The Search

by Nora Roberts

  “Funny. It’s just an exercise,” she began.

  “Okay. Let’s try advanced class.”

  He closed his mouth over hers, very firm and just a little rough.

  She’d known he’d be just a little rough. Impatient, direct, with no testing moves, no easy flirtation.

  She didn’t resist. It would be a waste of time, effort and a very hot and healthy kiss. Instead she slid her hands up his back, let herself drop into it, let herself enjoy the warring sensations of the moment.

  Soft lips, hard hands, firm body—and just a hint of chocolate on the tongue that tangled with hers.

  And when she felt herself dropping close to the point of no return, when climbing back would be painful, she worked her hand between them and pushed against his chest.

  He didn’t stop. Her heart went from flutter to pound. Intractable, she thought, and wished she didn’t find that quality in him quite so exciting.

  She pushed again, harder.

  He eased back, just a little, so their eyes met again. “Grade that.”

  “Oh, you definitely aced it. Congratulations. But playtime’s over. I have some lesson planning and . . . things to get done. So . . .”

  “So, I’ll see you.”

  “Yes. Ah, keep working on the basics. Throw sticks. Lots of sticks.”

  “Right.”

  When he walked out, she blew out a breath, looked at Newman. “Wow.”

  His own fault, Simon thought as he loaded Jaws into the car. Or hers, he decided. It was really more her fault. Wrapping around him, rubbing in, smiling up.

  What the hell was a man supposed to do?

  He hadn’t expected her to be so receptive. To just give, to just open until that subtle, almost quiet sexy peeled back a corner and showed him all the heat beneath.

  Now he wanted it. And her.

  He glanced at the dog, currently in bliss with his nose stuck out the two-inch opening of the window.

  “I should’ve just sold her the damn cabinet.”

  He flipped the radio up to blast, but it didn’t swing his mind away from Fiona.

  He decided to try his own “exercise,” and began to design a wine cabinet suited to her, in his head.

  Maybe he’d build it; maybe he wouldn’t. But it was a damn sure bet he’d end up going back to peel up another corner.

  SEVEN

  A trip to the vet invariably included comedy and drama, and required persistence, stamina and a flexible sense of humor. To simplify, Fiona always scheduled her three dogs together at the end of office hours.

  The system also gave her and the vet, her friend Mai Funaki, a chance to recover and unwind after the triple deed was done.

  At a scant five-two, Mai appeared to be a delicate lotus blossom, a romantic anime character brought to life with ebony hair curved at her gilded cheeks and fringing flirtatiously above exotic onyx eyes. Her voice, a melodious song, calmed both animals and humans in the course of her work.

  Her pretty, long-fingered hands soothed and healed. And were as strong as a bricklayer’s.

  She’d been known to drink a two-hundred-pound man under the table, and could swear the air blue in five languages.

  Fiona adored her.

  In the exam room of her offices in her home just outside Eastsound, Mai helped Fiona heft seventy-five pounds of trembling Peck onto the table. The dog, who had once courageously negotiated smoldering rubble to locate victims after an earthquake in Oregon, who tirelessly searched for the lost, the fallen and the dead through bitter winds, flooding rain and scorching heat, feared the needle.

  “You’d think I hammered spikes into his brain. Come on now, Peck.” Mai stroked, even as she checked joints and fur and skin. “Man up.”

  Peck kept his head turned away, refusing to look at her. Instead he stared accusingly into Fiona’s eyes. She swore she could see tears forming.

  “I think he was tortured by the Spanish Inquisition in another life.”

  While Mai examined his ears, Peck visibly shuddered.

  “At least he suffers in silence.” Mai turned Peck’s head toward her. He turned it away again. “I’ve got this Chihuahua I have to muzzle for any exam. He’d eat my face off if he could.”

  She took the dog’s head firmly to examine his eyes, his teeth.

  “Big healthy boy,” she crooned. “Big handsome boy.”

  Peck stared at a spot over her shoulder and shivered.

  “Okay,” Mai said to Fiona. “You know the drill.”

  Fiona took Peck’s head in her hands. “It’s only going to take a second,” she told him as Mai moved behind and out of eye line. “We can’t have you getting sick, right?”

  She talked, rubbed, smiled, as Mai pinched some skin and slid the needle in.

  Peck moaned like a dying man.

  “There. All done.” Mai walked back to Peck’s head, held up her hands to show them empty of all tools of torture. Then she laid a treat on the table.

  He refused it.

  “Could be poisoned,” Fiona pointed out. “Anything in this room is suspect.” She signaled the dog down, and he couldn’t jump off the table fast enough. Then he stood, facing the wall, ignoring both women.

  “It’s because I cut off his balls. He’s never forgiven me.”

  “No, I really think it all comes down from Newman. He fears, so they all fear. Anyway, two down, one to go.”

  The women stared at each other. “We should’ve taken him first. The worst first. But I just couldn’t face it.”

  “I bought a really nice bottle of Pinot.”

  “Okay. Let’s do this thing.”

  They released Peck into the yard where he could exchange horrors with Bogart and seek sympathy with Mai’s one-eyed bulldog, Patch, and her three-legged beagle-hound mix, Chauncy.

  Together they approached Fiona’s car where Newman lay on the backseat, nose pressed tight in the corner, body limp as overcooked pasta.

  “Heads or tails?” Fiona asked.

  “You take the head. God help us.”

  He squirmed, tried to roll into a ball, leaped over the seats, then back again. He slithered like a snake in an attempt to wedge himself under the seat.

  Then, unable to escape, went limp again, forcing the two women to carry his dead dog weight into the examining room.

  “Fuck me, Fee. Couldn’t you raise Poms?”

  “He could be a face-eating Chihuahua.”

  “Please tell me you got his weight at home because there’s no way we’re getting him on the scale.”

  “Eighty-two.”

  It took a solid and sweaty thirty minutes as Newman resisted every second.

  “You know,” Fiona panted, using her own body to hold Newman’s down, “this dog would walk through fire for me. Through fire over broken glass while meteors rained out of the sky. But I can’t get him to just hold the hell still for a routine exam. And he knew. The minute I called them to get in the car, he knew. How many times do I put them in the car for work, for play, for whatever? How does he know? I had to get the others in first—they’re more easily fooled. Then drag him. It’s humiliating,” she said to Newman. “For both of us.”

  “Thank all the gods, we’re done.”

  Mai didn’t bother to offer the treat as Newman would very likely spit it in her face. “Cut him loose, and let’s open that wine.”

  Mai’s pretty bungalow sat with its back to the sea. Once it had been part of a farm, then the house had morphed into a B&B. When Mai and her husband moved to Orcas, he’d wanted to farm.

  Mai moved her Tacoma practice to the island, pleased to work at home, content with the slower lifestyle while her husband raised chickens, goats, berries and field greens.

  It took less than four years for the bloom to wear off on the gentleman farmer, whose next brainstorm had been buying a bar and grill in Jamaica.

  “Tim’s moving to Maine,” Mai said as they carried the wine out to the yard. “He’s going to be a lobsterman.”

  “
Not kidding?”

  “Not. I have to say, he lasted longer than I expected with the bar.” Even as they sat, dogs hurried over to vie for attention. Tails wagged, tongues licked. “Sure, now we’re pals.”

  Mai passed out the biscuits she’d brought with her.

  “They love you—and the treats aren’t poison except in the exam room.”

  “Yeah, all’s forgiven. I’m sorry I couldn’t run the base for the search on the little boy. I had that emergency surgery, and I just couldn’t postpone it.”

  “It’s no problem. That’s why we have alternates. They’re a nice family. The kid’s a champ.”

  “Yeah?” Mai sighed. “You know, it’s probably—certainly—best that Tim and I put off having kids. Can you imagine? But my clock’s ticking double time. I know I’m going to end up adopting another dog or cat or other mammal to compensate.”

  “You could adopt an actual human child. You’d be a great mom.”

  “I would. But . . . I still have a tiny crack of a sliver of hope that I could start a family with a man, give the kid the full complement of parents. Which means I have to actually date, and have sex. And when I think of men, dating and sex, I remember how horny I am. I’m considering naming my vibrator Stanley.”

  “Stanley?”

  “Stanley is kind, and thinks only of my pleasure. I’m still winning our dry spell contest, I assume. Fourteen months.”

  “Nine, but I don’t think that one time really counts. It was lousy sex.”

  “Lousy sex is still sex. It may be a crap contest to win, but there are rules. And while there will always be Stanley, I’m seriously considering other options.”

  “Girls? Club trolling? Personal ads?”

  “All weighed and rejected. Don’t laugh.”

  “Okay. What?”

  “I’ve been checking out the Internet dating sites. I even have a profile and application ready to go. I just haven’t hit send. Yet.”

  “I’m not laughing, but I’m not convinced. You’re gorgeous, smart, funny, interesting, a woman with a wide range of interests. If you’re serious about getting back into the dating arena, you need to put yourself out there more.”

  Nodding, Mai took a long sip of wine, then leaned forward. “Fee, you may not have noticed, but we live on a small island off the coast of Washington state.”

  “I’ve heard rumors.”

  “The population of this small island is also relatively small. The single-male element of that population, considerably smaller. Why else are two gorgeous, smart and sexy women sitting here on a pretty evening drinking wine with dogs?”

  “Because we like to?”

  “We do. Yes, we do. But we also like the company of men. At least I think we do as it’s been some time. And I believe I’m correct in saying we both enjoy good, healthy, safe sex.”

  “This is correct, which is why I really think that one time shouldn’t count in the contest.”

  “Old business.” Mai flicked it away. “I’ve made a considerable if unscientific study of that single-male element of our island population. For my own purposes, I have to eliminate males under the age of twenty-one and over the age of sixty-five. Both boundaries are a stretch as I’m thirty-four, but beggars, choosers. The pool’s shallow, Fee. It’s pretty freaking shallow.”

  “I can’t argue with that. But if you add in tourists and seasonals, it’s a little deeper.”

  “I do have some small hope for summer, but meanwhile? I took a hard look at James.”

  “James? Our James.”

  “Yes, our James. Mutual interests, age appropriate. Low spark, admittedly, but you work with what you’ve got. The trouble is he’s got his eye on Lori, and there’s no poaching within the unit. There is one intriguing possibility on island. Single, age appropriate, dog owner, very attractive. Creative type. A little taciturn for my taste, but there’s that beggars, choosers again.”

  “Oh,” Fiona said, and took a drink.

  “Simon Doyle. Sylvia carries his work. Wood artist, furniture.”

  “Mmm,” Fiona said this time, and took another drink.

  Mai’s eyes narrowed. “You’re looking at him? Damn it, he might be all that’s standing between me and HeartLine-dot-com.”

  “I’m not looking. Not exactly. He’s a client. I’m working with his dog.”

  “Cute dog.”

  “Very. Hot guy.”

  “Very. Look, if you’re going to call dibs, call it, because I have plans to make. I have a serious need to get laid.”

  “I’m not calling dibs on a man. Jesus, Mai. He’s really not the kind of guy you tend toward.”

  “Shit,” Mai said, and took a slug of wine. “He’s alive, single, within the age boundaries and, as far as I know, not a serial killer.”

  “He kissed me.”

  “Two scoops of shit. Okay, give me a minute to hate you.” Mai drummed her fingers on the table. “All right, hate time’s done. Sexy kiss or friendly kiss?”

  “It wasn’t friendly. He’s not especially friendly. I don’t think he likes people that much. He stopped by so I could work with Jaws. I was running the mock search with the Bellingham unit. So I invited him to stay, mix, have some brownies. I doubt he said five words to anybody. Except for Syl. He likes Syl.”

  “Maybe he’s shy. Shy can be sweet.”

  “I don’t think so, and sweet’s not a word I’d use in the same sentence with Simon. He’s an exceptional kisser, and that’s a plus.”

  “Bitch, don’t make me hurt you.”

  Fiona grinned. “And I don’t need a relationship, but I do require some basic conversation when I sleep with a guy.”

  “You had conversation with the one-time guy nine months ago. Look where that got you.”

  “That’s true.” Fiona was forced to sigh in remembrance. “But I’m not calling dibs. If the opportunity presents, help yourself.”

  “No, it’s too late. He’s out of the running. HeartLine-dot-com, here I come.”

  “We need to go on vacation.”

  Mai choked out a laugh. “Yeah, sure.”

  “No, I mean it. You, me, Syl. A girl trip, a girl thing. A spa,” she decided, inspired. “A long girl spa weekend.”

  “Don’t toy with me, Fiona. I’m a woman on the edge.”

  “Which is why we need a break.”

  “Question?” Mai held up a finger. “When’s the last time you took a vacation—even a long weekend type vacation?”

  “A couple years maybe. Okay, probably three. Which just cements the point.”

  “And with your work, mine, Syl’s, the responsibility for the animals, just how do we manage it?”

  “We’ll figure it out. We know how to plan things, how to organize.” Now that the idea popped out, Fiona wanted it like Christmas. “Massages and facials and mud baths, room service and sparkly adult beverages. No work, responsibility or schedules.”