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Another of her father’s favorite quotes was “Use the gifts God gave you.” It wasn’t too long after puberty struck that she figured out her greatest God-given gift was the one she came face-to-face with when she looked in a mirror. It was a little while before she was comfortable with the ardent attention it brought her, and longer still until she claimed the power that was part of the package. Once she had, beauty became her weapon of choice, and through trial and error she’d come to wield it with finesse.
If this small-town Don Juan thought he could rattle her twice in one lifetime, he was sorely mistaken.
“What is it with you, lady?” he asked, when he appeared to have looked his fill at last. His tone was cordial, gentle even, but his voice was deep, the gravelly kind of deep that could give a woman goose bumps if she let it. “Are you flat-out crazy?”
“What makes you ask?” she countered coolly.
“Oh, I don’t know, something about you dumping coffee on strangers and wanting to walk a plank naked.”
“Oh, that. Yes, I’m flat-out crazy.”
Their eyes met. He might have a bigger Adam’s apple than she did, but she had a few assets of her own—a sub-Arctic tone and a dismissive gaze that had cut the machismo out from under inebriated frat boys and philandering Fortune 500 executives alike. The combination had never failed her.
Until now.
For the first time in her life she brought it to bear full force on a man and nothing happened. No stuttering or shifting of feet, and not so much as a flicker of embarrassment.
Concentrate, she told herself, allowing her lips to curve into a subtly amused smile. Next to public rejection, men most hated being laughed at.
“Now it’s my turn to ask you a question,” she said. “Do you cop a feel off every waitress who slaps a $1.99 special in front of you? Or is it only crazy ladies you can’t keep your hands off?”
First he laughed. Then he stepped around the chesthigh counter separating the entry and office, and planted his palms in the center of her desk. An ancient leather bomber jacket hung open over his black sweater and jeans. He was also sporting several days’ black stubble, and she would bet an extra week in Danby that if she bothered to check out his feet, she’d see some battered member of the boot family. The complete “bad boy” ensemble. Generations of self-proclaimed rebels had adopted it to affect a menacing, misunderstood look, with an undercurrent of raw sexuality.
And for good reason, she acknowledged to herself. It worked. As he continued to lean forward slowly, Olivia subdued the urge to wheel her chair out of reach.
“I think I’ll keep you guessing about my taste in women,” he said, his too deep voice now also too close. “I will tell you this much. If I ever do decide to put my hands on you, I’ll make damn sure you know who it is touching you. I’m scared as hell you’ll get spooked again and hurl something really lethal at me.”
Funny, he didn’t look scared. He looked pretty damned amused, Olivia decided, bristling. “Let’s get something straight. I didn’t throw coffee at you because I was spooked. The truth is, I wasn’t even upset,” she added, shrugging. “It was strictly a matter of principle.”
“Yeah?” The corners of his wide mouth curled upward. “What principle is that?”
“The one that says a man keeps his hands to himself unless I invite him to do otherwise.”
His grin became full-blown. “Unless? Or until? Either way, lady, you’ve got yourself a deal.”
“Lucky me,” she murmured, taking the hand he extended to seal the bargain. It wouldn’t have surprised her in the least if he turned out to be a fast-fingered Harry as well as a groper. The tags were from her college days, when she and a small group of close friends would pigeonhole a man according to his most impressive—or offensive—quality. Instead of prolonging the handshake, however, or rubbing a finger suggestively against her palm, he shook her hand in crisp, businesslike fashion and let go.
It was a little like being dismissed and she wouldn’t have let him get away with it if Doc Allison hadn’t come charging into the room in her usual rush.
Her boss was in her thirties, a trim brunette with a no-nonsense manner and a habit of doing at least two things at once. Now she continued scribbling notes on a chart, slapped a list on the desk and began talking to Olivia.
“Do you think you can find these medications in the stockroom? And please rummage up some vitamin samples to give to Honey-Bunch’s mom when she checks out.”
“Right away.” With no small amount of pleasure, Olivia aimed a lofty look at the man in front of her. “I’m afraid it’s going to be a few minutes before I can check you in.”
She got to her feet slowly, certain he was like most men and wouldn’t be able to resist checking out those parts of her that had been hidden under the desk. At this point even that small, pseudo-victory would make her feel better.
“Don’t bother,” he replied to her comment about the wait. Not only did he ignore the chance to check her out more thoroughly, but he turned away, shifting his attention to the vet, who had stopped writing and looked up at the sound of his voice.
She immediately broke into a friendly smile. “Hey, stranger. I didn’t know you were here.”
“You asked me to stop by, remember?”
“Of course. But you’re way early.”
Curious, Olivia lingered by her desk, shuffling papers for as long as she dared. It was long enough to note that his return smile was also friendly, as opposed to the nasty smirk he’d used on her.
“I finished setting up that new trail sooner than I expected,” he was saying. “If this is bad timing, Doc—”
“Not at all,” she assured him, taking his arm and tugging him along with her through the Staff Only doorway that led to her private office. The ease with which he fell in step with the other woman was not lost on Olivia. “I’m anxious to have you take a look at…”
That was the last thing she heard before the door swung shut.
What? Take a look at what? She resisted the urge to stamp her foot. Telling herself she really wasn’t interested in his reason for being there, or anything else about the man, she got busy gathering the medications on the list, presenting them to the furry little dog’s “mom” and recording payment for the visit.
As soon as the woman and dog left, she headed for the bathroom, or, more accurately, the mirror over the bathroom sink. Wishing it were full length, she inspected herself from a variety of angles. She looked fine, she decided. Better than fine. She looked the way she always looked, like herself. Obviously, if there was a problem, it wasn’t hers. Not that she’d been concerned otherwise. Merely curious. Mildly curious. Blame it on boredom.
Just the same, she took time to remove her lipstick and reapply it. She also combed her hair, then bent at the waist, tossing it forward and back to lose that just-combed look. Men were suckers for tousled hair and for anything else that helped link women and bed in their thoughts. Last, she pulled a tiny gold perfume atomizer from her bag and gave herself a quick spray of Sultry, rubbing the back of her wrists together until the scent of the aptly named perfume drifted over her.
She inhaled deeply. There, that was better. Strictly speaking, the perfume violated the terms of the wager. Sultry was French and hideously expensive by anyone’s standards. It was also worth every last penny, and she wasn’t going to lose a minute’s sleep over what Brad would say if he knew she’d smuggled it along.
If she’d freshened up for the benefit of Doc Allison’s visitor—which she assured herself she had not—it was a wasted effort. Either he was a very fast looker or he had left the back way. She would like to think he’d ducked out the back to avoid another round with her, but she was too good a judge of character. Nothing about him suggested he was a man who shied away from confrontation.
Perhaps his choice of exits had to do with whatever Doc Allison had invited him to see in her private sanctum. Hmm, that had definite possibilities. Her boss was married, happily so by all appearances, but she sure wouldn’t swoon from shock to discover he was over-stepping his bounds.
“Typical tomcat,” she muttered.
A hissing sound drew Olivia’s attention to the carrier she was using for a footrest. A pair of yellow eyes stared accusingly at her from within. After what just happened, she should know better than to sound off without checking first to see who was in earshot. She’d forgotten all about Izzy, the black cat with a bandaged paw who was supposed to have been picked up over an hour ago.
“Sorry, pal, I call ’em as I see ’em,” she said. “But I don’t blame you for being offended at being lumped together with that guy.”
Izzy’s stare didn’t waver. If she were the type who spooked easily, this would do it. She even went as far as to shift her feet to the floor and nudge the gray plastic carrier a few inches away.
“Nice cat,” she said. “Good kitty. Mommy will be here any minute.”
The cat countered with something between a hiss and a growl, and batted his bandaged front paw against the wire screen of the carrier.
“Cut it out, Izzy,” she ordered. “I’ve heard all about your ‘wonder cat’ routine, answering the phone and opening your carrier door and, well, frankly, Iz, I think it’s a load of bull.” She ignored the growl that rumbled from the cat’s throat. “Just the same, the last thing I need right now is for you to rip off your bandage or hurt yourself on my watch. So cut it out.”
The cat pawed harder.
Olivia tapped the door with her toe. “What’s the matter, Izzy? Don’t you speak English? How about French?” she inquired. “Touche pas. Assis.”
So much for her brothers’ claim that a degree in French culture was useless.
“What in God’s name are you doing now?”
Gretchen, Doc’s assistant, had come to retrieve the next patient’s chart. She stood with it in her hand, watching Olivia, who smiled at her to no avail. Gretchen was nineteen, a little on the plump side, and from the start she’d eyed Olivia as if expecting her to make off with a case of flea collars any second.
“Izzy was clawing the latch with his front paw, and I didn’t want him to hurt himself,” she explained.
“So you kicked him?” Gretchen shook her head. “Figures, after that stunt yesterday.”
“Yesterday was a mistake,” she pointed out. “I’ve apologized at least a dozen times. And I wasn’t kicking anything. I was trying to get the cat to stop picking at the latch.”
“Maybe he wants to get out of that carrier.”
Olivia couldn’t resist returning the girl’s smug smile. “I’m sure that’s exactly what he wants. Unfortunately for old Izzy here, his owner didn’t opt for the deluxe visit, you know, the one that includes roaming privileges whenever the mood strikes him.”
“Maybe he’s in the mood to use the litter box,” Gretchen retorted, speaking slowly, as if Olivia were not too bright. “Did you ever consider that?”
“Not directly,” she conceded. “Not yet, anyway.” She looked around. “Where’s the litter—?”
Before she’d finished the question, Gretchen was pointing toward the door at the back of the building, where the operating and recovery rooms were located. “You can’t miss it,” she said, turning to go.
“But what if once he’s out of the carrier he doesn’t want to get back in?” Olivia called after her, ignoring the look of disgust Gretchen tossed over her shoulder. “What if he runs outside?”
“He’s an indoor cat,” the younger woman called before disappearing into an examining room.
An indoor cat. She had a vague recollection from somewhere that indoor cats were indoor cats because they’d been declawed. Or the other way around. Whichever, knowing it gave her confidence as she pushed the carrier closer to the door Gretchen had indicated and opened the latch.
“Go ahead. Go. Va, Izzy. Do whatever it is you need to do,” she urged.
That’s all the prodding Izzy needed to sweep from the carrier and, with a regal lack of concern for anyone else’s agenda, sit and begin to groom himself.
“Move it, Izzy,” she said, “This is no time for a sponge bath.”
The phone rang.
“Damn,” she muttered, glancing at the phone, then at Izzy, then back at the phone. “That’s it. Time’s up. Back in the carrier.”
She held open the carrier door and reached for Izzy. The cat bolted. He was on the desk, over the counter and headed for the exit before she could say “Bad luck.”
Ignoring the phone, Olivia went after him, scrambling over the counter without Izzy’s grace or agility. For a cat with a bum paw, he was damned fast. She swerved around a woman holding a white poodle and collided instead with a young man on his way in.
“I’m Dan,” he said at the sight of her name tag. “I’m here to pick up the vaccine for—”
“I’ll be right with you,” she said without breaking stride.
Izzy was sitting at the edge of the parking lot, watching for Olivia with those yellow eyes. She approached him slowly, desperate that this not mushroom into a full-blown “incident.” There was no way she was going to let some gimp-legged cat screw things up.
Praying Izzy couldn’t distinguish a sincere human smile from a phony one, she cooed, “Nice cat. Sweet cat.”
Izzy purred, and waited until she was within arm’s reach before spinning and disappearing into the bushes that were along the side of the building.
Cursing, she took off after him.
She emerged on the other side with scratches on her face and leaves in her hair, and found herself in a narrow clearing between the animal hospital and the ancient wooden contraption that was home to Allison’s beehives.
She spotted Izzy a half second before she saw the snake. Again the cat was faster. He already had his back arched and was hissing with such venom the snake shot through the grass straight toward Olivia.
She shouted and made a wild leap in the air with no thought as to where she might land. On the way down her shoulder slammed into something solid, sending her sprawling backward. The hives, she thought, the instant she landed and immediately scrambled to her feet. Before she could assess the damage, there was a muffled, almost eerie sound in the shady clearing, and then suddenly the air was filled with bees. Black with them. Honeybees. Seven hundred and fifty dollars worth of honeybees to be exact. The invoice had arrived in the mail that very morning.
Cursing as passionately as she ever had, she plunged back into the bushes. The bees swarmed above and were waiting for her in the parking lot. She ran for the closest shelter, a pickup truck, and climbed inside, quickly rolling up the window. It was only when she reached to roll up the window on the driver’s side that she realized she wasn’t alone. A dog as big as a bear sat behind the wheel.
As he looked at her, he dropped his lower jaw, and the sight of all those big white teeth made Olivia decide to take her chances with the bees. She opened the door, but before she could jump out, the dog plowed over her. Slamming the door behind him, she grabbed a newspaper to whack the bees that had made it inside. When she’d gotten them all, she stuffed paper into the vents and took her first good look at the scene outside.
“Oh, no,” she breathed, recognizing the young man she’d run into minutes earlier. He was spinning in circles, waving his baseball cap in a frantic attempt to protect himself and the huge black dog from the onslaught of bees. The dog stood his ground by the man’s side, barking and shaking his huge head.
Olivia grabbed the newspaper and was getting out to join the fray when Allison appeared brandishing a fire extinguisher. She motioned for Olivia to stay put. Gretchen came from the other side of the building, armed with a hose, and together they fired on the swarm, allowing the man and dog to make it inside and then somehow managing to turn the tide of bees until the air was only dotted with a persistent few.
Gretchen remained on guard with the hose, while Allison dropped the fire extinguisher and hurried inside, pausing only long enough to glare at Olivia.
Even with her minimal work experience she could tell it did not look good.
Her hunch only grew stronger when a rescue vehicle and fire engine careened into the parking lot with sirens blaring. A troop of firefighters clad in black boots and red rubber coats disembarked. A stretcher was rushed inside.
Olivia followed. As she passed Gretchen, the girl shook her head.
“Another accident?” she drawled.
“As a matter of—”
“Save your breath. You’re going to need it to talk Owen out of killing you with his bare hands. My guess is he’ll be here any second now.”
“Okay, I’ll bite,” countered Olivia. “Who’s Owen?”
Gretchen smirked. “Owen Rancourt? Just about the most hard-assed, hard-driving trainer anywhere, that’s who. That’s dog trainer,” she added with an air of superiority. “As in security, and search and rescue. Danny Dewar is Owen’s right-hand man, and Romeo is his all-time number-one dog. And thanks to you they’re both in there covered with beestings.”
Olivia could feel a headache coming on. A real doozy of one.
“Some people die from beestings,” Gretchen informed her.
“And some are strangled because they don’t know when to keep their mouths shut,” she snapped. “Would you like to guess which is more likely to be your fate?”
Gretchen’s response was lost in a sudden flurry of activity as Danny was rushed to the rescue vehicle on the stretcher. From the looks of it, he was already hooked up to oxygen and an IV. Olivia’s stomach clenched painfully. She may not have meant for any of this to happen, but it happened just the same and she alone was to blame. It was like a bad joke. She was in Danby to prove to everyone—maybe even to herself—that she was more than a beautiful, essentially useless ornament, suited only to decorate some rich man’s life. Instead she was piling up proof that not only was she useless, she was downright dangerous. Men, hedgehogs, for pity’s sake, even bees weren’t safe around her.
As much as she hated to admit it, maybe her mother was right. If she had heeded her mother’s advice, she would be on her way home right now and no one would be suffering because of her ineptitude. Doc Allison would still have her treasured hives, poor Danny wouldn’t be swollen and blotchy and strapped to a stretcher, and Owen Rancourt, whoever the hell he was, wouldn’t be on his way there to “kill her with his bare hands,” as Gretchen had put it. That was probably a slight exaggeration, but even if the prediction proved dead-on, she didn’t have it in her to put up much of a fight.
Gretchen went inside, leaving her alone to watch the rescue vehicle drive away. When it reached the road, the driver was forced to stop by a gleaming black-and-chrome pickup, whose driver seemed hell-bent on making the turn into the parking lot. She continued to watch as the truck pulled parallel to the rescue vehicle and stopped so the two drivers could converse briefly. Then the rescue vehicle continued on and the truck shot toward her with enough speed to spray gravel.
Even before it came to a complete stop, Olivia knew the menacing-looking truck belonged to Owen Rancourt. Call it intuition. Call it inevitable. Call it the fitting end to what threatened to be the worst day of her entire useless life.
Hell, call it plain old bad luck. The facts didn’t change.
Fact one: judging from the expression on the man’s face as he jumped from his truck and caught sight of her, Gretchen had called it exactly. Owen Rancourt had murder in his eye.
Fact two: she and Owen the Horrible had tangled before.
