Читать книгу: «Groomed For Love»

Chapter One

“Rylie, sweetheart, you are the best thing to happen to Sweet Springs since they started putting in drive-through windows at pharmacies.”

Rylie Quinn, the new groomer at Sweet Springs Animal Clinic, grinned at Pete Ogilvie, the eldest of the four war veterans who conducted a daily coffee klatch in the corner of the building’s reception area. It was she who’d dubbed them the four musketeers after characters in the famous Alexandre Dumas novel, and Pete himself Athos, after the eldest of the adventurers, because the former marine was the boldest yet most complicated of the group. He also had somehow taken Jerry Platt under his wing. At sixty-six, Jerry, whom she called D’Artagnan, was the youngest and had become the fourth member of the veteran group, as D’Artagnan had become the fourth musketeer in the story.

“Why, thank you, kind sir.” Holding out the hem of her maroon smock, as though it was a skirt, she offered a quick curtsy, bemused, even though the comparison was confusing. She suspected he hadn’t meant to imply that she was appreciated because she was a convenience. “All because I asked Mr. Stan if he wanted sweetener in his coffee?”

“That’s right! None of us can tell him that he’s being an old grouch the way you can and still bring a smile to his face.”

Stanley Walsh—aka Porthos, as far as Rylie was concerned—was sixty-nine, the second youngest, and an ex-navy man, as well as a retired master sheet-metal fabricator. Sometimes—like today—his hangovers caused him to grouse a little more than usual, which was saying quite a bit, since Stanley had a dry sense of humor to begin with.

“That, along with being as bright and as pretty as a black-eyed Susan, which is about the only damned flower that can survive the summer like we had with any grace. Whew, can you believe it officially became autumn yesterday?” Pete asked around the room. “If you hold that front door open for too long, I swear those bags of dog food stacked on the shelves over there are gonna pop like popcorn in a microwave.”

As others grunted their agreement, Rylie said, “I’m sorry for the strain it is on animals, but I sure don’t mind it being warm. I was born and raised in the desert country of California. That said, I’m getting seriously partial to your trees here, especially the pines.” She had arrived in this Central East Texas community early in July, in time to attend Dr. Gage Sullivan’s marriage to Brooke Bellamy last month, the niece of the lady who used to be Gage’s neighbor. That neighborhood, as well as several parts of town, was enhanced by pockets of the pines and hardwood trees that had once earned the region its other name—The Piney Woods. She told the men, who had also attended the wedding, “If I had Doc and Brooke’s yard, I’d sleep with the windows open every night to listen to the breeze whispering through the trees.”

“Well, don’t try it here, even if your fancy RV’s windows are high off the ground,” Roy Quinn said from inside the reception station in the center of the room.

As usual, her uncle pretended to have as gruff a personality as any of the old-timers, but Rylie knew the middle-aged bachelor saw her as the daughter he’d never had. “I wouldn’t do that. Besides,” she reminded her only relative in the area, “as far back as those trees are beyond the pasture, it’s easier to hear the highway traffic out front.” The clinic was on the service road of a state highway that ran north to south on the east side of town. The overpass that led to downtown was only a few dozen yards beyond the clinic’s parking lot.

“Good. Keep those miniblinds shut at night, too. What we lack in woods, we probably make up for in Peeping Toms and lechers, and word’s getting around about you and that RV being parked in back.”

As he spoke, he glanced over her shoulder to fork his fingers from his eyes to Jerry, who tended to think of himself as quite the ladies’ man. Recently, Jerry Platt had the bad judgment to get involved with a certain widow in town, who had really been angling to get closer to Doc. It had caused quite a stir among the old-timers, who feared losing the congenial atmosphere at the clinic, and they were keeping Jerry on notice, too.

Rylie shook her head, thinking Uncle Roy was being silly. Jerry was more than a decade older than him! Besides, he’d been nothing but a gentleman to her. Noticing Jerry’s embarrassment, she leaned over the counter to whisper, “I’m twenty-five, not fifteen.”

Roy grunted. “You’d have to dye your hair gray to convince anyone. I’ll bet you still get carded when you go out for a beer.”

“My last beer was a week ago with you guys at the VFW hall, and you know they would serve me anything because I was with you.” However, he was right; she did look ridiculously young, but what could you do when you had red hair and a squeaky-clean face that made you perfect for the front of a cereal box but was never going to trigger wolf whistles as a cover girl’s would? Something else she didn’t have going for her was height—she hadn’t grown an inch above her five foot three since the seventh grade. To redirect Roy’s focus, she reached across the counter to straighten his wrinkled shirt collar lying awkwardly over his maroon clinic jacket. “If you don’t like to iron, at least take your clothes out of the dryer before they dry all mangled. Better yet, let me do your ironing for you.”

“Don’t change the subject.” Roy playfully swatted away her hand away. “Just remember that I have to answer to your parents if anything happens to you here.”

She thought about her parents, who were considering becoming foster parents since she, too, had “abandoned the nest,” as her parents put it. Her older, adopted brother had struck out on his own four years earlier, finding his career restoring old homes on the East Coast. “Nothing is going to happen to me, Uncle Roy. I was born under a lucky star, remember?”

It was her longtime joke, ever since learning that she had been born one night on the side of the road after the family car had suffered a flat on the way to the hospital. When asked as a child, “Which star?” she would spread her arms wide and declare, “All of them!” The truth was that Roy had been a lifesaver in helping her get a job here, and Rylie intended to quickly make him see that she was fine on her own before he found out the full truth about why she had made the move.

“Well, Ms. Lucky,” he said, nodding toward the front, “your first appointment is arriving—along with her sourpuss courier.”

Noting his grimace, a confused Rylie glanced over her shoulder to see a sleek black BMW sedan pull up to the front door. She couldn’t stop a little sigh as she recognized that once again Ramon Bustillo wasn’t here in Mrs. Prescott’s Cadillac.

“I wonder how Mrs. P talked His Highness into delivering her pooch again.”

“Behave.” Rylie looked from her uncle to the four musketeers, to see if they were listening, then back to the expensive car. She knew why Uncle Roy called Noah Prescott that—Noah wasn’t only the son of Mrs. Audra Prescott, one of the state’s most admired ladies in society, he was also District Attorney Vance Ellis Underwood’s assistant and expected successor—and he acted the part. As a result, her uncle didn’t care for him, calling him a “stuffed shirt,” and, after two meetings with the man, Rylie had to admit Roy had some cause for his opinion. However, Noah was maddeningly sexy, too, with his intense brown eyes, serious five-o’clock shadow that tended to keep her from having a clear view of the slight cleft in his chin, and gorgeous, wavy brown hair with enviable gold highlights. The first time she met him, she’d concluded that he must shave three times a day to keep the elegant image his tailored suits and expensive shoes exuded. He undoubtedly went for a weekly manicure, too. His long-fingered, pianist’s hands had made her want to shove her banged-up, laborer’s hands into her jeans’ back pockets.

“Ramon must have experienced some kind of problem again,” she replied. Ramon Bustillo wasn’t only Mrs. Prescott’s driver; he was the caretaker at Haven Land, the family estate. Last time, Ramon had needed to get Mrs. Prescott to an early doctor’s appointment, so Noah had brought her dog, and it was evident to anyone with eyes that Noah couldn’t wait to be rid of the adorable bichon frise, registered as Baroness Baja Bacardi. It had been equally clear that the little dog couldn’t wait to get into friendlier hands, as well.

“I suspect having an audience won’t improve his mood any, so I’m going to take MG and Humphrey out back. C’mon, Humph,” he called to Doc’s basset hound. “MG, pretty girl,” he added to the large, black retriever-mix dog. “Let’s go out.”

“Thanks, Uncle Roy.” Seeing Noah struggle with closing the car door, she started toward the front door to help, only to stumble. “Oh!”

She knew immediately what had happened—instead of following her uncle’s directive, MG had come to stand beside her as though waiting for permission. Luckily, Rylie had good reflexes and grabbed the edge of the counter before falling face-first to the tile floor.

“Rylie—good Lord! Are you okay?”

Seventy-year-old Warren Atwood, the “Aramis” in the group, rose from his chair. Retired from the army and a former D.A. of Cherokee County himself, his dear wife was in a local nursing home suffering from the last stages of Alzheimer’s. Rylie had learned that he was so devastated by it all that he could barely stand to be there without becoming emotional.

“Not to worry,” she assured him and the others, who also looked concerned. “I should have known she would come to me first. She’s still getting used to Uncle Roy.” Rylie covered her embarrassment by quickly hugging the sweet-natured, long-legged dog. She thought she’d been doing so well; she hadn’t bumped into a wall or tripped over anything in days. “Let’s go, Mommy’s Girl. Go out with Uncle Roy. You know it’s your job to watch over Humphrey.” She walked the black, silky-haired animal to the swinging doors, where her uncle and Doc and Brooke’s basset hound waited.

“I don’t get it,” Roy muttered. “Dogs like me.”

“She likes you.”

“So much that she runs to you at the sound of my voice. She’s going to give me a complex.” After the mock complaint, her uncle gave her a concerned look. “Are you sure you’re okay? You aren’t getting all flustered over Golden Boy, are you?”

“You’re sounding more and more like a jealous schoolgirl.” Shaking her head, she started for the front door again.

By the time she had her hand on the handle bar, Noah Prescott had championed the outer door. Barely. She couldn’t help but laugh at the awkward way he was holding the little cutie. Was he afraid that the adorable white bichon frise was going to try to take a bite of his earlobe or that the young dog would ruin his very attractive silvery-gray suit?

“Thanks for the prompt assistance,” Noah muttered when he finally made it inside.

“You’re very welcome, A.D.A. Prescott,” she replied cheerfully, purposely misunderstanding his sarcasm. “I would never have guessed a little eight-pound dog with such an amiable nature would scare a man with the entire police department at his service.”

“I. Am. Not. Scared.” Checking his edgy tone, Noah added stiffly, “I’m simply trying not to get dog hair on my suit. I happen to be due in court within the hour.”

“Well, you’re wearing the best color to hide a strand or two,” Rylie assured him, all smiles and pleasantness. “Hello, Bubbles, you cutie.” She relieved Noah of the tiny bundle, who had been nothing but obliging during her two previous visits. “I hope nothing has happened to Ramon,” she added to Noah. “Your mother’s driver?” she added, after his odd look.

“I know his name. I just thought it unusual that you did.”

Maybe Uncle Roy was right—Noah Prescott could be the snob Roy claimed. Unable to resist, Rylie said with several more degrees of sweet demeanor, “Why wouldn’t I? Because he’s only a driver? I’m only a dog groomer. Who am I to put on airs about the hired help?”

After staring at her as though he would like to put her behind bars, or at least walk out without another word, Noah replied with painstaking civility, “Ramon is at the dealership. The car had a flat before getting out the driveway. Mother didn’t want him driving way down here on the spare, then all the way back to Rusk.”

“That sounds just like her. She’s such a thoughtful woman.” Audra Prescott was also turning into her best customer so far, thanks to her preference for having her dog groomed more often than the average person. With a few more clients like her, Rylie knew Gage and Uncle Roy would be convinced that there was definitely a market for another dog groomer in the area. “You’re a good son, too,” she assured Noah, with impish humor, “for helping out in a crunch.”

“I can’t tell you how that reassures me.” Checking his watch, he added quickly, “I take it that Mother gave you instructions on what she wants done?”

“Bathing, trimming...the cut still a little shorter since the days are still quite warm, even though it’s shorter than the AKC prefers—” Turning to reach for her reservations book that she’d left on the lower level of the reception counter, Rylie misjudged the distance and bumped her elbow. She hit hard enough to gasp and jerk back, and she had to do a neat little jig to keep her balance. “Oops. Sorry, Bubbles. That’s the last misstep for this visit, I promise.”

From behind her came Noah’s droll observation. “I take it that it wasn’t runway modeling that you gave up for this line of work?”

“As a matter of fact, it was,” she replied, her wicked humor kicking in. “Call me crazy, since there’s only so much demand for five-foot-three glamour girls. But I just love animals too much.” She kept her smile bright, determined not to let her disappointment in him show. But who was he to add a jab at her height into his cutting remark? Mr. Glass-Half-Empty Prescott might reach six feet if someone gave him an inch of credit for his ability to look down his nose at her. While he had the face for it, no modeling agency would hound him to sign a contract, either. “As I was saying, aside from the usual care, Bubbles will get—”

Noah silenced her with a dismissive wave. “Don’t bother. That Mother relayed instructions is all I care about. Good grief, primping is primping. Any of the shops between here and Rusk would do the same thing.”

Sexy, but grouchy, Rylie thought with renewed disappointment. All because he had to drive a few extra miles for his mother’s dog? She couldn’t resist rubbing it in a bit. “Yes, I am fortunate to have her, Mrs. Collins’s and Mrs. Nixon’s support, as well. They’ve all been very kind about spreading the word. As it happens, I’m a little different from some in the business because I’ve been doing this kind of work since I was old enough to know the difference between the front and back end of animals. And for the record? The term primping is condescending. There are a good number of health issues related to good grooming for animals, just as there are for humans.”

In a moment that couldn’t have been better choreographed if she’d tried, Bubbles started licking Rylie’s hand as though apologizing on Noah’s behalf. Rylie nuzzled the little dog.

“Aw...thank you, precious.” She returned her focus to Noah. “I also don’t believe in sedating animals, whatever their temperament. How safe or wise would it have been for your mother, or nanny, to sedate you when giving you a manicure or trim?”

From the corner of the room the four musketeers chuckled and snickered.

Noah Prescott stared at her as though she’d just burst into “The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow” and took a cautious step back toward the exit. “Just call my mother when it’s ready. Ramon should be home by then.”

Almost before the doors drifted shut behind Noah, Stan Walsh launched the inevitable commentary. “Whatcha trying to do to the poor guy, Rylie? You had him acting like he’d OD’d on sticky buns.”

As the others laughed, Rylie stroked the adorable animal in her arms and gave them her most innocent look. “Now, Stan, are you accusing me of being an instigator?”

“Never met a honeybee who wasn’t.”

“It’s been my experience,” Pete Ogilvie offered, “that the harder a guy tries to convince a gal that he doesn’t approve of her, the more he’s really trying to deny he’s attracted.”

“That sounds like forced logic to me,” Jerry Platt scoffed.

“That’s because you have the libido of a rabbit,” Pete countered, “and the mind of one. You think that any female who happens to cross your path is a gift from the gods.”

As the men burst into laughter, Rylie pretended the need to cover Bubbles’s ears. “This conversation is getting way too frisky for our tender ears, baby girl. Let’s go.”

Damn her perkiness.

She was the most annoying female he’d met in some time, and what was driving Noah crazy was that it was for all the reasons that usually attracted him. What the heck was going on? Rylie Quinn was friendly, good-natured, a born optimist. How could he fault someone who tried to see the bright side of things? Yet for some bizarre, quirky reason, he was discovering that he had no problem where she was concerned.

She was an irritating mix of sweetness and provocation, deceptively packaged in a Peter Pan–size body that her maroon medical smock would mostly hide, except when it wasn’t fastened today any more than on his other visit to the clinic. That gamin-short hair didn’t help make her look fully grown, either. The short, punkish style left her looking more like a nine-year-old boy than a woman in her early or mid-twenties, an ironic observation, since he liked his women slender and sleek. But then she did little to enhance her femininity—maybe just mascara and some lip gloss, and yet every receptor in his molecular being went on full alert the instant she was within sight.

It was those gray-green eyes that got him on edge, he decided. Sure they were incredibly framed by lashes that would make a sable proud; however, their color was that unnerving shade of storm clouds before a tornado dropped from them and turned your life inside out. That’s it! he thought, feeling as though he’d locked in on some important detail. She looked at him as though she had a secret, and she wasn’t telling. Well, he wasn’t big on secrets. It was one of the chief things that made his work so difficult and, often, ugly: secrets and lies.

As Noah sped north to Rusk, and the courthouse, he considered phoning his mother again to ask if she really knew what she was getting herself into trusting Rylie Quinn. Just because her equally dog-crazy friends approved of the young woman, Rylie’s claim that she didn’t use drugs to keep animals calm during grooming didn’t mean she hadn’t, or wouldn’t, in a crunch. He also didn’t believe for a moment her self-laudatory proclamation that she got along with any and all critters. Maybe it was working to sell herself as the female rendition of the Dog Whisperer; however, she’d been at the clinic for only about a month. The jury was still out, as far as he was concerned.

On the other hand, Dr. Gage Sullivan’s reputation was impeccable. He just hoped the guy hadn’t been suckered in by a red-haired con artist the way his mother and others may have been.

At the thought of his mother, he sighed heavily. He accepted that he was struggling to understand her and had been since the accident that put her in a wheelchair. She had always been a pragmatic, no-nonsense person, but no more. Who registers their lap dog as Baroness Baja Bacardi? he thought with a new wave of dismay and embarrassment. What a title for a creature that could almost fit in a restaurant take-out box. Granted, his mother had little pleasure in her life anymore—a dog, the pool therapy, her painting and the visits from a small handful of trusted and dedicated friends, as well as her minister, lawyer and accountant. Otherwise, her society was “Livie,” Olivia Danner, her live-in nurse, and Aubergine Scott, the resident housekeeper-cook. Considering the whirlwind life of a socialite that she’d juggled before, his mother’s life was as shockingly different as if Hillary Clinton suddenly chose to exit the political world forever and cloistered herself in a nunnery! Under those circumstances, Noah didn’t have the heart to deny her this bit of frivolity even as he groused to others over being inconvenienced. Audra Rains Prescott had earned a certain amount of indulgences, regardless of how silly this one seemed to him.

Three years ago, his parents were involved in a head-on collision with another vehicle, one whose driver passed out due to side effects of her prescription drugs. The crash had killed his father and the other driver instantly. It was a miracle that his mother hadn’t died, too. She had, however, lost most of the use of the lower half of her body. Nevertheless, there was enough nerve connectivity to trigger chronic pain and insomnia, which in turn added to bouts of depression. If it wasn’t for their dedicated people on the estate, he would need prescriptions, or at least a therapist himself.

For example, Ramon wasn’t just dealing with a flat tire; there was a recall notice on his mother’s Cadillac that he hadn’t let her know about, due to her fragile perspective when it came to all things motorized these days. It had come only two days ago, so the tire issue had been fortuitous in a way. Ramon knew to keep the more serious issue between the two of them. He just hoped the repair wouldn’t take all day.

“Hell,” he muttered, “if you can’t trust America’s classy tank, what can you trust?”

It was a relief to reach Rusk and the courthouse. He’d become the assistant D.A. for Cherokee County soon after his return to East Texas to supervise things at home. Until then, he’d been the hottest “gunslinger” at one of Houston’s top law firms. Had he been able to stay there, he had no doubt there would already be talk about him becoming a partner by now, even though he was only thirty.

Coming home, it had never occurred to him to just manage the family estate and enjoy a gentleman’s lifestyle, which had been an option. True, he could also have opened his own private practice; however, that didn’t appeal to him, either. Divorces, will probates and small lawsuits needed good counsel to be sure, but not from him. He needed something with more intellectual challenge, and so when Vance Ellis Underwood, the current D.A., discreetly asked him if being the assistant D.A.—with the understanding that he would be seen as Underwood’s heir apparent when Underwood retired—would be something he would be interested in, Noah saw that as his best option.

If only he was handling his return to a more rural lifestyle as well. While there was no denying the countryside’s beauty, he missed Houston and the nightlife, the buzz and being in the inner circle of what was happening in the city and state. But someone had to oversee the family’s estate—the mansion, the near-thousand-acre ranch and tree farm, along with oil and gas leases. His mother had left all of that to his father, although she had a good basic knowledge of what was what. Unfortunately, she was no longer mobile enough to keep on top of things.

At the town square, Noah parked in back of the courthouse building, where their offices were on the first floor. Grabbing his briefcase, he hurried inside. While driving, he’d already answered two calls from the D.A.’s secretary, the last time assuring her that he was as good as in the building. Court commenced in minutes, and today they were choosing a jury for a case related to the largest drug bust in the county’s history. The fact that the accused was the son of a prominent family in the area was garnering a lot of media attention, and it would be the worst day to be late.

Noah rushed into the office just as Judy Millsap exited the D.A.’s office, a bulging file and her steno pad in her arms.

“Oh, thank goodness.” The silver-haired, usually calm woman exhaled with relief as she set her load on her desk. “This is all for you. He’s coming down with a full-fledged case of some bug or other. He thought he could get things started and then let you do the most of the jury interviewing, but he just admitted that even sitting in court might be more than he can manage.”

At sixty-six, Vance Underwood had suffered a few health problems in the past year and had confided that he wanted to retire as soon as his term was over in two years. Catching something as common as a virus could turn things serious quickly.

“Do you think you should get him an ambulance?” Noah asked in concern.

“I asked. He vetoed the idea, but I insisted he let a deputy drive him home. I’ll take his car and hitch a ride back with the officer.”

“It sounds as though his heart doctor should be notified, as well.”

The plump woman with the wedge hairdo nodded her agreement. “So do I, but it’s not up to me. I will call his wife and warn her we’re coming while I wait for the deputy. Perhaps I can convince her that she needs to make that call.”

“Good luck with that.” As much as Noah didn’t want to seem too eager to take control, he was also discreet about making any comments about Mrs. Underwood. It was well-known in the office and elsewhere around town that Elise had never been given a prescription drug she didn’t develop a loving relationship with. Chances were that she wasn’t even out of bed yet, let alone coherent enough to be of any assistance to her husband.

Reaching for the stack, Noah said, “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

“Pick an excellent jury.”

Three hours later, Noah was back at his desk. As luck would have it, the judge had come down with the same virus that the D.A. seemed to be suffering from and the entire day’s docket was rescheduled. Minutes ago, Noah had encouraged Judy to take an early lunch, assuring her that he would stay and watch things at the office. She was grateful, having missed breakfast due to the morning’s hectic situation.

Alone in the office—since their clerk, Ann, was finishing a task and directly heading off to lunch, too—Noah called home to check on his mother. “Has Ramon made it back from the dealership?” he asked.