No Peeking...

Violet sighed, then glanced at her watch and caved like a wall of ice cream. Time was money, after all.

“You’re such a good boy,” she cooed in her best baby voice, petting his arrogant little head. “Yes, you are. You’re such a pretty, good boy. Yes, you are.”

Satisfied, Winslow assumed the position and Violet looked away with a wince.

Some days she questioned her decision to open Summerlin at Your Service, and this was one of those days—it had been an unending stream of tedious trips to the dry cleaners to pick up and drop off shirts, to courier offices to pack and send parcels, and to Patricia Kingsbury’s house to walk her contrary pet, Winslow, who pushed the boundaries of his breed’s reputation for willful and jealous behavior.

Luckily, most clients preferred to pay Violet’s premium fees to do things that were more productive, such as setting up a wireless network for their computer or decorating their house for the holidays. Raised by a grandfather who was an electronics and mechanical whiz and a grandmother who could give Martha Stewart a run for her money, Violet had honed her varied abilities with a masters in business administration and five years in the hospitality industry working assorted jobs, from customer service to operations. Since starting her concierge business three years ago, she prided herself on not having yet received a request from a client that she couldn’t fulfill.

Then she frowned. Except the times when the flirtatious Dominick Burns had hinted he wouldn’t mind a little personal attention from Violet.

The devilishly handsome bad boy who’d made a fortune designing and manufacturing extreme sports gear was too busy to handle day-to-day details, but he’d told her he didn’t like the thought of having an entourage of people on the payroll to tend to him. So Violet stopped by his office once a week to pick up a to-do list that might consist of anything from selecting a suit for him to wear to a special occasion, to selecting personal stationery, to buying a gift for his latest girlfriend.

She wondered wryly what his various and sundry women would think if they knew that the man hadn’t walked the aisles of local boutiques to find the perfect gift for their three-date anniversary or whatever the made-up occasion that was no doubt meant to unhinge the women’s legs.

But the man was generous, Violet conceded. And he usually had interesting and challenging assignments for her, many of which had put her on the fringe of his business activities. Her pulse ticked higher as she wondered what she’d discover on his agenda today. With only a week until Christmas, it seemed likely that he would hand over his gift list. Mentally scrolling through the women for whom she’d bought gifts throughout the year, she came up with an estimate of twenty.

A nice, round number, she thought wryly.

She leaned over to bag Winslow’s offering, deposited it in a nearby trash can and urged him in the direction of his home. The air carried a chill and she wondered if by some miracle she would see snow for Christmas. Even in the dead of winter, snow in Atlanta was rare. But she could hope.

Sadly, this would be her first year without her grandparents. But her somewhat elusive parents had taken a break from their world travels to stay in her grandparents’ house for a while and spend the holidays with Violet. She missed Grammy and Gramps desperately, but she’d always dreamed of sharing a magical Christmas with her parents when she was young. Still, it had never been more than a dream. Her mother and father were simply too wrapped up in each other to pay their daughter much mind.

But now that she could orchestrate the holiday herself, she was eagerly anticipating the three of them sipping hot cider around an ornament-laden tree, with the aroma of a ham in the oven, and carols in the background as they exchanged heartfelt, meaningful gifts to express their love for each other. She had made her mother a coverlet out of her grandmother’s house dresses and had bought her father a beautiful set of hand tools for the workshop he’d been talking about setting up in the garage. After years away, flitting around the globe for her father’s job as a translator to diplomats, it seemed as if her parents were finally settling down.

Violet sighed in contentment. It would be the best Christmas ever.

A half block away from the Kingsbury house, a towering brick structure draped with holiday lights that Violet herself had installed, Winslow jutted out his little underbite, then sat down.

And refused to budge.

Irritated, Violet scooped him up and carried him the rest of the way. Which was, she realized as he pressed his cold nose to her shoulder, exactly what he’d wanted her to do, the little beast.

“You’re incorrigible,” she chastised.

Patricia Kingsbury met them at the door to take Winslow into her bejeweled arms. The dog stiffened, but went, even though he looked back at Violet and whined.

“Did he go poo-poo?” Patricia sounded concerned, but her face remained expressionless, which Violet attributed to the woman’s regular BOTOX injections.

“Er…yes.”

Patricia cuddled her poufy dog. “You always seem to know how to make him go, Violet.”

“It’s a gift,” Violet agreed. “If there’s nothing else, Ms. Kingsbury—”

“Violet, you’ve worked for me for two years. Please call me Patricia.”

“Patricia,” Violet amended with a smile, “if there’s nothing else—”

“I put my grocery list on the table. And would you mind taking a few things back to the mall for me, dear?” She pointed to a mound of bags on a settee.

“Not at all.”

“Here’s my credit card. Just have everything reversed and if there are any problems, call me.”

“I’m sure there won’t be any problems,” Violet said pleasantly, then gathered the list and the bags in her arms and waddled toward the door. “I’ll drop off your credit card tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow afternoon is fine, dear, when you come back to walk Winslow. He’ll be ready to toodle again by then.”

Violet maintained her smile. “Great. See you then.”

Being relegated to a dog coach wasn’t so bad, she told herself as she steered her hybrid SUV onto I-75 northbound. Ms. Kingsbury rarely had difficult requests, and she’d given Violet many referrals. With this job, one learned to take the bad with the good.

After battling six lanes of traffic for thirty minutes, Violet reached a subdivision where three empty up-scale houses were for sale. She’d been commissioned to go through and knock down cobwebs, adjust the temperature, put fresh flowers in vases and generally ensure that when an agent stopped by with a potential customer, there were no surprises—such as the bankrupted former owner of the house living in a closet. Or a raccoon in the kitchen. Or a fallen tree sticking through the bedroom ceiling.

She’d seen it all.

Armed with Gerbera daisies, a broom and a Taser, she sped through the houses, opening doors and checking every nook and cranny. After an uneventful sweep, she jumped on I-75 southbound and fought traffic again to reach a tobacco store, where she picked up the box of cigars she’d special-ordered for Dominick Burns last week, then turned her car toward her office in midtown. A few blocks away her cell phone rang. It was Lillian. Hoping nothing was wrong, Violet touched the hands-free microphone on her visor. “Hi, Lillian, what’s up?”

“You have a visitor. Dominick Burns?”

Violet frowned. “I’m scheduled to stop by his office in Buckhead this afternoon for our weekly conference.”

“He said he was in the area and that he’d wait.” Lillian lowered her voice. “He’s rather handsome. And he asked for a vodka tonic.”

Violet rolled her eyes. “I don’t have a bar in my office. Get him a cup of coffee and I’ll be there in five minutes.”

She checked her hair and makeup in the mirror, telling herself she’d do the same for any client. She smoothed a couple of errant hairs that had escaped her standard neat ponytail—the ponytail that Dominick Burns teased her about. Her black pantsuit also was standard, with a white shirt that changed with the season—nice T-shirts for spring, sleeveless shells for summer, three-quarter-length sleeves in fall, and a turtleneck for winter. She had already moved into her turtleneck drawer. Comfortable black loafers completed the look that allowed her to blend in almost anywhere. Her “uniform” wasn’t as glamorous as what Dominick’s girlfriends probably wore, but she looked professional, and that was all that mattered.

It wasn’t as if Dominick was interested in her.

Violet wheeled into the parking garage and pulled into one of the four spots assigned to her live/work condo, with its tiny storefront on the first level that faced Juniper Street and separate living quarters above. Lillian’s VW bug sat in another Summerlin at Your Service spot. Straddling the remaining two spots was a black Porsche convertible parked at a jaunty angle, as if the driver simply couldn’t bother parking straight, or taking only as much space as needed. The front vanity plate read XTREME. Violet climbed out of her car and tamped down irritation.

The man was extremely cocky, that was certain.

Of course, when she walked into her office, she was reminded why.

Dominick Burns was, as her Grammy would say, as fine as frog hair.

He leaned on the edge of her assistant’s desk, his long legs stretched out in front of him. His dark brown hair was ridiculously sun-streaked and wind-tousled for December. His deep blue eyes were surrounded by the longest, darkest lashes imaginable. Ruggedly tanned and dressed in holey jeans, a gray Emory University sweatshirt and worn leather sneakers, he looked more like a carefree student than the thirty-something head of a multimillion-dollar company.

Judging from the way they were laughing, he and Lillian, a petite fortyish woman with a pink streak through her spiky black hair, were sharing a grand joke. They hadn’t even heard the bell on the door that announced her arrival. For some reason, that annoyed Violet. She had the uncomfortable feeling they might be laughing about her.

“Hello, Mr. Burns.” Despite her blasé response to Nan, her heart stuttered in her chest when he turned his smiling indigo eyes in Violet’s direction.

“Vee, how many times have I told you to call me Dominick?”

“And how many times have I asked you not to call me Vee?”