Hello Doggy! Read online

  Elaine Fox

  Hello, Doggy!

  For Peyton,

  you’ll always be The Best Dog in the World.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  “You’ve heard of Keenan James?” the publisher asked. His white…

  Chapter 2

  Tory stepped around the movers’ dolly and squeezed between a…

  Chapter 3

  “Oh my.” The woman behind the cosmetics counter at Saks…

  Chapter 4

  There were five of them, with the new woman, a…

  Chapter 5

  “So what did you think?”

  Chapter 6

  “Tory! Oh my God!”

  Chapter 7

  “Ah! A gallery opening,” Katya said, sweeping blush across Tory’s…

  Chapter 8

  Tory decided to return to Saks the evening before the…

  Chapter 9

  She stopped as if caught in the safe with her…

  Chapter 10

  “I’m Claudia,” the blond said, thrusting a drink at Vicky…

  Chapter 11

  Tory got up the next morning, picked up the portable…

  Chapter 12

  “Keenan!” Fiona wailed. “That bloody dog has made off with…

  Chapter 13

  At that moment, Heather Lessing rejoined them, sparing Tory the…

  Chapter 14

  “Come on in, Keenan,” Angelica said, placing Pavlov on the…

  Chapter 15

  “I cannot believe you just left me in that bar,”…

  Chapter 16

  Tory’s heart leaped as he bent to kiss her. Her…

  Chapter 17

  “Tory, thank God you’re here.”

  Chapter 18

  “I cannot believe you didn’t stay,” Claudia said for about…

  About the Author

  Other Books by Elaine Fox

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  “You’ve heard of Keenan James?” the publisher asked. His white eyebrows curved up at the ends so that they looked like little wings on his face. His eyes were faded blue, but sharp.

  “Keenan James?” Tory Hoffstra repeated, trying to keep the scorn from her tone and disapproval from her face. “That television guy pretending to be a psychologist?”

  “Yes, the man who runs the Just-Dump-Him Round Table.” Franklin Fender walked around his desk to sit on the edge of it in front of her. “He’s doing amazing things, according to reports. Helping women get out of bad relationships, develop self-esteem, take control of their lives.”

  “He—he…” Tory searched for something positive—or at least not negative—about the man she considered a dangerous charlatan. “He had that special on The Discovery Channel, right?”

  It had been little more than an extended infomercial for his women-only get-mental-health-quick program. She’d been so disappointed in The Discovery Channel that she’d actually written a letter in protest.

  “Exactly.” Fender smiled as if they’d reached some accord on the man. “He wants to write a book. And we want to publish it.”

  He paused, let that sink in, and Tory realized that she was not here because of her proposal to write a book—A Humanistic Approach to Cognitive Adjustment in Post-Teenage Women and the Attachment Theory. Optimism seeped out of her.

  “Oh?” she offered weakly. She pushed her glasses up higher on her nose.

  “The problem is…” Fender looked upward, as if posing for his portrait to be painted for the Great Hall of Editors. “He has no credentials. He’s not a doctor, or even a psychologist. He’s not even a certified counselor.”

  Tory frowned at the “even a psychologist” remark. As if she were a lesser being for choosing the cognitive side of the equation instead of the medical.

  “That is a problem,” she said significantly.

  “That’s why we want you,” Fender said with a smile that implied he was bestowing a Nobel Prize, “to cowrite the book with him. Give him some credibility, add the right mumbo-jumbo to some of his theories. Make a real psychology book, but one for the masses.”

  “Me?” Tory nearly flinched. “You want me to write his book?”

  “Well, with him, of course. They’re his ideas, after all.”

  She cleared her throat, cheeks burning, and willed herself to stay calm. She’d thought this was her shot. When she’d gotten the call from Franklin Fender’s secretary about a meeting, she was sure it meant deliverance from her failed career in the form of a book deal. Recognition, appreciation, proof that all that school and all those articles were not just confirmation that “those who can’t do, write.”

  Instead of throwing her a life raft, however, fate had sent her a shark. Her choice: to drown or be devoured.

  “Mr. Fender, are you aware that I sent you a proposal for a book based on my own research and ideas? Containing sound psychological theories and verifiable case studies?”

  “Of course,” Fender said, looking at her as if reassessing her intelligence. “That’s why I contacted you. You have the credentials, the education, the knowledge.”

  “And the ideas, Mr. Fender. My research into the psychological attachments of post-teenage women and the perceptual angst involved in—”

  “Yes, right, of course. But that, you must admit, Dr. Hoffstra, has a much more limited audience than a book by Keenan James. I mean, here’s a guy who dates supermodels, who appears regularly in the tabloids, who’s known for moving in celebrity circles. He’s Manhattan’s hottest bachelor! Women would love to get inside his head.”

  He rose from his seat at the edge of the desk and moved back around to his chair. He didn’t sit, but stood behind the mahogany edifice with his fingertips on the surface.

  She wondered if he did all that moving around to show off the excellent cut of his obviously expensive suit. It almost made him look as if he didn’t have that giant, white-guy-behind-the-desk belly.

  She lowered her eyes, afraid he’d see her less-than-charitable thoughts in them. She had to get a grip. Fender was a businessman and she had a product. This wasn’t personal. She had to show him her mettle, her smarts. That’s what businessmen respected.

  Fender continued, “He’s a name, Dr. Hoffstra. Especially since that Discovery Channel special. And he’s a damn good-looking guy, if you’ll permit me. Those two things alone will sell books.”

  Tory’s eyes flashed up to his. “So you want to sell women a book on how to get better relationships by convincing them a good-looking guy famous for dating models can set them straight.” Her tone was deadpan, but Fender didn’t notice.

  “Sure. What better way to get them to pick up the book? If they’re drawn to that type of man, they’ll be an easy sell. But inside, Dr. Hoffstra,” he said in a seductive tone, “inside will be your writing, your educated take on James’s methods and successes. They’ll be taking your advice as much as his.”

  Tory paused. This was a point, she had to admit. She would have some control, she presumed, on what went into the book as well as on how it was presented. She could make sure it wasn’t psycho-tripe. A spark of interest flickered.

  “It’ll be like that book,” Fender continued, “He’s Just Not That Into You, with not just the television credentials—you know of course that James wrote the smash HBO series Sex at Midnight—but the fame. He’s a known man-about-town, handsome, suave, worldly. If anyone could clue women in about the male side of relationships, and empower them to be equal partners, he could.”

  Tory sighed. Her vision of molding this venture into a scholarly tome of some worth popped like a soap bubble. “Yes, he does have a reputation for being with a lot of women.”

  “That’s right. And with you giving him the academic credentials, Dr. Hoffstra, the book is bound to do well. What he has is a formula, a proven strategy. And he has that round table.”

  “Ah yes, the round table,” Tory repeated. “Proving that there is such a thing as a free lunch.”

  “Dr. Hoffstra,” Mr. Fender said, sharply enough that Tory straightened in her chair. “I sense that you don’t approve of Mr. James’s methods. But I assure you, he has seen tremendous success. And he is out there, every day, helping scores of women. They flock to his round table lunches, and he doesn’t even charge them. Just—as you said—the price of his lunch, which, let’s face it, is a small price indeed when you’re talking about therapy.”

  “By a television writer,” Tory added.

  Her practical side—the one she called by her first name, Engelberta—closed her eyes in exasperation. This was an opportunity, Engelberta insisted, no matter how second-rate. This would get her name out to millions, not to mention it would probably bring in a helluva lot more money than her own attachment theory.

  “But your line of books, Mr. Fender,” she said, giving it one last shot, “it’s one of the best in the business for putting out mainstream psychology materials with some worth. You’re not the celebrity type; that’s why I sent my proposal to you.”

  “You’re right,” Fender said. He tented his fingers over his chest. “And it’s gotten us nowhere. We’ve got books by doctors, PhDs, licensed social workers, you name it, they’re coming out our ears. And are we making any money?”

  He looked at her with winged brows raised.

  Tory swallowed.

  “We are not,” he said flatly. “And neither are the authors. But rather than throw our principles to the wind, Dr. Hoffstra, we have an opportunity here to put
out a book by a celebrity with bona fide credentials behind it. James came to us for the same reason you did. He wants to write a serious book with serious solutions. What we need is a meeting of the minds, across the board, from the practitioners to the readers.”

  “You do know that I wrote the article ‘No More Psychobabble’ that I included with my proposal.”

  He grinned. “Yes. It was excellent.”

  She paused, unsure if she could go on without being insulting. “Did you read the, uh, the whole thing? The part about—?”

  “About charlatans like Keenan James raking in money off the perceived mental instabilities of others?”

  She smiled wryly. “Mental inconsistencies,” she mumbled.

  “I read every word, which is another reason you would be perfect for the project. Built-in skepticism will prove the theories even more conclusively. This will be a book even academicians will appreciate. That’s what you bring to the project, Doctor.”

  Tory’s heart lifted. “But[ ]what if I punched up my proposal a little? My attachment theory. What if I gave it a better title, and—and—”

  “Save your energy, Dr. Hoffstra,” he said, sighing. “The article was good, but it was in a small psychology journal. Not even one of the big ones like Psychology Today. You’re essentially unknown to the general public. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but we are not going to buy a book by you alone. There’s just no percentage in it.”

  Tory gazed at him, fearing that if she opened her mouth she would cry. He was rejecting her to her face. Flat-out saying that her own ideas were not what they wanted. Not what the public wanted.

  How was she ever going to succeed? She was in a practice now, but she was never going to distinguish herself there. She wasn’t good enough with the patients. She’d tried radio, but that had been a disaster. She’d tried magazine articles, but while many of her colleagues read them, they didn’t pay. She was no good at the one-on-one a successful private practice required. And while she was an excellent researcher, she could never make a living doing that.

  Apparently all she was good for was her skepticism.

  She wanted to make a name for herself, but not like this. Not on the coattails of some celebrity chick magnet.

  She shifted in her seat, looked down at her hands, pushed her glasses up, then glanced back at Fender.

  “Look,” he said, his tone more conciliatory than Tory’s would have been in his position. “Why don’t you go to a few round tables yourself and see what James is doing. If you still think he’s up to no good, you can turn me down. But I think you’ll like what you see. The man is sincerely trying to do some good.”

  Tory took a deep breath, then asked, “Why me, Mr. Fender? With all due respect, the proposal I sent you was very academic and complex. Why would you choose me to write Keenan James’s book? Especially after reading my psychobabble article, where I essentially derided everything he’s doing. Surely you can find some other skeptic. Besides”—she smiled ruefully—“I’m being a bit difficult about it.”

  This brought a smile to Fender’s face. “Because you can write, Dr. Hoffstra. That proposal you sent us was, as you said, complex to the extreme. But it was written beautifully. Even a bunch of boneheads like our ed assistants plucked it out of the slush pile. You reached them, despite the overblown academia of the subject. You’ll be perfect for this project, if you’ll take it.”

  Tory frowned. If they’d picked it out of the pile, didn’t that mean it was worth publishing as it was? Why did she have to attach herself to someone like Keenan James? No one would recognize her sincere and educated efforts behind the glibness of James’s notoriety. She might as well be giving advice through the mouth of Mr. Ed.

  “And don’t forget, we’re offering cowriter, not ghost. You’ll be published, Dr. Hoffstra. As I understand it, that’s quite a coup in the academic world.” He sat down in his chair, wearing a self-satisfied smile.

  She felt as if she were being asked for her soul by the devil. The man’s winged eyebrows and high-priced suit didn’t help dispel the image either.

  Would this be selling out? Would her work be embraced or shunned by the psychiatric community? Would Fender’s offer catapult or catastrophize her career?

  “I’d like to attend some of the round tables,” she said finally. “As you suggested.”

  Fender started to beam.

  “But I’d like to do it anonymously,” she added firmly. “As one of the, uh, ‘patients.’ I want to see what he’s doing without putting him on guard. If he’s not doing any harm, and if I think I can contribute in a meaningful way, then I’ll do it. Is that all right?”

  She’d just see if Keenan James was doing what everyone claimed. And if he wasn’t, she’d set him straight, somehow or other. Because a book deal was about the only way she was going to be able to make a decent living.

  She was an excellent researcher, a theorist of the first order—but her people skills stank, she hated being in the public eye, and she’d never make it in radio or television. She was no Dr. Phil and she never would be.

  Becoming an author was her only hope.

  “Is it all right?” Fender repeated. “It’s perfect. It’ll give you the exact perspective you’ll need for writing the book. And trust me, Doctor, you’ll want to write it once you see this guy in action.”

  He stood. Tory did too, and they shook hands.

  “We’ll see,” she said ominously. Engelberta sighed. “We’ll just see.”

  “A golden doodle?” Keenan’s brother looked at him sideways as they made their way up Connecticut Avenue toward Keenan’s hotel. “Give me a break. There’s no such thing.”

  “In fact there is,” Keenan said. “Half golden retriever, half poodle. A golden doodle.”

  “No way.” Brady’s mouth curled. “It sounds like a snack food.”

  “Well, it’s not,” Keenan said, wishing that were the worst of the news he had to break to his brother. “Though it wouldn’t say no to a snack food. It’s Mom’s dog, Brady, and you’ve got to take it. I’ve had it for three months now, and she can’t keep it in the nursing home.”

  Brady stopped, his face set and his arms folded across his chest. Around them, the Washington, D.C., street clanged and groaned and heaved with life. Keenan had driven from New York to D.C. for business—he’d been invited to speak to a women’s group—but mostly he’d wanted to see his brother in the hope that he could convince Brady to take their mother’s dog off his hands. Even as they walked back from lunch, the pup was waiting in Keenan’s room, leash, food, and toys packed up and ready to go.

  “Is that why you came down here? To scrape the dog off on me?” Brady asked.

  Keenan stopped walking, turned, and looked at his brother’s dark expression. Brady, he knew, could be one stubborn son of a bitch if he wanted to be. Still, Keenan thought he could see the little brother—half brother, to be precise—of years past, wanting his older sibling’s approval but not willing to cave on anything to get it, and it made him pause.

  “Partly,” Keenan admitted. “Once you meet this dog, you’re going to love it, I promise.”

  “You have it here?” Brady’s brows shot up, comprehension showering his face.

  Keenan felt like the worst kind of heel. Brady’d sounded happy to meet him in the city, despite living an hour south, and now he looked as if he’d been had.

  “I told you on the phone I can’t take the dog,” Brady said, shaking his head and moving forward. “You could have saved yourself the trip.”

  “Come on, Brady, it’s Mom’s dog. She’d be so happy to know you had it, especially since you don’t visit that often—”

  “Stop right there, Keenan.” Brady’s expression darkened further. “Guilting me isn’t going to help your case at all. I do visit Mom, when I can. Is it so hard to remember that I live five hours away?”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. I meant because you live so far, she’d be glad to know—”

  “I’m not taking the dog, Keenan. I can’t take it. I don’t want to take it. I won’t do it, so just give it up.”