Instead of being impressed by this sudden show of docility, Ruby drew closer, her eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t trust it,” she warned. “He’s up to something.”

“He’s a dog. He’s hardly plotting a bank heist. Watch.” He snapped his fingers to draw Wheezy’s attention. “Mayonnaise, Wheezy. May-o-nnaise.”

Once again, Wheezy proved himself a paragon of show-dogmanship by twirling in a circle. He also grinned up at Spencer in a way that proved he was fully aware of his actions. It was the expression of a dog who knew he was being a Very Good Boy and who wanted to be acknowledged for it.

Spencer had always been a sucker for oversized brown eyes. “That’s right, Wheezy,” he said, patting him gently on the head. “What a good dog you are. What lovely manners.”

“I’m still not buying it,” Ruby said. She put up a hand to nudge Spencer a few steps back. The touch on his chest was light and impersonal, but he felt the imprint of it long after her hand fell away. “Wheezy, it’s high time we mayonnaised out of here and headed home.”

The dog blinked up at her.

“You can even ride in the front mayonnaise, if you want.”

His eyes started drooping.

“I’ll open the mayonnaise and you can hang your head out the whole way.”

He started to lower himself to the floor once again.

“Dammit, Wheezy!” Ruby swooped down to prevent him from lying down. “Help me, Spencer. If he hits the floor, I’ll never get him back up again.”

Spencer did as he was asked—and not because of the pleading note in Ruby’s voice or the look she cast up at him, as if he alone was capable of coming to her rescue. It was just that he had to be out of here by eight o’clock, and Wheezy was already on his feet. That was half the battle right there.

It worked, too. With only a negligible amount of coaxing and references to his favorite condiment, Wheezy allowed himself to be led across the gym and out a side door. In true Seattle fashion, the evening had grown rainy and overcast, but even the sharp tang of ozone and a twenty-degree drop in temperature didn’t send the golden retriever running back indoors.

“Someone’s trained this animal,” Spencer said as the dog parked himself obligingly at his feet. “This performance isn’t random. Wheezy is responding to commands.” He thought of the way Wheezy had dropped at the sound of Ruby’s voice and amended, “He’s responding to my commands, anyway.”

“Yes, well, that’s how danger words work, isn’t it?”

Spencer wasn’t so entrenched in the world of erotic literature that he could make the immediate connection. Ruby was quick to enlighten him.

“It’s not the word that gets the engine running,” she explained. “It’s the person saying it. A porcupine is just a porcupine until it crosses the right lips. Your lips, in this instance.”