The Billionaire Bridegroom. Emma Darcy
clear she disapproved of him—not the usual response he got from women—and despite his putting his best foot forward to make up for this morning’s fiasco, she hadn’t intended to budge from her stance. Not until he’d offered payment for her expertise. He suspected she’d done him in the eye there, too, demanding top dollar. Probably thought he wouldn’t agree to it.
The money was irrelevant.
He’d picked up her challenge and forced her to come to his party. The sense of winning put Nic in such a good mood, he even grinned down at the troublesome terrier who had brought him no pleasure at all to this date. ‘You might be good for something after all, Cleo,’ he said whimsically.
The stumpy tail wagged eager agreement.
Then Nic remembered having to clean up the puddle and he wagged an admonishing finger at the dog. ‘But you certainly don’t deserve that pretty pink bow. What self-respecting female would let her bladder loose in the wrong place?’
The accusing tone instantly broke their brief understanding. A series of hostile barks reminded Nic that hostility bred hostility and he couldn’t blame the dog for wanting to get rid of Justine’s smell. ‘Okay, okay,’ he soothed, copying the soft, singsong lilt Serena had used to calm the beast. ‘You probably did me a favour there, too, bringing out the worst of her character for me to see. Let’s call it quits on Justine.’
Back to tail wagging.
‘It’s time for lunch now.’ If any of his friends ever heard him talking to a dog like this, he’d never hear the end of it. However, it was definitely a winning ploy, so he continued in the same soppy vein. ‘Would you like some more chicken?’
Chicken, according to Angelina, was a magic word that could winkle her darling pet out of any bad mood. It hadn’t produced the desired result while Justine had been present, but right now it worked like a charm. Cleo literally bounced out to the kitchen and stood in front of the refrigerator, yipping impatiently for her treat.
Nic obliged, carefully deboning the chicken as he filled her food dish. She wolfed it all down, moved on to her water dish, took a long drink, then happily trotted off to her miniature trampoline in the living room, hopped onto it, scratched it into shape, curled herself down and closed her eyes in sleepy contentment.
Nic shook his head in bemusement. Maybe he didn’t need Serena Fleming’s advice after all. Maybe he’d only needed to get rid of Justine. On the other hand, one little success did not guarantee peaceful coexistence for two months. And something had to be done about the barking at night.
He knew Angelina and Ward let Cleo sleep on their bed. They actually laughed about it burrowing up between them. No way was he about to start sleeping with a dog, waking up to a lick on the face. Devotion to duty only went so far. And if he managed to get Serena Fleming into bed with him, he certainly didn’t want a jealous dog leaping into the fray.
Wondering if he could persuade the feisty little blonde into being his playmate for the next two months, Nic went back to the refrigerator to see what he could rustle up for his own lunch. His appetite for tasty morsels had been aroused. He spotted a bottle of Chardonnay and thought he might begin tonight’s consultation by offering a glass of wine—a friendly, hospitable thing to do.
The idea of killing two birds with one stone had fast-growing appeal.
A desirable woman in his bed.
An expert dog-handler on tap.
Definitely a challenge worth winning.
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