Entice Me Box Set: The Truth About Shoes and Men\Cover Me\My Favorite Mistake (16 page)

I giggled.

“And second, I wouldn’t give it to Val. I’m sorry she came by and I hope she didn’t say anything to upset you.”

I let a few seconds pass before asking, “Are you two an item?”

He made a rueful noise. “Val has always wanted us to be a couple—I don’t.”

“But you dated?” I felt like a shrew for asking, but reasoned that it was a detail I needed for the article—readers would want to know. I was a reader, and
I
wanted to know.

“Val came to work for me about a year ago as an office manager. She wanted us to become involved, but I didn’t think it was a good idea to work and sleep together.”

I waited, and he must have seen the “and?” in my eyes.

“And so a couple of months ago, she quit, thinking that if we weren’t working together…”

“You could sleep together.”

He nodded.

I waited while another unsaid “and?” hung in the air.

“And,” he said, “as it turned out, we worked together better than we…er—”

“I get the picture.” And
ouch
. I’d assumed they’d slept together, so why had that hurt so much? I sat up and climbed off the bed. “Listen, I don’t want to get in the middle of unfinished business.”

“You’re not.” He sat up and reached for me, but I set the dildo on a stump that doubled as a table and shrugged into my robe—there was something creepy about talking about another woman while we were both naked.

“Kenzie, Val is a great girl, but like most small-town girls, she’s looking for a commitment. Marriage. Kids. I ended things before they got started because I knew I couldn’t give her what she wanted.”

No shirt, no shoes, no commitment.

I was so sorry I’d brought it up. An itch on my chest caught my attention and I opened my robe to reveal big pink polka dots. Aside from my nipples.

Sam whistled and came over for a peek. “Looks like hives.”

“They are,” I muttered. “I’m allergic.”

“To what?”

“To, um, you.”

He laughed. “What?”

“I had hives all over the first time we…er, you know.”

He stopped laughing. “You got hives after we had sex?”

“It doesn’t have to be sex. This is what happens when I’m around a…macho man.”

“Macho?”

“The more testosterone, the more I react.”

He swiped his hand down his face. “This is a new one on me.” He stopped. “Wait—does this have anything to do with your ‘theory’ about allergies protecting you from bad things?”

I shrugged.

He gave a half laugh. “So you think I’m bad for you?”

I closed my robe. “It’s nothing personal.”

“I disagree.” He leaned forward and squinted. “You really believe in this theory of yours, don’t you? What—do you think these allergies are some kind of moral check?”

I couldn’t correct him to say I thought the allergies were more of an emotional check—to keep me from becoming attached to a man who was commitment-phobic.

“Look,” he continued. “If you’re afraid that I think less of you because of what happened in New York—”

“I don’t,” I cut in defensively. “And why should you? I didn’t exactly twist your arm.”

He held up his hands. “I know, that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

He sighed. “I’m making a mess of this. All I’m saying is that we’re consenting adults who practiced safe sex. Your skin allergies aren’t some kind of punishment for having a good time.”

He thought I was an idiot. An easy idiot. I crossed my arms. “Well, in this case, my allergies are a good reminder that I’m here on business, not to play house for a week.”

He stood. “Don’t be cagey, Kenzie. If you don’t want anything like this to happen again, just say so.”

“Under the circumstances, I think that would be best,” I said primly. I had to keep my long-term goals in mind.

His expression was unreadable, but he nodded curtly. My chest tightened with warring emotions, but I knew it was for the best.

The phone rang, cutting into the tension. Sam let it ring again before snatching it up. “Hello?” He looked up at me, and his expression eased. “Yes, we saw it…yes, it’s nice…well, I don’t know about that…just a moment.” He held the phone out to me. “It’s your boss.”

I closed my eyes briefly, then walked over to take the receiver. “Hello, Helena.”

“We’re sold out, Kenzie—the issue
sold out!
”

“Wow, that’s great.”

“This is what I’ve been waiting for, Kenzie. This kind of push should give us a couple more percentages of market share.”

“Wonderful.”

“We can’t afford to be distracted now with a cover curse. How is Dr. Long?”

I looked at Sam, but decided “naked and spent” weren’t the adjectives that Helena was looking for. He was gathering his clothes, showing signs of a pronounced limp. The bruise on his cow-stomped foot looked ugly and painful. I winced. “He’s fine.” No thanks to me.

“Taking good care of him?”

He stopped to massage the skin over his breastbone. Panic blipped—his heart. I’d forgotten he had a heart problem and now he was having a heart attack. I had sexed him to death.

He stopped rubbing his chest and stepped into his boxers and jeans. I sighed in relief. No. More. Sex. With. Sam. “Yes, Helena, I’m on top of him—er,
it
.”

Sam gestured he was going to the house and I nodded absently.

“I knew you were the right person for the job, Kenzie.”

He walked across the landing and pulled his T-shirt over his head. I saw the chew toy on the top step. He didn’t. I dropped the phone.
“Sam, look out!”

13

“T
ELL ME
he isn’t dead,” Helena said an hour later when I had called her back, as promised.

I massaged the bridge of my nose and leaned against Sam’s desk. “No, Helena, Sam isn’t dead, or hurt, thank goodness. Just bruised.” The man would be black and blue by the time I went home.

“Kenzie, you’re supposed to be watching him!”

“I can’t be with him every second of the day!”

“Is he going to be able to perform Angel’s surgery tomorrow?”

“It’s still on his schedule, Helena.”

She made a rueful noise. “Has he gotten any calls from the tabloids?”

I looked at his machine—the display said he had seventeen messages waiting. “I don’t know.”

“Can you find out?”

I sighed. “Maybe—I have to go.”

“Will you put Angel on the phone please?”

I frowned. “Angel?”

“Yes, I’d like to speak to her.”

I looked down at the dog, who sat holding her brush in her mouth. I was derelict in my duties. “It’s for you,” I said dryly, then picked her up and set her on the desk. I held the receiver up to her perky little ear.

“Helloooo, Angel,” I heard Helena say in a piercing, faisetto
voice. “Marna misses you, yes she does, yes she does. Do you miss Mama?”

“Speak,” I whispered, on the chance that she’d been trained. Angel barked into the phone.

“Oh, you do?” crooned Helena. “Is Kenzie taking good care of you, darling?”

“Speak,” I whispered, and Angel offered up another affirmative.

“That’s good, Angel. You’re my little wittle Angel, yes you are, yes you are.”

The dog yawned and my opinion of her raised a notch. I put the phone back to my mouth. “Helena, say goodbye.” I held the phone to the dog’s muzzle again.

“Goodbye, Angel.”

“Speak,” I whispered, and the dog barked twice. “Nice touch,” I said, then hung up the phone.

I heard Sam come into the lobby, so I stuck my head out of the office and looked down the hallway to watch him set down two file boxes. I was going to help him get organized. The muscles in his arms and back moved under his T-shirt, and I fought like hell not to get turned on. “Sam, you have lots of voice messages—want me to sort through them?”

“Sure,” he said with a shrug. “Just save the ones that sound important.”

He left, I assumed, to retrieve more boxes. I felt a little guilty listening to his messages, but if he didn’t care…

Beep
. “Doc, this is Arma. I’m saving some copies of the magazine for you. Just come by when you can.”

That was old, I deleted it.

Beep
. “Sam, this is John. Nice magazine cover, bro.” John laughed. “I hear through the grapevine that you’ve got
company
this week. Behave.”

I kept that one.

Beep
. “Sam, honey, it’s me.” I recognized Val’s voice. “I’d really like to talk to you about…us. Give me a call.”

The message predated her visit this morning, but I kept it. That entire situation still had me unnerved, probably because even though Val Jessum and I came from different worlds, we were more alike than different. Sam’s comment about her wanting a commitment because she was a small-town girl had hit me. It might be true, but small-town girls didn’t have the corner on commitment.

Beep
. “Sam, it’s Mom.”

I perked up, telling myself that mothers in general interested me, and analyzing the voice of Sam’s mom didn’t imply anything in particular.

“I’m looking at your picture on the magazine and I’m just so proud of you, son.” She sighed musically. “I know you’re busy with your animals, love, but I hope you’re taking care of your own health. Don’t let this cover business add too much stress to your life. Call me later in the week. Bye, now.”

She sounded perfect—supportive, yet concerned, expressive, but not smothering. And she would most certainly dislike me for miring her son in this cover situation. I kept the message and brushed Angel’s long coat while I zipped through the next few messages from local well-wishers. Then it came.

Beep
. “Dr. Long, this is Terrence Mayo from the
National Keyhole
.” I stopped brushing—a tabloid reporter. “I’d like to talk to you at your earliest convenience. There could be some money in it for you.”

My hand hovered over the delete button, then, telling myself that Sam wouldn’t be the kind of man to respond to a tabloid reporter, I hit the button. “Message deleted,” said a mechanical voice.

There were three calls regarding four-legged patients
that I kept and a couple of hang-ups—from Val?—that I deleted. The last message was the tabloid reporter again, his voice a little more urgent, and I got rid of that one, too.

“Message deleted.”

“Telemarketer?” Sam asked behind me.

I jumped and spun around. Had he heard the message? “Uh-hmm,” I murmured. “And I deleted a few hang-ups. The others you should listen to.”

“Anything urgent?” he asked, dropping a couple of file boxes on the only available space on the floor. Dust motes spiraled up.

“Not that I could tell,” I said, then sneezed three times in succession.

“Bless you,” Sam said, then fingered a button on my blouse. “How are those hives?”

I inhaled to steel myself against his sex appeal. “Better now that the medicine has kicked in.”

He grinned. “Maybe I should take a look?”

Despite the thrill that ran down my back, I flicked his hand away. “Maybe we should get down to work.”

He made a face, then jerked his thumb toward the hallway. “I have another box of supplies to carry in. I’ll be right back.” As he walked away, his phone rang. He started toward it, and my heart blipped in panic—what if it was the reporter? “I’ll get it,” I offered. “I’m, uh, expecting Helena to call.”

“Sure,” he said with a shrug. “If it’s for me, just take a message.” He kept walking.

I picked up the receiver with wet palms, and took my time answering until Sam’s footsteps had faded. “Dr. Long’s office.”

“Dr. Long, please,” said a male voice.

My pulse picked up. “May I ask who’s calling?”

“Terrence Mayo.”

I swallowed hard. “From the
National Keyhole?
”

“I see you got my messages.”

My mind raced. “Why do you want to speak with Dr. Long?”

He chuckled wryly. “Just tell the doc that he might be the victim of a
curse
.”

“Hold on, please.” I covered the mouthpiece with my hand and closed my eyes, reminding myself that I was here on assignment. My first priority was the magazine, which meant squelching this curse rumor. I uncovered the mouthpiece. “Dr. Long doesn’t believe in such nonsense and respectfully asks that you buzz off.”

Silence, then, “Even if there’s a chance he’s in danger?”

“Don’t call here anymore,” I said, then slammed down the phone.

“Tiff with the boss lady?” Sam asked, sidling through the door carrying a huge box.

I started guiltily. “I have a love/hate relationship with Helena. Do you need a hand?” I stepped after him, wiping my sweaty hands on my dry-clean-only pants.

“Sure—these are new accessories for the snake aquarium.”

I stopped dead in my tracks. “On second thought, I’ll get started in here.”

His laugh was muffled as he made his way down the hall toward the menagerie. I turned and leaned against the doorway, surveying the disaster he called a workspace. How he got anything done in here, I didn’t know. I shook my head, but I was actually looking forward to helping him get organized.
To help assuage your guilt
, my conscience taunted.

My motivation didn’t matter, I rationalized. What mattered is that everyone got what they wanted. Helena. Sam. Me.

Me
? Was I getting what I wanted?

“Okay, partner, I’m ready,” Sam announced, clapping his hands together.

He scanned my outfit—pink and white ruffled Yves St. Laurent blouse, dusty-pink hipsters, and white strappy Prada slides. (I did not adhere to the fashion adage “don’t wear white shoes before Memorial Day or after Labor Day.”)

“I’m not complaining about the view,” he said, “but are you sure you want to work in those clothes?”

I looked down. “What’s wrong with these clothes?”

“Just that they’re a little fancy for office-cleaning.”

“I don’t clean,” I corrected, wagging my finger. “I supervise.”

He laughed, then grimaced and touched his shoulder.

“Are you sore?”

“I probably will be tomorrow.”

I sighed. “I’m sorry about leaving Angel’s chew toy on the stairs.”

He scoffed. “Kenzie, it was an accident. I should have been looking where I was going.”