Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Praise for Love Is a Four-Legged Word
“Charming, pacey, funny, and heartwarming, Ms. Shepherd’s romantic and doggy debut is pure delight.”
—Marion Lennox, RITA Award-winning author
“A delicious, fast-paced read.”
—Julie James, author of Something About You
“A humorous and fun story. The so-ugly-he’s-cute dog is a great character.”
—Romantic Times
Sensation titles by Kandy Shepherd
LOVE IS A FOUR-LEGGED WORD
HOME IS WHERE THE BARK IS
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2010 by Kandy Shepherd.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. BERKLEY® SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation trade paperback edition / July 2010
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Shepherd, Kandy.
Home is where the bark is/Kandy Shepherd.—Berkley Sensation trade pbk. ed. p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-101-18849-1
1. Dogs—Fiction. 2. San Francisco (Calif.)—Fiction I. Title.
PR9619.4.S543H66 2010
823’.92—dc22
2010008471
http://us.penguingroup.com
To the furry friends who are the heart of my home.
Acknowledgments
To my wonderful editor, Kate Seaver, cover artist Kimberly Schamber, cover designer Rita Frangie, and the rest of the team at The Berkley Publishing Group—thank you. Thanks also to my agent, Miriam Kriss.
Thank you to my writing friends, in particular Elizabeth Lhuede—there for me at the most ungodly hours—Cathleen Ross, Christine Stinson, Isolde Martyn, and Anna Campbell. Also to Vanessa Barneveld, Janette Hankinson, Simone Camilleri, and my other critique group members. My thanks also to Kim Castillo, truly an author’s friend. And to Amanda Englebrecht, who helped me with that most precious commodity—time to write.
My appreciation to Amanda Raine at Dogs@Play for the time I spent with her and her canine clients, and also to Fog City Dogs.
Thank you to Melinda and Luke Booker and to Mate, that big black mutt who was my inspiration for the character of Mack.
Hugs to my husband, James, and daughter, Lucy, for your unstinting love, support, inspiration—and for putting up with me when I exercise the right to have an artistic temperament!
A special thank-you to the readers of my first book, Love Is a Four-Legged Word. For those of you who asked for Serena’s story, here it is . . .
One
Nick Whalen was not a Yorki-poo kind of guy. Serena Oakley saw that right away. Alerted by the door chime—a dog barking to the tune of “Who Let the Dogs Out?”—she looked up from the check-in counter of her upscale doggy spa and day-care center.
She tried not to stare at the tall, powerfully muscled man who shouldered his way in through the glass doors from the sidewalk. Then quickly covered her mouth with her hand to hide her amusement. She pretended to cough.
In the six months since she’d opened Paws-A-While, Serena often played a game of matching owner to dog. The new client and the struggling, squirming little Yorkshire terrier-poodle cross he held tight to his impressively broad chest made perhaps the most entertaining mismatch she’d seen.
Just a few of the man’s long strides into the compact reception area and the little dog started to yap a cranky “put me down now.” At the owner’s embarrassed scowl Serena fought to keep her polite smile from breaking into laughter. She needed to be professional here and help him out. She put on her best meet-and-greet smile.
“Hi! I’m Serena Oakley. Good morning and welcome to Paws-A-While.” She stepped around the counter. “This little cutie must be Bessie.”
The Yorki-poo immediately stopped yapping, stilled, and looked up at Serena, feathery ears alert.
“And I’m Nick Whalen,” said the client. “My dog is here to be, uh, assessed for day care.”
Serena recognized the deep, gravel-rough voice from the man’s initial phone call. It had intrigued her then and it impressed her now. The voice matched the face with its strong, taut angles. And the tough, hard body that strained against businesslike jacket and pants.
“Of course, Mr. Whalen. We were expecting you. I’ve been looking forward to meeting Bessie. She looks just as sweet as I thought she’d be.”
And Bessie’s owner?
He was younger than she’d expected, only a few years older than her—around thirty-two, she guessed. Definitely a big-dog type. A man more at ease with, say, a boxer as chiseled and tough-looking as himself. Yes, she could see him with a boxer.
And the adorable pint-sized pooch with the yellow bow tied in her forelock looked as if she’d be much happier tucked into a nice older lady’s purse with just her nose peeking out.
But Serena didn’t share her thoughts. Dog care was a competitive industry in the canine-crazy Marina District of San Francisco. She could not risk even a hint she might be seen as poking fun at the pampered pooches that brought in the much-needed dollars and cents. She had a year to make her business succeed before she ran out of funds. That meant keeping her private whimsies locked safely away while she built her clien
t base.
Besides, it was no hardship to lavish attention on her canine customers. There was hardly a dog born that she didn’t like.
“Hi, Bessie,” she crooned to the Yorki-poo. “Are you going to come play with us?”
Serena held out her hand for the little dog to sniff; then, once introduced, she scratched her under the chin. In response, Bessie enthusiastically licked Serena’s fingers.
Serena laughed and pulled her hand back. She wiped it with an anti-bacterial tissue from the box on the wall—following her own strict hygiene rule. Cross infection was a disaster any doggy day-care proprietor dreaded.
“I think we’re going to get on just fine, sweetie.” She smiled at Bessie. Then looked up to the owner and realized patting Bessie had brought her rather too close. Close enough to notice that his skin was tan and smooth and his eyes were a pale, piercing shade of blue.
Suddenly breathless, she took a hasty step back. “And I hope we’ll all get along with you, too, Mr. Whalen.”
“So I’m here for assessment as well?” He raised his brow, and she wasn’t sure if he were serious or not. “Are you going to put me through my paces? What’s it to be? Catch? Fetch? Roll over on command?”
Serena reacted with a quick intake of breath, too taken aback to answer. Every day, gorgeous dogs came through the doors of Paws-A-While—but never a human as attractive as this man.
Handsome wasn’t the right word to describe him. His jaw was too strong, his nose too crooked, his dark blond hair cropped too short for merely “handsome.” But the irregular features added up to something undeniably appealing. Something that made rash, unbidden fantasies flash through her mind of just the kind of paces she’d like to put him through.
Stunned at her own reaction, she managed to choke out a reply. “Of course not. We only have a formal assessment procedure for dogs, not people.” She was aiming for professional but feared that came out just plain pompous.
Flustered, she made the mistake of looking directly up to her new client’s face. Even in flats Serena hit five-ten, and although he was tall, she immediately connected with his eyes. Cool, quizzical blue eyes that seemed to enjoy her discomfiture and held her gaze for just a second too long.
She strained to remember the spiel she recited word perfect many times a day. “As we discussed, we cannot accept an animal for a regular day-care booking until we see proof of current vaccinations and, in animals over six months old, of . . . uh . . . spaying or cas . . . castration.”
Ohmigod. Why did she have to stumble over that word? She never stumbled on that word.
“Ouch,” he said.
Serena flushed so hot her ears burned. This was beyond embarrassing. Why did that word make her think testosterone? Levels of which this client seemed to have in abundance. The muscles. The voice.The . . .
Think no further, Serena.
She forced her eyes to stay at the level of his face. Her voice revved up so that she started to gabble. “Then we need to see how your dog socializes with our other guests. The other dogs, I mean. And with the staff, too, of course.”
His mouth twisted. It was a sexy mouth, the top lip narrower than the bottom. Did he find her amusing? Dammit. Above all, Serena wanted to be taken seriously. To prove to both friends and critics that she could be a successful businesswoman.
“I see,” he said. “So there’s no formal procedure for checking out the owners. How do we best impress you?”
Roll over on my command.
No! She would not let her thoughts stray in that direction. What was it about this Yorki-poo owner that made her forget she was taking a sabbatical from sex?
She cleared her throat. “Pay your bill in advance and never be late for pickup time? Always impresses.”
“Want the credit card now?”
“Sounds good to me,” she said. “You’re a point ahead already.”
“Good to know I’m in the race.” A glint of humor warmed his eyes. Humor and a fleeting glimpse of something else.
Did he recognize her?
She swallowed hard against a flash of panic. The shapeless clothes, the way she wore her hair didn’t fool everyone. Some people—inevitably men—identified her immediately.
But here she didn’t see the dawning recognition that quickly warmed to admiration tinged with varying degrees of lust.
No. What she’d seen in Nick Whalen’s eyes was something unsettling that she couldn’t put a name to. Something that skated around the corners of her mind without letting her catch it. She frowned. “Mr. Whalen, I . . . ?”
“Nick,” he said.
She paused.“Nick, I . . .”
For a long moment she held his gaze. Crazy really, for a client she had only just met, she had an unsettling sense of questions unasked and unanswered between them. It was as if a sudden stillness had fallen. She was aware of the tick-tick-ticking of the big beagle-shaped clock that hung above the counter, of the muted barks and yelps coming from the playroom, the too-loud sound of her own breathing. And of his.
Then Bessie whimpered at the lack of attention. She twisted in her owner’s arms. She yapped a series of sharp, piercing demands.
Serena blinked. She shook her head to clear her thoughts. “Bessie. Of course. Poor little pet.” She couldn’t remember what she’d been about to ask Nick Whalen but grabbed the opportunity to switch the conversation back to his dog. “You can put Bessie down now. She seems much calmer.”
Bessie’s owner was unperturbed. “Bessie sure as hell doesn’t like to be carried, that’s for sure.”
He bent down and carefully placed the Yorki-poo on the polished concrete floor, right on top of the trail of stenciled, outsized black paw prints that led to the counter.
Serena couldn’t help but watch his every move. She found it endearing the way such a strong, masculine man was so gentle with the little animal, his big hands cradling her. How would it feel for a woman to be on the receiving end of that touch? A tremor of anticipated pleasure vibrated through her at the thought.
She forced herself to look away. She hadn’t reacted like this to a man for a long time. If ever. This was crazy.
“And she hates riding in the car,” he added, as he stood back up. “That’s why she was making such a fuss.”
“That’s understandable.” Serena made herself stop thinking about Bessie’s master and watched Bessie as she cautiously sniffed around the base of the check-in counter, pausing to investigate the interesting doggy smells. “Don’t worry. We won’t hold her fussing against her. Lots of dog-kids are nervous their first time at day care.”
Nick Whalen was silent for a long, stunned moment. He stared at Serena with such an expression of incredulity that she had to bite her lip not to laugh.
“Did you say ‘dog-kid’?”
“Yes?” Her voice rose to a question mark.
He scowled. “This animal is a dog, not a child.”
“Of course she is. But it’s not an uncommon expression, believe me. They say there are more canines than children in San Francisco.”
“But a dog is a dog.”
“Except when it’s a child substitute.”
Serena followed his gaze to where Bessie was now sniffing the custom-made doggy toy box with great interest. It was hand carved and painted and Serena was very proud of it. The toy box was also the dumbest thing she could have put there, as it had become a magnet for unsupervised boy dogs to cock their legs on.
“Bessie is not a dog-kid.” A shudder of distaste ran through his big frame. “Never call her that.”
“Fur baby?” Serena offered.
“Especially not that,” he growled.
“I agree,” she said, in an attempt to placate him. “More of a cat term, I feel.”
“‘Dog’ will do,” he said, again with a growl his pint-sized pooch had no hope of emulating.
Serena frowned at his vehemence. Why would a man who tied a bow on his dog’s forehead—the exact same shade of amber as the streaks in her d
ark fur—object so strongly to such an everyday word as “dog-kid”? An everyday word in the Marina District, that was.
But she aimed to make Paws-A-While the best in this dog-eat-dog business. To prove that at twenty-eight, with a string of abandoned career attempts behind her, she could stick with it long enough to succeed. And that meant pandering to human clients as much as to their pooches.
“Got it,” she said in her most professional tone. “Bessie Whalen is only to be referred as a”—she spelled out the word—“D-O-G. I’ll mark that on her file as urgent for the staff’s attention.” She willed any note of sarcasm out of her voice.
“Bessie Whalen?” he said. “You call her Bessie Whalen like she’s my—?”
“Kid. Yes. It’s shorthand to identify your animal. Very common. First name of dog, last name of owner.”
Why didn’t he know that was how his dog would be registered in any dog-care facility? Her brow furrowed further. “What do you use on Bessie’s Facebook page?”
“Facebook page? For my dog?”
“No Facebook page? What about MySpace?”
His inarticulate splutter gave her his answer.
“Maybe she blogs under her Bessie Whalen name?” she suggested, unable to resist teasing this big, tough-looking man who seemed remarkably uninformed about everyday events in dog world.
“A dog blog? You’re not serious?”
His bemused reaction made it more and more difficult for Serena to keep a straight face. “You think I’m kidding you, don’t you?”
“Are you?”
“Maybe exaggerating a little,” she admitted, giving in to a twitch of a smile. She widened her eyes. “But, Mr. Whalen, uh, Nick, thousands—maybe millions—of dogs have their own blogs. Trust me.”
He had trouble sorting his words. “Bessie will never have a blog. Uh . . . that is, I will never write a blog for her.That is . . .”
“Yes?”
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