Domesticating Luc

PAWLOGUE:

The Man was leaving.

The signs were obvious—the jingle of his keys, the scent of the leather briefcase he always took with him, the man-leash he’d draped around his neck.

Even from outside, watching through the screen door leading to the backyard patio, I could tell he was impatient to get away. But the bitch who’d arrived a few minutes earlier appeared to be surprised. In the month that I’d lived at The Man’s house, other women had visited him, but I’d never seen this one before. Skinny as an alley cat, her eyes were ringed with black and she had multicolored fur on her head—light in the front and dark in the back.

“You’re going into work? On a Saturday?” she asked as he paused in front of the hall mirror to knot his leash around his throat.

“Yeah.”

“But I thought we’d spend the day together,” she purred, brushing against his arm.

Something in her manner reminded me of a Siamese cat I used to know. Sinuous and sly, she circled The Man, trying to get his attention. “Wouldn’t it be fun to go swimming?” she coaxed, moving close to him again.

“Not today,” The Man replied as he finished adjusting his leash. I wasn’t fond of cats and apparently, The Man wasn’t either. Because when she rubbed against his arm again, he stepped away. “I have too much work to get through.” He picked up his briefcase. “You should have called before you came over.”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“You certainly accomplished that. What’s it been? Eight months? Ten?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Four months.”

“That long, huh? Time sure flies, doesn’t it?”

She ignored the comment to plead, “Can’t you stay?”

“Sorry, no.” But he didn’t sound sorry. Or even very interested as he added, “But you’re welcome to use the pool before you go.”

She must have heard the indifference in his voice, because her mouth grew tight. She glanced away from him to hide her reaction and caught sight of me. “Oh! You got a dog!” she exclaimed.

“Not really. He was my aunt’s.” The Man glanced impatiently at his watch. “Leila—”

“What an interesting animal! He’s so huge!” she interrupted, sauntering in my direction. She peered at me. Her scent crept beneath the door. She smelled like crushed flowers, mixed indiscriminately together in a tangled mass.

“Nice doggy,” she said, in a gushy, high voice that made the hair rise along my back. “What a cute little doggy-oggy you are.” She pursed her mouth in a kissy-face.

I prudently moved back a few feet.

She glanced over her shoulder at The Man. “I just love dogs!” she declared.

Her tone annoyed me. When she looked at me again, I deliberately looked away.

“And apparently, they love you, too,” The Man said sardonically. His voice hardened with impatience—a tone I was very familiar with. “Now do you want to use the pool or not?”

“All alone?”

“That’s right.”

“But what about the dog?”

“He doesn’t like to swim.”

The bitch smiled, but I could tell she wasn’t amused. “I meant, will he bother me?”

“No. He just lies around all day. Besides, I thought you loved dogs.”

They stared at each other, her expression entreating, his unbending. “I don’t think I will go swimming today,” she finally said, her voice stiff.

“Suit yourself.” The Man opened the front door, then paused a moment on the threshold. Sparing me a glance, he added, “But if you do stay, make sure you lock the French doors behind you, and don’t leave the backyard gate open. He’ll run away.”

And without further comment, he left.

The bitch just stood there for a couple of seconds, staring at the closed door. Pity welled up inside me. I knew how painful it could be to be left behind.

Then, “Hateful man!” she spat. “He hasn’t changed a bit.” She looked round and, catching my gaze, hissed, “Serve him right if I did let you out, you ugly monster.”

The thought seemed to raise her spirits. She undid the back door latch. She slid the glass open and stepped outside, circling around me to head toward the wrought iron gate beyond the pool and guesthouse.

When she’d gone about five yards, I stood up. She glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes widened as I started following her. She quickened her pace. So did I. She broke into a slow jog. So did I. She ran faster and—well, you get the idea.

By the time she reached the gate, sweat gleamed on her pale face. She threw herself against the wrought iron and looked at me, her eyes wild. “Good dog,” she said, her voice shrill. “Good dog.”

I sat down and barked in agreement with her assessment.

She cringed. Without taking her gaze off me, she undid the latch. She pushed the gate open. “There you go.” She made a shooing gesture with her long clawed hands. “Scat. Go on. Run away.”

Who did she think she was, giving me orders? I felt no need to obey her. Besides, no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t leave. Not yet.

I yawned, then stood up.

She backed away a step. “Good lord, you have big teeth,” she said, her own teeth chattering slightly. “Don’t you dare bite me,” she added in a warning tone, “I swear, I’ll sue the pants off him if you do.”

I wasn’t planning on biting her; I’d been raised to be polite. But I didn’t like her. I wanted her gone. I growled, long and low, to encourage her to be on her way.

She got the message. She swallowed and slunk through the gate, then broke into a sprint.

I watched as she raced to her car, resisting the urge to give chase. She certainly didn’t run like a cat. I could have caught her in two major leaps. But I didn’t have time to fool around.

Before the roar of her mechanical beast had faded into the distance, I turned and headed back to the glass door. Just as I’d suspected, she’d left it ajar. I nudged it open further with my muzzle until my head and shoulders could squeeze through.

I entered the house.

I’d been inside before, three years ago when I’d been just a pup. The scents, the sounds, wafting in the air nudged my memory of that brief visit. The tart scent of lemon and beeswax emanating from the dark glossy furniture. The brisk, tight tick of a tall clock standing in the hallway. Nothing appeared changed. Surely what I sought was still here.

Eager to find out, my pace quickened. My nails clicked on the cold marble tiles in the kitchen, then on the shiny hardwood floors as I made my way down the hall to find the room I’d visited long ago. A familiar scent tickled my nostrils, and I lifted my head higher to sniff the air. The scent grew stronger the nearer I drew to the open doors before me, and with three more loping strides, I entered a large room.

I hesitated a moment on the threshold, my paws sinking into a carpet as soft as a bed of moss. Was this the room we’d sat in? It smelled the same. The heavy scent of the leather couch squatting before the fireplace filled the air—a smell so rich, so enticing that drool gathered in my jowls.

Still, I wasn’t quite sure. So I explored the room thoroughly—sniffing carefully around the sleek, cold hearth, tracking my way slowly across the carpet nearby. Instinct guided me as I pushed my muzzle deep into the thick pile, snuffling intently until—

Aha! This was the right room! Deep in the fibers, I caught the faint, barely discernible trace of the small stain I’d left there as a youngster. I circled the area, sniffing intently. The urge to cover the spot again was strong…but I was no longer a pup. I knew now I didn’t belong here.

This was The Man’s territory, not mine.

So, I turned away from the distraction and headed toward the leather couch. I’d do what I had to do, and then be on my way. With a small “woof” of determination, I got to work.

And two hours later—fourteen hours in dog time—I found what I’d been searching for.

CHAPTER ONE: EVALUATION

Selecting a puppy:

Picking the perfect puppy isn’t easy. Size, weight and breed all need to be considered. But the most important factor is the temperament of your animal.

To evaluate the social tendencies of your choice, watch how he interacts with others. Does he approach in a stiff-legged manner? Is his tail tucked beneath his bottom? Is he confident in his stance? Is he excitable or calm? Does he bark incessantly or whimper? Does he bite? Or cower?

You don’t want a timid animal. But you most certainly don’t want one that is aggressive.

EVALUATING THAT PUPPY IN THE WINDOW, Dr. Lou Kaku

“I give up.”

“Hmm?” Julie Jones, owner of the Puppy Love Dog Training Institute, glanced up from the ledger she’d been comparing to the accounts on her computer. Brushing a strand of dark hair out of her eyes, she focused on the woman planted in front of her desk. “What did you say, Georgia?”

“I said I give up,” the gray-haired trainer repeated, folding her muscular arms across her chest. “Our newest client is completely untrainable. He snarls, he growls. He refuses to obey the simplest command without balking. He’s disrupting the whole class. There’s no way he’s going to pass basic training.”

“Oh, dear.” Julie leaned back in her chair, biting her lower lip. She was so proud of the stellar record of the institute, which was earning a reputation among dog owners in the west Los Angeles area as the best place to take problem pooches. Not once in the two years since she’d bought the facility had they had a failure. “He’s that bad, huh?”

“Yes!” declared Georgia, with an emphatic nod of her head. “Completely hopeless—a real son of a bitch.” She considered the matter, then added, “And his dog isn’t much better.”

Julie frowned. “Is he aggressive?”

“Not the dog. Just the man,” Georgia replied. “A bit intimidating. He’s not very friendly to the other owners. Tends to snap at them.” Her glasses slid down her pug nose. She pushed them back up. “He’s also expecting instant results, and that’s not going to happen. The dog simply isn’t responding.”

Julie sighed and set down her pen. “All right. Send them in. I’ll see if I can figure out what the problem is.”

While Georgia went to fetch the pair, Julie shut down her computer, then hunted for their file among the stacks on her desk. She started with the largest pile—clients who owed money—but after diligently digging found it in the thinnest heap—prepaid accounts.

She opened up the manila folder. Paper-clipped to the top was a check signed in a dark slashing hand by a Lucien Tagliano. Glancing at the amount, the tension in her shoulders eased a bit. He’d paid for a full three months in advance. Not only would the money help pay the bills, it also showed Tagliano was committed to training his dog.

Feeling more hopeful, she lifted the check to read the information sheet below it. Tagliano was listed as the animal’s owner on the form, which also gave his occupation—business owner—and his home address in an exclusive part of the city.

But the information on his pet was scanty.

Julie was frowning over the omissions when a brief tap on the open door heralded Georgia’s return. The trainer poked her head around the jamb. “They’re here.”

Julie nodded. “Send them in.”

Georgia opened the door wider to allow the man and dog to enter. Julie glanced up to greet her client and—

Whoa!

She leaned back in surprise. He was so…so handsome. Not classically so, but in a tough, rugged kind of way that exuded power and confidence. Wide, muscular shoulders. A deep chest and well-shaped head. Surely Italian, she thought, as he paced almost arrogantly into the room. Definitely a male in his prime. His brow and jaw were wide, his rough-hewn features so clearly defined he would have appeared almost brutal if it weren’t for his eyes. Dark brown. Intelligent. Something in them tugged at her heart. Made her—

“Miss Jones?”

The deep voice was rough, like a growl, and caused a warning tingle at her nape. Reluctantly, Julie tore her gaze from the mastiff’s to look at the man and—

Whoa!

Her eyes widened. The man standing just inside her door certainly didn’t look like a businessman. His long-sleeved white dress shirt and dark slacks might be traditional business attire, but, like a pink satin bow on a timber wolf, did nothing to disguise the true nature of the beast. Well over six feet tall, his broad shoulders and muscular arms were clearly defined beneath his shirt, and the leather belt on the slacks encircled his lean waist and hips. His brow was wide, his cheekbones high and prominent, his square jaw shadowed. His thick, dark brown hair was cropped short in a severe style that did nothing to soften his chiseled features. His masculine nose was slightly battered, as if he’d broken it.

Probably in a fight, Julie thought, meeting his gaze. He looked like a man who wouldn’t back down from anyone. Like his dog’s, the man’s eyes were also brown, also intelligent. But these dark eyes held a critical, assessing glint that made her stiffen as he eyed her from the doorway.

‘A“Yes, I’m Miss Jones,” she acknowledged, as he strode toward her with the easy, powerful grace of a natural-born aggressor.

He held out his big, tanned hand. “Lucien Tagliano.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Tagliano.” She put her hand in his.

His long tanned fingers closed around hers, tightening just enough to reveal the controlled strength of his grasp.

“Luc,” he commanded.

“Julie,” she replied and pulled away to gesture at the chair in front of her desk. “Please. Have a seat. I just want to write down a few observations before we begin.”

His dark eyes narrowed, and his lips tightened. Julie waited, expecting him to argue, but he didn’t. After a moment, he nodded and sat in the chair she had indicated.

Julie frowned at him thoughtfully. He should have appeared relaxed with his long legs stretched out and his hands tucked into the front pockets of his slacks, but a sense of coiled energy still emanated from his big frame, and his intense, assessing gaze continued to study her in a way that made her feel oddly wary. Despite the temptation to keep a cautious eye on him, she forced herself to look away, to concentrate on the dog sitting so quietly nearby.

Definitely a magnificent animal, she thought again, with his beautiful eyes, cropped ears and short, gleaming brown coat. To the uninitiated, the dog might appear to be a half-breed. Tougher looking than an English mastiff. More reminiscent of a cross between a bulldog and a Rottweiler—a very big Rottweiler. He had to weigh one hundred forty pounds at the least, and was superbly muscled with the large head, broad shoulders and slim haunches prized in his breed.

But something about the dog troubled her. Julie absently tapped her pen against the edge of her desk as she tried to figure out what the problem could be. Maybe it was the way he sat—with quiet dignity but as far away from his owner as the leash would allow. Not as if the animal were afraid—there were no indications of cowering or mistrust—but rather as if he were…indifferent. She jotted the word down. And although he’d glanced around the room, looked at her, when he’d first entered, there were none of the signs of eager interest she would have expected of an animal entering unknown territory. Instead, the mastiff simply sat there, and, even as she watched, he lay down, placing his big head on his paws.

She added ‘appears surprisingly passive’ to her notes, along with observations about his weight, demeanor and physical condition. Then she started filling in the spaces Tagliano had left blank on the form, becoming increasingly absorbed as she wrote.

And, while Julie studied the dog, Luc Tagliano studied her.

At first, he thought her remark about taking notes was simply a ploy—a way to impress him. After all, the dog was just lying there. What was there to take notes on? But after watching the woman for about a minute or so, Luc realized she was truly engrossed in studying the animal. And completely oblivious to him.

That surprised him. She surprised him.

If he’d thought about it—which he hadn’t—he would have expected the owner of this facility to resemble the stern-faced instructor who’d led him to this office. But the only resemblance between the two women that he could see were the bright blue shirts both wore with the Puppy Love Institute logo discreetly stamped above their right breasts.

In fact, Julie Jones didn’t match his inner vision of a dog trainer in the least. To begin with, she looked too young to own this place. Twenty-five—twenty-eight max. And everything about the woman appeared…soft. Soft, wide mouth. Soft brown hair tumbling gently to her shoulders. Soft, slender curves under her blue blouse and dark pants. Soft, slender hands—surprisingly bare of rings. Even her gray eyes looked soft. When she was looking at the dog, anyway.

When she’d looked at him, it was a different matter.

Then her eyes turned cool, guarded, only warming again when she looked at the mastiff. Which she’d done unceasingly now for the past five minutes. Still totally ignoring Luc.

Which was fine—great. Luc shifted in his chair. Didn’t bother him at all. Just not the usual female reaction to his presence, by any means. Still, all that mattered to him was getting the damn dog straightened out as quickly as possible. He’d chosen the Puppy Love Institute on the recommendation of one of the contractors he often worked with and had been pleased with the general appearance of the place when he’d first arrived. The main building appeared to be well maintained, the expansive lawns of the training grounds surrounding it neatly trimmed. A wide track with an obstacle course nearby was part of the setup, and even came equipped with huge overhead lights for night classes.

Yeah, he’d been satisfied with the overall look of the place, but less so with the class to which he and the dog had been assigned. And he’d been much less approving of its instructor, the prototype of a female prison guard. Good lord, the woman could make most dogs—not to mention humans—cower with the frown on her face alone.

Definitely unlike Julie Jones, who was still scribbling furiously, small white teeth absently gnawing on her lower lip as she concentrated. Too bad he’d left his phone in his truck. He could have made a couple of calls while waiting.

He thought about retrieving it, then decided not to bother. This shouldn’t take long. Curbing his impatience, he glanced around the office. A dog calendar hung on a far wall next to a couple of puppy posters and several framed certificates. The most prominent informed those interested that Julie Ann Jones had received a bachelor’s degree in psychology, with an emphasis on animal behavior. The rest appeared to be awards for various dog obedience competitions.

Luc glanced back at Julie. Light streamed through the large window behind her, haloing her brown hair and slender shoulders before spilling across her desk. A small plastic bowl of cookies adorned one corner of the oak surface. A nameplate stating Miss Julie Jones—so she wasn’t married—was centered at the front of the desk, and paperwork covered the rest.

Not very efficient, Luc thought, eyeing the mounds of folders. A well-chewed rubber bone topped one pile, a bright yellow rubber duck perched next to her smartphone on another. A worn, dog-eared manual of an outdated accounting program sat next to her computer. The machine itself appeared several generations old, but must have been still functioning. She obviously wasn’t reinvesting her money in technology, but rather, it appeared, in the vast array of books she owned. He looked at the bookshelves flanking the window. Both of the cases were tightly packed from floor to ceiling.

He narrowed his eyes, scanning the titles. When Lassie Won’t Come Home. Controlling Canine Capers. Dealing with Doggy Disobedience. Most were books on dog behavior, but a good number were also about individual breeds. Poodles. Terriers. Dachshunds. Rottweilers. Dobermans. German shepherds. Sporting dogs. Working dogs. Show dogs. The list was endless.

With a shake of his head, he looked at Julie again. A frown creased her smooth brow as she jotted something on the paper before her. He shifted again, but she still didn’t look up. A phone rang somewhere down the hall and in the distance, he could hear the steel-haired trainer barking “Heel!” and “Sit!” at the class he’d been expelled from. He glanced at his Rolex and straightened in his chair. Okay, enough was enough. He wanted to get some work done this evening, not hang around here all night.

He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Julie finally paused in her scribbling to glance his way. “Italian?” she asked

Okay, so maybe she wasn’t quite as oblivious to him as she’d seemed. Luc nodded, settling back in his chair. “Yeah, my parents moved from Italy to New York in their early twenties. I moved out here to the west coast when I was in my teens.”

She stared at him a moment. “That’s interesting,” she said politely. “But I was talking about your dog.”

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