Nobody Does It Better(33)

Chapter One



She’s gorgeous. An absolute stunner, with captivating green eyes, high cheekbones, and strong legs. Her silky black hair is long and luxurious. She stretches, showing off her nubile body.

I can’t keep my eyes off her.

Or my hands, for that matter.

I run a palm down her back, and she arches against me.

“Doesn’t she seem rather . . . lethargic?” her mistress asks, concern etched in her eyes. I peer closely at the little lady in question.

Those whiskers. That tail. “Sabrina’s mood seems fine. Her heart rate is perfect. Her fur looks great. I see one very healthy pussycat. Why do you think she’s lethargic, Lydia?” I ask as the silky black feline swishes her tail back and forth, rubbing against my hand on the exam table.

Lydia fiddles with a necklace that dangles between her breasts. “She’s not playing with her toys much.”

“Does she normally like to play with toys?”

Lydia drags a hand down her chest. “Oh, she enjoys toys so very much.”

Dammit. I walked right into that one.

But I’m practiced in the art of deadpan deflection. “Well, that would indicate she doesn’t need my services. She seems full of energy here. Is there something else going on at home with her that I should be concerned about?”

Lydia doesn’t look at the kitty. She flicks her chestnut hair off her shoulder, her eyes pinned on me, ignoring the vet tech in the room completely. “She seems to need a little more attention. I feel like that’s what she’s telling me.”

I maintain my completely-unaware-of-her-double-meaning routine. “But you give her lots of attention?”

“I do, but it’s solo, Doctor Goodman. I think she wants it from others, if you know what I mean.”

Yep, I don’t need to be Inspector Poirot to crack the mystery of that case. I figured it out the instant Lydia prowled into the exam room with a cat who is as fit as an Olympic athlete.

I slide around her efforts with a standard vet answer: “Cats are fickle. Some want attention. Some are fine without it.” Sabrina rubs her head against my hand, cranking up the volume as she marks me. But hey, she’s allowed to. Also, cats like me. Dogs like me. I am an absolute animal magnet, and the feeling’s quite mutual.

“See? She likes you. She might want affection from you . . .” Lydia’s eyes take a long, lingering stroll up and down my body.

Time for the full-scale oblivion shield. There’s a fine line between playing dumb and looking stupid, and as a veterinarian, I can’t afford to look bad in front of clients. But as a man, I definitely need to pull off the clueless-to-her-advances act with a particular kind of balance and finesse.

I ask Jonathan, the tech, to hand me a thermometer.

“Of course, Doctor Goodman,” he says, hamming it up as if it’s his utter delight to deliver the device.

Meeting Lydia’s gaze, I brandish the thermometer with a grin. “Sabrina might not be so keen on me after this.”

This is the moment when Lydia will back down, I’m sure. They nearly all do when the mercury comes out.

Instead, Lydia emits a sort of coo, like a songbird. “Oh, I bet she’d love that. I’m up for . . . I mean, she’s up for anything.”

Jonathan snickers, and I sigh. I focus solely on the cat, rather than on this cat-and-mouse game of cat-and-woman sublimation. Fortunately, Sabrina’s just fine, and I tell Lydia so when I’m through with the exam. I snap off my gloves, wash my hands, and tell her to keep an eye on her feline. “If anything changes, let us know.”

She smiles seductively at me. “Oh, I will. My pussycat’s health is quite important to me.”

Stay stoic, Malone. You can do it. You’ve done it before. “Yes, I can see that.”

She waggles her fingers. “And if anything changes for you, Doctor Goodman, let me know too.”

Blank face. I give her the 100 percent tabula rasa. “Thanks for coming in today.”

“I’m glad I did.” She rakes her gaze over me. “You’re a regular Doctor Doolittle.”

I’ve only been called that, oh, twelve times a day. But it’s a compliment of the highest order, so I treat it as such. “Thank you.”

She takes a step closer, her stare dropping down, down, down. “Or should I call you Doctor Doolarge?”

I stifle a strangled chuckle—I don’t want to give her any encouragement, especially since I do like her cat, as in the actual feline. “Let’s stick to Doctor Goodman.”

After I say goodbye to Lydia, Jonathan clears his throat, adopting a high-pitched feminine voice. “Tell me, Doctor Doolarge, is it hard being so good-looking?”

I laugh. “It’s the family curse.”

“And such a cross to bear. However do you manage?”

“It’s not easy. Someday, I’ll teach you.”

“Yes, please. I want to know all your secrets.” He shifts to all-business mode. “You have a few clients who requested phone calls.”

I glance at the clock. It’s almost closing time, and I have a show tonight. “No problem. I have time.”

He hands me the call sheet, and I head to my office and pick up the phone. When I’m done, I swing by the front desk where Jonathan and our office manager, Sam, are debating the best spots for craft beer in the West Village.