Three Dog Night (The Dogmothers Book 2)
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Three Dog Night
The Dogmothers
Book Two
Roxanne St. Claire
Three Dog Night
THE DOGMOTHERS BOOK TWO
Copyright © 2019 South Street Publishing
This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
All rights to reproduction of this work are reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission from the copyright owner. Thank you for respecting the copyright. For permission or information on foreign, audio, or other rights, contact the author, roxanne@roxannestclaire.com.
ISBN ebook: 978-1-7339121-4-3
ISBN print: 978-1-7339121-5-0
COVER ART: Keri Knutson (designer) and Dawn C. Whitty (photographer)
INTERIOR FORMATTING: Author E.M.S.
Table of Contents
THREE DOG NIGHT
Copyright
Before The Dogmothers…
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
A Dogfather/Dogmothers Family Reference Guide
About the Author
Before
The Dogmothers…
there was
The Dogfather!
Sit…Stay…Beg – book one
New Leash on Life – book two
Leader of the Pack – book three
Santa Paws is Coming to Town – book four (a holiday novella)
Bad to the Bone – book five
Ruff Around the Edges – book six
Double Dog Dare – book seven
Bark! The Herald Angels Sing – book eight (a holiday novella)
Old Dog New Tricks – book nine
The Dogmothers Series
Hot Under the Collar – book one
Three Dog Night – book two
Dachshund Through the Snow – book three
And many more to come!
Note to readers: For a complete guide to all of the characters in both The Dogfather and Dogmothers series, see the back of this book. Or visit www.roxannestclaire.com for a printable reference, book lists, buy links, and reading order of all my books. Be sure to sign up for my newsletter to find out when the next book is released! And join the private Dogfather Facebook group at https://www.facebook.com/groups/roxannestclairereaders/ for inside info on all the books and characters, sneak peeks, and a place to share the love of tails and tales!
Chapter One
Alex Santorini leaned back on the lace-draped folding chair, scanned the terrace crowded with friends and family, and let his gaze move over the vineyards bathed in sunset yellows. He ignored the lively debate going on next to him, as two of his siblings and a few of their new “step” cousins argued the benefits of whiskey over ouzo. He preferred wine, like the glass of Pinot Noir in front of him.
Taking a sip, he savored the notes of oak, blueberry, cinnamon, and that hint of pepper. It was good. Not perfect, but then, what was? It paired well with the braised lamb, which, in his professional chef’s opinion, needed more rosemary and less garlic, but the meal was more than serviceable.
His mother clearly hadn’t needed Alex’s skills in planning or executing the food and drink for her wedding. She had brought him in on an early planning meeting here at the winery, but a cocky-as-hell banquet chef had taken over the menu discussion. Alex had spent his time quietly admiring Overlook Glen Vineyards. Well, actually, it was the owner of this tiny but elegant winery whom he admired that day…and on any other occasion when he’d met Grace Donovan.
Tall, cool, with wheat-toned blond hair and eyes that reminded him of the blue-green waters of the Caribbean Sea, the woman had attracted and intrigued him from the moment they’d met.
He shifted in his chair, watching a group of friends chatting with the bride and groom, regaling the new Mrs. Kilcannon with a story that made her belly-laugh. He couldn’t help smiling because nearly a hundred people—many of whom were branches of the same family tree—had gathered at this spectacular venue in the Blue Ridge Mountains to witness the vows and celebrate the union of Katie Santorini and Daniel Kilcannon.
Both his mother and her brand-new husband had lost the great loves of their lives, and neither had expected this second round of romance to bloom as they entered their sixties. Alex couldn’t be happier for Mom, or the man who’d proven himself worthy of such a great lady.
But Alex’s gaze didn’t stay on the newlyweds for long, because the taste of the wine in his mouth spurred him to look for the woman who made it.
He’d gotten no more than glimpses of Grace since they’d arrived for the late afternoon wedding and reception, catching a flash of a sleek blond ponytail or a peek at long legs in a tight skirt when she glided past him in spiky heels. He’d brushed by her once and was rewarded with a quick, distracted smile that barely reached turquoise eyes and a whiff of something that smelled like a flower garden in summer.
He’d cracked a joke in passing, too, and then commented on the tablescapes that managed to capture the russets and golds of a North Carolina October, but his humor and compliments fell flat with her.
Which only made him want her more.
The toasts were made, dinner was served, and dancing had already started. It was the perfect time to…try again. All he needed was a good excuse to talk to her.
Sipping the wine, he let it linger on his tongue, this time picking up something different. Something…musty. Again, not a taste the average Joe would ever notice, but Alex wasn’t average, and if there was one thing he could do, it was taste.
Maybe that’s what he could talk to Grace about.
“’Scuze me,” he murmured to his brother John, who just held up his hand and stayed deep in conversation with their sister, Cassie, and her fiancé, Braden Mahoney, who happened to be the groom’s nephew.
Oh yeah. One too many Kilcannons, Mahoneys, and Santorinis at this table. He needed someone else completely. He needed Grace Donovan.
His siblings barely noticed that he grabbed the wine bottle from the table and headed across the fieldstone terrace. He hadn’t gotten far when he passed two little old ladies rocking with laughter.
“You two look like you’re having fun.” He grinned at Yiayia, who, despite the Greek title, looked much less like a “grandma” than the woman next to her. Gramma Finnie, on the other hand, was the quintessential aging Irish lass, with white hair, bifocals, and a shot of Jameson’s in her knotted old fist.
She raised that glass to him. “’Tis a happy day, lad.”
“It sure is,” he agreed, pausing to talk to the two women who’d become fast—if utterly unlikely—friends who were always up to some sort of trouble.
From the gle
am in the gaze Yiayia pinned on him, tonight was no different.
“Where’s Yianni?” his grandmother asked, using John’s Greek name and looking past him.
“We’re identical twins, Yiayia, not Siamese. I left him behind.” He winked at her. “In more ways than one.”
She tsked and shook her head, leaning closer to Gramma Finnie. “That’s my Alexander. It’s always a competition with his brother, that one.”
He shrugged, not bothering to disagree. Although they worked side by side running three locations of his family’s successful Greek restaurants, Alex and John still enjoyed a brotherly and mostly friendly lifestyle of one-upsmanship. Alex hated to admit it, but with John’s genius IQ and easygoing personality, his older twin—by four minutes—had him beat at most things. Alex came in second everywhere but in the kitchen. And with women. Alex won in the woman department every time.
“Did you need John for something?” he asked.
Yiayia lifted a carefully drawn brow and shared a look with the other woman. “I wanted him to know that pretty Grace Donovan just headed back there.” She pointed toward the back of the winery building where a stone archway led to the banquet kitchens.
“She did?” He filed that knowledge and mentally thanked his grandmother. “Why would John need to know that?”
“Just…”
“’Tis nothin’, lad,” Gramma Finnie said quickly, shooting a meaningful glance at her partner in crime.
But Alex knew exactly what that meaning was. Ever since their “success” with Cassie and Braden, these two fancied themselves Greek and Irish yentas, and the focus of their matchmaking efforts seemed to be the many grandchildren they had between them now that Yiayia’s daughter-in-law had married Gramma Finnie’s son.
But…wait. John and Grace? Oh, hell no. “Grace is back there, you said?” He was already moving in the direction of the kitchen.
“Quick.” Yiayia flicked her fingers. “Tell your brother. It’s his chance with the pretty vintner.”
It’s my chance with her. “Sure. I’ll get right on that.” He held up the bottle as a farewell and hustled straight toward the kitchen entrance, where a server came rushing out with a tray.
“Can I help you?” the young man asked, glancing at the bottle. “You need another at your table?”
“I need to talk to Ms. Donovan. About the wine.”
“Oh, okay.” He glanced over his shoulder, behind a wall that blocked Alex’s view into the hallway. “This man has…his wine.”
“I have this under control.” Grace’s calm, steady voice was at odds with the click of her stiletto heels on flagstone on the other side of that wall, matching the surprisingly strong beat of Alex’s heart.
The server hustled away, and Alex used the final few seconds to brace himself for the impact of the woman, which was like a nine on the Richter scale, followed by a tsunami.
She came around the corner and stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of him.
“Oh, it’s…you.” Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly, while the slightest rush of blood deepened her creamy complexion.
Okay, then. Same scale, same tsunami. Good to know.
“Is anything the matter, Mr. Santorini?” she asked, instantly regaining any composure that might have slipped.
Not a damn thing was the matter. Not with her, anyway. He resisted the urge to let his gaze coast over her narrow but decidedly feminine frame, trying instead to think of a good reason for why he’d come marching back here with the wine. Maybe a chance to get her to show him the wine cellars?
“This wine won’t work,” he said.
“The Pinot Noir 1410?” She sounded stunned.
“Is that what you call this?”
She lifted one brow, sucking in a breath so her cheekbones were more prominent and glossy pink lips pursed in a little O, as if she were about to kiss…something. “It’s from barrel number 1410, so yes, that’s what we call it.”
“You couldn’t think of a more creative name?”
Her expression melted to something a little more like amusement. “So it’s the name on the label that’s bothering you, or what’s inside? Because I’m confident the Pinot Noir is perfect for this meal.”
“It’s a little…lifeless.”
She inched back. “That wine was made using the latest viticulture and oenology, measured with sulfur dioxide and genetically modified grapes.”
“Sounds like a science experiment. I was hoping you could show me something else in your cellars.” Too obvious? He tempered the invitation with a sly smile. “Maybe you have something with a, I don’t know, cork?”
She sighed as if she’d heard it all before. “Actually, a screw-top doesn’t make a wine less desirable. It’s a proven scientific fact.”
“Proven by who? The box-wine makers?”
She didn’t laugh. “By the people who understand that corks allow molecules of air to oxidize the tannins. I’d cork a more complex wine, but not this one.”
“Well, I’d like something more complex. Preferably a Shiraz for this course, but we could settle for a Merlot. I’m happy to look with you.”
“Settle?” She searched his face for a moment, then took the wine bottle, their fingers brushing with a sweet electric shock. “I can assure you there’s nothing wrong with this wine, Mr. Santorini. Maybe…” She glanced up, holding his gaze with a dare in her eyes. “There’s something wrong with your mouth.”
He almost smiled. “Are you serious? I’m a chef.”
“Ah, just what I need tonight. Another temperamental chef.”
“Got problems in the kitchen, boss?”
She blew out a breath. “My chef is…feeling the stress of the event.”
Her chef was a pain in the butt, based on Alex’s one and only encounter with the guy.
“Every time I go at it with him, I kind of want to…” She lifted the bottle over his head with a teasing glimmer in her eye. “Give him the first pour.”
The way she said it, the way she looked right into his eyes, was like she’d just turned up the heat to an eleven. “You wouldn’t dare.”
He sensed the bottle tipping over his head. “It would give me so…much…pleasure.”
Pleasure. Oh, he could give her that. Heat pooled low in his gut at the loaded word.
Without even realizing it, they’d inched close enough that he could smell jasmine in her hair and count the individual eyelashes that fanned almost to her brows. He couldn’t look away.
“But I can only have one unhappy chef at a time,” she whispered with a sigh of surrender, lowering the bottle. “I have a Shiraz.”
Alex stood still, his whole body humming as they locked gazes. After a moment, he rubbed a knuckle under his lower lip where his beard itched. “I’d like a…taste.”
“I’ll arrange for the server to replace your wine.” Shuttering her eyes closed, she stepped away, then headed back down the stone corridor, her heels clicking, her hair swaying, his whole body fighting the desire to follow.
He turned, though, loosening the tuxedo jacket, which suddenly felt too tight and too hot, frustrated at the strikeout.
“Every time,” he muttered. “Every damn time.”
As he headed back to the airy, open terrace, the sound of giddy laughter pulled his attention to the table where Gramma Finnie and Yiayia were clinking crystal like the Irish and Greek representatives from the UN had just signed a new trade agreement.
“What’s all this about?” he asked as he passed behind his grandmother, placing a hand on her shoulder.
Yiayia looked up at him with a spark in her dark eyes. “We were just toasting…” She gave a questioning look to Gramma Finnie, who nodded as if giving permission. “Frenemies.”
“What the hell is that?”
“Pru says it means enemies who become friends,” Yiayia said, referring Gramma Finnie’s teenaged granddaughter who spent a lot of time with these octogenarians. “And then they become…” She waggled her eyebrow
s, cracking him up.
“We couldna’ help overhearin’ bits of your conversation, lad.” Gramma Finnie tapped her ear under fine, white hair. “Mightn’t have picked up every word with the music and talkin’, but we got the gist of it.”
“Which would be?”
“We told you she belongs with Yianni,” Yiayia said.
He snorted. “So he can wave a spreadsheet at her? When I could cover her in kourabiedes?”
The older woman laughed. “You do make a mean cookie, grandson.”
“But so much animosity there.” Gramma Finnie pointed to where the conversation had taken place. “We simply couldn’t tell if you two want to beat each other or—”
“Eat each other,” Yiayia finished.
He threw his head back with a hearty laugh. “Well, as soon as I figure it out, I’ll tell you.” He leaned over and planted a kiss on Yiayia’s head. “I don’t know who or what turned you from a nasty old battle-ax to one of my favorite people, but thank them for me.”
Yiayia looked up, all humor gone from her eyes. “I do. Every day.”
He blew them a kiss and went back to his table, scanning the dance floor for any sign of Grace. None yet, but Alex loved a challenge, and he wasn’t about to give up on this one.
Chapter Two
For the remainder of the evening, during all the dancing—especially when the Greek side of the wedding party took over the floor—and throughout the bride and groom’s exit and the crew’s quiet but efficient cleanup of the farm tables dotting the terrace, Grace carefully avoided Alex Santorini. She had enough problems tonight and didn’t need a second battle with that man and his…his…