Get Bunny Love (21 page)

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Bert quipped.

Exasperated, Nate raked a hand through his hair. “She’s a menace.”

Bert waggled a finger in Nate’s direction. “Did your hair explode?”

Nate paced the office, pivoting sharply, hands on hips. He stopped, leveling a glare at Bert. “Do you know why I look like this?”

Bert put a hand over his mouth, shaking his head.

Nate stomped toward the desk and leaned, hands pressed flat against the gleaming gray resin surface. “She’s making me crazy.”

Laugh lines crinkled around Bert’s eyes as he rocked back in his chair. His easy laughter usually cheered Nate, but right now the sound only added to his frustration. “She’s a complete and total menace.”

“She’s a breath of fresh air,” Bert said softly. “And you know it.”

“No, she’s not.” Nate’s voice had thickened. “She’s infuriating, that’s what she is.” He resumed his pacing. “She has no sense of decorum. I mean, my God, what was she, raised in a barn? A workplace is for work—not for lucky bamboo and bunny slippers.”

Nate closed his eyes, trying to calm his soaring blood pressure. “The woman is a blue-eyed, mop-topped leader of the pack, and I will
not
let her creative chaos take over this firm. We’ve succeeded through control, and we will continue to do so.”

Bert’s lips twitched into a mischievous grin. He slowly repositioned himself in his chair. Leaning back, he put one foot, then the other, on top of the desk. Pink, fuzzy, bunny slippers covered both.

Nate felt the color drain from his face. He pointed a shaking finger, but found himself speechless.

“You know,” Bert said slowly. “You shouldn’t knock it until you try it.” He crossed his legs at the ankle and laced his fingers behind his head. “They’re just the thing for letting your toes wiggle.”

Nate did his best to focus on Bert, not on the pounding headache pulsing over the center of his eyes. “McNulty Events does not condone wiggling. Of any type.”

Bert swung his feet to the floor and walked to where Nate stood. “Life’s short, Nate. Try to enjoy some of it.”

Nate glared down at the offensive pink foot coverings. “How can you stand there in
those
and criticize me?” He raised his gaze to Bert’s. His friend’s features softened, but his posture did not.

“Don’t make her color inside your box. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened around here.”

Nate turned, walking quickly toward the door. “Don’t quote pop psychology to me, and get those things,” he jabbed his finger in the direction of Bert’s feet, “out of this office.”

Seconds later he towered over Miss Peabody’s desk. “Did you track down Bunny?”

“No.” His secretary flinched, as if bracing herself for another outburst. “But the manager at the Loews just called. Seems to be some sort of altercation among the guests.”

“The menace has my car,” Nate snarled. “I’ll take a cab.” He turned toward the elevator, but yelled over his shoulder. “I don’t care what you have to do. Find her and tell her to meet me at that hotel.”

o0o

Bunny pulled Nate’s BMW onto the pothole-riddled parking lot of Saslow Sundries. Armand had better be right about this. Seemed a bit ridiculous to supply the handlers with leads, but she supposed the purple theme was worth the expense. “Move it, ladies,” she called out to Chablis and Chardonnay, now asleep, exhausted from pillaging the interior of Nate’s car.

The trio trotted across the lot, Bunny’s heel catching twice in the rough surface of the drive. Once inside the heavy metal entrance door, Bunny blinked, trying to adjust to the dingy interior.

A balding Soprano wannabe sauntered out of a tiny office. A stogie stuck out one side of his mouth. He tugged down the hem of his blue and white warm-up jacket, stretched to its limits across his paunch. “Can I help youse?”

Anxiety coiled inside her. This particular moment was not one for her event planner’s scrapbook. “I came about the leashes,” she said tentatively.

Chablis and Chardonnay jerked Bunny’s arm, obviously intrigued by the possibilities of the dark warehouse aisles. “Miss Love. From McNulty.”

The man nodded. “Yeah.” He plucked the stogie out of his mouth then scratched his belly. “Gave them to your assistant about five minutes ago.”

Bunny squinted, trying to make sense of his words. “I don’t have an assistant.”

“Nice-looking guy.” The man straightened. “Buff, know what I mean? Little taller than me.”

Wild thoughts raced through Bunny’s mind. Who on earth would have picked up the leads? Hell, the only person who knew about this dive was Armand.

“Said he wanted to surprise you. Save you some work.”

“Brown hair?”

The man nodded.

“Very polished?”

Another nod.

Her anxiety had morphed to full-blown urge-to-kill. “Did he say his name was Armand?”

“Dat’s it.” He waved the stogie in her direction.

Bunny pulled Chardonnay and Chablis close to her side, out of the arc of falling ash. “But I told you I was on my way.”

“Didn’t tell me, lady.” He shrugged.

“I told someone.”

“All I know is he was here to pick up favors for some other gig and asked if the leashes were in. The rest is history.”

“Great,” Bunny grumbled.

She thanked the man and hustled the dogs back into the car. She plucked Armand’s card from her purse, alternating stares between the number and Nate’s phone. Finally she pulled the phone from its base and punched in the digits. Armand answered on the third ring.

“Speak to me.”

Bunny rolled her eyes. Could the man be any more in love with himself? “Why did you pick up my leads?”

“Bunny, gorgeous. How are you?”

“The leads, Armand.”

“I just left you a message. Thought I’d do you a favor.”

“It’s my account, Armand, not yours.”

His rich laughter filtered through the phone, sending a shudder up her spine.

“Chill, babe. I’m on my way to drop them off at the Convention Center. Just wanted to be sure they were the correct ones.”

She squinted. “A leash is a leash, right?”

“Not for the Cup, babe.” He paused for a beat. “These are special, just for you.”

His words set off alarm bells in her head. Call-waiting beeped. Drat. Now she’d
have
to answer the phone. “All right. I’m on my way. Just leave them with the show manager and I’ll take it from there.”

“Will do. Ciao.”

Bunny clicked the disconnect button. She cleared her throat to answer the second call. “Nate McNulty’s car.”

Miss Peabody spoke softly and quickly. “You’d better get to the Loews and fast.”

“What happened?”

“Some kind of commotion. Nate’s on his way.”

Bunny winced.

“And Bunny?”

“Yes?”

“He’s a little hot under the collar.”

Hot under the collar. Awareness rippled straight to Bunny’s core, but dread quickly replaced the warmth with a chill. “Is he angry with me?”

“
And
your positive chi.”

Bunny tamped down her growing anxiety. “What did he find?”

“Owen’s slippers, Bert’s slippers, my bamboo.”

“Oh.” It could have been worse. Far worse. But knowing Nate, that had been bad enough. “I’m on my way.”

She disconnected then cranked the ignition.

If she could beat Nate to the hotel and put out whatever fire simmered there, perhaps he’d forgive her creative meddling back at the office.

At least long enough to close on her mortgage.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

By the time Bunny screeched Nate’s car to a halt in front of the Loews valet stand, Chablis had dismantled two Beatles CDs and started on her third. Chardonnay apparently preferred Elvis Costello. Bunny shrugged. Who didn’t?

She and the fur balls jumped from the car, hurrying through the front doors of the grand hotel. They came to a dead stop when they spotted the mayhem inside. A thirty-something couple engaged in a heated argument while their long-nosed dog stood sheepishly to one side.

On the far side of the lobby, what appeared to be a motorcycle gang congregated—laughing, loud and raucous. Anxiety clawed its way from Bunny’s stomach to her chest. Uh-oh. What were a bunch of bikers doing in the same hotel as her breeders and owners?

She hurried to the desk, dragging Chablis and Chardonnay behind. The tiny terrors growled and snarled, as if sensing trouble in the air. “Miss Love.” Eugene Quigley, silver-haired, hotel manager extraordinaire peered down his nose.

Bunny tipped her head toward the leather-clad bikers. “What are they doing here?”

“They are showing their champion German Shepherd.” Quigley thinned his lips, tipping his chin toward the arguing couple. “
They
are the problem.”

Bunny turned to size up the well-dressed pair. Their voices had risen a few notches, their postures had become more agitated. She sucked in a breath. “Not happy with their room?”

“No,” Quigley snapped. “Apparently not happy with each other. They reserved separate rooms.”

Bunny handed the manager the poodles’ leashes. “Hold these for a minute.” She headed toward where the couple stood arguing.

As she neared, the dog clamored to his feet, stretching to his full elegant length, his enormous, narrow snout snuffling the air. “Why the long face?” Bunny murmured. The sad-eyed dog scrutinized her, his brown gaze swimming with moisture.

“He’s a Borzoi,” the woman replied, a chilly clip to her tone. Anger had twisted her features until she resembled a bad caricature on the Atlantic City boardwalk.

“Pardon?” Bunny squinted, trying not to laugh.

“Borzoi.” The elegant man offered Bunny his hand. “I’m Timothy Goodloe. His elegant head is the sign of fine breeding. We call him Goodloe’s Gentleman Poindexter.”

Bunny shook the man’s hand then shared a sympathetic stare with the dog. “I feel your pain, buddy.”

“Did you say something?” Impeccably dressed from his tweed jacket to his tasseled loafers, the man screamed old money.

Bunny flashed her brightest smile. “I said my name’s Bunny. Bunny Love. Coordinator for The Worthington Cup. I understand you two are having some sort of disagreement.” She looked from the woman to Mr. Goodloe, arching a brow.

The woman let out a huff of breath. “I don’t see that this is any of your business.” Her raven bob swung about her chin, red splotches blooming in her flawless cheeks.

“My wife.” Goodloe jerked a thumb toward the woman who now held her arms tightly crossed over her chest. “Mitsi Goodloe.”

“Ex-wife,” Mitsi hissed.

Bunny nodded. She was beginning to get the picture.

“And Poindexter?” Cripes, Bunny could barely say the word without laughing. Poor dog. “Poindexter is your dog?”

“Yes,” Goodloe and Mitsi barked the word simultaneously.

“It’s my weekend,” Mitsi snarled. “
Mine
. The terms of our agreement are very clear.”

“But, Mitsi, darling-”

“Don’t ever...” the suede-clad woman jabbed a finger in the direction of her ex-husband’s face, “...call me darling. Not after what you did.”

Bunny puffed out her cheeks. This wasn’t going well. She cast a hopeful glance at the manager, hoping for backup. He gave her nothing more than an impatient arm gesture. She seriously doubted he’d learned the move at hotel manager school.

“The custody settlement clearly states I get Poindexter on show weekends,” Goodloe explained. “It’s rather common sense, Mitsi. I am his handler.”

The woman snorted. “And whose fault is that? If you hadn’t slept with the last three, we might have a real handler.”

And so the plot thickened. Bunny held her hands in a time-out signal. “Let’s take a moment.”

The Goodloes shot matching angry glares. Brrrr. Did they keep the thermostat low in this place, or what?

“May I suggest some deep breathing?” Bunny pressed her palms together, nodding toward the couple. “Close your mouths and take a deep breath through your noses. From the belly.”

Mitsi’s eyes narrowed to golden, spark-shooting slits. Timothy’s sapphire orbs widened, the color draining from his cheeks. Poor Poindexter dropped to the floor, tucking his head beneath an end table and draping one paw protectively over his snout.
Major issues
, Bunny thought.
Major
issues.

“Come on,” she urged. “Breathe in. One. Two. Three. Four.” She smiled enthusiastically. “It’ll change your energy, give it a try.”

The couple exchanged a glance. Bunny could have sworn she saw a smile flicker across Timothy’s lips. Progress. If nothing else, she’d give them something to laugh at together.

The Goodloes breathed in as told. Perfect.

“And out. Slowly through your noses. One. Two. Three. Four.”

She led them through several successive cleansing breaths, watching as the tension eased in their shoulders and the lines on their faces lessened. When their eyes reopened, their energy was far more positive than it had been. Even Poindexter pulled himself to a sitting position.

“Now then,” Bunny said. “Let’s reach a compromise so you both can enjoy the weekend.”

“Well I-” Mitsi’s voice was still too tight-sounding for Bunny’s taste.

She held up a hand. “You both want to be here with Poindexter, correct?”

The Goodloes nodded.

“And how about you?” Bunny bent down to Poindexter’s level, holding out her hand. “You want your humans here?”

Poindexter placed one gentlemanly paw on Bunny’s palm. She gave it a shake then patted his furry head.

“Do you both have reservations?” She scrutinized the couple’s faces.

Both nodded.

“I’ll be right back.” Bunny pivoted on one heel, crossing quickly to the registration counter. The manager waited eagerly, arms crossed, foot tapping. “It’s simple.” She flattened her palms on the counter. “Adjoining rooms. Custody battle solved.”

The manager’s carefully trimmed eyebrows snapped together. “We are sold out for the show, Miss Love. Do you think I can simply snap my fingers and find two available adjoining rooms?”

“No.” Bunny jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “But, unless you want to watch the battle of the tweeds all weekend, I suggest you make this work.”