Not This Guy!

by Glenda Sanders

  He battled the obsession with substitution. When Angelina sprang into his mind, he simply forced himself to think of Samantha Curry instead. It wasn’t so difficult. Auburn hair instead of black. A silk blouse instead of a faded T-shirt. And each time he stood at the sink in front of his Minimum Requirements for a Woman list, he gloatingly reminded himself that Samantha Curry scored a perfect six, while Angelina rated less than a two. He even wrote it on the list for good measure: Samantha 6. While he was at it, he wrote Angelina above Winters, and went over the one-point-five again with the pen.

  Tired of seeing her old washer in his van—the fact that he’d insisted on hauling it away for her only proved that he’d been falling into his old pattern of playing the pushover nice-guy chump—he took it to Suzie’s mother-in-law’s neighbor, Mr. Peledrino, a retired mechanic from New Jersey who tinkered with old appliances in a shop behind his house.

  Mr. Peledrino’s Boston terriers, Spike and Spots, dashed out to investigate the van when Mike pulled into the driveway. Mr. Peledrino, bald and potbellied but still spry, was close behind. “Doc,” he greeted. “What brings you here?”

  “Brought you a washing machine,” Mike replied, opening the sliding door of the van.

  “Well, let’s have a look at it,” Mr. Peledrino said. He and both dogs climbed into the van. The dogs sniffed excitedly at the smorgasbord of animal scents in the vehicle as Mr. Peledrino examined the washer. “She’s an old one,” he said.

  “I thought maybe you could salvage some parts from it.”

  “Maybe,” Mr. Peledrino said, standing back now and scratching his chin. “Maybe not. Hard to tell without plugging her in and starting her up. But it’s a popular model, and the shell’s in pretty good shape. I can give you ten bucks for it.”

  “Ten bucks?” It hadn’t occurred to Mike that Mr. Peledrino would pay for the machine.

  “It’s my best offer. Take it or leave it. I don’t dicker.”

  Mike poised his mouth to refuse the money, but reconsidered when he realized that Angelina could probably use it. He nodded.

  “I pay in checks, not cash,” Peledrino said a few minutes later, after they’d moved the washer into the shop. “It discourages thieves from bringing me stolen goods. How do you want this made out?”

  “To A. Winters,” Mike said.

  He’d mail her the check, with a note of explanation. Going to see her would be too risky. If he went to her house, he’d probably look at her legs again. Or into her eyes, which was even more dangerous. A man could look at a woman’s legs with a certain degree of detachment, but eyes—what was that old saying? Eyes were the window to the soul? Especially eyes like the ones belonging to Angelina Winters.

  Angelina’s beautiful dark brown eyes were the only thing he couldn’t obliterate from his mind by substitution. In fact, he couldn’t remember the color of Samantha Curry’s eyes.

  * * *

  “ARE YOU SURE Dr. Mike won’t mind if we eat one of his cookies?”

  “We’ve already filled up the box for Dr. Mike,” Angelina told her daughter. “These are extras.”

  “Oh,” Lily said, accepting the logic at face value. She lost no time getting one of the disputed cookies from the cooling rack to her mouth. “Chocolate chip is my favorite.”

  “Everybody likes chocolate-chip cookies.”

  “I’ll bet they’re Dr. Mike’s favorite.” She washed down the cookie with a deep gulp of milk and then set her glass on the table with a thoughtful sigh. “I wish Dr. Mike could come over to get his cookies.”

  “We’re going to mail them, remember? So he’ll be surprised.”

  “You could call him and ask him to come over but not tell him about the cookies,” Lily suggested. “Then when he got here, we could yell, ‘Surprise!’ and show him the cookies.”

  Angelina looked at Lily’s precious face and reflected that motherhood would be simpler if her daughter weren’t so clever. “You think that would be fun, huh?”

  “Uh-huh,” Lily said, slyly reaching for another cookie.

  Angelina picked up a cookie, hoping to neutralize the subject with silence. But Lily persisted. “Why can’t you call him?”

  Angelina chewed her cookie very slowly, stalling until she could come up with an excuse that would appease Lily. She couldn’t very well tell her the truth: that Dr. Mike had apparently gone home, taken a cold shower and decided that he wasn’t as anxious to get to know her as he’d thought he was when they were necking in the laundry room.

  “Dr. Mike is a very busy man,” she said finally. “He’s been nice enough to come over and do favors for us twice. Now we have to do something special for him.”

  “But if he came over, then I could see him.”

  “We’re not calling him, and he’s not coming over,” Angelina said firmly. “You can make him a nice thank-you note to go in the package.”

  “He could see Princess, too,” Lily persisted. “He likes Princess.”

  “Lily,” Angelina warned with motherly menace. Ignoring Lily’s aggrieved sigh, she gathered the cookie sheets and carried them to the sink to wash them.

  Reaching for the sink stopper, she frowned at the stream of water pouring from the faucet. Tiny acorns became mighty oaks; apparently, tiny drips became constant flows. She was going to have to do something about the problem soon. Exactly what, she wasn’t sure, but since she couldn’t afford a plumber, she was going to have to find out how to fix the dripping tap herself. They had how-to books for such things.

  If only they had manuals on how to forget sexy veterinarians! Or sex in general.

  She’d been handling sex—or the lack of it—reasonably well since the divorce. Then she’d met Mike Calder. Now—

  It was as though the female need in her had been stored away, bit by bit, accumulating silently until he came along to stir it up. Not since Sleeping Beauty had a single kiss caused such an awakening!

  Angelina attacked the baked-on cookie residue with a plastic scrubber. Obviously, Mike Calder was no prince. A knight, maybe, rescuing damsels in distress, but no prince. Princes didn’t say they wanted to get to know you and then disappear.

  She was just damn glad she hadn’t made love with him. At least, the reasonable part of her was glad; certain parts of her weren’t as appreciative of her strength of character, and those parts seemed to have a disproportionate influence over her dreams. Maybe if she...if they—

  She refused to think about it. She couldn’t change history, and in light of his propensity to drop out of sight, she was probably better off regretting the lost opportunity than regretting letting him into her bed. After all, it was better to be virtuous and frustrated than foolish and satisfied—at least, it ought to be.

  Unfortunately, she seemed to be suffering from the frustration far more acutely than she was benefiting from the virtue.

  * * *

  SHOULDERS REASONABLY broad. Stomach reasonably flat. Legs reasonably long. Hair stylishly cut and still reasonably thick. Shoes polished to a military shine.

  All in all, Mike decided, he wasn’t such a bad-looking fellow for a thirty-something veterinarian. He rarely preened in front of the mirror, but he even more rarely escorted beautiful heiresses to gallery openings, and he figured it wouldn’t hurt to do a little double-checking.

  His new suit fit exceptionally well. He’d bought it for Tracy’s wedding when the ceremony was going to be a small affair and only the groom was going to wear a tuxedo. He’d just brought it home, with the alterations already done, when his mother called to tell him about the change of plans.

  He’d lamented the wasted expenditure at the time, but when Samantha answered her door and he saw how impeccably dressed she was, he was glad he’d had the new suit handy. Her russet linen sheath seemed an artist’s extension of her auburn hair, while an exotic brass-and-bronze choker with an Egyptian motif added the perfect touch of drama to the starkly simple dress.

  She did not enter the gallery but, rather, made an entrance, drawi
ng eyes and stopping conversation as she made a circuit of the room, dropping kisses on cheeks, introducing Mike to everyone along the way and whispering asides as they moved from person to person.

  “Freddy started this gallery single-handedly,” she would say aloud, then, as they made their way to the next person, “He has great vision. It’s a shame he has no art judgment.”

  Or, “Willa took the photograph for the Common Pet Sense ball poster last year,” then, “It was a perfectly maudlin image, but the pathetic puppy was just plebeian enough to appeal to the masses.”

  Or, “No one plays ‘Joy’ like Chet,” then, “Chet is a divine musician, but I got trapped in a dark hallway with him once and he was all over me. The man is an octopus!”

  They paused briefly to study each of the sculptures prominently displayed throughout the room. Samantha’s comments ranged from, “God, even Freddy knows better than this. She must be sleeping with him,” to, “I’ve seen better execution at high school art shows,” to, “I can’t believe she has the audacity to display this in public.”

  But when they encountered the artist finally, Samantha was all hugs and kissy-kissy with the woman. “Your first opening,” she gushed. “You must be delirious with pride.”

  “Terrified is a more apt description,” replied the woman. She was stunning, with jet black hair and alabaster skin. Her formfitting black dress was accented by a white band around the bodice trimmed with a stiff, wide bow that covered one shoulder. The other shoulder, pale and flawless as chalk, was bare.

  “Mike, this is my very best friend from college, Lizzy. Lizzy, this is Dr. Mike Calder.”

  After the requisite handshakes and nice-to-meet-yous, Lizzy tilted her head toward Samantha’s. “What do you think—really?”

  “This show will be the talk of the entire arts community,” Samantha replied coolly.

  Because he’d been privy to her earlier comments, Mike recognized the cruel irony in Samantha’s words. He found it disturbing, but reminded himself that Samantha was in an awkward situation, liking the artist but not liking the art.

  “Do you have a specialty, Dr. Calder?” Lizzy asked.

  “Small animals,” Mike replied.

  “Animals?”

  “Mike’s a veterinarian,” Samantha said.

  Lizzy gave him a stunning smile. “You must take care of Samantha’s Havanas.”

  “No,” he said, giving Samantha a look of surprise. “You have Havanas?” The breed was extremely rare and expensive.

  “They’re national champions,” Lizzy said.

  “Not yet,” Samantha corrected. “But they’re potentials. They’re nationally ranked.” She draped her arm over Mike’s possessively. “I met Mike through my volunteer work with CPS. We haven’t had a chance to swap animal stories yet.”

  They were joined then by Freddy, the gallery owner, and a distinguished-looking gentleman. “Excuse us, please. We don’t mean to interrupt, Lizzy, but Dr. Leblanc is anxious to meet you. He’s particularly interested in The Angel on a Cowboy’s Shoulder.”

  Lizzy gave them an apologetic shrug and turned to talk to the man. Samantha, her arm still draped over Mike’s, guided him away, stopping in front of the next sculpture they came to, which she studied with an artist’s intensity.

  “Lizzy seems nice,” Mike commented.

  “Poor Lizzy,” Samantha said, stealing a glance at her friend. “That dreadful dress!”

  Mike didn’t see what was so dreadful about the dress. Lizzy had the figure to fill it out nicely, and every man in the room had noticed it. He refrained from pointing that out, thinking perhaps that was what Samantha found so objectionable.

  He was relieved when she suggested they leave the gallery, hoping that the intimacy of a quiet restaurant would give them a chance to talk.

  Samantha exited the room the same way she entered it, erect, walking with a finishing-school stride, as if she owned the room and everything and everyone in it. And he was a prop, as ornamental as the tuxedoed escorts at a debutante’s ball.

  Chez Jacques lived up to his expectations, offering a dimly lit room with candles on the tables and Edith Piaf on the sound system. Between soup, salad and flambéed crepes, they discussed Samantha’s involvement with Common Pet Sense.

  “You must devote a lot of time to it,” Mike said.

  “I’m lucky enough to have the time to devote,” Samantha replied. “Volunteerism is my career.”

  “You don’t have a job?” he asked, tactlessly blurting out the question in his surprise.

  She shrugged. “I considered it after college, but why should I take a job away from someone who needs the income? Besides, a job would be so dreary—setting an alarm, and having to show up every day and follow someone else’s rules.”

  Her attitude startled him. For as long as he could recall, he’d wanted to be a veterinarian. His high school years were spent in preparation for college, his college years in preparation for vet school. The burning desire to be a veterinarian had carried him through the challenges and rigors of veterinary courses. He could not imagine the life she described, drifting from social event to volunteer project without the prospect of meeting some personal goal.

  “What was your major in college?” he asked, genuinely curious.

  “Art,” she said. “I have a master’s in art history.” She smiled. “It’s a good thing I don’t need a job, isn’t it? I’d either have to teach, which would be the most dreadful job I could think of, or open a gallery. Although, I suppose having a gallery wouldn’t be so bad, discovering and developing new talent.”

  “Like your friend Freddy?”

  “Oh, puh-leeze! Freddy wouldn’t know good art if it bit him on his backside,” she said. “His gallery is fashionable in the Orlando suburbs, but he’d be laughed out of New York in a minute.”

  He wanted badly to ask her why she went to the gallery if that’s the way she felt about Freddy’s aesthetic judgment, but he held back. He knew why she’d gone, and it wasn’t about supporting an old college friend. It was about making an entrance, being seen at the right place with the right people, holding her place in a tight social circle.

  “So,” he said, “tell me about your cats.”

  She had a pair of the rare cats, both female and both nationally ranked. Neither had ever been bred, although she planned to breed them if they ever won a national championship. “They’re magnificent animals,” she said. “They’re English, so they’re the true Havanas, rich chocolate brown. I bought them in England. The American Havanas are much darker. They take their name from the color of good tobacco, you know.”

  “Actually, I didn’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Havana.”

  “I’ll show them to you when we go back to the house, if you’d like.”

  “I’d like to see them,” Mike said. He found he could muster no real enthusiasm over the invitation into her home. Usually, when he’d spent several hours with a woman, he knew whether or not he’d want to commit himself enough to cross her threshold. But, usually, he selected women through instinct. Chemistry. Visceral reaction. And while he earnestly believed Samantha Curry was motivated by chemistry when she pursued him, he was approaching Samantha Curry through his head instead of through his heart.

  She’s a perfect six, the perfect woman. It was becoming a litany inside his head. His brain kept talking, but his heart wasn’t buying it. Still, determined, he persevered. He crossed the threshold, followed her into a room so stylish, so pristine, so perfect that it showed no trace of human habitation—and no welcoming warmth to comfort a weary human.

  Samantha, also pristine and perfect in her elegant linen dress, smiled at him much the way she’d smiled in the sandwich shop, and he saw in her not a woman with whom he could share human warmth and emotion, but a predator luring prey into her lair.

  “The salon des chats is this way,” she said. “I converted a bedroom.”

  Beyond a brass-framed glass door stretched a wonderland for cats,
with high-rise carpeted climbing posts, rings suspended from the ceiling, and dozens of toys and balls to bat about. In the corner, food and water dishes sat in a facsimile sidewalk café, complete with miniature café tables and a striped canopy overhang. A room divider lined with gathered satin held an ornate Toilette sign, obviously concealing the litter boxes in the opposite corner.

  The feline residents, lounging on the elevated platforms, did not stir as the humans approached. “That’s what I love about cats,” Mike said. “They’re so aloof.”

  “I could call them,” Samantha said, “but I don’t really want to go in with my good clothes on. Even though the room is thoroughly vacuumed twice a week, the hair—”

  “That’s the thing I like second best about cats,” Mike said. But it bothered him, that fancy little room where the cats lived and the owner who didn’t venture inside for fear of getting hair on her clothes.

  The cats’ disinterest in their owner’s approach also bothered him. He was no sap where animals were concerned, but he couldn’t imagine an animal-owner relationship so devoid of interest or affection on either side.

  “This is some setup,” he said, recognizing the comment to be as duplicitous as the one Samantha had made to her friend earlier.

  “Nothing but the best for my darlings,” she said. “Although you wouldn’t believe how hard it is to find someone willing to do litter boxes. My cleaning service charges extra.”

  “That must be annoying,” he said, wondering if she’d even hear the irony.

  A long moment passed in silence before Samantha splayed her hand over his forearm. “Why don’t I show you my room now,” she suggested, her voice sultry with innuendo.

  The abruptness of the proposition was the only thing that made him hesitate. He wasn’t actually considering staying with her, he realized as he studied her face. He was thinking how devoid of warmth her eyes were. There was calculation there, the cruel cunning of an animal on the prowl.