nodded with satisfaction. “That’s exactly the look I was going for, boring and monkish. You might as well get it straight right now—charm and pizzazz aren’t on my list of priorities.”
“How about comfort? What kind of man puts only one comfortable…” She strolled across the room to press her palm to a seat cushion. “Make that one semi-comfortable chair in front of the TV? And a thirteen-inch TV, at that.”
“A man who doesn’t entertain much…or watch much TV. Which, for the record, is a nineteen-inch.”
She glanced from him to the TV and back. “But there’s no DVD player, not even a VCR and not a single remote in sight. An American male without a remote suggests gender issues, if you ask me.”
“Then I’ll be sure not to. Come on out back and I’ll introduce you.”
It wasn’t fair, Olivia groused silently, that he should be so impervious to her baiting when almost everything about him irritated her. It wasn’t until they reached the screened porch, which opened off the kitchen, igniting an even more spirited round of barking, that she remembered to be scared.
“Maybe you should feed them first,” she suggested. “I know how much I hate socializing on an empty stomach.”
“No.” He turned on a small table lamp and un-latched the porch door, then glanced over his shoulder at her before opening it. “You’re not afraid, are you?”
She badly wanted to scoff at the very notion, but something about the size of the shadows circling on the other side of the thin screening compelled her to tell the truth. “As a matter of fact, I am,” she confessed. “Very afraid.”
“Good. You don’t need to be, but it would be foolish for you to assume that on your own.”
He opened the door and stepped outside. Instantly the dogs were all over him, leaping up and yipping for his attention, which he managed to dole out equally. At first she was unable to tell how many there were. A dozen, it seemed. As they settled down she was surprised to count only three dogs, two as big as Romeo and one even bigger.
He shoved the door wide with his shoulder and invited her to join them.
She hesitated. “You’re really sure you can control them?”
With an indignant glance her way, he issued a single curt order to sit, and the dogs lined up before him like seasoned soldiers.
Olivia stepped just outside, but no further. Even if he could control them, she wasn’t taking any chances.
“The big guy here is Radar, because that’s what he’s like when he’s on a scent,” he explained, reaching down to scratch around the ears of the largest of the three—a massive dog with a sleek, brown coat and woebegone expression. “He’s 100 percent bloodhound, from the breed’s premiere bloodline.” In a clipped, slightly louder tone, he ordered, “Radar, make nice.”
The dog got to his feet and approached Olivia, who promptly stiffened and hid her hands behind her back.
“Olivia, make nice,” he drawled, his tone dry. “He only wants to smell your hand.”
Cautiously she stretched out one hand. Radar’s wet nose and tongue made contact simultaneously. She gave a little gasp of surprise, but managed to hold her hand steady. “I thought he only wanted to smell me.”
“And maybe slobber over you a little bit,” he added, shrugging when she took her eyes off the dog long enough to shoot him a withering look. He spoke the dog’s name in that same clipped tone, and Radar’s head came up, his velvet-brown eyes riveted on Rancourt, eager anticipation in his stance. Rancourt made a simple movement of his right hand, and the big dog returned to his place in line. A second hand movement had him stretched out on the floor, gazing up at his owner with the undivided attention she’d expect him to reserve for a raw T-bone steak.
“Good, Radar. Mac, make nice,” he ordered.
This time she didn’t have to be prodded to offer the tan-and-black dog the same hand she had just wiped dry on her slacks, and she flinched only slightly when she felt his rough tongue. “This breed I recognize,” she said. “He’s a German shepherd, right?”
“To the core,” he confirmed. “Mac is short for Mac Cool, for obvious reasons. Mac’s a real character.”
She laughed. “He does have a certain roguish quality.”
He called for the dog’s attention and repeated the same hand motions to get him to retreat and lie down.
“And finally, in defiance of the ‘ladies first’ rule, since it’s rank that matters most in the dog world, this is Jez, short for Jezebel.” Bending to stroke the dog’s side, he added, “Also, for obvious reasons, if you equate the name Jezebel with being cocky and shameless.”
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