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Lady And The Scamp: Lady And The Scamp / The Doctor Dilemma
Duets™
Two brand-new stories in every volume…twice a month!
Duets Vol. #57
Popular Jill Shalvis serves up a delightful duo—the disaster-prone Anderson twins and the sexy men they meet!—in a humorous special Double Duets! Rendezvous says this author is “fast, fanciful and funny. Get ready for laughs, passion and toe-curling romance.”
Duets Vol. #58
Two talented new writers make their Duets debut this month. Look for Candy Halliday’s playful romp about a bad boy who has a soft spot for his pooch—and the gorgeous dog owner next door! Then nurse-turned-writer Dianne Drake will tickle your funny bone and send temperatures rising with a fun story about a small-town medical practice.
Be sure to pick up both Duets volumes today!
Lady and the Scamp
Candy Halliday
The Doctor Dilemma
Dianne Drake
www.millsandboon.co.uk
Contents
Lady and the Scamp
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
The Doctor Dilemma
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
“Your place or mine, Counselor?”
Dumbfounded, Cassie almost dropped the phone. “You, Mr. Hardin, have to be the most arrogant, insufferable man I’ve ever met.”
“Well, nobody’s perfect,” Nick agreed, “but you’re the one who said we had a problem to solve. I’m just suggesting we settle things over a bottle of wine and a sensible conversation.”
“Oh, I’m sure you handle all your problems with a bottle of wine and a sensual conversation…”
“I said sensible conversation,” Nick corrected.
Cassie ignored him. “I left Duchess with the vet earlier, but we won’t know for a few weeks if she’s going to have puppies.”
“Then what?” Nick quizzed.
“Then you can save yourself a lot of trouble and pay for the damage your mutt caused, or we can go to court.”
“You’re really serious about this, aren’t you, Counselor?”
“What do you think?” Cassie challenged.
He laughed. “Lady I think if you’d let nature take its course the way your fancy show dog did, you’d have a much better outlook on life.”
Dear Reader,
You might say I’m living proof that love has a lighter side. I met my husband on a blind date to, of all things, a Halloween party. Dressed as a punk rocker with purple streaks in my hair, who knew I’d meet the man of my dreams? His incredible sense of humor overlooked my ridiculous costume and two years later we walked down the aisle. This time, however, I had baby’s breath—not purple streaks—in my hair.
A big fan of romantic comedy even before my own personal episode, I got the idea for Lady and the Scamp while watching a telecast of the Westminster Dog Show. The Best In Show winner was all puff and fluff and the poor trainer was having a terrible time keeping her away from the big red-bone hound who won runner-up. “Don’t you know the trainer would have a fit if those two got together?” my husband asked, and by the time we both stopped laughing, the story was already forming in my head.
I had such fun writing Lady and the Scamp. I hope you have just as much fun reading it.
Best Wishes,
Candy Halliday
I owe special thanks to my husband, Steve, for putting up with the crazy life of a writer. I also owe special thanks to my agent, Jenny Bent, and my editor, Susan Sheppard, for believing in me.
This book is dedicated to my wonderful daughter, Shelli, who has always been the pride of my heart and the joy of my life.
Prologue
CASSIE COLLINS STIFLED a groan as her perfectly groomed mother paced dramatically around the foyer in a full-blown snit. “I still think your father and I should postpone our trip to Europe entirely,” Lenora Collins said with a pout. “The three of us have been taking family vacations together since you were born, and I certainly don’t like the idea of leaving you behind to supervise something as important as seeing Duchess mated to the proper sire.”
Cassie looked down at the pampered pooch she was holding in her arms and absently stroked the dog’s soft white fur. Her mother’s champion bichon frise had finally offered Cassie the perfect excuse to forgo the dreaded family vacation from hell, and Cassie didn’t intend to give in without putting up a fight.
“You were the one who said it would be too traumatic to leave Duchess with a total stranger at a delicate time like this, Mother,” Cassie said. “I know you were counting on Duchess’s trainer to handle everything, but emergencies do come up. All we can do now is make the best of it.”
Lenora made several phony kissing noises toward the recent winner of the prestigious Westminster Dog Show, then again pursed her lips in a surly pout. “Well, I can assure you of one thing. If Duchess’s trainer thinks I’m going to forget the trouble he’s caused us, then he’s sadly mistaken. As far as I’m concerned, it was totally unprofessional of him to leave us in the lurch like this.”
Cassie rolled her eyes. “I hardly think having an acute attack of appendicitis qualifies as being unprofessional, Mother,” Cassie argued. “Besides, you’ve already paid an enormous fee to see that Duchess is bred to a champion sire and the breeder arrives from London next week. It’s only logical that I stay behind and handle matters here.”
“Cassie’s right, Lenora,” Howard Collins chimed in as he picked up the last of their luggage and headed through the foyer. “Our daughter didn’t graduate magna cum laude from law school for nothing. She’s perfectly capable of handling things here.”
Lenora Collins snorted at her husband’s statement, then shot another dubious look in Cassie’s direction. “Well, at least promise me you’ll be careful, Cassandra. I can’t say I’m not equally concerned about you being here alone with a hoodlum living right down the street. There’s no telling what a man like that might be capable of doing. Lock your doors and keep the security system on at all times.”
Cassie sighed. Her mother was, of course, referring to their incorrigible new neighbor who had scandalized their exclusive neighborhood from the moment he’d arrived. A cross between Howard Stern and TV’s Frasier, the outspoken radio talk-show host had refused to conform to any of the genteel southern traditions most people in Asheville, North Carolina, still held sacred. To date, Nick Hardin had been banned from the country club, thrown off the golf course and had even been levied a heavy fine for parking his monstrous Harley-Davidson motorcycle on the country club’s manicured lawn.
“I don’t care for Nick Hardin any more than you do, Mother,” Cassie said, “but I hardly think the man is a rapist.”
“Well, one never knows,” Lenora argued in her usual authoritative voice. “Especially since that horrid man could be harboring a grudge against you. You really were foolish to call in to that disgraceful program of his and make a complaint, Cassandra.”
That’s right, Mother, Cassie thought. Make sure you deliver at least one more reprimand before you leave.
Not that Cassie didn’t regret her own lapse in judgment, because she did. She usually let the standard jokes that attacked her noble profession roll off her back. But it had been one particular lawyer-of-the-day joke on Nick Hardin’s radio program that had pushed Cassie over the edge. Stating on the air that “the only difference between a lawyer and a vulture was that a vulture waits until you die to pick your bones clean” had, in Cassie’s opinion, taken things a bit too far. She had called in to the popular morning radio program and politely suggested that Mr. Hardin do a little research on what was considered humorous and what was considered in bad taste.
The creep, of course, had laughed at her comment, but when he insulted her further by suggesting that even a lawyer should be smart enough to turn the dial if she didn’t like the program, Cassie had promptly slammed the phone down in the arrogant jerk’s ear.
“Okay, Mother. I promise I’ll be careful,” Cassie conceded when a blast from her father’s car horn inched her mother a little closer to the front door.
“Well, just remember, you can’t let Duchess out of your sight for a moment,” Lenora cautioned. “I’m still having panic attacks over the ridiculous stud fee I had to pay to that overrated thief from England. After what that snooty man charged me, I’d better come home to a litter of champion puppies.”
With that said, her mother sashayed out the door. Cassie followed, then remained standing on the porch of the rambling old Victorian where she’d lived all her life. “Send me lots of postcards,” Cassie called out as her father’s car pulled out of the drive, but it wasn’t until the black Lincoln disappeared from view that Cassie let out a liberating scream and danced across the porch with her mother’s prize-winning show dog held high above her head.
“We’re free at last!” Cassie cheered as she whirled the tiny dog around in circles.
For Cassie, six weeks home alone would be sheer heaven on earth. And even the fact that she had to play nursemaid to a world-class-champion fur ball didn’t dampen her spirits.
1
“THIS IS CASSIE COLLINS over on Crescent Circle. There’s a rapist in my backyard! Hurry, I need your help.”
Cassie tossed the portable phone aside when the intruder made another advance in her direction. “Get out of here, you filthy beast,” she yelled, then turned the tables and charged him instead.
Unfortunately, all Cassie accomplished was another futile chase through the trees. Having as much success as snaring a feather in a hurricane, she was no match for the speed demon who darted out of reach every time she lunged in his direction.
After another unsuccessful romp around the yard, Cassie bent over and rested her hands on her knees, drinking in deep drags of air as she tried to catch her breath. When a reddish-gold curl fell across her face, she sent a frustrated puff upward, blowing the curl out of her eyes. It was then that she noticed the gaping hole by the side of the high wooden privacy fence that surrounded the backyard.
His eyes locked with Cassie’s for a brief moment, and as if the culprit could read her mind, he immediately darted in the direction of his escape hole.
“Come back here, you coward,” Cassie screamed, but the sound of the security cruiser’s siren screaming toward the house forced her to temporarily abandon the chase.
Shaking her fist at the black-and-white terrier who had now distanced himself at the far end of the yard, Cassie actually thought she saw the little criminal grinning back at her through his sharp, pointed, doggy-type teeth. Knowing that the chase was pointless without help from her neighborhood troubleshooters, Cassie stomped to the front foyer where a concerned security officer was already pounding his fist on the door.
“Are you hurt, Miss Collins? Did the goon lay a hand on you?” demanded the older of the two officers as he lumbered into the foyer with his weapon drawn.
Annoyed at the sight of the revolver, Cassie frowned at the two rent-a-cops who were affectionately known as “Andy and Barney” in her luxurious neighborhood. “I don’t want you to shoot him, Joe. I just want you to help me catch the rascal.”
“I’ll go first,” the portly officer announced, then sent an official look toward his baby-faced partner, who was anxiously turning the knobs on his handheld police radio.
“Should I call Asheville PD for backup now, Joe?” the rookie asked in a voice that was still struggling with puberty.
“No!” both Cassie and Officer Joe shouted simultaneously.
Pushing past both officers, Cassie took the lead and stomped back through the house with her nervous defenders following closely at her heels. As soon as they reached the wicker-filled sunroom at the back of the house, she pointed through the doorway to the furry assailant the officers had come to arrest.
“There he is,” she said, fuming. “The filthy little beast dug his way under the privacy fence and assaulted Duchess before I even knew what was happening.”
Both officers followed Cassie’s gaze through the door to the terrier, who immediately cocked his head in their direction and showed them the same silly doggy grin Cassie had seen earlier. And then as if to mock her, the mutt wagged his stubby tail, obviously pleased by what he’d been able to accomplish before help arrived.
“You said rapist, Miss Collins,” Joe scolded as he shoved his revolver back into its holster and sent Cassie a stern look.
Cassie glared back. “I’m in no mood for a lecture about a minor technicality, Joe,” Cassie warned. “You know as well as I do, you guys wouldn’t have rushed right over here if I’d called to report a stray dog in my yard.”
Neither of the officers denied Cassie’s accusation, but both men continued to stare at her as if she were some alien life-form who had purposely been sent to invade their peaceful domain. And Cassie really couldn’t blame them. They were used to seeing the calm, collected, professional Miss Collins going to and from her respected law firm every day, not some wild-eyed maniac whose hair was still in a lopsided ponytail from her shower, and who had grabbed the first thing she found in her bureau when she glanced out her bedroom window and saw the lewd tango that was being conducted across her lawn.
“Look, Joe,” Cassie said, trying to appease the man. “You of all people know how difficult it is to deal with my mother.”
When the officer paled at the mere mention of such a trying experience, Cassie pointed to the tiny white bichon frise, who was now scampering across the yard to join forces with the enemy. “Well, I’m warning you. No one in this entire neighborhood will be safe when Lenora Collins finds out her famous show dog crossed paws with the first stray mutt who came along. She’ll blame me for not watching Duchess more closely. And she’ll blame you for allowing some nasty mutt to roam free through the neighborhood.”
Joe’s heavily browed eyes immediately grew wide with concern. Sending a quick glance over his shoulder, he absently patted his holster as if he might need the gun for his own protection. “But y-your m-mother is still in Europe, isn’t she, Miss Collins?” Joe stammered.
“Yes, but I can’t keep Lenora in Europe forever, Joe,” Cassie said, and sighed. “And if we don’t get that mutt out of here before he does any more damage, we’ll all be buying tickets to Europe to save our own lives.”
Joe dragged a meaty hand over his face, then pointed to the woo-some twosome who were currently engaged in what appeared to be another premating ritual. “You mean that little white dog out there is the one who just won all those awards in New York City?”
Cassie nodded, glaring at the poodle-looking paramour whom she’d vowed to protect and keep safe in her mother’s absence. The little witch was her mother’s pride and joy, but now that the current diva of the dog world had succumbed to the charms of a mutt whose only credentials seemed to be an overdose of testosterone and an attitude, Cassie suspected those dog-food and pet endorsements her mother planned to glean from winning Westminster would disappear faster than a pack of antacids at a federal tax audit.
“Man, I don’t blame you for being upset, Miss Collins, but—”
“Oh, I zoomed way past upset when I found them doing an intimate bunny-hop across the backyard,” Cassie interrupted. “Now, are you guys going to help me catch the mutt before they engage in another close encounter of the fur kind, or aren’t you?”
Both men seemed a bit embarrassed by her graphic outburst, but the Barney Fife lookalike finally stepped forward to take up the challenge. “I’ll help you catch him, Miss Collins. I’ve always been good with dogs.”
Cassie held her breath as the lanky officer left the sunroom and strolled across the yard in the perpetrator’s direction. To Cassie’s surprise, instead of leading the officer on another exhausting game of hide-and-seek through the trees, the scruffy little scamp inched toward him and sniffed at the man’s outstretched hand. In a flash, the officer snatched the mutt up. Mission accomplished, he returned to Cassie’s side with the little bandit tucked safely under his arm.
“Peanuts always work,” he said proudly, sending Cassie a wink. “I always keep loose peanuts in my pocket for between-meal snacks.”
Cassie shuddered at the sight of the lint-covered peanuts the mutt was happily munching from the officer’s hand, then looked around the yard for the other half of the dissolute duo. Obviously sated by the wild display of carnal acrobatics Cassie had witnessed earlier, the little floozy trotted obediently toward the house in search of her lover. Cassie grabbed the pampered pooch and marched Miss Duchess into the sun-room. When Cassie placed Duchess in her traveling crate and fastened the latch, the shameless hussy actually had the nerve to look annoyed.
When Cassie joined the officers back on the patio, she smiled and said, “Thanks, guys. Now you need to help me find this mutt’s owner. And when you do, I want you to make an immediate arrest for violating the neighborhood leash law.”
Both men exchanged nervous looks. Joe actually laughed. “Hey, you’re not really serious about making an arrest over this, are you, Miss Collins?”
Cassie frowned, but let out an exasperated sigh. “Probably not, but it really would serve the owner right if I did. If that dog has left Duchess with a litter of mongrel puppies, I’ll be facing a death sentence.”
“Hey, I really sympathize with your predicament, Miss Collins,” Joe mumbled, “but I sure wouldn’t want to be the one to make the arrest.”
“Me, neither,” interjected Barney Fife’s twin. “He wasn’t real happy the last time we had to serve him with a complaint.”
Hands on her hips now, Cassie sent both men a puzzled look. “You mean you guys already know who owns this mutt?”
Barney swallowed, sending his pronounced Adam’s apple roaming up and down his throat several times before he managed to spit out the answer. “The little fellow belongs to Nick Hardin. You know, that radio talk-show host who’s caused all the trouble since he moved into Biltmore Forest.”
Hearing that Nick Hardin owned the mutt responsible for her current nightmare affected Cassie like a slap across the face. She immediately reached for the wiry terrier and snatched the little Casanova from the officer’s grasp.
“I really do appreciate your help, boys,” she told her cohorts, then sent both officers a sinister smile. “But if Nick Hardin owns this guy, I’m going to pay him a visit he won’t soon forget.”
“Give him hell, Miss Collins,” Barney said on a giggle.
“You can count on it,” Cassie promised, then turned on her heel and headed for the garage with the relieved security officers trailing after her.
After waving goodbye to her obliging dream team, Cassie opened the door to her silver Lexus sedan, placed the black-and-white scoundrel on the passenger’s seat, then slid behind the wheel.
“So, you belong to the famous Nick Hardin, do you?” she said, looking over at the mutt who was responsible for turning her peaceful Saturday morning into a full-blown disaster. “Well, thanks to you, my scruffy little friend, we’ll see if your obnoxious master still has a sense of humor after this vulture picks his bones clean for the damages you’ve caused this morning.”
IT TOOK LESS THAN five minutes for Cassie and her hostage to make the short trip to the old Tudor mansion Nick Hardin had purchased some six months earlier. When she reached the gate to the aging estate, Cassie pulled into the winding driveway that led up to the house. She had always loved the charm of the old place, especially the brilliant rhododendrons and the multicolored azaleas that lined both sides of the driveway. The old Jeep and the big Harley-Davidson motorcycle that were parked haphazardly in the driveway, however, looked as out of place as the radio talk-show host had been since he moved into her neighborhood.
Eager to give the cocky old coot an up-close-and-personal look at the legal system he was always complaining about on his stupid radio program, Cassie switched off the engine and grabbed the furry scamp sitting next to her. Marching straight to the front door, Cassie paused on the stoop and pressed the doorbell long enough for the blast to wake the dead. When her adversary failed to appear from within his fortress, Cassie reached for the bell again, but the squirming captive in the crook of her arm saw his chance and wiggled from her grasp.
“You come back here this minute,” Cassie yelled.
The naughty little maverick bounded around the side of the house and Cassie dashed after him. Charging through the back gate in hot pursuit, she almost had the miniature monster in her grasp, but a loud splash from the backyard pool brought her to a sudden stop. When she looked up, her eyes widened in disbelief as the lower half of a nude male body slipped beneath the surface of the shimmering blue water.
Ignoring her own gasp, Cassie willed herself to move, but the instincts that kept screaming run didn’t relay the message to her addled brain fast enough. Before she could flee, a bronzed phantom with an upper torso reminiscent of the Incredible Hulk’s broke the water’s surface gracefully with muscled forearms stretched out before him.
Cassie watched in awe as Adonis himself made long, purposeful strides across the water in her direction. This can’t be Nick Hardin, she kept assuring herself, but she’d never actually seen Nick Hardin before, not even a picture of him. It was his politically incorrect attitude that led Cassie to believe he would be much older than this Greek god she had just caught in the buff. In fact, the mental picture Cassie had always put with that deep baritone voice on the radio was one of a middle-aged hippie who was still trying to cling to the lost age of sex, drugs and rock and roll.
Please, God, let this Chippendale refugee be Nick Hardin’s pool man, Cassie prayed silently, aware that the naked stranger was now swimming dangerously close to the shallow end of the pool.
To her relief, he stopped when the water was still waist-high, ran a hand through his unfashionably long hair, then stared back at Cassie with eyes the color of midnight. “Well, good morning,” he called out boldly. “I’d given up hope of the Biltmore Forest welcoming committee dropping by, but if you’re the representative it was well worth the wait.”
The second she heard that too-familiar baritone voice, Cassie felt a searing flush spread straight to the center of her cheeks. Squaring her shoulders, she sent him the type of icy stare that she usually reserved for the courtroom. “You’re Nick Hardin?” she managed to say, already knowing the answer.
“Guilty as charged,” he admitted with a cocksure grin. “And you are?”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Hardin, but I’m definitely not the welcoming committee,” she informed him curtly, then pointed to the black-and-white half breed who was running up and down the edge of the pool, yapping at his master. “I brought your dog home, because…”
