Fur Ball Fever

Chapter 1, Scene 2

The front door swung open in record time. A stained glass fanlight projected rainbow colors onto the foyer tiles. Grace swept inside, her gaze fixed on Murphy, who was hell-bent on tripping her in his excitement at reuniting with his favorite alpha male.

Concentrating on keeping her balance, she noted the bare feet attached to sinewy legs. Murphy gave those feet an enthusiastic lick. Grace allowed herself an upward glance. A shiver of awareness ran through her. She had to hand it to Nick. He pulled off half-naked with flair. It wasn't fair how good he looked, especially dripping wet and wearing only a towel and a scowl.

Taking the initiative, she thrust out her hand. "Nice to see you again, Nick."

All of you.

The warm, rich scent of skin-warmed sandalwood soap mingled with bacon and coffee. As he gripped her hand, his towel parted to reveal a sliver of tanned thigh dusted with fine hair. She yanked her hand away, but not before heat rose in her cheeks.

"It's a little late in the game for blushes, don't you think?" he drawled, pin-pointing the direction her thoughts had taken.

She watched with interest as his dark brows drew together in a frown that would send most women running for the hills. Grace held her ground, noting the way his fingers danced over the scar under his left ear before gripping the knotted towel, as if to hold it securely closed. Even his good ol' boy act revealed a healthy case of nerves. The man was as jittery as a mouse in a litter box.

The hint of vulnerability perked her up. He wasn't as indifferent as he wanted her to believe. She said, "Thanks for offering to listen."

"You mentioned a life-and-death situation."

Terrycloth stripes drew her gaze south. Nick might not look pleased to see her but apparently Mr. Happy had a mind of his own. For one fleeting moment, she stared at the nicely-tented towel. A warm ache started in the pit of her stomach, circled her belly, and lodged with humiliating precision in her girl-parts.

She dragged her gaze upwards to focus on his mouth. "Yeah, about that. I'm in need of, uh, your services."

One eyebrow shot up.

Oops. He thought she was coming on to him. "To help solve a crime," she elaborated.

His gaze sharpened. "So you're in a whole heap of trouble." The word again hovered, unspoken, between them.

She gave him the full impact of her baby blues. "It wasn't my fault. You're the only person who can help."

He expelled a sigh. "I reckon you're chomping at the bit to tell me what's going on."

She lowered her eyelashes to hide a glint of triumph. "Last night, someone kidnapped Miss Coco Chanel." She glanced up to assess his reaction.

Nick's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You mean to tell me you interrupted my shower over the disappearance of some fancy French fashion designer?"

In his agitation he let the towel slip an inch. To her regret he tightened the knot.

"Nope." Grace fixed her gaze on his face, and infused her voice with amused tolerance. "That Miss Coco died decades ago. I'm talking about a poodle. Last year's Fur Ball winner."

"Your life-and-death crisis is a missing dog?" He shook his head. "I can't believe I'm standing around half-naked and dripping, listening to nonsense about a poodle emergency." His muscles bunched as he took a step toward the door.

Determined to make him see reason, she moved between him and the door. "Hear me out. Ruby-Pearl Baumgartner—she's my client, and she's pushing ninety if she's a day—asked me to mind her poodle so she could visit her brother in Minneapolis while he recovers from knee surgery. Ruby-Pearl never goes anywhere without her pet, but her brother hates dogs. I'm the first person she's ever trusted enough to mind Miss Coco."