by Nancy Warren
"Of course it's Mimi," Sophie cried. "No thanks to you. Yes, that's right, Sir Galahad. Hold them there. Good dog."
And she ran into the princess bedroom only to return with a torn piece of badly tooth-marked denim.
Oh, damn it, she was good, his Sophie. Holding the piece of denim aloft, she said to Jonathon, "Do you recognize this?"
She glanced from the lawyer to the cop, who seemed to be enjoying the drama as much as Vince himself was.
Jonathon yelled, "Get this dog off me. Somebody do something."
"He recognizes your scent," Sophie said in a tone that could only be called smug. "If I gave him this piece of your jeans—they are yours, aren't they? You were wearing them when you assaulted us—and told him to attack, I wonder what he'd do ..." She cast a glance at Vince from under her lashes, and he nearly laughed aloud. God, he loved this woman.
"Don't you dare. I'll sue you if that bastard bites me."
"Or me," Esme put in.
"What do you think, Vince?" Sophie asked.
"I think Sir Galahad could do some serious damage to Jonathon if that hunk of blue jeans has his scent
on it."
Slowly, she lowered the torn fabric. The Doberman was pacing in front of the couch, still growling low in his throat, hackles up in warning. He made it clear to all that he was only waiting for the word and he'd sink the very sharp teeth he'd bared into Jonathon.
The temptation to let the dog at his murderous cousin was almost irresistible.
Sweat dampened Jonathon's pale brow as she brought the cloth closer to the big dog. "I know he will attack if I tell him to, but, Vince, do we know for sure he can be called off?"
"Never tried it," Vince answered truthfully.
Sir Galahad had caught the scent of the denim, and his growls became louder. Frankly, Vince wasn't sure how well trained he was anyway. They were playing with fire here. Just as he was about to call a halt, Jonathon shouted, "All right. It was me. Now get that fucking dog out of here."
"Here, Sir Galahad." Vince called him, and after giving one very low, don't think this is over growl, the Doberman stalked to Vince's side and sat, still tense and alert.
"Good boy."
"I really think someone had best explain what this is all about," said the lawyer once again.
"I'm going to tell you a little story," Vince said. "And then we'll watch a movie. What you'll understand
by the end of it is that my precious cousins here have been trying to murder Mimi to get their hands on Aunt Marjorie's fourteen million bucks."
"That's ridiculous," Esme snapped, her tears forgotten.
But, by the time he and Sophie had told their story, and everyone present had watched the video recording of Esme getting the two of them out of the room while Jonathon fed Mimi the cookies he'd believed were poisoned, his claims didn't seem ridiculous. After he'd provided copies of the toxicology report on the original cookies from the original tin, and the lab reports on the Doberman, the cousins had pretty much shut up and glared sullenly at the floor.
He gave copies of everything to the lawyer, who said, "Jonathon and Esme, if it were in my power to revoke the money your great-aunt left you, I'd do it. Sadly it isn't, but I can promise that no matter what happens to Mimi, you two will never get another cent from your aunt's estate." Then he rose, patted Mimi perfunctorily on the head, shook Vince's hand, nodded to Sophie and the police officer, then left.
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. "Ma'am," said the cop. "Do you want to press charges against these two? They shot at you."
She looked at Jonathon and Esme, at Mimi and Sir Galahad, and finally at Vince. "No," she said softly.
"I don't."
"I'm opening a case file on this anyway," his buddy, Ed the cop, said, staring down at the cousins. "I find out you two are so much as jaywalking and your asses are mine. Got it?"
Miserable nods. "You'd better go before they change their minds."
Without another word, and only a backward glance at the Doberman, they scuttled out the door. Sir Galahad, denied his pound of flesh, gave a bark/snarl combo that speeded them on their way.
"Thanks for doing this, Ed," Vince said, shaking his old friend's hand.
"Anytime, Bulldog. After you warned me they'd probably go to the cops, I made sure their call got routed to me." He chuckled suddenly. "I don't think they'll be bothering you again."
After he left, Vince found Sophie on the floor, hugging both dogs to her. What the hell, he thought as he joined them there.
"You know," he said as the Doberman knocked into one of the tables, and Mimi leaped out of the way catching her paw in a lamp cord, "we're going to have to get a bigger place."
"I beg your pardon?"
Vince grinned at her, this woman he'd been waiting for all his life. "Two of us, two dogs, and four kids
on the way." He looked around his two-bedroom apartment. "We're going to need a bigger place."
"Oh, but, Vince," she said, her voice catching and her eyes shining. "I didn't mean—"
"I did." He kissed her. Then Mimi kissed her. Then Sir Galahad slobbered all over them both. And they were laughing, and hugging, and he knew that nothing was ever going to be the same again.
"I love you," he said.
"I love you, too." She laughed and threw herself at him. "And you'll really learn French?"
"I have a feeling that's going to be the easy part. .. Come on," he said, hauling her to her feet.
"Where are you taking me?"
"To bed."
At the door to his room he stopped and turned to confront two canines eager to continue the game they'd started on the floor. "And you two are not invited."
With a tiny yap of disappointment, his fourteen million dollar poodle minced off to leap onto his favorite chair. The Doberman made a grumbling sound and followed Mimi, bypassing the chair to take the couch.
"Are we really going to have four children?" Sophie asked once they were alone.
He slipped his hand under her sweater and palmed her breasts just the way she liked.
"Honey," he said, "everything's negotiable."
* * *
