Caught on Camera

Chapter 6, Part 12

Chapter 6

Must Love Police Dogs

Rachel inserted her master key card into the Bridal Suite lock and pushed open the door. Mickey tagged at her sky-high heels. Mopette wiggled off a puffy pink doggie bed and trotted over to greet and sniff them. A fresh rose satin bow perched between alert ears.

Rachel bent to pat her. "Hello, Mopette. Where's your leash?"

"It's on the bureau," Mickey said. "I'll get it."

Rachel followed a trail of shredded toilet tissue across the carpet to a chewed up roll on the bathroom floor. "Oh, you naughty dog. What a mess." Automatically she dropped to her knees to pick up the debris.

"Let the maid deal with it," Mickey advised.

"I--" She caught herself. "I'll call Housekeeping." Attempting to rise, a spike heel sank into the plush bath mat, throwing her off balance.

"Allow me." Mickey grasped her elbow.

She clung to his forearm and he pulled her upright. Musky aftershave scent wafted her way. The gleam in steel gray eyes proclaimed he enjoyed the contact. Tingling swept from her hand through to her breasts. Thank heavens she'd worn her own practical cotton bra, or erect nipples would surely have poked the borrowed dress' thin silk dress material. Magnetically handsome, Mickey inspired lustful thoughts. No, she told herself. The weekend's complicated enough already. She firmly shoved Mickey-lust down.

Mickey held onto her arm for an eternity, watched her face. "Tell me why a beautiful woman like you has trouble walking in heels."

"Canadian girls don't wear high heels," she improvised. "We need to be able to run from the wildlife."

"There aren't any wild animals around here."

"Oh, I spied a wolf or two downstairs."

Mickey chuckled and released her arm.

If Candy returned to a suite in this condition and the GM ever found out, he'd have a conniption. Rachel made a quick call to Housekeeping, then collected Mopette's retractable leash from Mickey and snapped it onto the  white leather collar sparkling with rose and clear crystals.

Mickey crossed his arms. "Don't people normally feed the dog before walking it?"

"Right." Flustered, Rachel dragged the leashed dog to the bar that doubled as a kitchenette, opened the mini fridge, and extracted a pink bowl containing a small can with a pop-top lid. She ripped it open, dumped the gourmet contents into the bowl and set it down on the tile floor beside a bowl of water. "Ummm, yummy. Eat your din-din, Mopette."

Mopette sat on her tiny haunches. Two black pebbles drilled her expectantly.

Rachel shoved a strand of hair behind her ear and grimly contemplated the persnickety beast. "What now, you privileged little ankle biter? You want me to order steak from room service?"

Mickey cleared his throat. "Wendy mashes the food with a fork."

"Oh my gods," Rachel muttered. She found a fork in a drawer and proceeded to pulverize the round pat in the bowl. "Wendy never wrote that in the instructions."

"Good thing I came with you," Mickey observed.

Rachel angled her head to find Mickey grinning at her. He was enjoying himself. A delicious shiver shot like an elevator to her core. Good for a hungry dog, maybe, she thought. Not so good for my overactive libido.