“Yeah. I believe that.”
He really did. He didn’t know why. His gut instinct told him she was honest. Was innocent of plotting to gain a fortune. But he didn’t know why he should feel so relieved. Or so glad that they were now on a level playing field.
“Great,” she said, “I’m pleased we got that sorted out. I ... I didn’t like you thinking badly of me.” She glanced at her watch. “We’d better get going or we’ll lose the cortege.”
Then she cried, “Oh no!” and yanked on Brutus’s collar to jerk his head upward.
“What now?” asked Tom, thinking wearily of regurgitated peanut butter cookie on his pride and joy: custom-dyed leather upholstery. Made especially for him in Germany.
Maddy looked at him, her eyes wary as she clutched the dog defensively to her. “Don’t get mad but I ... uh ...I’m afraid that while we’ve been talking, Brutus has been, uh, chewing on the edge of the car seat. Not much. Just a nibble really. A teensy, weensy nibble.That’s all. Really.”
Tom felt the blood rush to his head. Now Maddy would really hear him growl.
As soon as they reached the cemetery, Maddy leapt out of the car and rushed away from Tom. She wanted to put as much distance as she could between Brutus and his attorney until Tom cooled down about the car seat.
It had set back the cause of the alpha-male bonding by quite a bit.Why were some men so obsessed with their darn cars?
Brutus could afford to get the leather upholstery fixed once he inherited. She’d explained that to Tom but he didn’t seem at all impressed. She’d actually had to scramble into the backseat with Brutus to get the little dog away from him. It was only a car, for heaven’s sake.
She attached Brutus’s leash. She’d shoot over to where the other mourners had gathered around the graveside. Surely Tom wouldn’t make a scene in front of them.
Jerome was among the twenty or so people congregated around the graveside. He saw Maddy and came over to her with his elegant stride.
“So sorry, I missed you back at the church,” he said in that smooth-as-double-cream voice. He had taken off his jacket and his eyes were as blue as the beautifully cut striped shirt he wore.
“You mean among all the reporters?” she said.
He looked charmingly abashed. “My fault, I’m afraid. I was chatting to a journalist friend and the news about the dog just slipped out.”
“Just slipped out,” she repeated, not convinced, looking back distractedly over her shoulder to see if Tom was coming after her.
“Well, you must admit Brutus’s, ah, inheritance makes a good story,” said Jerome. “My words were like a bone to a dog to a journalist, so to speak.” His teeth gleamed as white as a toothpaste ad as he smiled.
“So to speak,” she echoed, not finding the analogy at all amusing and wondering why she was suddenly doubting the Englishman’s sincerity. Probably something to do with Tom telling her Walter had called Jerome a leech. But leech or no leech, he was incredibly handsome. And the way he tilted his head when he smiled reminded her so much of Walter that her heart ached.
Brutus huddled around her ankles as she spoke and she wondered why he didn’t rush to Jerome like he had to Tom. Whatever made a dog sniff out an alpha male, Jerome obviously didn’t have it.
“Ah,” said Jerome, nodding his head in the direction of the graveside, “the ... uh ... business is at hand.”
Maddy realized that the other mourners were gathering solemnly around the graveside where Father Andrew was officiating. Tom towered above a group of women, and she noted he was chatting to his mother.
Good. Maddy liked Helen O’Brien. She had recently bought a very cool dress from Helen’s boutique on Fillmore Street. It would be nice to catch up with the older woman; maybe she could enlist her to Brutus’s side if Tom was still upset about the car seat.
She made to move closer when she halted suddenly. There were the reporters—more of them now—circling around the group of mourners. Her sympathy for them dissipated. Surely they wouldn’t take photographs of so private a proceeding?
Her respect for the media’s right to do their job slipped down a notch.
Tom broke away from the group and headed toward the reporters. She could tell by his stride and the rigid set of his body how angry he was at the press disruption.
But it was her they were after. Her and Brutus. What did they want? A shot of her weeping and Brutus whining? She couldn’t trust herself not to cry at this final farewell to her old friend. No way would she give them that photo opportunity.
Without Brutus she would attract less attention. She handed the leash to Jerome. He’d said he wanted to get to know Brutus better. Now was his chance.
“Mind him for a moment, would you please?” she murmured, and stepped briskly away from the cameras to the protection of a cluster of palm trees. From there, she could see the proceedings without visibly taking part in them. She couldn’t bear to think that her presence would detract from the dignity of the final rites for Walter.
There, in privacy, she choked back her tears to offer her own prayer of thanks and remembrance of her old friend. “You must have had your reasons for leaving me this inheritance,” she whispered. “I just wish I knew what they were.”
She stood in respectful silence, thinking of how kind Walter had been to her and hoping he was reunited with his beloved wife, Isobel, and the child he had never ceased to mourn.
Then, hearing the final blessings come to an end, she wiped her eyes and waited for the mourners to move away. She turned around and slowly made her way back toward the graveside. Some distance away, Jerome was standing alone, smoking a cigarette.
“Where’s Brutus?” she asked.
Jerome shrugged his shoulders. “He ran off.”
“Ran off? What do you mean, he ran off ?” Her voice started to rise. “I asked you to look after him.”
He shrugged again. “Couldn’t hold him I’m afraid.”
“You couldn’t hold him? A small dog like that?” Her heart started to thud. She looked anxiously around her. Brutus was nowhere in sight. The cemetery was a big one. And unfamiliar territory to the little animal.
A shiver ran through her. Surely Jerome hadn’t let him off the leash on purpose?
“Brutus,” she called. “Brutus, here, boy.”
Suddenly Tom was by her side. “Is there a problem?” he said, looking pointedly at Jerome.
Hurray. She didn’t try to mask her relief at seeing him. Somehow Tom O’Brien seemed the kind of man who would be good in an emergency. “Jerome let Brutus run away,” she said, looking at the Englishman through narrowed eyes, expecting support from Tom.
“
Jerome
let Brutus run away? But
you
were looking after him.”
He was blaming her, not Jerome? “Jerome was watching him for me while I ... while I went over there ...”
“Slipped the leash I’m afraid,” said Jerome in his plummy British voice. He blew out a stream of smoke that made her wince. “Not a well-trained dog.”
“So where is Brutus now?”Tom demanded.
Jerome shrugged his shoulders again. Once okay, two maybe, but three times was beginning to bug Maddy. She glared at him. He reminded her of the salads set in aspic she’d made at culinary school—beautiful to look at but when you bit into them they didn’t taste so great. No substance at all.
Not like Tom, who she was beginning to think would be satisfying in every way.
“Brutus!” she called again, scanning the rows of headstones.
Tom scowled. But he was scowling at Maddy, not Jerome. “Why didn’t you bring Brutus over to me?”
She hunched away from him. “I thought you’d, uh, strangle him.”
“Strangle the millionaire mutt?” asked Jerome with a sudden show of interest. “Surely not?”
“He chewed up Tom’s car and—oh, never mind,” said Maddy. Her heart was pounding. Not because she knew how important legally it was to keep Brutus out of harm’s way for the next seventeen days but because she couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to the little animal. “Come on, we’ve got to go look for him.”
Jerome ground out the butt of his cigarette with his heel. “By all means.”
“Which way did he go?” asked Tom, looking around.
“Tom, maybe you could try gro—”
“Don’t say it,” he said in a passable imitation of a growl.
“Why, isn’t that the recalcitrant pooch itself?” said Jerome with a languid wave.
Trailing his leash, Brutus came bounding through the rows of headstones, followed by a sweet-faced Border collie. The dogs came to a halt nearby and then cavorted playfully around each other. The Border collie was way bigger than Brutus, but size had never daunted him when it came to female playmates.
“I might have known.” Maddy sighed, exasperation mingling with the relief that flooded her.
“Might have known what?” asked Tom.
“That he’d find himself a girl dog from somewhere.”
“Huh?” She liked the way he looked puzzled, the tough lawyer suddenly lost for words. “I don’t get it.”
She stooped to grab Brutus’s leash and pulled the protesting animal toward her. She looked back up at Tom.
“Didn’t Walter mention it? Brutus is a lady’s man, uh, dog. If there’s a doggy word for a womanizer, that’s him. He’s a little dog with big appetites. And not just for cupcakes and peanut butter cookies.”
Jerome laughed. Maddy nearly laughed at the expression on Tom’s face.Was it fair to tease a man at a funeral?
Tom scowled. “That damn dog. It gets worse by the second. I wish you’d told me this before.”
“Why? What good would it have done?”
Tom scowled some more. “I could have made more sense of the message that I’ve just got from the office. A poodle named Coco is slapping a paternity suit on Brutus for support of her five puppies.”
Seven
Coco the poodle was proving to be as determined a litigant as Tom had ever encountered. Its owner just wouldn’t let up. The damn woman was bombarding Tom with constant phone calls, asking ridiculous questions that only Maddy would be able to help him answer.
That was why, early the next afternoon, Tom found himself again at the door of Maddy’s apartment. He knocked loudly and tried to ignore the delicious aromas that wafted through the keyhole. What was she cooking today? He inhaled, trying to identify the taste. Pastry perhaps? Buttery, cholesterol-laden pastry.
Inwardly he groaned. Did that mean that today Maddy herself would smell of her own sweet femaleness, lavender, and hot apple pie? The combination could prove to be irresistible. And that wasn’t good. Because he intended to resist his attraction to the too-cute Maddy Cartwright. All the way.
With her appealing homey ways she had “commitment” written all over her. He was certain she was not—in spite of his earlier way-off-the-mark imaginings—the type for a no-strings affair. In fact, it was likely, with all that brownie baking going on, she was in the market for a husband.
Hell, he was only two years into his current five-year plan. At age thirty-three he would commence a new one—and would seriously consider writing “marriage” into the goals for that sector of his life. But that was three years away and right now the partnership at Jackson, Jones, and Gentry was his priority. His absolute priority. He had to prove to himself that he could achieve what his father had doubted he could.
Where was she? He rapped again on the door—impatiently this time. He could hear music coming faintly through the door. Was that the soundtrack from
Shrek
? She showed good taste in movies and music. Yet another reason he found her so appealing.
He felt—no, he feared—Maddy Cartwright would be dangerously easy to get attached to. But subsection 2a of the five-year plan stated “no serious girlfriends.” And he wouldn’t want to hurt her by bailing if he saw signs she was starting to get attached to him—as per strategy outlined in subsection 2c of the aforesaid five-year plan.
Tom tapped his foot against the doorstep. What was he doing here? Right now he should be downtown in the Financial District attending a meeting involving a billion-dollar corporate takeover. Instead he was wasting time on this ludicrous poodle paternity case.
He could have called Maddy about the poodle of course. He could even have gotten his secretary to call her. But these kinds of meetings were better conducted face-to-face.
Who was he kidding? He raked his hair back from his forehead with his fingers, something he tended to do when he was agitated. Stop fooling yourself, O’Brien. Truth was, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the green-eyed witch since the funeral yesterday.
This was just an excuse to see her again and he knew it. Unfortunately there was no relevant subsection in the five-year plan to deal with these inconvenient, unscheduled feelings that had been bothering him almost from the moment he’d met her.
Where was she? The entrance to her apartment was down a narrow pathway leading from the road. The gate had been open when he’d come through. Had she gone out? Or might she be out back?
He turned the other way and walked down into the garden. An early fog had lifted and the bay was gleaming blue under a brilliant sky. Brutus’s kennel under the jacaranda tree was empty. In front of it sat a big ceramic water bowl painted with the words “One Spoiled Dog Drinks Here” and a single purple jacaranda flower floating in it.
“Anyone home?” Tom called, but the only reply was the distant sounding of the horn of a ferryboat on the bay.
He strode around the other side of the house to find the second, larger gate also stood open. He made his way up onto the sidewalk. And there he saw her, walking on the opposite side of the road coming toward him.
He sucked in a breath of admiration. This girl was hot. Wearing a tight, apple green sweater that showed off her curves and a short denim skirt, her pale, slender legs seemed to go on forever. Her hair gleamed copper in the sunlight. Pow! His body’s reaction was instant.