The Bravo Billionaire. Christine Rimmer

      The dog leapt at him, yapping.

      Emma Lynn Hewitt came after it, emitting firm and totally ineffective commands. “Hitchcock, stay! Hitchcock, sit!”

      Jonas lifted his briefcase, positioning it as a makeshift shield. The little dog slammed against it and dropped to the floor, where it lay stunned for perhaps a count of three.

      And then it was up again, grabbing onto the end of Jonas’s left trouser leg with its sharp, white teeth.

      “Oh, please don’t kick him,” begged Emma.

      The dog growled and wriggled and ripped at his pant leg. Jonas stood absolutely still. “Then I’d suggest you get him away from me. Now.”

      “Hitch. Here, Hitch…”

      The dog paused, blinked, and then picked up where it had left off, nails clicking fiercely on the linoleum as it yanked backwards, making a rag of the fine lightweight wool.

      Emma knelt. “Hitchcock. Front.”

      The dog froze. Growled.

      “Front, Hitch. Front.”

      The dog gave another growl, then let go.

      She scooped the animal into her arms, stood, and backed up. “Good boy. Such a very, very good boy.” The dog whined and licked her chin. She glanced at Jonas. So did the dog, which immediately started growling again. “Wait outside in the hall. I’ll be right there.”

      Jonas advised, “Don’t disappoint me, Emma.”

      “I won’t. I promise. I’ll be right out.”

      He turned for the door.

      “Send Pixie in,” she said, as he opened the door.

      Since Pixie was standing on the other side wearing the guilty expression of someone caught eavesdropping, there was no need to relay the message. Pixie went in as soon as he got out.

      For once, the dog groomer didn’t make him wait.

      In under a minute, she came out of the blue room, closing the door and then slumping against it, pale head bowed. She was wearing leopard-skin patterned pants beneath the pink smock, the kind that fit like a second skin and came to just below her knees. There were black platform thongs on her feet. Her toenails were metallic gold. Right then, she reminded him of a very young, very vulnerable Marilyn Monroe.

      “I am sorry,” she said, still looking down. “Hitch hates the noose, so I don’t use it. After a little conversation and a lot of praise, he’s usually real good for me. But you surprised him, bursting in the room like that. Pomeranians don’t like surprises.”

      “No kidding.”

      One of the pink-smocked women—this one skinny as a rail with short, spiky red hair—came out of a door at the opposite end of the hall, leading a fine-looking collie on a leash. The woman paused. “Em? You okay?”

      Emma looked over, forced a smile. “I’m fine, Deirdre.”

      Deirdre took the collie through the door to the waiting room.

      Emma turned her gaze on him then, her expression wistful. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess. Armani, right?”

      He realized she was referring to his tattered trousers. “Vincent Nicolosi.”

      “Who?”

      “Never mind.”

      “Someone so exclusive, I’ve never heard of him, huh?”

      He shrugged.

      “You just send me the bill, all right?”

      As far as Jonas was concerned, they’d talked enough about his trousers. “I have something important to discuss with you.”

      “Jonas, I really don’t have time right now to—”

      He was already striding back down the hall. He stopped at the door that led to the office room. “In here.”

      “Jonas, I can’t—”

      “In here. Now.”

      Amazingly, she did what he’d told her to do, platform thongs clipping smartly as she came toward him. She opened the door. “After you.”

      He went in.

      She followed, gestured at the two pink Naugahyde chairs opposite the desk. “Have a seat.”

      He didn’t sit. He laid his briefcase on her desk, opened it, and took out the prospectus. “Here.” He held it out to her.

      “What’s that?”

      “A plan I’ve put together.”

      She folded her arms below those ripe-looking breasts.

      “What kind of a plan?”

      “A damn good one.” Since she wouldn’t take it, he dropped the prospectus on the desk. “We’re going to expand this business of yours. You’ll open five new PetRitz locations—in Santa Barbara, San Francisco, Dallas, Philadelphia and New York City. One a year, starting next year. I will take all the risks, and put up all the money. The majority of the profit from this venture will be yours.”

      “It will?”

      “Yes.”

      “And what exactly do I have to do to get so lucky?”

      “You’ll contribute your time. Lots of it. And also your…expertise.”

      “I heard that.” Her eyes were moss green, or maybe hazel. They kept changing color. And they seemed to be twinkling with humor right then. That little mole above her lip tucked itself into the shadow of her cheek as she grinned.

      “Heard what?” he demanded.

      “The way you hesitated before you said ‘expertise,’ like you didn’t really mean it.”

      “I assure you. I did mean it.”

      She tipped her head to the side. “Sure you did. And a Texas summer never gets all that hot.”

      “Emma, I am very well aware that you’ve done a fine job here. PetRitz, by any standard, is a success. And my mother realized an excellent profit on her investment.”

      “You bet she did.”

      “So now, I’m going to help you expand.”

      She kept her arms wrapped around her. “In exchange for what?”

      “In exchange for—”

      She put up a hand. “No. Don’t tell me. Let me guess.” She fluttered her eyelashes, which were curly and dark around those almost-green eyes. “I know. You want me to agree to give up any claim to Mandy.”

      He sought the most diplomatic way to say yes.

      Before he found it, she prompted, “Am I right?”

      “Emma—”

      “Just answer the question.”

      “All right. Yes. You’ll give up all claim to custody of Mandy.”

      “No.”

      He glared at her. “Just read the damn thing, will you?”

      “I’m not going to give up my claim to custody of your sister. Or at least, if I do, it’s not gonna be because you have paid me off. Oh, Jonas.” She raked both hands back through that white-gold hair and she groaned at the ceiling. “Haven’t we been through this already, more than once?”

      “No. This is all new. This is a great opportunity for you to build on what you’ve got here.”

      “Well, fine. It’s a great opportunity and I’m passin’ it up—considering that to take it would mean I’d have to turn my back on the dyin’ wish