Take a Chance on Me (49 page)

But if she were smart—which of course she was—then her imagination would be the only place she'd ever see him again.

The microwave beeped. Her tea water was done. She pulled her chicken salad sandwich from the refrigerator—and waited for Velvet to say something. But her assistant remained uncharacteristically silent, flipping through a magazine, not even looking Emma's way. It was driving her nuts.

Emma began dunking her tea bag—she'd selected the Earl Grey—and counted the seconds until she could bear it no longer.

"Nothing much happened, okay?"

Velvet didn't look up.

"Is this some kind of reverse psychology trash they taught you in graduate school?" Emma picked up her sandwich and mug and went to the table. "Am I supposed to be tortured by your lack of interest and spill my guts to you? Because, really, Velvet, there's not a whole lot to tell." Emma unzipped the sandwich baggy.

"He bit me, then told me he wasn't interested in dating me. That's it. That's the whole story."

Velvet slowly raised her eyes, her yogurt spoon poised in mid-air, her dark eyebrows crooked in interest.

"Thomas Tobin bit you?"

"Yep."

Velvet blinked. "Biting as in chomping down on your flesh with his teeth? Biting as in the referrals we get?"

Emma chewed her sandwich and nodded pleasantly. "My left earlobe."

"Wow. No kissing first? Just straight to the biting?"

Emma pondered that question as she swallowed. What he'd done prior to the bite couldn't really be classified as a kiss. There was no puckering involved.

"Actually, I think he might have licked me first. Then bit."

Velvet's eyes grew wide. "Specify the body part, please."

"The same general area—right under the earlobe. First the lick. Then the bite. Then the part where he says 'No, thanks—I don't want to date you' and runs to his car. Now that's romance for you, girl."

"Holy shit."

"My sentiment exactly, as you might recall. I know Mr. Goetz always will."

Velvet shoved her chair from the table and walked over to throw her yogurt cup in the trash. Emma sensed Velvet's shock and had to laugh.

When it came to the complexities of the human mating dance, Velvet wasn't often surprised. From what Emma knew about her relationship with Marcus—which was far too much, really—there was no such thing as proper form.

"Let me get this straight, Em." Velvet began pacing in front of the sink. "You asked him out. He licks your throat, bites your ear, and says 'no' ?"

"That's correct."

"How many seconds of bodily contact are we talking about here?"

Emma took a sip of tea. "Well, let's see. He stroked my face, sniffed my hair, then he kind of pressed up against me and my knees nearly gave out."

"Go on." Velvet was back in her chair.

"Then the licking and the biting."

"How hard?"

"Hard enough to sting."

"So we're looking at what—fifteen seconds of body contact?"

"About that—but it felt more like an hour."

Velvet looked stunned. "Em, how hot are we talking? I mean, seriously, how hot is this guy?"

"Surface of the sun, Velvet."

"Wow," she whispered. "And what were the exact words he used to turn you down?"

"He said, 'I'm not the man for the job. I'm sorry.'"

Velvet sat back in her chair, her mouth agape, no sound coming out of it. Emma wished she had her camera.

"So what do you think? Do I thank him for the flowers and the Pup-Peroni and start picking out my silver pattern?"

Velvet howled with laughter. "Yeah, right! This guy's a total nut job!" She gripped Emma's wrist, her face pulling into a serious scowl. "I think we should send him to someone else for follow-up, okay? I don't know if it's safe for you to be around him again. He sounds sort of … I don't know … abnormal."

Then Velvet pulled out the big guns: "I bet he even calls his girlfriends 'baby doll' or something equally offensive."

Emma smiled sweetly. "When was the last time I told you you're the wisest employee I have?"

"I'm the only one you have."

Emma continued to smile at Velvet. But she was thinking of Thomas, and the words that came to mind were, What a waste.

* * *

Leelee flew in the Wit's End front door about three-thirty, raring to go. She enjoyed her Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoon job at the office and loved the five bucks an hour she made doing brainless office stuff. She usually snagged close to forty dollars a week—tax-free—and that was decent money for a twelve-year-old in Maryland currency. Not that there was anywhere great to spend it close by, but she could always save it up for a weekend trip to Towson Town Center, Tyson's Corner, or The Gallery at Baltimore's Inner Harbor.

"Kon'nichiwa, Miki-san!" Beckett yelled, walking in the door behind Leelee.

"Kon'nichiwa, Beckett-san!"

Leelee watched Beck's face light up as he jabbered in Japanese with Velvet, the way he did every time he dropped her off. It was like language lab at school, except that Japanese was way cooler than French.

Velvet and Beck laughed at the end of their exchange and Beck shut the front door, the little bell tinkling as it swayed from the doorknob. "Thanks for humoring me, Velvet."

Velvet smiled heartily at him. "Anytime. Obaasan gives me grief for not speaking it more than I do."

"How's your grandma doing these days?"

Velvet shrugged. "Better. Living with Mom and Dad, making my mom's life a living hell with her need to be cooking constantly."

Beckett gave her a naughty wink. "That's our job as old people, you know. We go to secret classes to learn how to drive the younger generation crazy. I got an A-plus, right, Leelee?"

Leelee wasn't really paying attention. She was staring at the huge vase of roses.

Velvet caught Leelee's eye. "Hey girlie-girl. You up to helping me reorganize the empty office today?

We've got some new shelves to put up."

"Sure." There were flowers everywhere, and Leelee's heart was thudding much faster than normal. Her throat and chest tightened. Her thoughts raced back to the last apartment they had in L.A. , the one-bedroom with the broken air-conditioning, and her mom's last guy. The guy who sent her flowers all the time. The guy who killed her when he drove off the road.

She'd had so many flowers at her funeral.

"Who died?" Beckett joked, scanning the floral arrangements.

Velvet glanced toward the exam rooms before she whispered, "Some guy sent these to Emma. He likes her, but she isn't sure if she likes him. He's a little off the wall."

One of Beck's white brows arched over a sharp blue eye and then he winked at Leelee. "That'd be par for the course, now wouldn't it?"

"Hey, Pops. Hey, Leelee." Emma came sailing through the hallway door with a chart in her hand and a smile on her face. A lady clutching a mean-looking Chihuahua followed close behind.

"Mrs. Bellafonte will need to stop back in about two weeks from now, all right?" Emma turned to the owner. "It was good to meet you and Pancho. Please call if you have any questions."

Leelee watched the normal things take place in front of her eyes, but the sick twisting in her chest had only gotten worse. Her vision began to swim. It barely registered that Emma had already gone back in her office, that Velvet had handed her a stack of charts to file, and Beckett was on his way home.

As Leelee replaced the charts according to alphabetical order, she wondered about the flower guy. Did he love Emma? Would he break her heart the way Aaron had? Would Emma love this guy more than she could ever love her?

For about the millionth time since she'd been transported to Maryland like a hog to slaughter, Leelee wondered if Emma would have been happier if she'd never come into her life.

She shook her head. She needed to chill. Emma was not like her mom, right? Emma wasn't going to go off half-crazed with lust for some guy she'd just met, like her mom always did. Emma wasn't that kind of woman. Emma was cautious. Emma was safe.

Emma really loved her.

The phone rang, and it jarred Leelee into the land of the living. Velvet was on another line with an owner, and she began gesturing wildly for Leelee to answer the phone.

Leelee picked up. "Wit's End Animal Behavioral Clinic, may I help you?"

"Emma?"

He sounded eager, nervous. "I'm sorry, Dr. Jenkins is on another line." Leelee had no idea why she'd just lied, but she didn't like this man's voice one bit. It was too deep. Too he-man.

"I see."

He sounded disappointed.

"Thank you, Leelee," Velvet's voice chimed in the background. "I've got it now."

Leelee put the caller on hold and stepped slowly away from the phone, feeling her heart sink to her knees.

* * *

"I'm afraid Dr. Jenkins will no longer be able to care for Hairy," she said. "We can refer you to the only other behaviorist in the area, a Dr. Aaron Kramer in Annapolis , or to a veterinarian of your choosing."

"Isn't he Emma's ex-husband?" Thomas asked.

If Emma's assistant was surprised he knew about Aaron, she didn't let on. "Yes, he is. Shall I call—"

"I'd prefer to see Emma."

"Really? Well the thing is, Mr. Tobin, Dr. Jenkins doesn't want to see you. Capisce?"

Thomas could hardly believe he was getting the Godfather brush-off from a Japanese-American vet assistant who, from what he recalled, dressed like a Spice Girl.

"Ms. Miki, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Did Emma get the deliveries this morning?"

She snickered. "Sure did. The dog treats were an original touch. I was impressed."

"Thank you. But I take it Emma didn't feel the same way?"

"Oh, she liked the treats well enough—just not the treatment."

Thomas closed his eyes and sighed. Velvet Miki was apparently Emma's bodyguard as well as employee, and she had the protective instincts of a junkyard pit bull. His chances of getting by her appeared slim.

"Hey, Velvet, do you think you might be able to help me out here? All I want to do is apologize in person. Talk to Emma. I know I screwed up. I … I'm not all that smooth with women."

She laughed. "You don't say?"

"Look—"

"Actually, I think I can help you, Mr. Tobin." Velvet's voice seemed quite cheerful. "My suggestion would be that with your next victim, try to work up to the Count Dracula thing instead of springing it on a girl right off."

Thomas had a bad feeling about where this conversation was headed, and swallowed hard. "I'm not sure I understand."

"You chomped down on Emma's ear, then hit the road! I think it might have been a bit disconcerting for her. What do you think?"

Thomas winced.

"She's a sweet woman who's had a rough time lately. She deserves better—in fact, she deserves the very best there is—in men and in life."

"Yes, she does."

Thomas knew he must sound like the idiot he was, but everything Velvet said was true. Emma did deserve the best, and he was well aware that he fell short of that mark. "Just tell her I called. Would you do that?"

Velvet was quiet for a moment, then said, "Yeah. I can do that."

Thomas thought he detected a trace of regret in her voice.

* * *

He couldn't stand it another nanosecond. Thomas flipped the sheet off his legs, gingerly sat up on the edge of the bed and heaved himself to a stand.

By the time he got downstairs and ripped the pillowcase off the dog crate, the ungodly noise had ceased.

"Listen up, pal. You're disturbing the peace. I'm tired. And if you don't shut the fuck up I won't be held accountable for my actions. Got it?"

I'm so lonely, Big Alpha. So cold and afraid. I need to be close to someone warm, feel their touch. Take me with you! Get me out of here!

Thomas replaced the pillowcase and began to walk away when the racket started up again. It was a high-pitched keening sound, like the screams from miniature demons from hell interspersed with those little

"yips!" that felt like knitting needles being rammed into his ear canals.

I'm going to die if I have to be alone one more night! Please!

"God!" Thomas turned on his heels, threw the pillowcase across the room, and opened the latch. He reached in for Hairy and crammed him into the crook of his arm as he staggered back up the stairs to his bedroom.

"Here. Lie down right here and shut your damn yap." He dropped Hairy to the rug next to his bed. "I'll be up here."

Thomas returned to the bliss of lying flat, pulled the sheet over his legs, and closed his eyes.

This was not working out.

Sure, Hairy was getting better, but the weirdness factor was just too damn high for him to take much longer. Thomas had hit the wall earlier that evening, when he'd found Hairy snuggling up with a pair of his boxer shorts.

Apparently, none of the goddamn squeaky toys did a thing for Hairy. None of the fuzzy little beanbag things, either. None of the chewy rings or the bumpy rubber balls seemed to float his boat.

So what did Hairy want? He wanted Thomas's boxer shorts—the white pair stamped with purple and black Ravens football team logos. He carried them in his mouth all over the house. He buried them under the couch. He slept on top of them. He wadded them up and pounced on them.

Thomas eventually tricked Hairy into giving up the damn things. He threw them in the bathroom laundry hamper and shut the closet door, thinking that would be the end of that. But Hairy sat down in front of the door and pined for them, whining and pacing and making pitiful noises that Thomas just couldn't take.

Thomas lay on his back now, staring at the dark ceiling, groaning. All right, so be caved—he gave the dog the shorts. But damn! At least he'd washed them first. There were some things that were just too strange to allow to happen in this world.