Foul Play (4 page)

Amy winced at the scratches on Jake's bare chest. This job is going to be a lot like teaching first grade, she thought. Wiping up puddles and administering first aid. Her experience in nursing had been mainly in the area of cut fingers and skinned knees, but she was sure she could transfer her knowledge to cat punctures.

“Poor Jake,” she soothed in her most
sympathetic first-grade voice. “If you come back to the lavatory, I'll clean up those mean scratches and you'll be just fine.”

Jake gave Allen an eat-your-heart-out look and followed Amy into the hallway.

Amy almost fainted for the second time that day when Jake removed his shirt. He had a great body, with an enchanting thin line of hair traveling the length of his hard, flat stomach—pointing like an arrow to places she'd rather not think about right now.

She soaked a clean washcloth in warm water but stopped short of applying it to Jake's chest, suddenly overwhelmed with embarrassment. There's nothing wrong with touching a man's bare chest to administer first aid! she told herself. Lord, she was such a ninny!

The problem was, this was no ordinary chest. It was warm and gorgeous and absolutely mesmerizing, and it belonged to Jake.

Jake removed the cloth from her hand and dabbed at his scratches. “Are you okay? You look all flushed.”

“It's your chest. It's, it's…got holes in it.”

He poured antiseptic onto a cotton ball and applied it to the ragged red lines. “They really aren't so bad.”

“Does this happen often?”

“Every time Daisy Mae enters this office. I keep extra shirts in my desk drawer just in case a dog shows up.”

“You're kidding.”

“Bottom drawer on the left-hand side.”

Amy went to the office, opened the drawer and, sure enough, she found a whole stack of shirts fresh from the cleaners. She selected a blue button-down and helped him slide into it. “I suppose you have all your shots up to date…like tetanus and rabies and stuff.”

“Worried about me?”

“Of course. I don't want to be out of a hunk…I mean a job.”

Amy cracked her knuckles. She wanted to drop right through the floor. She was acting like a blithering idiot. Jacob Elliott in unbuttoned splendor sent her blood pressure soaring. This was probably very
healthy. She wouldn't even have to jog tonight. Her heart rate couldn't get any faster.

The front door opened and closed and opened and closed. The sounds of chattering people drifted in from the waiting room. “Boy,” Amy said, “things get busy around here.”

“Maybe you could sit at the front desk and do receptionist things. And you could try to find some folders for me. We have a filing system, but things don't always get put back immediately.”

“I could do that. I could put things back immediately,
and
I could find folders.” Anything to get away from his naked chest! Amy glanced at Jake, then practically ran to the desk.

She smiled at the roomful of people and swallowed hard at the mess in front of her. Don't panic, she told herself. One thing at a time. There must be an appointment book…somewhere. She stacked the folders in alphabetical order and filed them in the cabinets behind her desk. She located the elusive appointment book, unplugged the recorder, and began taking phone messages.

Allen and Jake watched in amazement from the hallway. “Son of a gun,” Allen said. “Maybe we did need a receptionist.”

 

Only an hour later, Amy was beginning to feel comfortable. She had established some semblance of order to the office, and she was surrounded by people and animals, which, she decided, was actually quite nice.

The door opened and a small boy stumbled in carrying a shaggy inert form. Tears streamed down the child's face. Blood dripped from the animal, staining the boy's shirt and jeans.

Amy had survived a cat fight and Jacob Elliott's bare chest, but she wasn't up to a bloody animal. “Merciful heavens,” she whispered. She shouted
“Dr. Elliott!”
and fainted dead away.

“Amy!”

Lord, someone was yelling at her. There were bells ringing and gongs gonging, and she couldn't seem to wake up. She struggled upward, through the murk of semiconsciousness, and finally blinked her
eyes open. Her first sight was Jake, white as a sheet.

“Goodness,” she said, “you look terrible.”

He expelled a shaky breath and shook his head. “You scared the daylights out of me. Don't you dare ever faint again.”

“I fainted? I never faint.”

“Yeah. And you never drink, either.
And
you never lose control.”

Amy supported herself on her elbows and gave him her most withering glare. “Are you laughing at me?”

“Maybe a little. But only because you're adorable. How do you feel?”

“Totally humiliated.” Adorable, huh? She was in his office, on his floor. “Did you drag me in here?”

“I carried you in. And it wasn't easy; my legs were shaking so bad I could hardly walk.”

Amy watched his eyes soften as he continued to gaze at her. Color was flooding back into his cheeks. He'd been worried about her, really worried. And now he looked…affectionate. Not passionate. Not relieved. Just affectionate. As if some
wonderful treasure had been returned to him, and he was thoroughly enjoying this moment of reunion. She was afraid to admit how happy that made her.

Suddenly she remembered. “That poor bloody animal, will it be all right?”

“It's a dog. A cockapoo puppy that was hit by a car. Allen's downstairs, preparing it for surgery. I should be down there helping him. Will you be okay now?”

“I'm fine.”

Jake paused at the door. “Don't get up until you're sure you're ready.”

Amy waved at him. I'm ready, she thought. Boy, am I ready. I'm ready to fall in love.

She stood up slowly and placed a wobbly hand on his desk. Falling in love wouldn't be the smartest thing to do right now. Her life was unstable, her emotions were unusually close to the surface, and besides…it wasn't supposed to be like this.

Falling in love was supposed to be a slow process. Falling in love came after a lot of dating. What she was experiencing here
had to be lust, and some sort of romantic infatuation with the modern-day equivalent to Sir Galahad.

Jacob Elliott had rescued her. He'd assumed heroic proportions in her mind. Okay, his chest was great. That was it! The Superman syndrome. She was falling in love with a mythical Superman.

She smoothed imaginary wrinkles from her shorts. Yes, she thought, she felt much better now that she had had this little talk with herself. Everything was crystal clear in her mind. Next time Jacob Elliott entered the room, she would be able to breathe normally. She would be able to speak in complete sentences. And she was
not
going to fall, or faint…or anything.

Amy closed her front door behind her and momentarily leaned against it, appreciating the peace and tranquillity of home. She'd survived teaching first grade and had thrived on the hectic pace of television, but she'd never encountered anything like Jacob Elliott's veterinary clinic. It was a looney bin.

After just a half day on the job, Amy had come to realize Jake never refused a patient. Consequently, he continually ran late, and his small waiting room was always packed to overflowing with howling dogs, frantic cats, and chattering humans. Actually, the humans didn't seem to mind. They swapped pet stories and read pet magazines. Only occasionally did they glance at their watches
with annoyed expressions. Usually this was followed by resigned smiles and a settling of their bodies deeper into the soft leather couch.

Jake seemed oblivious to the chaos, giving each animal his full attention, looking unhurried and unruffled as he amiably moved from one examining room to the next. Clearly a man who loved his work and staunchly ignored structure and time limits.

Fortunately, Amy thought, she was good at organizing details. She'd been raised in a military household where frequent moves necessitated efficiency. Her closets and drawers were neat, her laundry done on schedule, her shopping lists were all-inclusive. She looked the stereotyped image of a dizzy blonde, but under the curls was a level head with quick intelligence, high standards, and tidy emotions. Until that chicken and Jacob Elliott had entered her life, anyway.

“I'm not myself,” she explained to the empty house. “I've turned into an airhead. Ugh, how awful.” She left her shoes in the
small foyer and padded barefoot to the kitchen.

An hour later she had rolled out two homemade pizza crusts; covered them with a coating of spaghetti sauce, thin-sliced onions, peppers, and mushrooms; topped the pizzas with a thick layer of mozzarella cheese; and popped them into the oven. She laid a place setting on the little kitchen table, delighting in the familiar ritual of eating peacefully, and breathed a sigh of relief that her life was coming back together.

Everything about her was normal. Normal kitchen table. Normal kitchen light. Normal kitchen clock. She slouched into a chair. “Hmmm.” She didn't feel normal. She felt…agitated. She needed exercise. The soles of her feet fairly buzzed with the need to move.

“Okay feet, now what?” Her bare feet did a little tap dance on the tile floor and led her to the discarded running shoes. Amy changed into running shorts and a T-shirt, laced up her shoes and remembered the pizza. She pulled the aromatic rounds out of the oven, set them on the counter to
cool, and let her feet carry her out the front door.

Twenty minutes later she returned to find Jake sitting in her kitchen, eating her pizza. “The door was open,” he explained.

“That's what Goldilocks said.”

“You shouldn't go out and leave your door open. Some pervert could waltz right in.”

Amy bit her lip.

Her hair was dark with sweat and plastered to her face in Betty Boop ringlets. Her shirt was soaked through, a sheen of moisture clung to her flushed face and bare arms, and her breathing was slightly labored. It was the first time Jake had ever gotten turned on by sweat.

“Been running?” he asked, making an effort not to spring out of his chair and pin her to the floor.

Amy wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Yeah.” She took a deep cleansing breath. “I love to run. Running always relaxes me.”

“Me too.”

Amy looked at him in delighted surprise. “How often do you run?”

He crossed his fingers under the table. “Every day. Couldn't do without it.” The truth was, he hated running. He found it incredibly boring, preferring to get his exercise in a pickup game of football or a fast sprint to the refrigerator. But the prospect of laboring alongside Amy was irresistibly appealing.

“Maybe we could run together. I don't live far from here. We could run every night after work,” Jake said.

“You sure you want to run with me? I'd probably slow you down.”

“I wouldn't mind slowing down some. It'd be nice to have someone to talk to, to pace myself with.” Was she buying this? Jake wondered, nonchalantly dabbing at his mouth with his napkin.

Amy cut herself a slice of pizza and nibbled at the end. She ran to relax. How could she relax if Jake was matching her stride for stride…in shorts.

She poured out two glasses of iced tea and sat across from him at the table. You're making a big deal about nothing, she told herself. The man just wants a running
partner to break up the monotony. It's a perfectly harmless offer…from a harmless, incredibly attractive veterinarian. No big deal. She could handle it.

Jake stared at the empty pizza pan and felt a twinge of guilt. “I'm sorry about the pizza. I couldn't help myself. I was on my way home, minding my own business, and suddenly my car was surrounded by pizza fumes. I tried to resist, but it was impossible. I guess you think I'm a weak man.”

Amy looked at him sideways. “I think you're full of…pizza. Why
are
you here?”

“I came to pick up my TV dinners. I forgot to take them yesterday. The part about not being able to resist your pizza is true, though. And, well, I guess I came over to ogle you a little bit, too.” Oh boy, did he just say that? “I'm sorry! I didn't mean to say that. I swear, it just popped out.”

“It just popped out, eh?”

“No. Well, actually…yes.”

Amy wasn't sure how to respond to being ogled, so she busied herself with a large bite of pizza.

“Do you mind?” Jake asked.

She might have known he wouldn't be the sort of man to let it rest. There was an evil smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “No, I don't mind. Would you?”

“Hey, ogle away.”

Amy tried to swallow the glob of pizza in her mouth, but it was difficult getting past the lump of panic in her throat. If truth were told, she wasn't good at being looked at. And being ogled by Jake was
extremely
unnerving. In fact, she suddenly had an urgent need to run around the block a few more times. Afraid that might be obvious, she opted for just draining her glass of iced tea and placing it in the dishwasher.

Jake gave her his empty glass and tweaked a blond curl. “Since I ate your pizza, I think it's only fair I supply dessert. How about an ice cream cone?”

 

Amy lay in bed and wriggled her toes, listening to the cicadas singing in the oak tree outside her window, signaling the beginning of another hot summer morning in Virginia. Her digital clock said 6:55. That
seemed like the middle of the day after years of arising at four. A welcome luxury, Amy thought, shutting off the alarm before it rang. She missed being Lulu the Clown, but being a veterinary receptionist had some advantages. One of them was three extra hours of sleep; another was the veterinarian.

Jacob Elliott was absolutely wonderful, impressively nice, and a total enigma. He'd taken her out for an ice cream cone, stopped by the clinic to make sure the injured cockapoo puppy was recovering properly from surgery, and taken Amy home without even so much as a good-night kiss. It was practically insulting, and it was definitely disappointing. Maybe being kissed made her nervous, but that didn't mean she minded being a little nervous! Amy wrinkled her nose. Men. Who could figure?

She took a quick shower and rifled her closet for an appropriate outfit, finally settling on a peach knit shirt. She shook out her curls, applied a thin line of eyeliner, thickening mascara, and a touch of peach-
toned blusher. She squinted at her reflection in the mirror, deciding she looked about fourteen. No wonder Jake hadn't kissed her last night. Criminy, she wished she had cleavage! She looked at herself more sternly. Jacob Elliott was making her crazy. She'd always been proud of her lithe, athletic body before. Now she was worried about cleavage. Yuck.

“Get a grip,” she told herself. She had a cab drop her at the supermarket parking lot so she could retrieve her car and her purse. She plugged her extra key into the ignition and drove the short distance to the office.

At midafternoon Jake took a moment to watch Amy organize his office. Files were all in proper order, phone messages were neatly stacked on a special clipboard, and somehow, she was managing to schedule appointments so that he was almost on time. And, not only was she efficient, he thought, she was adorable. Her shirt was the same color as her cheeks and soft, kissable lips, and the outfit she was wearing subtly hinted at high round breasts and a slim, girlish waist.

Jake followed her startled expression as the front door burst open and a sobbing brunette dragged a kennel cage into the waiting room.

As the woman bent to peer into the mesh window of the cage, Jake was treated to a full view of her derriere, clad in skimpy pink shorts. When she straightened and rushed toward him the word that popped into his mind was
voluptuous.
She wore a matching tight pink sweater that had been unbuttoned halfway down her sternum to display barely contained, perfectly tanned breasts.

The woman grabbed Jake by the lapels of his white lab coat. “Are you Dr. Elliott?”

Jake looked into her large brown eyes, swimming in tears, and wondered at the weight of her mascaraed eyelashes. How the devil did she keep her eyes open with all that gunk on them? He looked closer, realized the lashes were fake, and smiled at her, already amused. “Yup. I'm Dr. Elliott.”

“This is an emergency,” she sobbed, pulling him toward the crate. “My bird is sick. There's something terribly wrong with
him. He was fine this morning, and then he just keeled over. Do you suppose he could have had a heart attack?”

Jake attempted to lift the cage and was surprised at the weight. Definitely not a parakeet here, he thought. This was a
big
bird.

“Amy, do we have an examining room open?”

Amy didn't move a muscle.

“Earth to Amy,” Jake said. “How about Room Three? Is Room Three empty?”

Amy knew this brunette, and she knew exactly what was in the cage. “It's the chicken,” she said in a hoarse, choked whisper, feeling as though she'd been hit in the face with a pie.

Jake peered into the cage. “Oh, my—” Amy was right. It was Rhode Island Red…the rooster that broke Amy's heart.

The brunette took a step backward. “What's wrong? He isn't dead, is he? Oh geez, don't tell me he's dead.”

He wasn't dead, but Jake didn't think he looked too good. He was hunkered down in the back of the cage with his eyes closed.

“Listen, Dr. Elliott,” the brunette said, “this rooster's worth lots of money. He's a television star. Do something!”

Jake set the cage on an examining table, opened it, and gingerly lifted out the rooster. The bird was lifeless on the table.

“I have to be honest with you,” Jake said. “We only treat domestic animals here. I haven't had much experience with roosters.”

“Maybe it just needs vitamins. Maybe it's anemic. Can roosters get mono? He's been working awfully hard, ya' know.”

After questioning her about the bird's diet and any possible trauma it may have suffered, he listened to the bird's heart. “How old is this fellow?”

The brunette shrugged. “I don't know. I bought him a couple months ago at the farmers' market.”

Jake stroked the glossy sienna feathers. “Why don't you leave him here overnight. I'd like to run a few tests.”

“The tests won't take too long, will they? He has to be up and dancing by Monday morning.”

Jake thought they'd be lucky if the bird was still breathing by Monday morning. “We'll get started right away.”

“You sure he'll be okay here?”

“I'll put him in intensive care. He'll be nice and safe. We need to keep him quiet.”

She took a tissue from her purse and blew her nose. “Poor bird. All those years on a dirty old chicken farm, and just when he makes it big…tragedy strikes.”

Jake bit his lip. This woman was going to be in deep trouble when the chicken died; the chicken had all the brains. “I'll do what I can for him.”

It was six-thirty when Amy shut her computer down for the day, switched the phone over to the answering machine, and walked down the short hall, looking for Jake. She found him in intensive care, studying his patients, his thumbs hooked into his jeans pockets.

“The puppy looks good,” she offered.

Jake smiled. “He's a feisty little guy. Scarfed down all his food today.”

There was only one other occupant in the small room, and Amy didn't know what to
say about it. The rooster looked awful. “Did anything show up on Red's tests?”

Jake shook his head no.

“You think he'll be okay?”

“Just between you and me, Amy,” Jake said, his voice reflecting the helplessness he felt, “my professional opinion is that he's cock-a-doodled his last doodle.”

“How awful.”

Jake stared thoughtfully at the bird. “I'd like to think of him as a very old rooster that's led one hell of a life and is going out in a blaze of glory.”

“It's still sad. He's kind of pretty.”

“He might perk up. Maybe he's just not cut out for show biz. Hot lights and a lot of noise aren't parts of a rooster's natural environment. We'll let him have a restful night and reevaluate his condition first thing tomorrow.”

Amy slumped against the wall. “Boy, I feel really crummy about this. In all honesty, there's a part of me that's still bitter about being replaced by this chicken. I'm not mad at him, really, but I wouldn't mind seeing
the station have second thoughts on Monday morning.”

“Maybe you should iron your clown suit tonight. Just in case.”

Amy shook her head. “They made up their mind to have a new format. If it isn't the chicken, it'll be something else. Something new. Besides, there's still the star's trainer.”