Take a Chance On Me

Chapter 1 It Only Takes a Minute

Emma gasped when she entered the exam room, though she couldn't say which of the two creatures there alarmed her more.

Was it the tiny, shivering collection of skin and bone, skittering around the linoleum on long toenails, eyeballs bulging and urine squirting?

Or was itthe six-foot-forever package of man in a power suit, pivoting his blond head, one steel-gray eye narrowed as if to take aim directly at her hormone-secreting glands?

"Good morning, gentlemen. I'm Dr. Emma Jenkins." She pulled a portable exam table from the wall and took a steadying breath before she faced them again. "I understand we're having a few problems?"

"That's correct." The man's voice was as stiff as his posture. "Potentially serious problems, I'm afraid."

Nodding, Emma looked from Mr. Dudley Do-Right to the dog-yes, she'd graduated first in her class and was almost certain the animal on the floor was a dog-and back again.

This had to be the most mismatched human-canine pair she'd ever seen-and she'd seem some doozies.

These two were Butch Cassidy and the St. Vitus' Dance Kid. Hairless and Mod. Batman and Rodent.

"I'm glad you came to see me." Emma turned to wash her hands, and felt Studly Dudley's eyes boring holes into the back of her neck. He continued to stare as she bent down for the dog, placed him on the stainless steel table, and peered into the little, frightened face.

"So what's happening, Hairy?"

She already had a fairly good idea. The new-patient questionnaire said "Hairy" was an adult male Chinese Crested of unknown age, six pounds, six ounces, of quivering anxiety and incontinence. His owner-a business consultant named Thomas Tobin according to the form-was referred by a Baltimore colleague to her Wit's End Animal Behavior Clinic.

"Let's have a look, okay, little man?" She bent closer and scratched the dog behind one fuzzy, Yoda-like ear. With a sigh, Emma removed the collar of sharp metal prongs from around the dog's neck, and watched relief flood Hairy's dark eyes.

And she wondered what kind of complete moron would put a pinch collar on a puny, terrified creature like this.

She straightened to her full height, bringing her eye-level with the moron's red power tie.

"Mr. Moro-Tobin." She let her gaze travel over the clean-shaven chin and the pale, stern mouth. She studied the slight bend in his nose that hinted of familiarity with flying fists and blood, then met his piercing silver eyes. There was a tiny scar above his right eyebrow shaped just like a semicolon.

It certainly gave her pause.

Lordy! Why had this seriously big, seriously bad boy stuffed himself into a suit? With another quick survey, Emma decided he'd be more at home in a black leather jacket and threadbare jeans. The image gave her heart palpitations.

She needed to hold her ground. So she held up the offending piece of metal.

"This pinch collar might be a bit severe for a toy breed, Mr. Tobin." She flung it into the waste can with a resounding ka-ching! "And inflicting pain really isn't the way to get a dog to walk alongside you-even the biggest, most aggressive animals. Besides-" She scanned Semicolon Man from his wingtips to the tips of his golden eyelashes and grinned. "You look like you might be able to handle a bruiser like Hairy without the aid of metal spikes."

Thomas Tobin stood ramrod straight near the examination table, aware that he himself was being examined. Clearly, this pet psychiatrist chick had been giving him hell since the second she walked in here, and he didn't much like it.

How in God's name was he supposed to know what kind of dog collar to buy? He spent his life plotting bloody murder with adulterers and psychopaths-he didn't exactly have time to serve as equipment manager for the Butt-Ugly Dog Club!

"Thank you for that update," he said flatly.

Then for some odd reason, Thomas found himself seized with the need to prove to this woman that he wasn't entirely insensitive. So he reached over to pat Hairy's head the way he figured any pet owner would.

The dog cringed with each pummeling.

"Mr. Tobin!" Emma grabbed his wrist, which turned out to be a rock-solid twist of heat, bone, and muscle. "Could you be a little gentler, do you think?"

He stared at her.

She stared at him.

The drum of his pulse hammered against the pad of her thumb and vibrated all the way down into the pit of her belly. And as they remained linked and the seconds ticked by, everything inside her-every cell, every chromosome, every piece of mitochondria-went on alert.

Sexual alert.

"How-" She blinked. The man's skin was on fire. She swallowed and tried again. "How long have you had this dog? Is this the first dog you've ever owned?"

"Ten days," he said. "And yes. This is definitely a first for me."

Emma decided his eyes weren't cruel; they were solemn and powerful and seemed to pin her down and dissect her without her permission. They didn't frighten her, exactly, but they certainly made her feel a bit off balance.

He pulled his wrist from her grasp. "Hairy is mine by chance, Dr. Jenkins."

"That's a difficult way to begin a relationship, Mr. Tobin."

"You don't say?" He tilted his head and locked his gaze on hers. "The question is what are we going to do about it?"

For an instant, Emma was not entirely sure what they were discussing. The dog, she reminded herself. We were discussing the dog.

With a sigh of relief, she moved her attention from the two-legged enigma to the four-legged one, and bundled Hairy in her arms. She brushed her fingers behind his ears and along his spindly neck.

These itty-bitty exotic hairless breeds had never been her favorite-too prone to rashes, respiratory problems, dental malformations, and any number of behavioral disorders the blame for which she'd like to place squarely in the lap of greedy breeders. And Chinese Cresteds were an acquired taste, most definitely.

But as she looked into Hairy's big, sad bug eyes, she felt a rush of warmth for the tiny dog. He was a living creature. He was scared and anxious and cold and so boldly, unabashedly homely that he was very nearly cute. She ran her fingers down his back, studying the baby-smooth hide of pink blobs and black spots that looked like bloated raisins floating in puddles of watered-down PeptoBismol.

This motif was accented with a scraggly poof of black hair at the tip of his bony tail and a troll-like shock of white fur at the peak of his skull and around his ears. His snout was pointy, like a ferret's.

"Well, now. Have you got it goin' on or what, you little devil?" she murmured into the side of his neck.

Emma felt the heat of Mr. Sexy's gaze, looked up to find him studying her in bewilderment, and wondered again how the hottest man to ever set foot in her clinic had ended up with the world's most unattractive dog.

Then she felt a hot trickle spread down her shirt.

"Piss happens." She smiled and shrugged, reaching for the paper towel dispenser above the sink. Studly beat her to it, and suddenly, one of his big hands was roaming over her damp shirt, rubbing and squishing her breasts with a clump of brown paper towel.

Hell-o! Emma felt her nipples zap to life under his clumsy assault. She was so aroused that she feared flames could be shooting out of her underpants. She'd never been so mortified in her life.

She grabbed his hand. "I've got it."

"Yes, you certainly do," he muttered, stepping back, looking at the floor. "Sorry."

The sound of paper towel brushing over cotton roared like an oncoming freight train in Thomas's ears. He stared at his shoes.

Okay-he'd just felt up the veterinarian. Maybe Rollo was right-he'd gone way too long without a woman, no matter how legitimate his reasons.

Thomas watched, embarrassed, as the molestee tossed the paper towel in the trash and regained her professional composure. Then she began a physical examination of his… his… dog. After ten days of cohabiting with Hairy while trying-and failing-to find a real home for him, maybe he should just see the picture for what it was.

It was the picture of a chump and his dog.

Thomas shifted his weight, rubbed a hand over his face, and groaned internally, the only place he allowed himself to groan or shout or laugh these days, it seemed.

He watched the way the vet stroked the dog with the gentlest touch, and noticed that Hairy's trembling eased with each moment he spent in her hands.

He could see how that might happen.

The vet was extremely pretty, in a farm-girl kind of way. The creamy skin of her face, neck, and hands looked warm and silky. Those guileless eyes were the exact shade of her blue jeans. Her smile was genuine and sweet and pushed her whole lovely face into an expression of welcome.

It was pointless, of course, but Thomas couldn't help but wonder what it would feel like to grab hold of that thick braid and yank her up against him. He couldn't help but wonder what all that gorgeous hair would feel like once he'd unraveled it-would it be straight and glossy like polished wood? Would it be wavy and fall in heavy sections in his hand?

As the woman bent over his dog, he let his eyes peruse the rest of her-subtly of course. He was highly trained in the art of covert observation, after all.

She filled out those battered jeans quite thoroughly, from where the denim stretched over her round hips and curvy thighs all the way down to where the straight legs ended in a pair of scuffed-up leather clogs. A nice, full, and hospitable package of feminine flesh she was, not all bony and pointy like some women. And under that long-sleeved T-shirt, he could make out the soft but sturdy shoulders, the ripe swell of her breasts, the inward curve of her waist. It was painfully obvious that those weren't buttons he'd felt poking up beneath the paper towels. This Emma Jenkins, DVM, was easy on the eyes-and the hands. Maybe the DVM stood for "Damn Voluptuous Mama."

Then he stopped himself, as he always did, and wondered what the doctor's dark side looked like. Sure, the woman was pretty, but he knew all too well that even pretty people had ugly sides, and they could be mighty ugly indeed.

Which one of the four great appetites had ensnared the lovely Emma Jenkins? he wondered. Guns, drugs, money, or sex?

She didn't look like a gang-banger, but after running the Murder-For-Hire Task Force for seven years, he wasn't surprised by anything anymore.

She didn't look like an addict or an alcoholic, but he'd known plenty who managed their masquerades just fine-scout leaders, teachers, ministers-you name it.

No, in his experience it was usually money that motivated women to make stupid choices. Less often it was sex. So the question was which of those two evils did Emma Jenkins serve, and how low did she go?

If it was money, maybe she had a habit of bouncing checks. Maybe she shoplifted steaks from the Super Fresh butcher case. Or maybe, desperate for prestige and a comfortable lifestyle, she'd cheated on her vet school admission tests.

Or it might be more complicated for her, Thomas thought, like a combination of material greed and the desire for sexual control. Maybe the lovely Dr. Jenkins had lied to some rich loser about being pregnant, then trapped him into a marriage he didn't want!

He nodded silently, watching the vet bend toward Hairy's shivering body and listen with the stethoscope. That had to be it-the poor bastard! But she didn't wear a ring, so maybe he'd discovered her deception in time to make a clean break. Good for him.

Thomas sighed, bemused by the truth of it: A man couldn't afford to turn his back for one damn minute.

Which brought him right back to sex-perhaps the greatest weakness of all. How many men had he seen sit across a table from him babbling, crying, driven to acts of sheer idiocy simply because of a woman? Too many to count.

He'd seen sex turn brilliant businessmen into cretins. Powerful men into milquetoasts. Moral men into felons.

He'd seen it turn decent lives to shit.

Thomas checked his watch, then crossed his arms over his chest. How much longer could this possibly take? Wasn't this where she handed him some puppy uppers, collected her outrageous fee, and sent them out the door?

But the vet was now peering into Hairy's eyes, nose, ears, and throat. Then she closed her own eyes in concentration and felt along the dog's ribs and into its soft belly.

Resigned to waiting a bit longer, Thomas leaned back against the cabinets and allowed himself to watch her work, watch how her slim, sure fingers moved, how she breathed quietly, how the little frown line puckered between her pretty eyebrows. Thomas felt himself go still inside.

Strangely quiet.

And he wondered how good it would feel to have her stroke his belly, maybe while he rubbed his cheek against hers, breathing in the faint flowery scent that seemed to pulse from her skin and hair.

He wondered how glorious it would be to settle in for a nap with his face buried in those stupendous breasts, so comforting, so welcoming, so female-so damn erotic…

"So is he eating well?"

"What?" Thomas yelped.

"Eating. Food. Does Hairy do it?"

He straightened. He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. Why the hell was he fantasizing about the breasts of a lying, cheating, sirloin-stealing man-hater?

"Uh, not much eating, actually. He doesn't seem hungry."

"And what are you feeding him?" Emma noticed that Thomas Tobin had taken a step toward her, and that he was frowning.

Thomas could barely remember her question. "Uh, dog food?"

She winced, then continued the examination. "Could you be a little more specific, please?"

"Sure. Those hard crunchy things. The forty-pound bag."

Emma straightened and put her hands on her hips. "Thrifty is fine, Mr. Tobin-and forty pounds ought to take care of Hairy for a good portion of his natural life-but how big are the individual pieces of food? Did you purchase kibble designed for the smallest breeds? What brand? And do you soak the food in warm water before serving it?"

He tried not to gape at how the stethoscope hung straight down from her neck, separating the two luscious, all-natural spheres straining under wet fabric. They looked like two fresh-baked cupcakes, topped with cherries, covered in a tight film of cellophane.

His blank stare was all the answer Emma needed, and she sighed. Who in God's name would hire this guy as a consultant? He might be eye candy, but he was about as sharp as a bucket of mud.

"Have you ever tried to chew a baseball, Mr. Tobin? Have you ever, say, while drunk at a fraternity party, tried to shove a baseball in your mouth and chew on it?"

He blinked. "Not that I recall."

"Well." Emma pursed her lips. "Hairy needs teeny-weeny pieces of food for his teeny-weeny mouth. A lot of Cresteds aren't even blessed with a full set of choppers. Here. Have a look-see."

She pulled back a pink speckled lip to expose a random display of teeny-weeny teeth.

"Got it," he said.

She sincerely doubted that.

"I could use a hand here. Please hold him-gently-while I clip his nails. How long has it been since you trimmed his nails?"

"I never have," he said.

She reached behind her for a small set of clippers, then bent her head to the task, coming so close to Mr. Buy-in-Bulk that she caught the whiff of smooth, woodsy aftershave mellowed on warm male skin.

"I really didn't know I had to trim them." His voice was almost apologetic and nearly a whisper, and she felt it brush hot over the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck. She continued to clip, trying to keep her hands steady.

One paw down. Three to go.

"Some Cresteds need to have their nails trimmed each week, Mr. Tobin. The nails are fragile and can break off too close to the artery and cause bleeding. See how this-" She turned her head and found him waiting for her, his face so close, his lips slightly parted, his right eye closing lazily as if he were ready to pull the trigger.

Then he moved in even closer and he dropped his gaze to her mouth. And for the briefest, wildest, most implausible second of her life, Emma thought for sure this very strange, very sexy man was going to kiss her.

Oh, daddy!

She turned back to the clippers. "Uh… and you really need to bathe Hairy once a week in a medicated soap to keep his skin free of pustules. I'll write down the name of the brand I prefer, if you like."

Her pulse was thumping like the tail of a Labrador Retriever. Was it her imagination, or were there really great arcs of heat lightning shooting from this guy right into her ovaries? Did she really just say the word pustule?

This was bizarre. He was bizarre. And she was a wreck!

"I would like that very much," he said, his voice thick and raspy and still so close. "I think I would appreciate your recommendations on just about anything, really."

Three paws down. Heart still pounding.

"And Cresteds are always cold, Mr. Tobin. Did you notice the shaking?"

"Of course."

"When you, uh, acquired the dog, was he wearing any kind of sweater or coat?" She finished the last paw and stood, sighing in relief.

"A sailor suit, actually." He gazed up at her, one eyebrow arched in what Emma thought might be the beginnings of actual playfulness. "Navy blue with white trim. And a matching cap."

He was on the verge of a real smile, and in that instant, Emma realized that this somewhat slow guy was not only gorgeous, he was downright adorable! Did she see the beginnings of dimples? She felt light-headed!

"A sailor suit?"

"Yes."

But then he stood up, and any humor or warmth drained from his face, which made her inexplicably sad.

"Seems the previous owner was a complete flame… er… a flamboyant type of person. He had lots of different clothes for Hairy. Jogging suits. A leprechaun outfit. Evening wear."

Emma stared at the man in amazement. The things he said were hilarious, but he wasn't even smiling. How could a normal person not be laughing? And why did she have the strangest feeling that he was pulling her close while pushing her away at the same time? What was going on here?

As a rule, she tried her best not to alienate the owners of her patients, because she had yet to meet a dog that could sign a check. But she couldn't hold it in anymore with Thomas Tobin. She let her mouth fall open and she laughed. Loudly. It was one of her snorting laughs, too, the kind that made people look sideways at her in restaurants.

Mr. Tobin gazed at her blankly.

Emma wiped her eyes. "Okay, the thing is, Hairy needs to wear something because he's got no hair, right?"

"Oh." Thomas rubbed a hand along his jaw. "I didn't know the outfits were for heat retention. I thought they were, well, you know, fashion statements." He didn't bother mentioning that Hairy's owner was wearing an identical sailor suit at the time of his death.

Emma picked up the chart and began scribbling notes to herself, still chuckling. "Let's see what we can do to make Tom and Hairy get along a little better, shall we?"

"Thomas."

She raised her eyes to him.

"My name is Thomas. Not Tom."

"I see. And I'm Emma." She held the pen in mid-air as they stared at each other awkwardly. It soon became apparent that Mr. Personality had nothing to add.

"All righty then, Thomas. Let's go over the specific behavior problems you've encountered. On your form you say that Hairy isn't quite cutting it in the house-training department, is that correct?"

Thomas nodded.

"Unfortunately, that's rather common with male Cresteds. I'll order a urine analysis and an ultrasound to rule out any medical conditions, such as bladder stones. And when was the dog neutered, Mr. Tobin?"

"Neutered?"

"Yes. The dog has been neutered-his testes were surgically removed. Do you know how old he was at the time?"

Thomas stared at the dog in horror. "I have no fu-uh-idea," he mumbled.

She suppressed a smile while glancing at the form. "I've heard some Crested owners find it helpful to secure a maxi pad over the dog's penis while working on house-training. I'm told it cuts down on cleaning projects."

When Mr. Tobin made no comment, she raised her eyes to him. His face had gone white. His eyes were huge.

"Do what?" he whispered.

Emma tried not to laugh. "Tying a sweat sock around the hips with the pad slipped inside seems to do the trick. Be sure to get a brand with adhesive backing so it stays in place."

He continued to stare.

Emma reviewed the rest of the list. "He shakes and howls whenever you run the hair dryer, the vacuum, or the coffee grinder?"

Thomas nodded, his gaze moving absently out the window to the parking lot.

"And he keeps you awake at night with pacing and whining. He chewed the molding around your front door, clawed holes in a wall and a carpet. Your neighbors left you notes that he cries and barks all day when you're gone. Anything else?"

Thomas shoved his hands deep in his trouser pockets. "Isn't that enough?"

Emma hugged the chart to her chest and smiled at him, then glanced down at the frightened dog. Clearly, the first order of business was to convince Hairy that he was safe with Thomas-and that was going to be a tough sell.

She'd already observed that the man hadn't managed to form any kind of bond with the animal in ten days. He hardly looked at the dog. The dog shied away from the man. And every time Thomas's voice contained the least bit of agitation or disapproval, Hairy's trembling escalated.

On the bright side, Thomas seemed to have an open mind about all this, which was more than she could say about some of the owners she encountered. Many people waltzed in here with their minds already made up about how to keep their pets in line, already well on their way to a tragedy.

At least Thomas Tobin was listening.

His eyes remained locked on hers, and she thought she noticed the briefest flash of something deeply human in his expression. Then he looked away.

Had it been loneliness? Longing? Whatever it was, it looked so out of place on that he-man face that she'd probably just imagined it.

"Has Hairy exhibited these behaviors in the past, Mr. Tobin?"

"I have no earthly idea."

She nodded. "Okay. First and foremost, the dog is having trouble adjusting to his new home. I believe Hairy is experiencing severe separation anxiety and panic attacks."

Thomas pictured the scene again. He'd found Scott Slick on his kitchen floor, dead for days, the ugly dog keeping guard at his owner's side, shaking, hungry, and scared. It was the most pitiful thing he'd ever seen.

Yeah, separation anxiety and panic attacks sounded right on the mark.

"Dogs always do things for a reason," Emma continued. "In Hairy's mind, these behaviors make perfect sense-they accomplish something for him. Will his former owner be taking him back anytime soon?"

"I sure doubt it."

Emma offered him a reassuring smile. "I realize Hairy is a challenge right now, but with relaxation exercises, a consistent house-training regimen, medicine, and a little time, I think everything's going to be fine."

Thomas looked down on the shivering dog and winced. What had he done? Why had he taken this damn dog home with him? How long would he be stuck with him? Would the dog really have to wear a Kotex?

He started to feel queasy.

"Do you have any questions at this point?"

"No."

"Are you all right?"

"Perfect, thanks."

Emma spent the next forty minutes demonstrating the relaxation exercises and working with Thomas and Hairy until they got it right. She was pleasantly surprised to see that Thomas caught on rather quickly.

After making sure the urine test results were normal, she walked Thomas and Hairy to checkout, where she gave them their discharge instructions, shopping list, follow-up schedule, and prescriptions.

Then she slipped into the back hallway, leaned against the wall, and closed her eyes tight.

She felt like she'd been hit by a truck.

What had just happened in there? A grouchy dullard with some sort of personality disorder had just made her hormones throb, her skin tingle, and her panties smolder. It was as if her body had been on autopilot, responding to pheromones and electrical charges that had nothing to do with polite behavior or even common sense.

Could it be that a man too cool to smile had made her hot, hot, hot for the first time in she didn't know how long?

Could it be that she'd felt a jolt of connection with that man? An instant affection, even? How was that possible?

"Woo, Emma! That was one fine specimen!" Velvet Miki leaned her petite body up against the wall next to Emma and giggled.

"He's a nut job," Emma said, slowly opening her eyes.

"Hon, I wasn't talking about the little d-o-g-I was talking about the big hunk of m-a-n." Her assistant then shoved the next patient's chart toward her, and Emma read that Harpo the self-mutilating parrot was preening himself bloody again.

"So was I, Velvet," Emma said, staring ahead blankly. "So was I."

"Damn you, Slick, you sneaky dead fembot!"

Thomas sat in the Wit's End parking lot and thumped his forehead against the car steering wheel, feeling a pair of soulful eyes follow his every move. He glared toward the passenger seat.

"Is there some other way in which I might be of service to you?" he asked the dog. "Speak up, pal. I'm all ears."

Uh-oh.

You don't like me much, do you, Big Alpha? I'd like it better if you took me back in there to the lady with the soft hands.

"You know what I'd like, Hairy? I'd like you to get a grip on yourself. Move on with your life."

Move on? If you'd only heard that bad man's voice, smelled all the anger in him, saw how he banged Slick's head with the blender!

And the noise! The blender kept screeching and whizzing! It hurt my ears! My brain! I hate the blender! I hate the blender! I miss my master! I miss my home!

Uh-oh.

I just peed again.

"Jesus, Hairy!"

I'm such a bad dog.

Thomas swiped the leather seat with the towel he'd learned to provide for car trips, then he rolled his forehead back and forth on the steering wheel and sighed. The horn blared, and Thomas shot up with a start. He turned toward the dog again.

"Look, ace. I'm sorry Slick's dead and you ended up with me."

Tell me about it.

"But it was either me or the business end of a gas pipe, so how about you take your happy pills so I can convince some idiot to give you a home. Sound like a plan?"

Hairy shook some more, then stared at the door latch.

"I'm not cut out for dog ownership. Nothing personal. I work odd hours. I've got too much stress in my life. And I'm not a very nice man, so I'm only thinking of your welfare. Besides, I don't like animals. Hell, I don't even like human beings."

The car phone rang.

"Tobin. What?"

"Good afternoon, Miss Manners-how'd the lobotomy go?" Rollo laughed uproariously into the phone.

"The dog's or mine?" Thomas pulled out into Columbia traffic and headed toward Baltimore. With luck, he could deposit Hairy at his townhouse and get back to court by two for the rest of the Leo Vasilich suppression hearing.

Poor Leo. Talk about women troubles! That guy was the poster boy for what can happen when a man lets his guard down with a female-he ends up facing three to five of hard time.

"I can't believe you actually took that hairless rat to a psychiatrist, Thomas. How much did it set you back, anyway?"

"Two-fifty."

"No way! The guy should be arrested for extortion."

"Yeah, well, the guy is an actual veterinarian and he's a she with a great set of… a great setup out here. Anyway, that's just for the office visit and the drugs. It doesn't even count the ultrasound or the supplies I've got to get."

"You mean Hairy's going on doggie downers?"

Thomas riffled through the brochures and workbooks strewn across the seat until be found the little white prescription bag. "Uppers. Downers. Hell if I know." He read the instructions. "Amitriptyline, one-quarter of a ten-milligram tablet twice daily for depression and anxiety. Xanax as needed for panic."

"No freakin' way."

"Better dog living through chemistry, Rollo. Plus, I have to do some kind of retraining program and spring for a crate, a few little sweater outfits, some kind of special food and medicated shampoo and skin lotion shit, plus a pair of clippers, maxi pads, a baby toothbrush, and God knows what else. I better win at poker Friday night, that's all I got to say."

"This is nuts, man! Isn't there some kind of shelter or rescue place you can take him?"

Thomas said nothing, and glanced over at Hairy. The dog had edged toward the passenger door in an effort to get as far away from Thomas as possible, and now stared down at the black tufted seat of the Audi, bony shoulders quivering.

A big lump of guilt lodged in Thomas's throat.

"Hey, Rollo? We had some pretty wild parties at the Theta Chi house, didn't we?"

"Absolutely. But what's that got to do with-"

"Did I ever get drunk and try to eat a baseball?"

The line went silent for a moment before his brother-in-law cleared his throat. "Uh, are you all right, man?"

Thomas knew he was a lot of things-beaten down with guilt over Slick's death, sporting a hard-on for a pet shrink with a fascinating braid, warm smile, and exceptional breasts, and completely baffled by how his life had turned into a never-ending episode of The Jerry Springer Show-but "all right" he was not.

"I'm fabulous," he said. "See you Friday. Don't forget my Cohibas."

"Wait! Don't hang up!"

Thomas sighed in annoyance because that's precisely what he was trying to do. "I gotta go, man."

Rollo's voice lowered to a whisper. "Did you just say maxi pads?"

Emma stood over the lunchroom sink and wolfed down a piece of cold pizza, trying to ignore Velvet's commentary.

"Oh, come on, Em!" The veterinary assistant licked at her yogurt spoon with quick, feline strokes of her tongue. "He's a guaranteed good time. Marcus said you two have a lot in common. He's legally separated. He was cleared of that insider-trading thingy. And he'll be getting his license back soon, so this will probably be the only time you'll have to drive."

Emma nearly gagged on a piece of crust and stared at Velvet in disbelief.

"He sounds like a real prince, but no. Seriously. I've come to the conclusion that Marcus and I just aren't looking for the same thing in a man."

"Uugghhh!" Velvet bounced up from her chair and teetered on her clunky sling-backs until she reached the trash can. She washed off her spoon and leaned against the cabinets, arms crossed over her chest. "Not 'normal' enough for you, I take it?"

Emma stopped chewing and stared at Velvet for a moment. She tossed the rest of her pizza in the trash and wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. "You got it, Velvet-not normal enough. Any man who can't keep a driver's license has issues, and as we've discussed, I'd rather be alone than be with a man who has issues."

"But-"

"I'm living in an issue-free zone from here on out."

Velvet rolled her eyes. "And as a former social worker, I can tell you there is no such thing as an 'issue-free' man, so you might as well give it up."

Emma smiled, replacing a two-liter soda jug in the refrigerator. "I believe you've shared that insight with me on more than one occasion."

"Fine," Velvet huffed. "So what are your options?"

Emma looked at her watch. She had five minutes until her next patient and fantasized about spending three of those minutes in the privacy of the women's bathroom. So that left two minutes for Velvet's daily Cosmo Girl chat. She supposed she could survive two minutes.

"I have lots of options."

"Uh-huh. So let's hear what you've got planned for the weekend." Velvet's dark, crescent-shaped eyes widened a bit and her little lipsticked mouth knotted up into a smirk. Emma could tell she expected to hear the usual list of boring activities.

So she gave it to her.

"I thought we'd all go to the tractor pull Friday night. Leelee has a geography bee competition at the community college Saturday. I'll go riding Sunday."

"Wow," Velvet said, nodding in mock approval. "You're really gettin' jiggy with it."

Emma laughed. "Honestly. I'd much rather spend my weekend with my goofy father, a brainiac preteen, and a traumatized horse than with Mr. Traffic Court, thanks."

She turned to leave but Velvet touched her arm. "Em."

She shrugged her off. "We'll talk about my wild love life later, okay? I've got Mrs. Kline's psycho killer Springer Spaniel waiting for me."

"I just want you to have some fun. That's all."

Emma sighed. "I do have fun, Velvet!"

"I mean with a man."

Emma stared at her in defeat. She knew Velvet meant well. She'd been her assistant since the practice opened four years ago, and a dear friend and a hard worker from day one. And since Emma showed Aaron the door last year, Velvet had tried to find a social life for her, often enlisting the help of her boyfriend, Marcus.

The results had been… peculiar.

There was the beverage wholesaler who recommended total-body piercing as the path to sexual nirvana. There was the glass blower who slept under a pyramid-shaped canopy to harvest cosmic energy. There was the financial planner who suggested Emma join the Howard County Conservative Council.

A girl had to draw the line somewhere.

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?"