Dianne Drake - Lady And The Scamp

Joe dragged a meaty hand over his face, then pointed to the woo-some twosome who were currently engaged in what appeared to be another premating ritual. “You mean that little white dog out there is the one who just won all those awards in New York City?”

Cassie nodded, glaring at the poodle-looking paramour whom she’d vowed to protect and keep safe in her mother’s absence. The little witch was her mother’s pride and joy, but now that the current diva of the dog world had succumbed to the charms of a mutt whose only credentials seemed to be an overdose of testosterone and an attitude, Cassie suspected those dog-food and pet endorsements her mother planned to glean from winning Westminster would disappear faster than a pack of antacids at a federal tax audit.

“Man, I don’t blame you for being upset, Miss Collins, but—”

“Oh, I zoomed way past upset when I found them doing an intimate bunny-hop across the backyard,” Cassie interrupted. “Now, are you guys going to help me catch the mutt before they engage in another close encounter of the fur kind, or aren’t you?”

Both men seemed a bit embarrassed by her graphic outburst, but the Barney Fife lookalike finally stepped forward to take up the challenge. “I’ll help you catch him, Miss Collins. I’ve always been good with dogs.”

Cassie held her breath as the lanky officer left the sunroom and strolled across the yard in the perpetrator’s direction. To Cassie’s surprise, instead of leading the officer on another exhausting game of hide-and-seek through the trees, the scruffy little scamp inched toward him and sniffed at the man’s outstretched hand. In a flash, the officer snatched the mutt up. Mission accomplished, he returned to Cassie’s side with the little bandit tucked safely under his arm.

“Peanuts always work,” he said proudly, sending Cassie a wink. “I always keep loose peanuts in my pocket for between-meal snacks.”

Cassie shuddered at the sight of the lint-covered peanuts the mutt was happily munching from the officer’s hand, then looked around the yard for the other half of the dissolute duo. Obviously sated by the wild display of carnal acrobatics Cassie had witnessed earlier, the little floozy trotted obediently toward the house in search of her lover. Cassie grabbed the pampered pooch and marched Miss Duchess into the sun-room. When Cassie placed Duchess in her traveling crate and fastened the latch, the shameless hussy actually had the nerve to look annoyed.

When Cassie joined the officers back on the patio, she smiled and said, “Thanks, guys. Now you need to help me find this mutt’s owner. And when you do, I want you to make an immediate arrest for violating the neighborhood leash law.”

Both men exchanged nervous looks. Joe actually laughed. “Hey, you’re not really serious about making an arrest over this, are you, Miss Collins?”

Cassie frowned, but let out an exasperated sigh. “Probably not, but it really would serve the owner right if I did. If that dog has left Duchess with a litter of mongrel puppies, I’ll be facing a death sentence.”

“Hey, I really sympathize with your predicament, Miss Collins,” Joe mumbled, “but I sure wouldn’t want to be the one to make the arrest.”

“Me, neither,” interjected Barney Fife’s twin. “He wasn’t real happy the last time we had to serve him with a complaint.”

Hands on her hips now, Cassie sent both men a puzzled look. “You mean you guys already know who owns this mutt?”

Barney swallowed, sending his pronounced Adam’s apple roaming up and down his throat several times before he managed to spit out the answer. “The little fellow belongs to Nick Hardin. You know, that radio talk-show host who’s caused all the trouble since he moved into Biltmore Forest.”

Hearing that Nick Hardin owned the mutt responsible for her current nightmare affected Cassie like a slap across the face. She immediately reached for the wiry terrier and snatched the little Casanova from the officer’s grasp.

“I really do appreciate your help, boys,” she told her cohorts, then sent both officers a sinister smile. “But if Nick Hardin owns this guy, I’m going to pay him a visit he won’t soon forget.”

“Give him hell, Miss Collins,” Barney said on a giggle.

“You can count on it,” Cassie promised, then turned on her heel and headed for the garage with the relieved security officers trailing after her.

After waving goodbye to her obliging dream team, Cassie opened the door to her silver Lexus sedan, placed the black-and-white scoundrel on the passenger’s seat, then slid behind the wheel.

“So, you belong to the famous Nick Hardin, do you?” she said, looking over at the mutt who was responsible for turning her peaceful Saturday morning into a full-blown disaster. “Well, thanks to you, my scruffy little friend, we’ll see if your obnoxious master still has a sense of humor after this vulture picks his bones clean for the damages you’ve caused this morning.”

IT TOOK LESS THAN five minutes for Cassie and her hostage to make the short trip to the old Tudor mansion Nick Hardin had purchased some six months earlier. When she reached the gate to the aging estate, Cassie pulled into the winding driveway that led up to the house. She had always loved the charm of the old place, especially the brilliant rhododendrons and the multicolored azaleas that lined both sides of the driveway. The old Jeep and the big Harley-Davidson motorcycle that were parked haphazardly in the driveway, however, looked as out of place as the radio talk-show host had been since he moved into her neighborhood.

Eager to give the cocky old coot an up-close-and-personal look at the legal system he was always complaining about on his stupid radio program, Cassie switched off the engine and grabbed the furry scamp sitting next to her. Marching straight to the front door, Cassie paused on the stoop and pressed the doorbell long enough for the blast to wake the dead. When her adversary failed to appear from within his fortress, Cassie reached for the bell again, but the squirming captive in the crook of her arm saw his chance and wiggled from her grasp.

“You come back here this minute,” Cassie yelled.

The naughty little maverick bounded around the side of the house and Cassie dashed after him. Charging through the back gate in hot pursuit, she almost had the miniature monster in her grasp, but a loud splash from the backyard pool brought her to a sudden stop. When she looked up, her eyes widened in disbelief as the lower half of a nude male body slipped beneath the surface of the shimmering blue water.

Ignoring her own gasp, Cassie willed herself to move, but the instincts that kept screaming run didn’t relay the message to her addled brain fast enough. Before she could flee, a bronzed phantom with an upper torso reminiscent of the Incredible Hulk’s broke the water’s surface gracefully with muscled forearms stretched out before him.

Cassie watched in awe as Adonis himself made long, purposeful strides across the water in her direction. This can’t be Nick Hardin, she kept assuring herself, but she’d never actually seen Nick Hardin before, not even a picture of him. It was his politically incorrect attitude that led Cassie to believe he would be much older than this Greek god she had just caught in the buff. In fact, the mental picture Cassie had always put with that deep baritone voice on the radio was one of a middle-aged hippie who was still trying to cling to the lost age of sex, drugs and rock and roll.

Please, God, let this Chippendale refugee be Nick Hardin’s pool man, Cassie prayed silently, aware that the naked stranger was now swimming dangerously close to the shallow end of the pool.

To her relief, he stopped when the water was still waist-high, ran a hand through his unfashionably long hair, then stared back at Cassie with eyes the color of midnight. “Well, good morning,” he called out boldly. “I’d given up hope of the Biltmore Forest welcoming committee dropping by, but if you’re the representative it was well worth the wait.”