Cupid to the Rescue: A Tail-Wagging Valentine's Day Anthology

by Lisa Mondello

  Okay, perhaps it wasn’t something that Sergeant Alex Warren had arranged on a whim. But he still had to answer for calling her Pushkin’s tragic heroine.

  Heart of a Russian Bear Dog: Chapter 7

  “Well, I found a hell of a lot of ways to piss off our fearless leader on my first day.”

  Bethany had called him up and offered to drag him out for a welcome-to-DC beer. To offset today, Alex probably needed five or six.

  They met at seven at a packed bar called the Wet Dog Tavern a mile or so north of the White House. She’d said to bring his dog. The owners had been charmed…and Valentin’s sheer size had won them a corner table.

  The instant Alex saw Flying Dog’s UnderDog gold lager, he’d ordered it. A beer named to fit his foul mood. It would be perfect, except he actually liked the beer.

  Valentin was now sprawled at his feet, fast asleep. To finish off the afternoon, they’d gone for a long run around the Mall and through the first layer of back streets for familiarization.

  On their arrival here at the tavern, his dog hadn’t cared about Bethany or her dog at all. Even after two weeks working together in San Francisco, Valentin had grown no closer to either one. Not a threat? Not a problem. That was his apparent assessment. Very different from his reaction to Tatyana Larina.

  Trixie curled up in a neat ball, carefully not too close to Valentin, and watched him intently rather than sleeping. She clearly remembered the bear dog’s hard growl from this morning.

  “Yeah, you two did a number on poor old Ripper this morning out at JJRTC. Carlton was so stirred up; he gave that poor dog half the signals wrong.” And had earned their team the lowest course score of the day. Bethany was very amused, even if her dog still looked worried.

  “Then we missed the perps,” Alex just couldn’t seem to stop grinding over each misstep in his head. “Really not a good day. Captain Baxter was not pleased.” He’d spent a long hour in the White House Secret Service room in the West Wing. He’d never been to the White House, but all he saw was the guarded door to the Situation Room and the tight-packed cubie-land occupied by the USSS. Baxter had grilled him on every detail and every second of the encounter, right down to having Valentin “speak” at Lieutenant Carlton Tibbets.

  “He’s never pleased, by anything.” Bethany had not ordered an UnderDog. She’d gotten a Kona’s Big Wave lager as if she was riding high. Really easy to picture her as an ultra-fit blonde surfer gal—she had the look down even in DC-winter gear. Of course, being from West Virginia made that assessment unlikely.

  “Certainly not by me.” When she offered, they tasted each other’s beer. Hers was all bright with life and hope. She’d merely said, “Nice” about his rather than some deserved remark on UnderDog’s total appropriateness.

  “One of the other pointy-ears…”

  Handlers were identified by their dogs.

  “…thinks that they found Baxter when they originally dug out the West Wing Basement. He says that they must have built the USSS offices right around him. Baxter takes his White House dogs very seriously.”

  “But I’m not a White House dog. I’m Uniformed Division.”

  “Baxter doesn’t care. He’s technically head of White House UD, not for all of DC, but he doesn’t care. You’re in DC, you handle a dog, you’re his.”

  Alex stayed with the dogs and studied his beer while Bethany went and fetched their burgers. The bar didn’t have a kitchen, but instead had a tiny independent burger stand in the corner. The guy offered just three different burgers, and all they came with was potato chips. Didn’t matter.

  Carlton hadn’t been happy about him making the play on his own. But if he’d called to Carlton, what would he have done? Exposed his protectee even more?

  Baxter hadn’t been happy that he hadn’t called for backup. As if there’d been time.

  And Tatyana Larina appeared to just be pissed at him in general…somehow blaming him for the bad scrape he’d pointed out on her brand-new purse.

  “Hell of a first day,” Bethany said as she dropped their plates on the table. Four of them, two with fully dressed burgers and chips and two with just patties. “Maybe these will cure that sour look.”

  “They’re all mine?” Because they did smell damn good.

  “Dream on, West Coast.” Then she shoved over one of two plates with just a patty on it. She set hers in on the floor for Trixie and he did the same for Valentin.

  Valentin woke up long enough to swallow his—he didn’t appear to even bite it. Trixie at least took two or three bites before licking her lips and looking around to see if more burgers were falling from heaven.

  “You’re a good person, Bethany Wilson.”

  “That’s Sergeant Wilson to the likes of you.” She smiled as she bit into her burger.

  He matched her.

  Damn. Seriously good. A beer and a good burger with a knock-out blonde dog handler. His mood was getting better already.

  “And don’t get that look.”

  “What look?” Did he have a look?

  “You might be ever so purdy, but you’re not my type,” Bethany mumbled around a mouthful of burger.

  “What is your type?” Because she was hella cute. Even if he was thinking of a certain Ukrainian… No! He so was not doing that.

  “You got a mirror?”

  “Not with me.”

  “Next time you find one, look in it.”

  “And…” he prompted when she didn’t continue.

  This time her smile was evil. “Then you’ll see what’s not my type.”

  Dogs. He understood dogs. He’d stick with that.

  Then he looked down at Valentin and recalled how his notoriously standoffish companion, even by Russian bear dog standards, had looked at him reproachfully this afternoon when he’d called him off guard duty and returned to his truck without Ms. Larina.

  Nope. He didn’t understand dogs either.

  At least the burger was good and the beer seemed to fit. UnderDog—just bloody perfect.

  Heart of a Russian Bear Dog: Chapter 8

  Tanya scowled out through the peephole of her hotel room door.

  She’d be damned if she’d cower behind a door until the Secret Service decided it was about damned time to show up, no matter what Carlton had said last night.

  The clerk at Kate Spade had offered to send the purse back to the manufacturer to see if they could fix it, but it would be at least a week. She was supposed to be back in Ukraine in a week. So now she had a damaged purse, which also added to her feeling of no good cheer.

  That and the Russians had decided to attack her.

  Well, she’d had arranged a little visit from the Ukrainian embassy armorer to her hotel room last night—without Carlton or Ambassador Tomas looking over her shoulder. If the Russians wanted her, they’d best come prepared to take some losses.

  Where was that man? Probably off writing some dated romantic poetry, just dripping with Russian heartache dredged up from too much cheap vodka and salty chechil cheese.

  She’d even worn her new Natalia Romanova-designed dress that she’d picked up during Ukraine Fashion Week. She did it just to grind her heel into his face that she wasn’t his demure-and-proper Pushkinesque heroine.

  Sick of waiting, she yanked open her room’s door, strode out into the hall, and slammed into the opposite wall when she tripped over the great Russian bear dog lying across her threshold.

  “You okay?”

  Tanya retrieved her leather jacket from the floor. Then she did her best to rearrange her clothes before she turned to look down at Sergeant Alex Warren sitting against the wall beside her door.

  Valentin was watching her with a happy smile of greeting.

  “Don’t worry, you can’t hurt him with a little kick like that. His mother may have been a T-84, but his father was a T-14 Armata.”

  The T-84 was Ukrainian’s finest tank, but the T-14 was Russia’s newest and gave her chills when she imagined one rolling along her country�
��s roads at eighty kilometers an hour.

  Alex sat cross-legged on the plush red hallway carpet—ornate enough to be Russian—with a pad and pen in his hands.

  “What drivel are you writing?”

  He looked down at his hands in surprise, then back up at her. “A letter to Mom. She’s an old-school lawyer and prefers the written word over email.”

  “It had better not be about me.”

  He held up the pad in front of his eyes, though it was clear he wasn’t reading whatever was written there.

  “Dear Mom, All that schooling in Russian literature that you and Dad so despised has finally paid off.” He paused and looked up at her. “They’re very practical people, Mom and Dad. Both career lawyers. Anyway… The woman of Pushkin’s Russian dreams has become my Ukrainian reality. Fairer than a dawn breeze, which, sadly for the sake of this metaphor, it isn’t especially warm in DC right now—which also makes it an accurate metaphor. Despite her chill demeanor, she’s wearing an absolutely killer dress that matches her dark and mysterious eyes.” He looked up at her again. “Sorry for taking liberties with your eye color, but it reads better on the page. Have you ever considered dark contacts?” Alex cleared his throat and returned his attention to his pad. “There’s a fairytale-like air to her that—”

  She prepared to kick him with the sharp toe of her Manolo Blahnik boots.

  “Or maybe you aren’t interested.” He tucked the pad away.

  “How long have you been sitting here?”

  “I came on shift at seven. You hadn’t called yet, and Valentin wanted a chance to shed all over this pretty carpet—it is spring soon and he’s already dropping his undercoat in great wads of fur—so we came here. The temperature is up in the forties today. You shouldn’t freeze in the dress, which really is absolutely killer on you by the way.”

  Carlton had said nothing about calling in her morning schedule. Alex had been sitting over an hour because he and his boss were acting like children. Fine. Let him.

  “I’m hungry. Let’s go.”

  “You said the magic word. Yeda!” Valentin responded with enthusiasm at the mention of Food! They both clambered quickly to their feet.

  Tanya led off down the long hall, or tried to. She made it three steps before Valentin pushed past her to take the lead.

  At first she thought that he was going after a half-finished breakfast of eggs and bacon that someone had set outside their door. Though he sniffed at it, he didn’t stop.

  “You must feed him a great deal for him not to take that.”

  When she glanced, Alex was hanging just a step back. Rather than watching her ass as she’d expected, he was watching over his shoulder as someone came out of their room farther down the hall.

  “Well, he had a half-kilo of raw beef and a bowl of steamed veggies this morning, though a Caucasian shepherd would happily eat itself obese if allowed. But first, he’s on the job, and second, he accepts nothing except from my hand. Food safety. Security dogs are a target.”

  “Whoever would hurt a sweet dog should be shot!”

  “Amen, sister!” Alex’s light words didn’t match his dark tone.

  The tone surprised her. Alex had seemed so light and facile—a uniformed officer quoting Pushkin in the original—yet he was the one who had identified and chased her would-be attackers. And as they spoke, he still kept an awareness of their surroundings. Completely on the job.

  She had to remind herself of what Tomas had said, American Army dog handlers are feared in all war zones, they have heavy bounties on their heads. And the Secret Service handlers do this in broad daylight instead of under the cover of night. The American protection details are one of the most elite and bravest forces anywhere.

  Even if Alex and Carlton did act like children.

  Once they reached the polished copper of the elevator doors, she observed their reflection as they waited. The guard, the woman in the body-skimming white lace dress, and massive dog who had squeezed in between them.

  Natalia Romanova had cut the dress for Tanya herself. The inner sheath reached from her shoulders to mid-thigh. The thick lace flower-work also covered her arms to her wrist, up her neck higher than a turtleneck, and down to stop just above her knees. You have the legs for me to cut it shorter, even more than most women can wear. But Tanya had insisted on the more conservative look for meetings—fashion forward but not showing the skin she normally would.

  Even with the longer cut, it would be a little chilly, but she’d needed the fashion statement to gather her nerves for today’s meetings.

  The white lace paired with the charcoal boots and sixty-millimeter peg heels combined to say, “I’m serious, but I’m glad to kick ass too.” The boots also made her several centimeters taller than Alex. If it bothered him, he made no sign of it.

  She slid on the hip-long black bomber jacket she’d found at Fashion Agony. The only colors were her blue eyes and her green Kate Spade satchel. As planned.

  Alex was right though; it was a killer look.

  And it would be perfect for all the meetings today as she began her campaign to maneuver the Turks and the other Black Sea Balkans into freeing the Crimea from the Russians over the next few years. And she didn’t mind for a moment that the best place to wage her campaign was in this American city. The Americans knew how to live in ways no Ukrainian could.

  Maybe tonight she’d go dancing.

  She eyed their reflections. Did Alex dance?

  Heart of a Russian Bear Dog: Chapter 9

  It wasn’t just a long day; it was a damn long day. Maybe going for a run before he’d begun his shift hadn’t been his best idea.

  One look at Valentin and Alex knew that wasn’t the problem.

  Yes, in addition to a positive attitude, Russian bear dogs had incredible stamina. But that was an area where he and his dog usually matched.

  Valentin looked as if he’d gladly keep going—especially if Tanya was involved. She’d acted like a supercharger on Alex’s typically complacent companion.

  Alex would shoot himself if he had to do more.

  Assistant Foreign Minister Tanya Larina had turned into a whirling dervish.

  Breakfast was a bagel with cream cheese during her first business meeting with a Ukrainian attaché. Her second meeting was also over breakfast where she didn’t stint either, consuming black coffee and two eggs, toast, and sides of both bacon and sausage. She also ate some poor sub-assistant to the Secretary of the US Navy alive over the meal. As they left that meeting, she’d grumbled.

  “The next meeting, it will not be such a waste of time.” She’d extracted a promise of a meeting with the Under Secretary from the poor assistant.

  All day she clawed her way up the food chain. He’d lost track of how many meetings they’d gone to…before lunch.

  His routine throughout the day had followed protocol: escort, inspect the room, then fade into the background.

  As she tucked into a large lunch at a Chinese restaurant with a spook from the Bulgarian embassy, he began to wonder how she kept her amazing figure. Even with the high-necked dress, most men were having trouble not staring at her body. So much so, that none of them noticed the sharp mind carving them up like a butcher’s knife.

  By the two o’clock handover to Lieutenant Carlton Tibbets, Alex knew how she kept her figure—because she never slowed down. Not for a single instant.

  If they had ten minutes walking between meetings, he’d get a download of everything that had gone wrong.

  At first he’d thought that she was the epitome of a Slavic pessimist. But over time he understood that she drove herself hard, and even the smallest misstep needed to be second-guessed and rethought before the next meeting. Her drive was relentless, so relentless that he was wrung dry just trying to keep up with her.

  She didn’t expect him to just listen to her self-debriefs—she expected him to participate. He’d spent the last two years walking a dog and five years with the Service before that. His job was more comp
lex than that, but being a dog handler meant dealing with immediate information. Here and now scenarios. Short-term attack vectors. Protection routes and strategies. The furthest he ever thought ahead was during route planning.

  But to satisfy Tanya’s insatiable need to understand, he’d had to dredge up his decade-gone past. It took a surprising amount of effort to reach back into the history that had been the cultural backdrop of 19th Century Russian Romanticism. Strategies of the five tsars of Russia and the five sultans of the Ottoman Empire came slowly back to mind, but some of their strategies and maneuverings seemed to help Tanya.

  Doing that, while remaining on full alert, and keeping a constant check on Valentin had wrung him dry.

  Tanya Larina was a political animal, a world he knew almost nothing about. She played move and countermove scenarios across a span of years. Which, with the volatile short-term nature of Ukrainian politics, was pretty damn ballsy.

  Once she dragged Tibbets off in whatever the next direction was, Alex reported in. Nothing new on yesterday’s three assailants. Nothing for today except to turn his log entries into a briefing report that no one would ever read…unless something went wrong. Then every word and each random typo would be scraped over with a threshing machine guaranteed to mangle the author of said report. He considered writing it in Russian to further recover that part of his memory but decided that might not be the best choice for a US government report.

  When he finally got back to the apartment complex, he considered knocking on Bethany’s door and seeing if she wanted to split a pizza. She’d found him an empty townhouse just three doors down from hers. The place was dog friendly, especially Secret Service dog friendly, which was a major bonus. He could also afford it. One bedroom upstairs, living and kitchen below. It fit him just fine.