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
