events, she may have found a little humor in the response she gave when the shrill voice of the renowned dog psychiatrist answered his private line.

“Houston?” Cassie said. “We have a problem.”

IT WAS DARK WHEN NICK pulled into his driveway. He’d ridden all the way to Mount Mitchell which, at an elevation of more than six thousand feet, was the highest point in the state. Embracing the great outdoors usually cleansed his inner demons and left his soul restored, but nature had failed him this time. The experience hadn’t purged Cassie Collins from his thoughts. Instead, her memory had ridden right along with him as if she’d been sitting behind him on the bike with her arms clasped tightly around his waist.

In a far worse mood than when he’d left his office that morning, Nick lifted the flap on the saddlebag at the back of his motorcycle and retrieved two containers of spicy takeout he’d bought from a quaint little Chinese restaurant he’d discovered on the west side of town. A wide variety of eating establishments was the one thing Nick missed most about Atlanta, but that was all he missed. He didn’t miss the traffic, the fast pace or the wild lifestyle he’d left behind when he made the decision to head for the peace and solitude of the mountains.

The turning point had actually arrived when Nick awoke one morning at his sprawling Atlanta home and found that he didn’t know half of the people who were already milling around his pool. When he noticed several people snorting cocaine from the neat little rows they’d skillfully lined up on the glass top of his patio table, however, Nick went into orbit.

Nick loved his brandy and savored the taste of fine wine. He even had a passion for imported beer, but he had never indulged in taking drugs, nor would he tolerate drug use in his presence. Within the space of five minutes, he’d cleared the place out, and he put his house on the market the same day. Within two months, he was on his way to Asheville in search of a better life.

“Hey, buddy,” Nick said when Earl tore into the foyer and began jumping around his legs. “Did you realize you’ve become a celebrity overnight?”

Greetings exchanged, both Nick and Earl headed for the den. But as Nick walked toward the bar, it crossed his mind that other than the bedroom, the den was really the only other room he used in his rambling sixteen-room abode. He’d known from the beginning that he didn’t need such an enormous house, but the Realtor had shown Nick documented proof that his favorite author, Thomas Wolfe, had rented the old Tudor mansion one summer while he finished his celebrated novel, Look Homeward, Angel. Being the hopeless romantic and sucker for nostalgia that he was, Nick had bought the house on the spot. And he finally justified his purchase by rationalizing that the house would provide plenty of room later for him to raise the big family he had always wanted.

But what is my definition of later? Nick asked himself as he filled Earl’s bowl with a healthy portion of dog food. He would soon be thirty-six, and was no closer to starting a family now than he had been at eighteen.

Moving aside when Earl lunged at his bowl, Nick wondered if it hadn’t made him feel a little inferior that his own dog would become a father before he would. When his own stomach growled in protest, however, he decided his stomach took precedence over trying to sort out warped emotions. Without another thought to parenthood, he grabbed one of his favorite brews from the refrigerator and settled himself decidedly at the bar.

Using a plastic fork that was left over from some other evening’s fine dining experience, he dug into the cardboard containers of rice and Szechwan beef, then turned on the TV and channel surfed. When he landed on a particular channel, a loud bark from Earl made Nick pause a little longer than usual. He almost choked on his food when a life-size picture of the current winner of the Westminster Dog Show filled the wide-screen.

Yapping excitedly, Earl put his front paws on the television, trying to lick the image, but his sullen master was far from being impressed.

“Damn reruns,” Nick cursed under his breath, then switched off the television and threw the remote halfway across the room.

“ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?” Cassie shouted as she vaulted from her chair.

The slender man sitting primly on the edge of Cassie’s sofa jumped at her outburst, causing some of the hot tea he held in his lap to slosh over the rim of the china cup and puddle in his saucer. After sending Cassie an annoyed look, he quickly glanced at Dee for support. “You asked for my expert opinion, Miss Collins. I’m sorry it wasn’t to your liking.”

Cassie glared into the man’s watery eyes, eyes that were the same color as the wiry sprouts of gray hair that seemed to spring from the top of his head in every direction. Tired of having expert opinions from veterinarians and haughty doggy shrinks shoved down her throat, Cassie stood her ground. “No, Dr. Baumfarger, your expert opinion isn’t to my liking. In the first place, you’ll have a hard time convincing me it’s possible for a dog to be lovesick. And in the second place, it would be next to impossible to arrange for the father of Duchess’s puppies to pay her a conjugal visit.”

The man actually gasped. “Now, really, Miss Collins, there’s no point in being vulgar.”

Cassie ignored the reprimand and launched into her usual pacing mode. When is this nightmare going to be over? she kept asking herself. She stomped around the room several times, but when her pacing brought her back to face the two esteemed doctors who were sitting on her sofa like stone statues, she brought her hands to her hips and asked, “You’re absolutely certain you can’t come up with any other reason for Duchess’s behavior?”

Dr. Baumfarger sent Dee a conspiratorial look, then placed his teacup and saucer on the silver tray sitting on the coffee table. Rising from his seat, he smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from his sharply creased trousers, then lifted his chin until he was literally looking down at Cassie over his beaklike nose. “I’m not in the habit of having my diagnosis questioned, or of making mistakes, Miss Collins,” he retorted curtly. “I’ve told you how to solve your problem with Duchess. It’s up to you whether or not you choose to follow my advice.”

With that said, the man took a step forward in Cassie’s direction. Cassie moved aside to let him pass and made no objection when Dee offered to show the smug canine collaborator to the door. As their muffled voices echoed back from the foyer, however, Cassie strained to listen. “Don’t worry, I’ll convince her” was all she could make out.

“I’ll convince her, my foot,” Cassie mumbled under her breath, then stomped toward the kitchen, heading straight for the bottle of white wine that was already chilling in one of Lenora’s fancy silver ice buckets.