Читать книгу What Phoebe Wants - Cindi Myers - Страница 12

“GET YOUR HANDS OFF OF ME!” I swatted at the stranger as his fingers clutched at my dress.

“You’re the one who ran into me, lady.” He righted himself and stared down at me. He was quite tall and, in a better mood, I probably would have thought he was handsome, with his tousled dark hair and heavy-lidded eyes. He was fairly young, midtwenties, I guessed.

“You should watch where you’re going,” I snapped.

“I could say the same to you.”

We glared at each other, both rumpled and out of breath. Not unlike two people in the aftermath of a particularly vigorous round of sex. I swallowed. Now why had I thought of that? Except, of course, that he was a particularly handsome man, and those dark eyes of his seemed to look right through me, as if he could tell I was wearing my best Givenchy underwear.

Stop it! I ordered myself. I glanced around, hoping someone would come to my rescue. The office was eerily silent and I realized everyone else had gone to lunch. Me and handsome Hank here were alone, except, of course, for the lecherous doctor.

I smoothed my hands down my sides. The thing to do was to stay calm and collected. That was me. Ms. Cool. “If you’re here to see the doctor, his office is back there.” I pointed down the hallway.

“Actually, I’m looking for a Phoebe Frame.” The man glanced around us. “Maybe you could point me in the right direction and I promise to stay out of your way.”

“Phoebe Frame?” I felt my face warm. “Uh, what do you want with her?”

“Not that it’s your business, but I’m here to install a new transcription system. She is the transcriptionist, isn’t she?”

“Yes.” The word came out as a squeak. I straightened and tried to look indifferent. “I’m Phoebe. If you’ll follow me, the transcription room is right this way.”

I marched past him, down the hall toward my cubicle. By now it felt as if my whole face and neck were on fire. And red is not my best color. Not that I cared what handsome Hank thought of my looks, but…

I stopped at the doorway to my cubicle and whirled to face him. “You haven’t told me your name.”

“You didn’t give me time.” He offered me a card. “Jeff Fischer. My friends call me Jeff, but you can call me Mr. Fischer.”

All right, maybe I deserved that. I cleared my throat. “Look, I’m sorry about, well, about just now. I was very annoyed at someone and you were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

He set his briefcase on the counter and opened it. “Yeah, well, I guess you weren’t hired for your personality anyway, huh?”

“I said I was sorry.”

“Forget about it.”

“Oh, that is so like a man.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You insult me, and then you try to blow it off as if it isn’t important.”

“Hey, you insulted me first.”

“I did not.”

“Yes, you did. You accused me of trying to grope you when I was only trying to keep my balance.”

“You were groping me.” I flushed, remembering the feel of his hand on my breast. “Though I’ll admit, you probably didn’t do it on purpose.”

He looked up at the ceiling, addressing some invisible being. “She admits she’s wrong. That must be a first.”

“How can you say that? You don’t even know me.”

He grinned. “No, but I’d like to.” He stuck out his hand. “Let’s start over. I’m Jeff Fischer. Nice to meet you, Miss Frame. Or is it Mrs.?”

“It’s Ms.” I shook his hand, ignoring the flutter in my stomach at his touch. Maybe I was just hungry. “Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Fischer.”

“I thought we were going to be friends now. Call me Jeff.”

“All right, Jeff. I’ll, uh, just leave you to your work.”

“Sure you don’t want to stick around? You could tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

“No, I think I’ll go to lunch.” I backed toward the door. With any luck, Jeff wouldn’t be here when I got back. The last thing I needed right now was a young, handsome man with a sarcastic sense of humor.

Or maybe it was the first thing I needed. Sometimes the two extremes aren’t that far apart.

ON THURSDAYS, I ALWAYS HAVE LUNCH with my friend Darla. After the morning I’d had, I figured our lunch would be the one spot of sanity in my day. A tall blonde with an Ivana Trump updo, Darla is not only my best gal pal and chief partner-in-crime, she’s also my hairdresser—the only person who knows my real hair color—and the keeper of all my secrets.

“You got new wheels!” she squealed as I pulled to the curb in front of Hair Apparent, the salon where she works. She climbed into the passenger seat. “What happened to your old ride?” She flipped down the passenger side visor and fluffed her bangs in the makeup mirror.

“The Probe died yesterday afternoon, smoke pouring out from under the hood and everything.”

“So you just walked down the street and bought a new one?” Darla’s perfectly plucked eyebrows rose in amazement.

I shrugged. “It was either that, or call a taxi.”

I turned into the lot of Taco Loco and found a parking place. Darla followed me inside and we slid into our usual booth. “I never knew anyone who decided to buy a car and just did it,” she said. “I mean, aren’t you supposed to research these things? Take test-drives?”

The waitress set two glasses of iced tea and a basket of hot chips in front of us. “The usual?” she asked.

“The usual,” we chorused. Chicken chalupas with guacamole. Best in the city. I turned back to Darla. “That’s how Steve bought cars. How my father bought cars.” In fact, it was how every man I knew bought cars. Did that make it right?

Darla raised her glass in a toast. “To Phoebe’s new wheels,” she said. “May they take you places you’ve always wanted to go.”

I liked the sound of that, even if I had yet to figure out where it was I was headed. “What’s new with you?” I asked.

She suddenly became very interested in the placemat in front of her, eyes avoiding mine. “Well…” She pursed her lips. “I heard some news today. Something I don’t think you’ll especially enjoy hearing.”

I sipped my tea and tried not to look too interested. News meant gossip and it felt unseemly to appear overeager to indulge in something that, after all, was supposed to be a vice. “News about what?” I asked after a moment.

“News about Steve and Miss Just-a-waitress.”

Darla’s nose for news had discovered that the teenybopper Steve had started dating three months into his midlife search for “happiness” worked at the Yellow Rose, one of those cabaret places euphemistically known as gentlemen’s clubs. The girl—Tami—swore she was “just a waitress,” though from what I had seen, she was certainly well qualified to wear tassels, or whatever sort of excuse for a costume was customary for dancers in those places. “I don’t want to hear it,” I said, and shut my mouth firmly, as if to hold back any sign of the curiosity that was already spreading over me like a rash.

“You’re going to find out sooner or later.” She leaned across the table, her voice soft. “And I think it’s something you’d much prefer to hear from me.”

My stomach quivered. I hated this—hated caring what Steve and his girlfriend were up to. My goal in life was not to care, to be serene and happy and above it all.

But I wasn’t there yet. I took another swallow of tea, trying to wet my too-dry mouth. “What is it?”

Darla studied her perfect manicure. “Just-a-waitress came into the shop today.”

I waited, but apparently Darla required some sort of reaction before proceeding. “Did she have an appointment, or just drop by to say hi?”

“She had an appointment. With Henry.” She made a face. “Good thing it wasn’t with me, or she’d have walked out bald.”

I held back a snicker. Tami had gorgeous long blond hair. The idea of her without that crowning glory had a certain nasty appeal. “So what’s the scoop? Did she get dreadlocks, or a pierced nose?”

Darla shook her head. “Didn’t you say Steve never wanted children?”

There went my stomach again, acting as if I’d just plunged five stories in the front car of a roller coaster. “Yes. I mean, no, he never wanted children. He said they would make things too complicated.”

I put a hand over my belly, not even realizing until it was too late that I’d done so. In the early days, I’d thought I’d change Steve’s mind, that one day we’d have a family. Even as recently as last year, I’d been telling myself we had plenty of time. “What are you saying, Darla?”

“I’m saying Steve’s life is about to get pretty complicated. Just-a-waitress is four or five months gone.”

I counted back in my head. That meant it had happened after our divorce six months ago. We’d been separated six months before that. Plenty of time for me to get over the guy, right? Why should I care what he and his girlfriend were up to?

“You don’t look so good.” Darla leaned forward and studied my face,

“I’ll be okay in a minute,” I managed to squeak out.

“Okay is a relative term.” She frowned. “You want to talk about it?”

I shook my head. No, I wasn’t okay. And no, I didn’t want to talk about it.

The waitress brought our food and I focused on adding salsa to my chalupa, glad of an excuse not to say anything. Even if I’d wanted to spill my guts to Darla, I didn’t think I could have found the words to describe how I felt.

Something ugly and black had attached itself to my insides, some slimy emotional specter that was, in turns, angry and disgusted. I’d put off having children because Steve didn’t want them, yet our divorce papers were scarcely cold before he knocked up some other woman. Outside, I was mute, lips welded together by pride. But inside, I was screaming.

“So, what are you going to do now?” Darla scooped guacamole onto a chip and popped it into her mouth.

Last I heard, murder was still illegal. I sighed and laid aside my empty spoon. “What can I do? I have to get on with my life.”

She eyed me critically. “Starting when? It’s been six months since the divorce and almost a year since Steve walked out. Have you been on a single date?”

“Just what I need—another man in my life.” I shook my head. “No, thank you.”

“They aren’t all bad. You like Tony, don’t you?”

Tony was a truck driver Darla referred to as her rustproof lover—“heart of gold and buns of steel.” He was also a genuinely sweet guy. “You got the last good one,” I said.

“Oh, come on. You’re still young. Attractive. You could find someone nice.”

I shook my head. “Who would I date? In my job all the men I meet are either old, sick or married.” The image of a certain studly computer installer popped up to call me a liar. Okay, so Jeff Fischer was gorgeous and I hadn’t noticed a ring on his hand. He was also young and sarcastic and I hadn’t exactly wowed him with my charm. “I don’t need another man in my life,” I said, stabbing a fork into my chalupa for emphasis.

“Just think about it,” Darla said gently.

I nodded. “I’ll think about it.” But thinking and doing are two entirely different animals, aren’t they?

I RETURNED TO WORK AFTER LUNCH and discovered the cubbyhole had been ransacked. My computer processor sat in the hall, my transcription machine balanced atop it. My monitor occupied my chair and half a mile of cable coiled around the doorway like so many snakes prepared to wrap around my ankles.

I picked my way through this maze and stepped into the room, only to be confronted with one of the finest specimens of male gluteus maximus I’ve ever been privileged to see.

The butt in question wasn’t naked, more’s the pity, but the expertly tailored slacks molded around it did a nice job of showing it to advantage.

“What are you staring at?” The rest of the man in question emerged from beneath my desk.

“Jeff! Uh, hello.” I moved over and pretended to be interested in a stack of computer manuals. “Was I staring?”

He pointed a screwdriver at me. “You were staring. And smiling.”

“I’m just delighted at the prospect of finally getting the new transcription system installed.” I kept my eyes on the manual, pretending to be reading, but I was really trying to identify the cologne he was wearing. Something spicy, faintly exotic…

“I didn’t know you read Chinese.” He’d risen and was looking over my shoulder.

I glanced down at the booklet in my hand. Rows of Chinese characters danced across the page. I snapped the booklet shut. “I was studying the diagrams.” I pointed to the snarl of cables streaming out from under my desk. “Don’t you think you should do something about all that?”

“Your usual sunny self, I see.” He kneeled and began fiddling with something under my desk. “And here I thought we were going to be friends.”

I didn’t want to be friends with Jeff Fischer. He was too young, too good-looking, too full of himself, too male. Men were not at the top of my list these days. I kicked at the tangle of cables. “How am I supposed to get any work done with everything scattered all over the place like this?”

“I’ll have it all back together in no time.” His head disappeared beneath the desk once more.

“With this new system, you’ll be faster than ever.” He reached up and patted the desktop. “Have a seat and keep me company.”

I backed toward the door. “Maybe I’d better leave you alone to do your work.”

“I work better when I have a pretty woman to talk to.”

I resented the flutter that ran through my stomach. As if a compliment from a smart-ass like him meant anything. I told myself I was only staying because if I went back up front Joan would put me to work labeling urine samples, or filing test results or some equally odious chore.

So I took a seat on the desk, next to a canvas satchel that spilled tools across the desktop. It wasn’t the most comfortable position. My feet didn’t touch the ground, which left my legs swinging practically in Jeff’s face. Why had I decided this was a good day to wear my chartreuse-with-white-polka-dots slip dress?

“That’s better.” Jeff’s gaze traveled from my exposed knees to my ankles. “Very nice.”

He grinned in a way that might have been lecherous on someone who didn’t already look like an Eagle Scout. “How old are you?” I blurted.

He arched one eyebrow. “Old enough to know my way around.”

“No really. How old?”

“I’m twenty-six.” He said it as if he was announcing a winning Lotto number. “How old are you?”

“Too old for you.” I inched farther away from him.

“I prefer experienced women.” He went back to operating his screwdriver.

Experienced? Was that anything like a used car being “experienced”? Or did I look like a woman who’d been around the block a few times? “What makes you think I’m experienced?”

“Let’s just say you don’t strike me as a recent escapee from a convent.”

“Someone told you I was divorced. That Michelle—”

“No, I didn’t know that. I was thinking more about the hickey on your neck.”

I clapped my hand to my neck so hard the skin stung. Heat washed over me and I knew my face was bright red. “I do not have a hickey!” Where would I have gotten one? I hadn’t been intimate with a man since…. A sick feeling washed over me as I recalled my prelunch wrestling session with Dr. P. The bastard.

Jeff stood and dropped the screwdriver into the tool bag. “It’s not that noticeable,” he said. “It’s just above your collar, right…there.” His finger brushed across my skin, a feather touch that made every nerve ending vibrate with awareness. I took a deep breath, trying to regain my composure, but all that did was draw his spicy, exotic, masculine scent into my lungs. I stared at the V of naked chest showing in the open throat of his shirt and fought the insane urge to plant a kiss right…there.

Hormones. That had to be it. They were like ants. They’d been fine, not bothering me at all in the year since Steve had called it quits. Content to go about the business of doing whatever hormones were supposed to do in the body. And then the stud here had disturbed them. One touch from him and the hormones had come to life like an anthill stirred with a stick. And they apparently weren’t going to calm down anytime soon. I wouldn’t be safe around any being with a hint of testosterone. The next thing I knew, I’d be leering at old men in elevators and flirting with the teenager behind the counter at McDonald’s.

“I have to go.” I slid off the desk, scattering three screwdrivers and a socket set in my hurry to escape.

I fled to the ladies’ room and contemplated my red face in the mirror. Wincing, I pulled back my hair and studied the purpling love bite. “That no-good Dr. Lech. I ought to—”

“Phoebe, hurry up in there.” Michelle pounded on the door. “I have to go.”

I grabbed my purse and groped through it, in vain hope I’d find a scarf to cover the evidence of a definite lapse in judgment. But I didn’t wear scarves. I searched the supply cabinet mounted over the toilet. Nothing but half a box of tampons, two cans of hair spray, six rolls of toilet paper and a pink toothbrush. Short of wrapping toilet paper around my neck, I was stuck.

I opened the door and sidled past Michelle, my head down so that my hair fell forward to cover the side of my neck. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine. Do we have any bandages?”

“Sure. In the lab. Over the sink. Did you cut yourself?”

“Just a paper cut,” I mumbled, and hurried to the lab.

I was studying my reflection in the paper-towel dispenser, making sure I’d covered the mark, when Michelle came into the lab. “You got a paper cut on your neck?”

I straightened and tugged my collar a little higher. “I, uh, was carrying some charts and one slipped.” Was I a pathetic liar, or what?

Michelle laughed. “Reminds me of high school. We used to put Band-Aids over hickeys. As if everyone didn’t know what was under there.” She picked up the blood-draw tray and turned to leave, but paused in the doorway. “You’d better watch those paper cuts, Phoebe. A girl can’t be too careful, you know.”

She giggled and left the room. I sagged against the counter. Great. Now the whole office would think I’d been up to something. If only I had been up to something. At least I’d have great memories to go along with the hickey.

The staccato tap of high heels on linoleum announced Joan Lee’s approach. “What are you doing hiding in here?” she asked. She peered closer. “What is that on your neck?”

“Vampire. Met him in the park last night. I’m thinking maybe I ought to go home in case I suddenly develop a desire to start biting people.”

Joan frowned. “There are no such things as vampires. Besides, you can’t go home. Dr. Patterson wants to see you.”

“Speaking of bloodsuckers…”

Joan frowned. “He’s in his office. Don’t keep him waiting. He has patients to see.”

When Joan heard humor was contagious, she was the first in line to be immunized against it.