Entice Me Box Set: The Truth About Shoes and MenCover MeMy Favorite Mistake

by Stephanie Bond

  “Will you put Angel on the phone please?”

  I frowned. “Angel?”

  “Yes, I’d like to speak to her.”

  I looked down at the dog, who sat holding her brush in her mouth. I was derelict in my duties. “It’s for you,” I said dryly, then picked her up and set her on the desk. I held the receiver up to her perky little ear.

  “Helloooo, Angel,” I heard Helena say in a piercing, faisetto voice. “Marna misses you, yes she does, yes she does. Do you miss Mama?”

  “Speak,” I whispered, on the chance that she’d been trained. Angel barked into the phone.

  “Oh, you do?” crooned Helena. “Is Kenzie taking good care of you, darling?”

  “Speak,” I whispered, and Angel offered up another affirmative.

  “That’s good, Angel. You’re my little wittle Angel, yes you are, yes you are.”

  The dog yawned and my opinion of her raised a notch. I put the phone back to my mouth. “Helena, say goodbye.” I held the phone to the dog’s muzzle again.

  “Goodbye, Angel.”

  “Speak,” I whispered, and the dog barked twice. “Nice touch,” I said, then hung up the phone.

  I heard Sam come into the lobby, so I stuck my head out of the office and looked down the hallway to watch him set down two file boxes. I was going to help him get organized. The muscles in his arms and back moved under his T-shirt, and I fought like hell not to get turned on. “Sam, you have lots of voice messages—want me to sort through them?”

  “Sure,” he said with a shrug. “Just save the ones that sound important.”

  He left, I assumed, to retrieve more boxes. I felt a little guilty listening to his messages, but if he didn’t care…

  Beep. “Doc, this is Arma. I’m saving some copies of the magazine for you. Just come by when you can.”

  That was old, I deleted it.

  Beep. “Sam, this is John. Nice magazine cover, bro.” John laughed. “I hear through the grapevine that you’ve got company this week. Behave.”

  I kept that one.

  Beep. “Sam, honey, it’s me.” I recognized Val’s voice. “I’d really like to talk to you about…us. Give me a call.”

  The message predated her visit this morning, but I kept it. That entire situation still had me unnerved, probably because even though Val Jessum and I came from different worlds, we were more alike than different. Sam’s comment about her wanting a commitment because she was a small-town girl had hit me. It might be true, but small-town girls didn’t have the corner on commitment.

  Beep. “Sam, it’s Mom.”

  I perked up, telling myself that mothers in general interested me, and analyzing the voice of Sam’s mom didn’t imply anything in particular.

  “I’m looking at your picture on the magazine and I’m just so proud of you, son.” She sighed musically. “I know you’re busy with your animals, love, but I hope you’re taking care of your own health. Don’t let this cover business add too much stress to your life. Call me later in the week. Bye, now.”

  She sounded perfect—supportive, yet concerned, expressive, but not smothering. And she would most certainly dislike me for miring her son in this cover situation. I kept the message and brushed Angel’s long coat while I zipped through the next few messages from local well-wishers. Then it came.

  Beep. “Dr. Long, this is Terrence Mayo from the National Keyhole.” I stopped brushing—a tabloid reporter. “I’d like to talk to you at your earliest convenience. There could be some money in it for you.”

  My hand hovered over the delete button, then, telling myself that Sam wouldn’t be the kind of man to respond to a tabloid reporter, I hit the button. “Message deleted,” said a mechanical voice.

  There were three calls regarding four-legged patients that I kept and a couple of hang-ups—from Val?—that I deleted. The last message was the tabloid reporter again, his voice a little more urgent, and I got rid of that one, too.

  “Message deleted.”

  “Telemarketer?” Sam asked behind me.

  I jumped and spun around. Had he heard the message? “Uh-hmm,” I murmured. “And I deleted a few hang-ups. The others you should listen to.”

  “Anything urgent?” he asked, dropping a couple of file boxes on the only available space on the floor. Dust motes spiraled up.

  “Not that I could tell,” I said, then sneezed three times in succession.

  “Bless you,” Sam said, then fingered a button on my blouse. “How are those hives?”

  I inhaled to steel myself against his sex appeal. “Better now that the medicine has kicked in.”

  He grinned. “Maybe I should take a look?”

  Despite the thrill that ran down my back, I flicked his hand away. “Maybe we should get down to work.”

  He made a face, then jerked his thumb toward the hallway. “I have another box of supplies to carry in. I’ll be right back.” As he walked away, his phone rang. He started toward it, and my heart blipped in panic—what if it was the reporter? “I’ll get it,” I offered. “I’m, uh, expecting Helena to call.”

  “Sure,” he said with a shrug. “If it’s for me, just take a message.” He kept walking.

  I picked up the receiver with wet palms, and took my time answering until Sam’s footsteps had faded. “Dr. Long’s office.”

  “Dr. Long, please,” said a male voice.

  My pulse picked up. “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “Terrence Mayo.”

  I swallowed hard. “From the National Keyhole?”

  “I see you got my messages.”

  My mind raced. “Why do you want to speak with Dr. Long?”

  He chuckled wryly. “Just tell the doc that he might be the victim of a curse.”

  “Hold on, please.” I covered the mouthpiece with my hand and closed my eyes, reminding myself that I was here on assignment. My first priority was the magazine, which meant squelching this curse rumor. I uncovered the mouthpiece. “Dr. Long doesn’t believe in such nonsense and respectfully asks that you buzz off.”

  Silence, then, “Even if there’s a chance he’s in danger?”

  “Don’t call here anymore,” I said, then slammed down the phone.

  “Tiff with the boss lady?” Sam asked, sidling through the door carrying a huge box.

  I started guiltily. “I have a love/hate relationship with Helena. Do you need a hand?” I stepped after him, wiping my sweaty hands on my dry-clean-only pants.

  “Sure—these are new accessories for the snake aquarium.”

  I stopped dead in my tracks. “On second thought, I’ll get started in here.”

  His laugh was muffled as he made his way down the hall toward the menagerie. I turned and leaned against the doorway, surveying the disaster he called a workspace. How he got anything done in here, I didn’t know. I shook my head, but I was actually looking forward to helping him get organized. To help assuage your guilt, my conscience taunted.

  My motivation didn’t matter, I rationalized. What mattered is that everyone got what they wanted. Helena. Sam. Me.

  Me? Was I getting what I wanted?

  “Okay, partner, I’m ready,” Sam announced, clapping his hands together.

  He scanned my outfit—pink and white ruffled Yves St. Laurent blouse, dusty-pink hipsters, and white strappy Prada slides. (I did not adhere to the fashion adage “don’t wear white shoes before Memorial Day or after Labor Day.”)

  “I’m not complaining about the view,” he said, “but are you sure you want to work in those clothes?”

  I looked down. “What’s wrong with these clothes?”

  “Just that they’re a little fancy for office-cleaning.”

  “I don’t clean,” I corrected, wagging my finger. “I supervise.”

  He laughed, then grimaced and touched his shoulder.

  “Are you sore?”

  “I probably will be tomorrow.”

  I sighed. “I’m sorry about leaving Angel’s chew toy on the stairs.”


  He scoffed. “Kenzie, it was an accident. I should have been looking where I was going.”

  I bit into my lip. Actually, I was supposed to be looking where he was going.

  He put his hands on his hips and scanned the piled-high office. “Where do we start?”

  I looked around. “Where do you keep your computer?”

  “Computer?”

  I blinked. “You don’t have a computer?”

  He scratched his head. “I’ve been meaning to buy one, but never quite got around to it.”

  “PDA?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Personal digital assistant.”

  “Come again?”

  I sighed. “Do you have a beeper?”

  “Urn…no.” He patted a hand radio on his belt. “But all the volunteer firefighters have walkie-talkies.”

  I looked at his belt, then made a self-indulgent detour across his crotch before lifting my gaze. “How is a walkie-talkie connected to your business?”

  “It isn’t, but it’s cool.”

  I closed my eyes briefly, and when I opened them, he had adopted a rather sheepish expression.

  “The truth is, I have a good practice here, but the paperwork is killing me.” He grinned. “I need someone like you to cover me.”

  I wanted to tell him that at the moment I was spread rather thin with cover duties, but instead I held out my hand. “Give me your credit card.”

  His eyebrows shot up.

  “You need equipment,” I said. He complied. I handed him my PDA to play with (the best way to get someone interested in technology, I’d found) and directed him to start organizing his patient files while I went upstairs to my room and booted up my own laptop. Accessing the Internet across a dial-up line was a lesson in patience, but I managed to order a desktop computer, accounting and scheduling software, and one of those multi-function printer/scanner/fax machines for express delivery. Since I was already on the Net, I jumped over to the Neiman Marcus Web site and, with my own credit card, ordered a delicious pair of Ferragamo low-heeled boots for Sam. I reasoned he would have ordered them himself if he’d had a computer.

  I returned to the office to find him knee-deep in files, my PDA set off to the side—so maybe technology wasn’t irresistible to everyone. I pitched in to help sort the files, and he was appreciative, but I could tell the administrative side of the business put him in a dour mood. An hour later my hands were gritty and gray from handling so much paper, but we had made much progress.

  Suddenly his phone rang. My heart ratcheted up a notch, thinking it might be the reporter again, but there was no way I could pick it up without diving across Sam and raising his suspicions.

  Sam juggled the receiver to his ear. “Hello?” I held my breath, and watched as his face turned serious. “When?…How far along?” He stood and checked his watch. “Tell Watt I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  He hung up the phone. “Watt Hendron’s mare is about to foal and she’s having trouble.”

  “I’m right behind you,” I said, reaching for my camera and notepad.

  He hesitated. “This could get messy.”

  “If you think I’m spending one more minute alone with the snakes than I have to, you’re crazy.”

  He shrugged. “If you think you can handle it.”

  My chin went in the air. “I can handle it.”

  “Okay, partner, let’s go.”

  As I climbed into the truck, I said, “Just to clarify—we’re going to see a horse, right?”

  *

  I SUSPECTED I might be in trouble when Sam put on a rubber glove that went up to his shoulder, and not for a fashion statement. I’d seen my fair share of PBS specials on animals birthing in the wild, but those PG-rated shows hadn’t exactly prepared me for the goo, the slime and the smell of a large animal being brought into the world. This foal was “turned,” which meant it wasn’t in the right position to be squeezed out naturally. I stared in morbid fascination as Sam stuck his arm into the mare’s you-know-what, then felt all around, and none too gently. I had to cross my legs.

  As soon as Sam pulled out his arm, the mother-to-be, a giant brown beauty, lay down on her side in the large straw-lined stall. Her tail had been bound up, and her coat glistened with sweat. Sam patted her rump. “It won’t be long now, Lily.”

  He peeled off the soiled glove and washed up in a bucket of warm water. Watt Hendron left to get more water, and Sam motioned me closer.

  I swallowed hard. “Are you sure I should be this close?”

  “I thought this was supposed to be an adventure.”

  I stepped up carefully, keeping an eye on Lily, who whinnied occasionally and flinched violently.

  “You’ll be in a good position to catch all the action,” he said.

  He was right, I realized, and crouched to get a photo of him with Lily in the background. No sooner had I clicked the shutter than I heard the horse shudder and fluid shot out of her like a cannon, dousing my Prada slides with slimy baby juice. I covered my mouth with my fist to keep from gagging.

  “Here it comes,” Sam said, and two little horse legs appeared, then a head, then the shoulders, then the whole baby slid out with a rush of fluid. It was covered in white gook and smelled…really bad.

  “I’m going to be sick,” I murmured, then tried to stand. I slipped on the slime and flailed backward, sitting down in the bucket of wash-up water. At least it was warm, I told myself.

  “Are you all right?” Sam called.

  I knew he was too busy to deal with me, so I said, “Fine,” and thrashed my arms until I created enough momentum to free myself. I was soaked from the butt down and the chilly air instantly turned my cool hipsters into a clammy vacuum, but amazingly, I still had the presence of mind to take a few candid photos of Sam cleaning the foal.

  “I’ve seen this a hundred times,” he said, “and it never gets old.”

  The camera lens gave me enough distance to regain my composure, and what I saw made my heart swell. Sam handled the animal as delicately as a flower, the look of awe on his face inspiring. I didn’t have to wonder what kind of father he would make, but I did wonder if he’d ever get that chance considering his attitude on commitment.

  I got all warm and spongy inside, stirred by the dichotomy of the man. He was without a doubt the most masculine guy I’d ever known intimately, yet he had all the makings of the sensitive type. I was philosophical when I remembered our lovemaking this morning—was it possible for sex to be that exciting within the context of a committed relationship, or were we socially and biologically conditioned to accept and expect wild sex and commitment to be mutually exclusive?

  When the foal wobbled to its feet, Sam came over to stand next to me. His breathing and color were heightened by the exertion. Sweaty and covered with bits of straw, he’d never looked more handsome. He turned to me and grinned, and my breath caught in my chest. Oh, God, don’t let me fall in love with this man.

  “Don’t mind me,” I said to distract him just in case he could read my mind. “I’m going to finish up this roll of film.” I stepped back, out of the stall and into a dirt-packed hallway, and raised my camera for a different angle.

  “Be careful, Kenzie,” Sam said. “There’s a lever—”

  My hip hit something metal that gave way with a creaking noise. I heard something move overhead and looked up to see a window-sized piece of wood hurtling toward my head.

  My mind said to move, but my feet were frozen. Then a locomotive hit me from the side and I landed with a whoomph on the packed ground. Oxygen vacated my compressed lungs, and I saw starbursts. I gasped like a fish on dry land, and sat up with a bad feeling pressing on my heart. Sam had knocked me out of my shoes to save me and for his effort, had been clobbered by the piece of wood that was wrapped with a chain and connected to some kind of pulley mechanism that I’d dislodged.

  My heart stalled. I’d killed him for sure this time.

  14

  “SO WHAT wa
s the thing that he saved you from?” Jacki asked over the phone, her voice croaky—I’d shamelessly dragged her from a deep sleep before her alarm had gone off in order to relate the previous day’s events.

  I sighed and laid my head back on my pillow. From this angle in the pre-dawn light, the tree-trunk four-poster bed looked a little ominous. I decided this was as close to camping as I wanted to get. “It was some kind of oversized dumbwaiter to lower grain from the top of the barn. I inadvertently hit a lever and brought it tumbling down.”

  “That’s so exciting!”

  “Jacki, Sam could have been killed!” That one thought had kept me awake all night.

  “But he wasn’t.”

  “He could have been!”

  She yawned. “Better him than you, friend. I think it was a very heroic thing for him to do.”

  “Yes, but I’m supposed to keep him away from danger, not bring it down on his head! Sam would probably be safer if I just went home.” I felt a crying jag coming on.

  “Well, maybe you should.”

  “Maybe I should what?”

  “Come home.”

  I bit into my bottom lip and rode through the uneasy feeling that bloomed in my chest. “I would,” I said, toying with the hem of the bed sheet, “but I haven’t finished the article yet.”

  “I thought the article was simply your cover.”

  “No,” I said quickly, “I’m going to use the article as a career stepping stone.”

  “Ah. When did you sleep with him?”

  I blinked. “Huh?”

  “Don’t be coy—I know something happened.”

  “That’s ridic—”

  “Spill it.”

  “Okay,” I conceded. “Something happened, but it was accidental.”

  “Accidental? Did you two mistake each other for something else in the dark?”

  “No.”

  “What then?”

  I squirmed. “It wasn’t planned. On Sunday he sort of…walked in on me…and the dildo.”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  I cringed. “Yes…he did.”

  I heard a choking sound, then a thud and distant laughter. She’d dropped the phone.

  “Jacki,” I yelled, “you’re not helping!”