Читать книгу Seduced on the Red Carpet - Ann Christopher - Страница 9

The next day, after a bicycle tour in the morning and an open-air lunch on the terrace, Livia resumed her exploration of the winery grounds. She still hadn’t seen the stone chapel that was around here somewhere—the whole point of her visit was to scope out the chapel and report back to Rachel on its suitability for her wedding—and there was no time like the present to find it.

There’d been no sign of J.R., and she was glad about that.

Really. She was glad.

“Come on, Willard.” Heading to the far end of the terrace, she consulted her map and clicked her fingers at her sidekick, who’d again been outside her door this morning and had waited for her at the bike stand during the tour.

No answer.

“Willard?” She raised her head and looked around.

Nothing.

Had that silly dog finally abandoned her? Feeling unaccountably disgruntled, she put her hands on her hips and scanned in all directions for her unfaithful companion, but there was no sign of him.

Well, fine, Willard. Fine. She could explore by her damn self.

At the edge of the terrace, though, she discovered a surprise. A pretty little rock waterfall had been carved into the hill like stair steps and the water flowed into a small pond with the kind of relaxing trickle that people back in L.A. acquired through the use of programmable sleep machines available in high-end gadget stores. Potted plants, flowers and lush grass surrounded the whole area, and there, at the end of several enormous stepping stones, sat the biggest doghouse Livia had ever seen. At least she thought it was a doghouse.

Wait—was it a doghouse?

Fire-engine red with a black roof and honest-to-God wraparound porch with white rails, it had a white boneshaped cutout over the arched doorway, so…yeah, it was definitely a doghouse. Oh, and there behind it were King Kong–sized stainless steel food and water bowls, so—

“Are you a princess?”

Whoa. Unidentified small person voice. Was this the girl that’d been following her? Livia glanced all around but there was no one in sight. “Uh,” she said, still searching and beginning to feel dumb, “are you talking to me?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you?”

“Here.”

That time she got a bead on the voice. It came from the general direction of the doghouse…There it was! A flash of movement inside the house and the unmistakable glint of a pair of large eyes that did not belong to Willard.

Creeping closer, Livia squatted and squinted into the dark depths of the house. At the same time, a flashlight clicked on, settled under a small chin and illuminated a girl’s face—it was her shy little friend—with the eerie up-lighting usually seen only in horror movies and at sleepovers.

Deeper into the doghouse—geez, how much square footage did this thing have?—lounged Willard, chomping on a chew toy of some kind. In front of the girl was a collection of lunging and snarling plastic dinosaurs and dragons that overflowed from their plastic bin.

“Hi,” Livia said.

The girl regarded her solemnly, the effect intensified by the flashlight’s glow, and spoke in a Vincent Price–like, creepy voice. “You may enter the dragon’s den if you utter the secret password.”

“Ah,” Livia said, not at all certain she wanted to fold her body up in there with that dog, no matter how much space there was. “I don’t think I know the secret pass—”

“Guess.”

“Ah. Okay. Hmm. Is it please? No, that’d be dumb. Princess? Pterodactyl?”

“It’s pteranodon.”

“Sorry. I knew that. Pteranodon?”

“No.”

“Umm…Belle? Aurora? Snow White? Mulan? Pocahontas?”

The girl took mercy on Livia and apparently decided she’d made enough of an effort, which was good because Livia’s knees were beginning to creak.

“The password is Tiana. You may enter.”

Livia was afraid of that. “Tell you what. Why don’t I just sit right here and—”

“Enter,” the girl commanded in that ghostly voice.

“Enter. Right.”

What else could she do but drop to all fours and crawl into the doghouse? She sincerely hoped that there were no paparazzi loitering nearby in the bushes. The cover shot on the week’s tabloids would include a close-up picture of her butt, which would look like a double-wide trailer, and the headline would read something along the lines of “Guess Which Supermodel is Losing the Battle with Cellulite?”

Nice.

To her immense surprise and relief, though, once she got through the cramped opening the house was quite spacious. More like a dog mansion. Willard seemed happy to be reunited with her and, when she sat crosslegged, put his head in her lap.