Take a Chance on Me (15 page)

Not that her own choices had been stellar. Since she filed for divorce, she'd dated a few men she believed shared similar interests. The veterinary pharmaceutical sales rep lasted a month, until he got transferred and got married. The fact that he'd been engaged had apparently slipped his mind.

She started seeing a vet she and Aaron knew from the University of Pennsylvania . But he lived in Salisbury , and she decided it was a long way to drive for a date, especially after the night she arrived at the appointed time only to find him getting a full-body massage from his summer intern. The intern was clad only in a thong, and Emma guessed it had nothing to do with the office casual-Friday policy.

After that, she'd just said to hell with it and went out on a few dates with the carpenter she'd hired to do some work around the farm. He was funny and cute and looked superb in a tool belt, but apparently forgot to pay the child support he owed to three different women and was currently enjoying a sabbatical at the Maryland Correctional Training Center in Hagerstown .

At least he wrote.

"You're thirty-four years old, Em! You're approaching your sexual peak! You need a man!" Velvet lowered her voice. "It's just not natural to be without one at your age."

Emma patted Velvet's mostly bare shoulder. "Tell Marcus thanks but no thanks." She turned to go.

"At least Thomas Tobin has his follow-up in two weeks!" Velvet offered brightly. "That's something to look forward to, right?"

Emma spun on her heels and gawked at Velvet. "Don't even think about trying to set me up with an owner! Besides, that guy is way beyond 'not normal'—he's just plain strange! He's like some kind of robot.

I'm not interested."

"But…"

"Let's not talk about Thomas Tobin anymore, all right? I don't think I like him." She headed out the door.

"Yeah, but if you put a mustache on him he'd look like a blond version of Tom Selleck back in his heyday!" Velvet nearly shouted out the lunchroom door. "I wouldn't care if he were an axe murderer!"

"A studly robot axe murderer," Emma mumbled to herself, reaching for the ladies' room door. "Sounds like the plot of a good movie."

"It is!" Velvet shouted back. "Haven't you ever seen The Terminator?"

« ^ »

"Time to get happy, Hairy."

Not this again.

Hey! Don't drop me, Big Alpha! Uh-oh. Here comes that hard little pebble thing shoved into a tiny piece of cheese … do you think I'm stupid? That I really believe this is some sort of treat? Ack! And who told you that squishing my throat is going to help it go down any easier?

Fine. I swallowed it. Hope you're satisfied.

"Nice going, pal."

Thomas studied the dog for a moment and frowned. They'd just finished another five-minute round of relaxation exercises, but damned if he could tell if the little mutant was relaxing any. All he knew was that his knees hurt like hell and it was Emma Jenkins's fault—she said he had to kneel while working with Hairy because the dog was intimidated by his size.

Thomas sighed and studied the ugly thing. Sure, dogs were basically stupid, but he had to admit that Hairy seemed to get the general drift of the exercises. He'd held the tiny piece of Beggin' Strip behind his back, said, "Hairy, sit!" and, "Hairy, look!" then moved the treat next to his eye and Hairy made eye contact and sat still just like he was supposed to. Then he got the treat. And this was supposed to relax him.

What are you staring at, Big Alpha? It makes me yawn. That's what I do when I'm unsure about things.

That and pee. But I'm trying. I really am.

Wait. This is new. Your hands—which are twice the size of Slick's, by the way—are petting me. Softly. It feels good on my skin. Warm and smooth and nice and my tail's wagging because that's what I do when I'm happy.

"All right, Hairy. We've got to have a little man-to-man chat."

Your eyes are a little nicer, too, but I wish you'd smile. I'd feel better about hanging out here in thin air if you'd just smile.

"I got a bunch of guys coming over to play cards tonight and I don't think you're exactly their kind of dog, know what I'm saying?"

I guess it's back to the cave.

"You'll be safe in your crate. We might get a little loud, but we won't hurt you. I'll take you out for a walk when they leave. Okay, buddy?"

Yeah, okay. I don't mind the cave. At least you put a fluffy blanket in here. I guess you're trying to be nice.

I guess you're not like the bad man who hurt Slick. I try not to think about my owner much, because it makes me lonely and scared and I start shaking more, which makes me pee.

Thomas closed the door to the crate, draped an old pillowcase over the top, and headed to the entertainment center.

Here comes that strange, sad music again—nothing like the real music Slick and I love so much, the kind that makes us feel like dancing!

I miss him. I miss my sparkling red suit with the matching collar. I miss dancing. I wonder when I'll get to see Soft Hands again.

She felt so nice to snuggle up with.

* * *

"Just don't ever get married or we won't have anywhere to play cards. Any microbrews left in the fridge?"

Thomas peered through the gray-blue cigar fog that hung over the dining room table and narrowed his eyes at Vince Stephano. "I'm never getting married and I'll never run out of good beer on poker night," he said impatiently. "You gonna ante up or just sit there and bitch like you do at the office … sir?"

Stephano grunted, ignoring the subdued snickers from around the table. The Maryland State Police captain clenched his Robusto in his teeth and said, "I'll see you and raise you ten. Prepare to suffer horribly, my friend."

Thomas let the remark slide, dropping his gaze nonchalantly to the three queens burning a hole through his palm.

Rollo folded. Chick called, but didn't look happy about it. Then Manny went out quietly, and Paulie called it quits with his usual drama, slapping his cards down on the bare wood surface with a flourish of obscenities and sighs.

"Let's see it, pretty boy," Stephano said, jutting out his cigar in challenge as he glared at Thomas.

"You might want to use protective eyewear, boss." Thomas laid down the three lovely ladies with agonizing slowness, the queen of hearts on top.

"You suck, Tobin." Stephano threw down three sevens.

"Shit." Chick offered up a pair of fives.

As he reached out for the mound of poker chips with both hands, Thomas reveled in the feel of the tinkling, clicking bounty. Short of puffing a fine Cuban or holding a beautiful naked woman, this had to be life's finest physical sensation. It was a piece of pure triumph—a moment of unadulterated whoop-ass.

And by God, he'd had few enough of those lately.

"Your music selection is giving me a migraine, Tobin." Chick's announcement came in his customary West Virginia twang. "Haven't you got any normal music—like Garth or Shania or something?"

"My house, my tunes," Thomas said, stacking his chips in neat, color-coded piles. "Besides, Coltrane is food for the soul. You want to listen to hillbilly drivel, then hold poker night at your place."

Chick shook his head. "Right. That would be a ripsnortin' good time, I'm sure." He took a swig of beer.

"I'm lucky just to escape the spouse and spawn one night a month to come here."

"I hear you, man," Rollo said, chuckling. "If we did this at my place, we'd be listening to Barney's Greatest Hits."

"Thomas's music taste is eclectic," Manny offered.

"It sucks," Paulie said.

"What do you expect from four cops, a lawyer, and a urologist? We never agree on jackshit," Rollo said.

Thomas shuffled the deck and called for five-card stud. "You know, gentlemen, there's really only two kinds of music in the world."

"Christ, here we go," Stephano muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Good music and bad music," Thomas continued, taking a slow, sensual puff of his cigar and placing it in an ashtray to his left. He began to deal. "The majority of popular music today is total crap—the fast food of song—no nourishment, no soul, no meaning, no art. It's just a way to funnel more money to the one or two remaining international media conglomerates and pay for the Backstreet Boys to go to rehab."

Stephano groaned and got up from the table. "Beer run. Anybody want anything?"

"I'll help," Chick offered.

Paulie stood up and stretched. "I'm going to hit the john."

"Me, too," Manny said, following him.

Rollo shook his head slowly and chuckled, watching his best friend and brother-in-law deal the cards to empty chairs. "You sure know how to clear a room lately, man."

Rollo studied Thomas. He watched him finish the deal and take another puff, squinting in concentration as he spun the cigar between long fingers.

Rollo wouldn't come right out and say anything, but the truth was, Thomas worried the hell out of him.

Thomas had been through so much this last year, and he'd made it through in one piece. But he'd changed. Shut down. And he and Pam were really starting to wonder if he'd ever snap out of it.

"How are the boys?" Thomas asked.

"Great. They miss you."