The Chihuahua Affair: Best in Show

by Amy Jarecki

  “Can I give you a lift once we get to New York?” the man asked.

  Flattery? A slow, seductive smile stretched across her lips. She hadn’t even tried to flirt and this man offered to help her. How nice, but she knew better than to accept a lift from a stranger even if he could afford the first-class ticket, an Armani suit and had good taste in cologne. She politely declined.

  He reached into his breast pocket and handed her his business card. “Here, if you need anything while you’re in the city, call me.”

  She smiled and accepted the card, noting he was a stock broker, Benjamin Bridge. “You’re a broker? Were you there on nine-eleven?”

  “No, I was still in college, thank God.”

  “So where do you work now?”

  “Actually, I work at home as much as the boss will allow. The rest of the time I’m in an office on Wall Street.”

  “That sounds nice. But why live in the city if you can work at home sometimes?”

  “Meetings. And I like New York. I wouldn’t live anywhere else.”

  Monica put Benjamin’s card in her purse. She thought it might come in handy to have a local acquaintance should anything go awry, and he piqued her interest. But then she had to be on her best behavior and show Matt that she could be good.

  After they landed, Monica was met by the chauffeur of a town car, who was dressed in a black suit and cap, holding up a sign that read “Monica Simpson.”

  In red, four-inch heels, she scuttled up to him. “Hi. I’m Monica.”

  “Good evening, ma’am. I’m Leonardo. I’ve been assigned as your chauffeur for the duration of your trip.”

  Thank you, Daddy. “Can you take me straight to the New York Palace Hotel? I’m all hot and stuffy after such a long flight.”

  Once checked in, she ordered room service from her stately suite. She felt powerful. Not often did she venture from Los Angeles on her own and she had never been on a business trip like this one. Thank goodness her father had arranged for a town car to chauffeur her to appointments.

  The following day went pretty well—her line even got a spot on a major upcoming lingerie fashion show. By the time the car pulled up to the New York Palace Hotel, she was exhausted. Dutiful Leonardo opened her door and offered his hand. “Will you be needing me again this evening, Ms. Simpson?”

  Rain started falling and Monica was in no mood to see the sights. “I don’t think so but be here by nine tomorrow morning. We have a big day ahead of us.”

  Riding the elevator to her room, she smirked. She would get what she wanted. She always did.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Amanda’s birthday came with half the student body of Shawnee crowding into the shed, music blaring, bodies gyrating. With Matt and Maude to help chaperone, Rebecca managed to get through the night without the neighbors calling the police.

  Once the party excitement had passed, Rebecca made time to look at Matt’s condo. Though there was no way she could have anticipated the surge in her business, she promised Matt she would help and she stood by her word. Fortunately, she didn’t feel a time crunch with Matt. She’d make a few sketches, get his approval, work out a budget and plan improvements from there.

  Since he had given her the key-code to his condo, she figured she’d surprise him. He said he was working at a can manufacturing plant up in Bucks County which was a good hour away. She could make the sketches and surprise him for Christmas.

  In her comfortable jeans, a Penn State sweatshirt and sneakers, Rebecca punched in the numbers Matt had given her. As she opened the door, she understood why he needed a decorator. The smell of fresh paint still lingered. A black leather couch sat plopped in the center of the living room embellished by a floor lamp and a television that rested atop a cardboard box. She walked in and took a turn around. The space had arched windows that cast ample light. Her feet sank into plush ivory carpet, and the walls, void of a single work of art, were painted a bland but practical eggshell white.

  She opened her sketch book and started in. The outdated couch must go. With Matt in mind, she envisioned a worked-in walnut leather sectional superbly crafted and accented with brass nail heads. She sketched rustic hardwood coffee and end tables, the former resting on a faux grizzly bearskin. She added a lamp on the end table and her pencil swiftly sketched wall pictures.

  Landscapes might appeal, or something modern that tied in the brown of the couch. Yes, and in the corner a huge plant would be nice. Maybe a giant silk palm so he doesn’t have to water.

  As Rebecca moved to the kitchen, she heard a bark. “Patches.” Walking across the room, she opened the door, discovering the laundry and the dog. Patches jumped out barking like Dino on the Flintstones but as soon as he picked up her scent, he jumped on her leg wagging his tail.

  “Come here, sweetie pie. My goodness, were you stuck in that nasty old room?” She laughed and bent down to scratch him behind the ears. “You want to help me?”

  Patches jumped around in a circle, excited to have the attention. Rebecca turned and looked at the kitchen, which aside from a stool at the counter and appliances, was totally bare. Her pencil automatically started drawing.

  The wall has so much potential—a mural? Hmm, maybe a scene from a Paris café? A walnut table with four tall chairs would suit Matt but I do like the dark marble countertops.

  Patches caught her eye as he ran away from a puddle. “Oh dear, here I am, a dog trainer and I didn’t think to put you out. What’s Matt going to say?”

  She grabbed some paper towels off the counter and opened the cupboard under the sink to look for some cleaner. Reaching for a spray-bottle of bleach, she saw something red stuck behind the garbage can.

  Is that a scrapbook? That’s an odd place to stow it.

  Reaching back, she fished for the book and sat on the floor. Opening the cover she read the inscription:

  For your eyes only, Matty. Love always, Monica.

  She frowned. Why was this behind the garbage can? Matt never mentioned Monica. Trepidation needled at the back of her mind. I really shouldn’t be looking at this. She ran her hand across the cover. Maybe just a peek.

  Her breath quickened when she turned the page. A curvaceous, completely naked blonde draped over a red couch, her tongue hanging out in a sensual expression of lust. Rebecca turned another page. Monica’s face pouted suggestively as hands with long, cherry-red fingernails squeezed her breasts together, her legs parted.

  Dear God.

  Cheeks burning like she was held to a fire, Rebecca gaped at the picture. While her head spun, she slammed the book, grabbed her sketches and ran.

  Opening the door, a high pitched gasp shot through her throat as her eyes leveled with those of the blonde.

  Monica.

  Rebecca hesitated for only a second, but found no words. Patches ran up behind her, barking a ferocious warning.

  The evil woman, wearing a pencil skirt, snug white blouse and black patent-leather stilettos, was the first to speak. Her eyes darkened, a cool tone emitted from the plastic face. “I recognize you from that dog show.”

  “Oh?” Rebecca held back the urge to say it was difficult to recognize her with her clothes on.

  Ignoring Patches’ incessant barks, Monica pushed her way through the door with a hot sniff. “I’m here to claim what’s mine. I’m going to marry Matt Johnson and no one’s going to stop me, especially a redheaded crow like you.”

  Rebecca’s mouth gaped. She couldn’t force the words to come. Her hands shaking, she slammed the door and raced to her car.

  A redheaded crow? Who does she think she is? That, rude, insulting, nasty, vulgar excuse for a woman!

  Tears streamed down Rebecca’s cheeks as her knuckles blanched white around the steering wheel. Blinded by rage, her mind raced through a myriad of emotions.

  Why hasn’t Matt mentioned Monica before? She must be from California. She sure looks like it. When did she arrive? Marriage? And he kissed me…a lot! That two-timing son-of-a-bitch. How could I h
ave missed it? How could I be so gullible? I know better, I’m not cut out for this. Amanda is right. I’m getting older. Who am I fooling?

  By the time Rebecca pulled into her driveway, she was coiled like a spring in a pogo stick. She dragged herself to her desk. She leaned her head against her hands and she sobbed. With an empty house, she wailed with the pain of the past three years. How could she have been such a fool, an idiot, a gullible middle aged nincompoop? For the first time since Henry died, she had allowed the ice encasing her heart to melt. She had been duped—used in a sordid plot.

  Why had she let him in?

  He wanted a chick magnet, remember?

  Why had she opened herself up to this wrenching pain? She rocked to console herself, trying to gain control. The dogs called to her, their barks growing in volume. They reminded her it was time for dinner. Her nerves racked but she knew her duty. Her Chihuahuas helped her maintain her sanity.

  Turning, she looked at the lovely puppies that she adored. For years her dogs had been her happy companions, her therapy. She reached for Bruno and cuddled him on her lap. He gazed up at her adoringly. “You would never stab me in the back, would you, Bruno?”

  Methodically, she let the dogs out while she prepared their food and changed their water. The routine calmed her spirit. Here she felt safe. This was where God intended for her to be. In her studio she was in control of her life, surrounded by loving puppies, running her business with confidence. She would never open up to that kind of pain again.

  ***

  As always, Matt drove into the garage and entered through the laundry room door. He sensed a presence that made the hair on the back of his neck prick. The door to the kitchen was ajar and Patches was nowhere in sight. Hearing the television, he reached for his baseball bat. His eyes darted around the kitchen. With guarded steps, he crept to the living room.

  Patches yipped. That’s when he saw the blonde hair over the back of the couch.

  “Matty. You’re home!” Monica jumped up and glided across the floor. She flung her arms around him and planted a light peck on his mouth.

  He wiped his lips with the back of his arm. “How did you get in?” He leaned the bat against the wall.

  “Oh, Matt, you know how resourceful I am.” With a sly, Scarlett O’Hara grin, she avoided his question.

  He took a step back and broke from her embrace. “What are you doing here?”

  “Matt Johnson, I just flew all the way from California, and you can’t even give me a warm welcome?”

  She closed the gap and ran her fingers along his cheek. He grabbed her hand and held it in front of her face. “No, I can’t say I’m happy to see you.”

  She pulled her hand away. “Ow. That hurt.”

  “Did it?”

  “Come on, Matty, let’s kiss and makeup. I know I was bad but now I realize how wrong I was. I love you, Matt Johnson. I promise I will never be bad again.” She walked in to him once more, this time not touching but assaulting his personal space.

  He studied her pretty face. She was stunningly beautiful but unreal, flawless. She had fuller lips than he remembered. More plastic surgery? Though his heart burned with rage, his maleness responded to her advances. He hated his weakness. The last time he had a woman, Monica had been under him. How long ago that seemed. His breath quickened as the animalistic desire threatened to overpower his rational self.

  “Matt? Say something, honey.”

  Monica stepped closer, her breasts brushed against his chest. His knees weakened by her advance, his mouth grew dry. A part of him wanted her, wanted sex—to thrust deep inside her and ride her like a Brahman bull. In his mind, he could see himself take the harlot, clothes on, right there up against the wall. Shaking, he clamped his hands on her shoulders.

  She sucked in a breath and threw her head back, an Amazon making a conquest. The smug look of victory in her eyes slapped him across the face like the sting of a wet towel. He didn’t want this. Matt pushed her back. “You lost your chance, Monica. Go home. I’m not about to make the same mistake twice.”

  Monica stomped her foot in indignation. “Of all the ungrateful bastards I have ever met. You have no appreciation of the time I spent coming all the way out to this God-forsaken place.”

  She clomped over to the couch and snatched up her purse with a haughty glare. “You just lost the best woman you’ll ever know, you loser.”

  “I beg to differ,” Matt growled under his breath as he watched her storm out of his life, slamming the door. Matt clenched his fists to stop the tremors. Every time he encountered that woman his emotions fumed out of control. He needed a drink.

  But he stopped short when his heart flew to his throat. Damn. The red scrapbook sat on the kitchen counter.

  What’s that doing there?

  His mind flashed back to the day he threw it at the garbage.

  It missed.

  Snatching a garbage bag, he grabbed the book, shoved it inside and took it to the dumpster. “You’re never going to plague me again.” He tossed it in and brushed the filth from his hands.

  ***

  Monica rushed to the town car and barked at Leonardo. “Take me back to New York. Now, you imbecile.”

  In the thick of rush hour, Leonardo pulled into the heavy traffic. “You sure you want to start back now? Traffic’s bad.”

  “You’re from New York. All you have is traffic. What’s the big deal?”

  “No problem, ma’am. I’ll get you there.”

  “There’s a hundred in it for you if you can get me back in three hours.”

  That was all Leonardo needed to step on the gas, weaving through the bumper-to-bumper traffic on the turnpike. Monica dug in her purse for that business card. Finding it, she dialed.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi Ben. This is Monica. You sat next to me on the flight from L.A. a couple days ago?”

  “Mon-i-ca. It’s great to hear your voice. How’re your lingerie sales going?”

  “My line’s going to feature in the Grand Department Store fashion show.”

  “That’s wonderful, congratulations.”

  “Thank you. I’m on my way back to New York from Philadelphia. What would you say to a late celebratory dinner?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The day after her visit to the condo, Rebecca pulled herself together for the final training class before the holidays. Working the client dogs with Amanda, her gut clamped into a rock when the shed door opened and Matt stepped in with a rush of frigid air.

  Amanda groaned. “Good old Matt again.”

  What’s he doing here? I thought he’d stay away now that his California girl is there.

  Rebecca didn’t look up, but continued to talk to one of her students who was having difficulty with her Beagle.

  Matt entered the ring with Patches and walked him down and back, practicing as all the students did before class began. “Hi, Becky.” He walked past, that deceiving smile fixed in place.

  “Hello.” Her tone was flat and her gaze remained fixed on the Beagle.

  This being the last class before the holidays, the shed was packed. Rebecca always had a small Christmas party afterward where everyone brought refreshments to share. Happy to split the class, but remorseful that she had to socialize after, Rebecca asked Amanda to take the small dogs so she could focus on the large ones and avoid interaction with Matt.

  It was impossible not to notice him, however. Every time she looked up he managed to be in her line of sight. Rebecca walked down the line of dogs, correcting each handler along the way. At the end of the line she just rolled her eyes. Kneeling on the ground right across the divider he flashed his damned grin.

  Look at him smiling at me when I know he has that woman at home. Does he think I’m that gullible?

  Showing no sign of emotion, Rebecca whipped around and addressed her class. “Leads up. Take them around.” Anger boiled in the pit of her stomach and her instructions became snappier. “Don’t let the Border Collie get ahead of
you. Give the Setter his head. You are an extension of your dog, match his gait. Look in the mirror. You are all out of step. Stop!”

  Rebecca huffed to the front of the line. “One at a time, around. Concentrate on moving in concert with your dog. For this exercise, forget about the judge and feel your dog. Move in unison with him.”

  Her jaw tightened as she watched each person fumble around the ring. Was it the holidays? She folded her arms and tapped her foot as each student sought for her approval. They all failed in her eyes.

  Might as well start the party now.

  Rebecca looked up. Matt waved.

  Shit.

  “Stand your dogs for exam.” She sighed, the deep intake of air allowing some release for her nerves. Each dog gazed at her with trusting eyes as she ran her hands over every one. They all wanted to please, wagging their tails and looking at her expectantly. Once a dog had been to her class a couple of times, he knew he had a good chance of getting a piece of liver from her pocket if he behaved. She helped them overcome their propensity to shy from judges by giving them treats, which she handed out sparingly. She gave just enough treats to keep their interest but not so many they expected one every time she handled them. It was a game no dog could resist.

  When the hour-long class finally passed, Sandra, the handler of the Great Dane, pulled Rebecca aside. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, of course. Why?”

  “You seemed up tight tonight.”

  “I did? I guess it’s the frenzy before the holidays. Never enough time, you know.” Feeling anything but festive, Rebecca glanced at the desk which held every variety of cookies imaginable. Someone brought fruit punch and paper cups were being passed around. She’d have to try to be pleasant.

  “Becky,” Matt’s voice resounded behind her and caused an unwanted shudder.

  Lips pursed, she turned. “Matt?”

  “Is everything okay? You seem upset.”

  “Why the hell is everyone asking me that?”