Dubious (The Loan Shark Duet 1)

“Can I help you?”

“Is this the best brand you’ve got?”

“By far.”

I lean an elbow on the counter and check out the board with the rates for neutering and vaccinations. “My housekeeper buys it for my cat. I don’t know the brand, but I thought I’d get the same.”

Her eyes flare for the briefest of seconds before she narrows them. “Your housekeeper is a clever girl.”

“She sure is, but she should’ve told me she’s paying for the food out of her own pocket.”

“Maybe she couldn’t, because she knows you don’t care much for your cat.”

The lady with the Doberman is watching us, her head bobbing between the vet and me.

“It’s true. I don’t care for the hair that he sheds in my house or the fact that he tears my curtains to pieces, but my housekeeper seems to like him, so here’s the deal. I’ll open an account and send a driver once a month to collect the food.” I point at the large breed dog food of the same brand. “You can throw in a couple of bags of that, as well.”

It almost looks as if she’s going to refuse me, but the state of her waiting room tells me she needs the business. After a moment of measuring me, she says, “I’ll take down your details.”

She writes my address and phone number down in a book. In this day and age, nobody uses a book, not even my most unsophisticated loan sharks. She has a patient waiting, and me taking a chunk of her consultation time. What she needs is a computer and an assistant. No wonder she’s operating in a run-down building, charging fees lower than the going rate.

I tap my fingers on the countertop as she scribbles down my order. “You should go electronic.”

She lifts her head to give me a cutting look. “I’ll upgrade when I can afford it.”

I don’t blame her for hating me. What makes her different than the rest of the world? In any event, I’m not out to win anyone’s love. I can forget about getting information on Valentina’s emotional state of late from this woman. She won’t give me a glass of water if I’m dying.

She slams the book closed. “Are we done?”

I let the sunglasses fall back over my eyes. “For now.”

Saluting her, I take the food and walk to the door. The Doberman whines as I pass her owner who leans as far away from me as she can without falling out of her chair.

* * *

Valentina

This lasagna can’t flop. I’m so engrossed in letting the white sauce thicken without forming lumps that I don’t notice Rhett until he’s right next to me. Startled, I drop the whisk. It bounces on the stovetop, rolls off the edge, and hits the ground. It’s the first time he’s set foot in the kitchen since I arrived. He bends down to retrieve the whisk and rinses it under the tap before handing it back to me.

“Thank you.” I use my left hand to stir the sauce.

He motions at the bandage on my thumb. “How’s the hand?”

“Good, thank you.”

He gives a wry smile. “I didn’t get a chance to apologize for driving you to the Joburg Gen. If I had any idea the place was that bad, I would’ve gone directly to the clinic.”

“You did what I asked.”

“I wasn’t thinking straight. I saw the blood and kind of blanked out.”

I can’t help but smile. “You? Seriously?”

He lifts his palms in a gesture of surrender. “It wasn’t the blood as much as it was you. I thought Gabriel was going to kill me.”

“For what?”

“It happened on my shift.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Wouldn’t have mattered. I was the messenger.”

I stop stirring to look at him. “I’m sorry if I got you into trouble.”

He grins. “Not as much trouble as you got yourself into. No more kitchen accidents, okay?”

“I’ll do my best.” I return my attention to the sauce.

He leans on the counter and crosses his ankles. “I was thinking of getting you a puppy.”

“A puppy?”

“I already cleared it with Gabriel.” He shifts his weight around. “I can get you one of those fluffy dogs women like. A Maltese Poodle or something.”

“I don’t want a dog.”

He looks disappointed. “Why not?”

“I’ve lost enough. I don’t want to care about another dog.”

He uncrosses his ankles and crosses his arms, not meeting my eyes.

When he doesn’t speak, but doesn’t leave either, I remove the sauce from the heat, and turn to face him squarely. “Why did you shoot Puff, Rhett?”

His chest expands, as if he’s taking a breath, and when he lifts his gaze again, he regards me with a level stare. “I didn’t want to leave the dog to fend for himself on the streets.”

“What?”

“I’ve seen enough of dogs to know that mongrel wasn’t going to make it on his own. Leaving him would’ve meant a drawn-out, cruel death of starvation.”