Fur Ball Fever

Chapter 38

Fur Ball Saturday dawned bright and sunny. Grace figured it was a good omen. She needed all the help she could get. Although she and Nick had dedicated the last three days to intensive canine training, it was hardly enough to counteract two years of disobedience.

They had to be at Saltwater Stadium by ten a.m. Grace twirled in front of her mirror, gave her costume an approving nod. Laced-up stays compressed her curves into submission. Tradition dictated that each Fur Ball team select a theme. Grace had settled on Gone with the Wind, partly as a nod to Nick's southern heritage, but mainly because a corset formed part of the costume. She hadn't asked Auntie Beth the theme of her entry with Milt and his cat. There were some things you were better off not knowing.

Convinced that millions of brain cells were dying from oxygen deprivation, she stuck her head out her window and tried to suck in a lungful of air. No wonder women fainted during the Civil War era, but hey, an hourglass figure was worth the agony.

While Auntie Beth got dressed, Grace contemplated the last three days. Ever since she'd returned Miss Coco to Ruby-Pearl—glossing over the dog-napping part—the remainder of the week had whizzed by. Between police debriefings, wedding discussions, and doggy boot camp, Grace had carved enough time to conduct an in-depth investigation of Nick's trust level.

A tiny smile touched her mouth. Apparently, her fiancé trusted her a lot.

She stared into the mirror. Her hair was parted down the center, gelled to within an inch of its life, and upswept under a wide-brimmed bonnet. She was looping the hat's bottle green ribbon in a floppy bow beneath her chin when the doorbell chimed. She gave her skirts a final pat before rushing downstairs. With a rustle of crinolines and a swish of green brocade, she flung open the door. Her heart did a somersault followed by a couple of back springs.

Nick's slicked-back hair, a pencil-thin moustache he'd grown for the occasion, the perfectly tailored tuxedo paired with ruffled white shirt and satin bowtie turned her legs to jelly.

She focused on the sensual twist of his mouth. "Well fiddle dee dee, Rhett Butler," she said in a breathless voice, hardly acting at all because of the corset. "I declare, you look so handsome, you take my breath away." She moved close enough to catch a whiff of clean skin and aftershave. Her heart scrambled.

"Miz Scarlett," Nick's Texas accent, southern with a twist, came through loud and clear. He stepped closer to Grace, the focused look in his eyes making his intent clear. "A woman like you should be kissed, and often, by someone who knows how," he drawled, stealing a line from Gone with the Wind.

After a short, indrawn breath, which was all the corset allowed, she let him do exactly that. After her legs steadied, she said, "Oh, Rhett, I swear another kiss like that and my reputation will be gone forever."

Amused gray eyes heated to molten silver. "Scarlett, my dear, after last night, I do believe that ship has sailed."

"Sir, you are no gentleman."

"And you, Miss, are no lady," he said, quoting his character. In a normal voice, he added, "Thank goodness."

Something hot and sensual simmered between them. Things were starting to get interesting, when Murphy's appearance interrupted the foreplay disguised as banter. The dog darted through the kitchen door, a strip of cardboard dangling from his mouth. His doggy-sized Confederate jacket had a greasy smear down the front. The cap hung askew, still anchored by wide elastic tucked underneath his sweet little beard. Decked out in full fetish regalia, Auntie Beth puffed behind Murphy as he skidded into a U-turn upon sighting Nick.