Dear Reader,

We’ve all had those days when nothing seems to go our way. Days when our work is full of jerks, PMS, hair that won’t behave and cars that don’t run. “If we were in charge,” we say, “things would be different!”

My heroine Phoebe Frame has had one day too many like this and decides to do something about it. Writing in first person, I felt as though I was an observer along for the ride, taking dictation as Phoebe set out to exact revenge and make the kind of life she’s always wanted for herself. And believe me, I never knew what Phoebe was going to do next!

I hope you enjoy reading about “our” adventure! Let me know what you think of this story—I always love to hear from readers. E-mail me at cindi@cindimyers.com. And stop by my Web site at www.cindimyers.com to see what’s new with me.

Happy reading!

Cindi Myers

“Get your hands off of me!”

“You’re the one who ran into me, lady.” He was quite tall and, in a better mood, I probably would have thought he was handsome.

We glared at each other, neither one wanting to be the first to look away. However, as much fun as this was, I had tons of work to finish.

The thing to do was act calm and collected. Ms. Cool. “If you’re here to see the doctor, his office is back there.” I pointed down the hallway.

“Actually, I’m looking for a Phoebe Frame.” The man glanced around. “Maybe you could point me in the right direction and I promise to stay out of your way.”

“Phoebe Frame?” Ooh, this day was improving by leaps and bounds…not. “I’m Phoebe.” I cleared my throat. “And you are…?”

“Jeff Fischer. My friends call me Jeff, but you can call me Mr. Fischer.”

Wonderful. This was the software specialist I would be working with—closely. Young, too good-looking and a delightful attitude. Could things possibly get better?

What Phoebe Wants
Cindi Myers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Cindi Myers believes in love at first sight, good chocolate, cold champagne, that people who don’t like animals can’t be trusted and that God obviously has a sense of humor. She also believes in writing fun, sexy romances about people she hopes readers will fall in love with. In addition to writing, Cindi enjoys reading, quilting, gardening, hiking and downhill skiing. She lives in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado with her husband (whom she met on a blind date and agreed to marry six weeks later) and two spoiled dogs.

Books by Cindi Myers

HARLEQUIN FLIPSIDE

10—LIFE ACCORDING TO LUCY

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

902—IT’S A GUY THING!

935—SAY YOU WANT ME

HARLEQUIN BLAZE

82—JUST 4 PLAY

118—RUMOR HAS IT

For Pam Hopkins who never gave up on this one.

And special thanks to Wanda Ottewell for giving Phoebe a chance.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

1

MY GRANDMOTHER ALWAYS TOLD ME, you make your own luck. As if luck was something that could be baked like a cake or sewn like a shirt. Of course, my cakes could be used as first base down at the ballpark, and my ninth-grade home-ec class voted me “girl most likely to do bodily harm with a sewing machine.” This could explain why I haven’t had much luck lately, of any kind.

Which would you say is worse: being dumped by your husband who then takes up with a twenty-four-year-old cocktail waitress who has a stomach tight enough to bounce quarters off, or sitting in a cubicle that smells of cigar smoke and sweat, listening to a shiny-faced car salesman try to make you a “deal”?

Having recently endured both, I’d have to say it’s something of a draw. The whole sorry business with my husband dragged on longer, but in its own way, the ordeal with the car salesman was just as tedious.

“Now, I know a woman like you is concerned about finding something dependable.” The salesman nodded sagely and gave me a toothy grin. He had a bad comb-over and his deodorant had long since packed up and hitched a ride out of town. “I mean, what good is a great deal on a vehicle if it leaves you in the lurch?”

Left me in the lurch. That’s what Steve did when he walked out. Just calmly packed his bags and said, “I know you don’t want me here if I’m not happy.” As if his leaving was all about his concern for me, and not about his own pathetic midlife crisis.

“You see what I’m saying, Ms. Frame? My only concern is that you leave here today happy.”

There was that word again—happy. At this point in my life, I was beginning to think the whole pursuit of happiness shtick was highly overrated. “I just need something that will get me where I’m going and doesn’t cost more than six thousand dollars.” I twisted the straps of my purse in my hand.

The salesman made a face as if he’d just sucked a lemon. “Six thousand. Now, I don’t know if we’re gonna find much for six thousand.” He leaned toward me, his yellowing teeth looming large in my vision. “Do you have a trade-in?”

I blinked. “A trade-in?”

“Another car? Do you have another car to trade in?”

“Yes. It’s…uh, it’s parked down the street.” The maroon Ford Probe had died at the corner of Anderson and Alameda, smoke spewing from under the hood. An alarming sequence of pings and rattles issued from the engine before it gave a last gasp and simply quit altogether. I had sat there for a long moment, head on the steering wheel, too disgusted to waste tears. Then I’d gathered up my purse and keys and started walking.

Walking is a relative term in Houston in late August. It was more like swimming through the heavy, humid air. Heat radiated up from the pavement, through the soles of my sandals. Sweat pooled in the small of my back and my hair clung damply to my forehead. As I walked, I tried to think of new epithets for Steve, who had driven away from me in a brand new black Lexus, leaving me with the twelve-year-old Ford.

I’d started alphabetically, with addlepated asshole and was up to middle-aged midget-brain when I saw the sign for Easy Motors. That was it. I’d buy a new car. Or at least one that was newer than the recently departed Ford.

The salesman—the nameplate on his desk said his name was Hector—grabbed a form off the corner of the desk and began to write. “So what are you trading in?”

“It’s a 1990 Ford Probe. Maroon.”

“Maroon.” He wrote down this information. “Mileage?”

“One hundred and seventy thousand.”

His frown got a little tighter. “Car that old, that many miles, most I can give you for it is five hundred dollars.”

I blinked. Wasn’t he even going to ask if it ran? I bit my lip, fighting a decidedly inconvenient attack of conscience.

Hector apparently mistook my silence for reluctance. “Six hundred. Most I can do. Take it or leave it.”

I swallowed hard. “Where do I sign?”

I had never bought a car before. My father had purchased the first vehicle I’d driven, an orange Gremlin formerly owned by a dog trainer. Every time it rained, the car smelled of wet poodle. Steve bought the maroon Probe for me for Christmas one year. I’d wanted a blue Mustang, but he had surprised me with the Probe and I thought it would have appeared ungrateful to protest, though I could never look at the car without thinking of dental work.

“All right, then.” Hector pushed back his chair and stood. “I’ll show you what I’ve got in your price range.”

For the next hour, I followed Hector around the lot as he showed me red Volkswagens, yellow Chevies and a limegreen car of indiscernible lineage. “Now darling, this is the perfect car for you,” he said, patting the hood of the lime-green model. “Very sporty.”

I stared at what looked to be an escapee from the bumpercar ride at the carnival. “I could never drive anything that color.”

Hector took out an oversize handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “Well, honey, I wouldn’t say in your price range you can afford to be picky. Besides—” he patted the car again “—it’s proven that cars this color are in fewer wrecks. Why do you think they paint fire engines green these days?”

A flash of blue caught my attention. That’s when I saw it. My dream car. “What about that one?” I pointed toward a blue Mustang at the back corner of the lot.

“That one?” Hector rubbed his chin. “Yeah, I forgot about that one.” He straightened. “Sure. I could make you a deal.”

We walked over to the Mustang. It had a dent in one door and tired-looking upholstery. I slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The engine coughed, then turned over. “Honey, I’d say it’s you.” Hector leaned in the window and grinned.

An hour later, I drove off the lot in the Mustang. I didn’t really care that it was a ninety-six model or that it had a bumper sticker that read Onward Through the Fog. The important thing was that it was blue, the color of the dream car I’d never gotten. I’d taken it as a sign. I was on my own now, calling all the shots. And, by God, I was going to have that blue Mustang—my dream—dents and all.

THERE ARE TIMES WHEN I CONSIDER not having been born with pots of money to be a gross injustice. Just inside the door of the employee lounge at the Central Care Network Clinic where I work is a banner that proclaims: Two Million in Profits and Climbing! Whenever I see this, I feel majorly annoyed. Not only had I not been born with money, I had managed to find a job that guaranteed I wouldn’t be getting my share of that two mil. Next to nurses’ aides and janitors, transcriptionists are at the bottom of the hospital hierarchy.

But hey, I was young and single and had a new car, so what did I have to complain about, right? Yeah, right, I thought, as I boarded the elevator heading up to my cubicle in the family-practice section of the clinic the next day. I pasted a fake smile on my face as I entered the elevator. My mother had always told me I should smile even when I didn’t feel like smiling because it would help me to develop the “habit of happiness.” I preferred to think a permanent smile gave people doubts about your sanity, and thus they left you alone.

Family Practice was on the eleventh floor of the steel-and-glass high-rise in the Texas Medical Center complex. At every floor, the elevator doors parted and more people poured in as others exited. I found myself pushed farther and farther toward the rear of the car, until my nose was practically buried in the shellacked updo of an orthopedics receptionist.

I always got nervous when the elevator was this full. What if there was too much weight for the cables? What if it stopped between floors? Would we suffocate? Just last week Mary Joe Wisnewski from pediatrics had been stuck between floors for an hour.

And here I was, packed in like a teenager at dollar-a-car night at the drive-in. Two drug pushers—also known as pharmaceutical salesmen—hemmed me in on either side. I couldn’t even move my arms.

So, of course, I had an itch I needed to scratch. On my butt. I shifted from one foot to the other, trying to ignore the persistent tickle on my right cheek as the elevator ground to a halt to take on still more passengers.

The tickle developed into a pinch. The hair on the back of my neck stood at attention as I realized the reason for my posterior disturbance. Some guy had his hand up my dress! He was poking and prodding my cheek like a baker testing dough. Or maybe he was a plastic surgeon who thought I was a likely candidate for a buttocks-lift.

I shifted, trying to move away from him, but in the packed elevator, it was impossible. The invisible groper started working on my other cheek. “Stop that!” I yelped.

My fellow passengers regarded me curiously, and there was a decided leaning away from me. Fury choked me. Where did this pervert get off feeling me up like that? I’d show him.

I shifted my weight to my left leg and swung my right foot back, connecting solidly with the joker’s kneecap. If I’d had more room, I would have aimed higher. As it was, he grunted and let me go. The doors opened and I surged forward, elbowing two old women out of the way as I broke for freedom.

I stood beside a potted palm in the corridor and tried to see into the elevator, to identify the man who’d groped me. But the doors shut before I could make out anyone. Sighing, I adjusted my purse on my shoulder and headed for the stairs to hike up the three floors to Family Practice.

“Phoebe, you’re late.” The office manager, Joan Lee, shoved a stack of patient folders into my hands. “Dr. Patterson is in rare form this morning.” Standing four foot eleven inches in a size-one Jones New York suit, Joan looked like a geisha who’d gotten lost on her way to Wall Street. Her voice was soft as silk, but her backbone was diamond-hard steel. Insurance companies quaked at the sound of her name, and even the most bullheaded surgeon addressed her respectfully as “Ms. Lee, ma’am.”

“He wants those charts on his desk by noon,” Joan continued. “So you’d better get busy.”

“No problem.” I shifted the folders to my left arm and headed for the coffee machine for a fortifying cup. “Barb and I will split them up and have them done by eleven.”

“Sorry, but Barb can’t help you. I had to put her on the front desk this morning.”

I turned, empty cup in hand. “Why? Where’s Kathleen?”

Joan shook her head and disappeared around the corner. Dr. Patterson’s nurse, Michelle, joined me at the coffee machine. “Kathleen was dismissed,” she whispered as she spooned creamer into her cup.

I raised my eyebrows. “Turned him down again, did she?” Dr. Patterson had been badgering the receptionist to go out with him for weeks now—despite the fact that both of them were married, and not to each other.

Michelle shrugged. “I guess so. Or maybe he decided to move on to greener pastures and didn’t want her hanging around.”

“Michelle, the doctor needs you in room three.” Joan hurried past us, dragging a loaded lab cart. “Phoebe, don’t forget those charts have to be done by noon.”

“I can do it if the system cooperates. When is the new transcription system supposed to be installed?” I called after Joan’s retreating back.

“Soon. You’ll have to make do until then.” She disappeared around the corner, test tubes rattling in her wake.

I headed for my workroom at the back of the office suite. Windowless and cramped, it resembled the supply closet it had once been. A long counter had been installed to hold the two computers and transcription equipment, and a single filing cabinet provided a place to stash my purse. Nothing fancy, but it was quiet, out of the flow of traffic and no one cared how many empty coffee cups or Diet Coke cans I let pile up as long as I got my work done on time.

I booted up my computer and popped the first tape into the transcription machine. Dr. Patterson’s Texas twang filled my headphones. “The patient is a well-developed young woman of sixteen, presenting with pain in the left patella.” I rolled my eyes as I typed. Patterson was always going on about the beauty or physical developments of his female patients. If they were over twenty-one he’d note if they were married or single and if they had any children. I wondered if he was making notes to himself for future reference.

I busted butt and finished the last of the tapes at ten after twelve and was fastening a printout onto the front of a patient chart when the intercom buzzed. “Doctor Patterson would like to see you in his office,” Joan announced.

I groaned. What was he going to do, chew me out for being ten minutes late? “If he didn’t go on so much about how big a patient’s boobs or behind were, he’d shave half an hour off my transcription time,” I muttered as I gathered up the charts and headed for the doctor’s lair at the other end of the office.

Dr. Ken Patterson was a tall man with the broad shoulders and thick neck of a former football player. He, in fact, had been a linebacker for the University of Texas before deciding on a career in medicine. His hairline had receded in twin widow’s peaks, frosted with gray, which only added to his distinguished good looks. Patients talked about how charming he was, but I thought there was more smarm than charm in the good doctor.

“Here are the charts you wanted.” I deposited the stack of file folders on the corner of his desk. It was a massive mahogany piece that was big enough for a grown man to stretch out on. Rumor had it that Patterson had made good use of that space with more than one woman. Frankly, I was glad it wasn’t my job to polish the thing. I turned to leave, but Patterson caught me by the arm.

“What’s your hurry?” Still clutching my arm, he reached back and pushed the door closed.

I frowned. I didn’t want to end up like Kathleen, with bills to pay and no job, but neither did I want to end up as Patterson’s next plaything. “I have a lot of work to do,” I said, trying to pull away from him.

“Yes, I’ve noticed how tense you’ve been lately.” He released me, but continued to block my path to the door. “I think maybe you’ve been working too hard.”

“I’m fine, really.” I tried to dodge past him and collided with Albert, the life-size skeletal model grinning cheerfully from his stand next to the desk.

Albert clanked and swayed like a macabre set of wind chimes. At Halloween we dressed him up and stationed him by the reception desk with a bowl of candy, but the rest of the year Albert was a mute observer of the goings-on in Patterson’s office. If those bones could talk…

“The real reason I wanted to see you is I have a question about one of the notes you transcribed for me.” Patterson walked around the desk, seemingly all business, but I didn’t let down my guard. He pulled a folder from a stack in his out box and beckoned me toward him. “It’s right here. Please take a look and tell me what you think this means.”

I leaned over the desk, staying as far from Patterson’s octopus arms as possible. Fortunately, I could read upside down. “Patient is recently divorced, suffering from nervous strain.” I looked up at Patterson. “I’m certain that’s what you said on the tape. Is there something wrong?”

“Not wrong, but I couldn’t help thinking how well that phrase describes your own situation.” He pressed the tips of his fingers together and looked down his nose at me, as if I’d suddenly developed a rare disease. Or a third breast. “You know, Phoebe, not only am I your employer, but I think of myself as your physician, as well. It’s obvious to me that since your divorce, you, too, have been exhibiting signs of nervous strain. I believe I can help you.”

I started backing toward the door. “Dr. Michaels over at County General is my doctor.”

For a man of his size, Patterson was amazingly quick. He came around the desk and pulled me to him in a bear hug. It was like being caught in the elevator doors, my ribs creaking, my breath cut off. “I find you so attractive,” he murmured, and began kissing my neck. Wet slobbery kisses. You’d think a man who considered himself a modern-day Don Juan would have a better technique. I struggled, caught tight in his crazed grip.

Nose buried in my neck, his ear brushed up against my lips, pink and vulnerable. I know how to take advantage of a good opportunity when I see it. I bit down hard.

He screamed like a woman, a high-pitched shriek that was probably heard two floors away. I shot out of his arms and was standing by the door by the time he straightened up. He had one hand clapped over his ear and his eyes were wet. “Why did you do that?” he asked, seeming genuinely puzzled.

“Did I mention I have this thing about being held against my will?” I turned the doorknob. “I’m going to pretend this never happened,” I said. “But if you so much as lay a hand on me again I’ll report you to the AMA, the TMA, the BBB and anybody else who’ll listen.”

“Phoebe, Phoebe, Phoebe.” He started toward me again, arms outstretched, pleading. “I know you’ve been without a man for months now. Surely you must need the physical release—”

I was out the door before he finished the sentence. My feet pounded down the carpeted hallway in time with my furiously beating heart. “What I need is to be left the hell alone,” I muttered as I rounded the corner, headed toward the front office. Joan was going to hear about the doctor’s latest shenanigans.

I didn’t see the man at the end of the hallway until it was too late. I had a fleeting impression of broad shoulders and dark hair before I barreled into him. Papers scattered as he was shoved back against one wall. He struggled for balance, holding on to the only support available—me.

2

“GET YOUR HANDS OFF OF ME!” I swatted at the stranger as his fingers clutched at my dress.

“You’re the one who ran into me, lady.” He righted himself and stared down at me. He was quite tall and, in a better mood, I probably would have thought he was handsome, with his tousled dark hair and heavy-lidded eyes. He was fairly young, midtwenties, I guessed.

“You should watch where you’re going,” I snapped.

“I could say the same to you.”

We glared at each other, both rumpled and out of breath. Not unlike two people in the aftermath of a particularly vigorous round of sex. I swallowed. Now why had I thought of that? Except, of course, that he was a particularly handsome man, and those dark eyes of his seemed to look right through me, as if he could tell I was wearing my best Givenchy underwear.

Stop it! I ordered myself. I glanced around, hoping someone would come to my rescue. The office was eerily silent and I realized everyone else had gone to lunch. Me and handsome Hank here were alone, except, of course, for the lecherous doctor.

I smoothed my hands down my sides. The thing to do was to stay calm and collected. That was me. Ms. Cool. “If you’re here to see the doctor, his office is back there.” I pointed down the hallway.

“Actually, I’m looking for a Phoebe Frame.” The man glanced around us. “Maybe you could point me in the right direction and I promise to stay out of your way.”

“Phoebe Frame?” I felt my face warm. “Uh, what do you want with her?”

“Not that it’s your business, but I’m here to install a new transcription system. She is the transcriptionist, isn’t she?”

“Yes.” The word came out as a squeak. I straightened and tried to look indifferent. “I’m Phoebe. If you’ll follow me, the transcription room is right this way.”

I marched past him, down the hall toward my cubicle. By now it felt as if my whole face and neck were on fire. And red is not my best color. Not that I cared what handsome Hank thought of my looks, but…

I stopped at the doorway to my cubicle and whirled to face him. “You haven’t told me your name.”

“You didn’t give me time.” He offered me a card. “Jeff Fischer. My friends call me Jeff, but you can call me Mr. Fischer.”

All right, maybe I deserved that. I cleared my throat. “Look, I’m sorry about, well, about just now. I was very annoyed at someone and you were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

He set his briefcase on the counter and opened it. “Yeah, well, I guess you weren’t hired for your personality anyway, huh?”

“I said I was sorry.”

“Forget about it.”

“Oh, that is so like a man.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You insult me, and then you try to blow it off as if it isn’t important.”

“Hey, you insulted me first.”

“I did not.”

“Yes, you did. You accused me of trying to grope you when I was only trying to keep my balance.”

“You were groping me.” I flushed, remembering the feel of his hand on my breast. “Though I’ll admit, you probably didn’t do it on purpose.”

He looked up at the ceiling, addressing some invisible being. “She admits she’s wrong. That must be a first.”

“How can you say that? You don’t even know me.”

He grinned. “No, but I’d like to.” He stuck out his hand. “Let’s start over. I’m Jeff Fischer. Nice to meet you, Miss Frame. Or is it Mrs.?”

“It’s Ms.” I shook his hand, ignoring the flutter in my stomach at his touch. Maybe I was just hungry. “Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Fischer.”

“I thought we were going to be friends now. Call me Jeff.”

“All right, Jeff. I’ll, uh, just leave you to your work.”

“Sure you don’t want to stick around? You could tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

“No, I think I’ll go to lunch.” I backed toward the door. With any luck, Jeff wouldn’t be here when I got back. The last thing I needed right now was a young, handsome man with a sarcastic sense of humor.

Or maybe it was the first thing I needed. Sometimes the two extremes aren’t that far apart.

ON THURSDAYS, I ALWAYS HAVE LUNCH with my friend Darla. After the morning I’d had, I figured our lunch would be the one spot of sanity in my day. A tall blonde with an Ivana Trump updo, Darla is not only my best gal pal and chief partner-in-crime, she’s also my hairdresser—the only person who knows my real hair color—and the keeper of all my secrets.

“You got new wheels!” she squealed as I pulled to the curb in front of Hair Apparent, the salon where she works. She climbed into the passenger seat. “What happened to your old ride?” She flipped down the passenger side visor and fluffed her bangs in the makeup mirror.

“The Probe died yesterday afternoon, smoke pouring out from under the hood and everything.”

“So you just walked down the street and bought a new one?” Darla’s perfectly plucked eyebrows rose in amazement.

I shrugged. “It was either that, or call a taxi.”

I turned into the lot of Taco Loco and found a parking place. Darla followed me inside and we slid into our usual booth. “I never knew anyone who decided to buy a car and just did it,” she said. “I mean, aren’t you supposed to research these things? Take test-drives?”

The waitress set two glasses of iced tea and a basket of hot chips in front of us. “The usual?” she asked.

“The usual,” we chorused. Chicken chalupas with guacamole. Best in the city. I turned back to Darla. “That’s how Steve bought cars. How my father bought cars.” In fact, it was how every man I knew bought cars. Did that make it right?

Darla raised her glass in a toast. “To Phoebe’s new wheels,” she said. “May they take you places you’ve always wanted to go.”

I liked the sound of that, even if I had yet to figure out where it was I was headed. “What’s new with you?” I asked.

She suddenly became very interested in the placemat in front of her, eyes avoiding mine. “Well…” She pursed her lips. “I heard some news today. Something I don’t think you’ll especially enjoy hearing.”

I sipped my tea and tried not to look too interested. News meant gossip and it felt unseemly to appear overeager to indulge in something that, after all, was supposed to be a vice. “News about what?” I asked after a moment.

“News about Steve and Miss Just-a-waitress.”

Darla’s nose for news had discovered that the teenybopper Steve had started dating three months into his midlife search for “happiness” worked at the Yellow Rose, one of those cabaret places euphemistically known as gentlemen’s clubs. The girl—Tami—swore she was “just a waitress,” though from what I had seen, she was certainly well qualified to wear tassels, or whatever sort of excuse for a costume was customary for dancers in those places. “I don’t want to hear it,” I said, and shut my mouth firmly, as if to hold back any sign of the curiosity that was already spreading over me like a rash.

“You’re going to find out sooner or later.” She leaned across the table, her voice soft. “And I think it’s something you’d much prefer to hear from me.”

My stomach quivered. I hated this—hated caring what Steve and his girlfriend were up to. My goal in life was not to care, to be serene and happy and above it all.

But I wasn’t there yet. I took another swallow of tea, trying to wet my too-dry mouth. “What is it?”

Darla studied her perfect manicure. “Just-a-waitress came into the shop today.”

I waited, but apparently Darla required some sort of reaction before proceeding. “Did she have an appointment, or just drop by to say hi?”

“She had an appointment. With Henry.” She made a face. “Good thing it wasn’t with me, or she’d have walked out bald.”

I held back a snicker. Tami had gorgeous long blond hair. The idea of her without that crowning glory had a certain nasty appeal. “So what’s the scoop? Did she get dreadlocks, or a pierced nose?”

Darla shook her head. “Didn’t you say Steve never wanted children?”

There went my stomach again, acting as if I’d just plunged five stories in the front car of a roller coaster. “Yes. I mean, no, he never wanted children. He said they would make things too complicated.”

I put a hand over my belly, not even realizing until it was too late that I’d done so. In the early days, I’d thought I’d change Steve’s mind, that one day we’d have a family. Even as recently as last year, I’d been telling myself we had plenty of time. “What are you saying, Darla?”

“I’m saying Steve’s life is about to get pretty complicated. Just-a-waitress is four or five months gone.”

I counted back in my head. That meant it had happened after our divorce six months ago. We’d been separated six months before that. Plenty of time for me to get over the guy, right? Why should I care what he and his girlfriend were up to?

“You don’t look so good.” Darla leaned forward and studied my face,

“I’ll be okay in a minute,” I managed to squeak out.

“Okay is a relative term.” She frowned. “You want to talk about it?”

I shook my head. No, I wasn’t okay. And no, I didn’t want to talk about it.

The waitress brought our food and I focused on adding salsa to my chalupa, glad of an excuse not to say anything. Even if I’d wanted to spill my guts to Darla, I didn’t think I could have found the words to describe how I felt.

Something ugly and black had attached itself to my insides, some slimy emotional specter that was, in turns, angry and disgusted. I’d put off having children because Steve didn’t want them, yet our divorce papers were scarcely cold before he knocked up some other woman. Outside, I was mute, lips welded together by pride. But inside, I was screaming.

“So, what are you going to do now?” Darla scooped guacamole onto a chip and popped it into her mouth.

Last I heard, murder was still illegal. I sighed and laid aside my empty spoon. “What can I do? I have to get on with my life.”

She eyed me critically. “Starting when? It’s been six months since the divorce and almost a year since Steve walked out. Have you been on a single date?”

“Just what I need—another man in my life.” I shook my head. “No, thank you.”

“They aren’t all bad. You like Tony, don’t you?”

Tony was a truck driver Darla referred to as her rustproof lover—“heart of gold and buns of steel.” He was also a genuinely sweet guy. “You got the last good one,” I said.

“Oh, come on. You’re still young. Attractive. You could find someone nice.”

I shook my head. “Who would I date? In my job all the men I meet are either old, sick or married.” The image of a certain studly computer installer popped up to call me a liar. Okay, so Jeff Fischer was gorgeous and I hadn’t noticed a ring on his hand. He was also young and sarcastic and I hadn’t exactly wowed him with my charm. “I don’t need another man in my life,” I said, stabbing a fork into my chalupa for emphasis.

“Just think about it,” Darla said gently.

I nodded. “I’ll think about it.” But thinking and doing are two entirely different animals, aren’t they?

I RETURNED TO WORK AFTER LUNCH and discovered the cubbyhole had been ransacked. My computer processor sat in the hall, my transcription machine balanced atop it. My monitor occupied my chair and half a mile of cable coiled around the doorway like so many snakes prepared to wrap around my ankles.

I picked my way through this maze and stepped into the room, only to be confronted with one of the finest specimens of male gluteus maximus I’ve ever been privileged to see.

The butt in question wasn’t naked, more’s the pity, but the expertly tailored slacks molded around it did a nice job of showing it to advantage.

“What are you staring at?” The rest of the man in question emerged from beneath my desk.

“Jeff! Uh, hello.” I moved over and pretended to be interested in a stack of computer manuals. “Was I staring?”

He pointed a screwdriver at me. “You were staring. And smiling.”

“I’m just delighted at the prospect of finally getting the new transcription system installed.” I kept my eyes on the manual, pretending to be reading, but I was really trying to identify the cologne he was wearing. Something spicy, faintly exotic…

“I didn’t know you read Chinese.” He’d risen and was looking over my shoulder.

I glanced down at the booklet in my hand. Rows of Chinese characters danced across the page. I snapped the booklet shut. “I was studying the diagrams.” I pointed to the snarl of cables streaming out from under my desk. “Don’t you think you should do something about all that?”

“Your usual sunny self, I see.” He kneeled and began fiddling with something under my desk. “And here I thought we were going to be friends.”

I didn’t want to be friends with Jeff Fischer. He was too young, too good-looking, too full of himself, too male. Men were not at the top of my list these days. I kicked at the tangle of cables. “How am I supposed to get any work done with everything scattered all over the place like this?”

“I’ll have it all back together in no time.” His head disappeared beneath the desk once more.

“With this new system, you’ll be faster than ever.” He reached up and patted the desktop. “Have a seat and keep me company.”

I backed toward the door. “Maybe I’d better leave you alone to do your work.”

“I work better when I have a pretty woman to talk to.”

I resented the flutter that ran through my stomach. As if a compliment from a smart-ass like him meant anything. I told myself I was only staying because if I went back up front Joan would put me to work labeling urine samples, or filing test results or some equally odious chore.

So I took a seat on the desk, next to a canvas satchel that spilled tools across the desktop. It wasn’t the most comfortable position. My feet didn’t touch the ground, which left my legs swinging practically in Jeff’s face. Why had I decided this was a good day to wear my chartreuse-with-white-polka-dots slip dress?

“That’s better.” Jeff’s gaze traveled from my exposed knees to my ankles. “Very nice.”

He grinned in a way that might have been lecherous on someone who didn’t already look like an Eagle Scout. “How old are you?” I blurted.

He arched one eyebrow. “Old enough to know my way around.”

“No really. How old?”

“I’m twenty-six.” He said it as if he was announcing a winning Lotto number. “How old are you?”

“Too old for you.” I inched farther away from him.

“I prefer experienced women.” He went back to operating his screwdriver.

Experienced? Was that anything like a used car being “experienced”? Or did I look like a woman who’d been around the block a few times? “What makes you think I’m experienced?”

“Let’s just say you don’t strike me as a recent escapee from a convent.”

“Someone told you I was divorced. That Michelle—”

“No, I didn’t know that. I was thinking more about the hickey on your neck.”

I clapped my hand to my neck so hard the skin stung. Heat washed over me and I knew my face was bright red. “I do not have a hickey!” Where would I have gotten one? I hadn’t been intimate with a man since…. A sick feeling washed over me as I recalled my prelunch wrestling session with Dr. P. The bastard.

Jeff stood and dropped the screwdriver into the tool bag. “It’s not that noticeable,” he said. “It’s just above your collar, right…there.” His finger brushed across my skin, a feather touch that made every nerve ending vibrate with awareness. I took a deep breath, trying to regain my composure, but all that did was draw his spicy, exotic, masculine scent into my lungs. I stared at the V of naked chest showing in the open throat of his shirt and fought the insane urge to plant a kiss right…there.

Hormones. That had to be it. They were like ants. They’d been fine, not bothering me at all in the year since Steve had called it quits. Content to go about the business of doing whatever hormones were supposed to do in the body. And then the stud here had disturbed them. One touch from him and the hormones had come to life like an anthill stirred with a stick. And they apparently weren’t going to calm down anytime soon. I wouldn’t be safe around any being with a hint of testosterone. The next thing I knew, I’d be leering at old men in elevators and flirting with the teenager behind the counter at McDonald’s.

“I have to go.” I slid off the desk, scattering three screwdrivers and a socket set in my hurry to escape.

I fled to the ladies’ room and contemplated my red face in the mirror. Wincing, I pulled back my hair and studied the purpling love bite. “That no-good Dr. Lech. I ought to—”

“Phoebe, hurry up in there.” Michelle pounded on the door. “I have to go.”

I grabbed my purse and groped through it, in vain hope I’d find a scarf to cover the evidence of a definite lapse in judgment. But I didn’t wear scarves. I searched the supply cabinet mounted over the toilet. Nothing but half a box of tampons, two cans of hair spray, six rolls of toilet paper and a pink toothbrush. Short of wrapping toilet paper around my neck, I was stuck.

I opened the door and sidled past Michelle, my head down so that my hair fell forward to cover the side of my neck. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine. Do we have any bandages?”

“Sure. In the lab. Over the sink. Did you cut yourself?”

“Just a paper cut,” I mumbled, and hurried to the lab.

I was studying my reflection in the paper-towel dispenser, making sure I’d covered the mark, when Michelle came into the lab. “You got a paper cut on your neck?”

I straightened and tugged my collar a little higher. “I, uh, was carrying some charts and one slipped.” Was I a pathetic liar, or what?

Michelle laughed. “Reminds me of high school. We used to put Band-Aids over hickeys. As if everyone didn’t know what was under there.” She picked up the blood-draw tray and turned to leave, but paused in the doorway. “You’d better watch those paper cuts, Phoebe. A girl can’t be too careful, you know.”

She giggled and left the room. I sagged against the counter. Great. Now the whole office would think I’d been up to something. If only I had been up to something. At least I’d have great memories to go along with the hickey.

The staccato tap of high heels on linoleum announced Joan Lee’s approach. “What are you doing hiding in here?” she asked. She peered closer. “What is that on your neck?”

“Vampire. Met him in the park last night. I’m thinking maybe I ought to go home in case I suddenly develop a desire to start biting people.”

Joan frowned. “There are no such things as vampires. Besides, you can’t go home. Dr. Patterson wants to see you.”

“Speaking of bloodsuckers…”

Joan frowned. “He’s in his office. Don’t keep him waiting. He has patients to see.”

When Joan heard humor was contagious, she was the first in line to be immunized against it.

3

RELUCTANTLY, I MADE MY WAY to Dr. Patterson’s office.

Albert grinned at me from his usual post. Someone had crowned him with a Houston Astros ball cap. “Orange is not your color,” I told him. “It does nothing for your complexion.”

“Good afternoon, Phoebe.” Dr. Patterson looked up from a patient chart. “Did you have a pleasant lunch?” He frowned. “What’s wrong with your neck?”

“You’re what’s wrong with it.” I glared at him. “When you groped me earlier, you gave me a hickey.”

He blinked, his expression bland. “Obviously, you’re delusional.” He consulted the papers in his hand, suddenly all business. “I’d like you to help me with some research I’m doing for my upcoming presentation at the annual Texas Medical Association conference. It’s a tremendous honor to be selected and my presentation must be perfect.”

Right. This was all about him. What else was new? “I’m a transcriptionist,” I said, trying to match his chilly demeanor. “I don’t see how I could help—”

“I’d ask the receptionist to take care of it, but until we hire a new one, that position is vacant and I can’t wait to prepare this presentation.” He handed me a sheet torn from a yellow legal pad. “Besides, you’re not busy right now, not with the new transcription system being installed. All you have to do is conduct a Web search for the topics listed here.”

I frowned at the list of medical terms on the paper. “I’m not sure what these mean.”

“You’re welcome to use my reference books to look up anything you need.” He nodded toward an oak bookcase against the far wall. “And I’ll be happy to assist you when I have the time.” His smile was just short of a leer.

I folded the sheet of paper. “Would this assignment involve working late?” With you?

He moved toward me. “I promise you’ll be rewarded.”

I prepared to dodge out of the way when Joan Lee appeared in the doorway, trailed by a drug pusher in a gray suit. You hang around doctors’ offices long enough, you can spot these guys and gals. Expensive suits, perfectly styled hair, imported sports cars—everything about them screams big bucks, including their perfectly straight, gleaming white teeth. Those teeth were always on display as they grinned and glad-handed their way through the office. They passed out pens and sticky notes like candy. Sometimes they even passed out candy. At Christmas, they brought elaborate gift baskets, which the doctor usually kept for himself.

I didn’t intend to let this interruption derail our discussion. With any luck, the pusher would be in and out in a few minutes and I could tell Patterson exactly what he could do with his little extra “project.”

I drifted to the bookcase and pretended to be interested in the Merck Manual.

“I brought those samples you asked about, doc.” The salesman’s voice boomed through the office as he opened his sample case.

Patterson glanced at me, but I kept turning pages in the big green book, feigning avid interest in a description of contact dermatitis.

“Great, Jerry. Thanks a lot.”

Jerry pulled out a cardboard tray of little boxes. Each bottle would contain a few pills of medication, meant to be handed out as samples to patients, who would then be convinced enough of the drug’s benefits to opt for a full prescription. “Everything they say about this stuff is true,” Jerry gushed. “It’ll sure put pep in your pecker.”

By now I had a pretty good idea of what drug Jerry was peddling. Sure enough, every box in that tray was emblazoned with the familiar blue tablet and a capital V.

To my secret delight, a stain of red crept up the back of Patterson’s neck. He hastily shoved the samples in his desk and ushered Jerry from the room.

As soon as they were gone, I replaced the Merck on the shelf and rushed to the desk. I opened the drawer and took out the tray of little boxes. Sure enough, it was Viagra. As if the doc needed any more pep in his pecker.

I didn’t have time to open all the little boxes and empty each bottle, so I dropped the whole tray in the trash can beside Patterson’s desk and carried it out with me.

I passed Joan in the hall and she gave me a curious look.

“I thought since I wasn’t busy, I’d try to clean up a little around here,” I said.

At the end of the hall, I ducked into the ladies’ room and emptied every bottle in the toilet. Then I stuffed Patterson’s trash can in the supply closet and sauntered back into the corridor, humming to myself. My bad mood had vanished. I felt almost giddy. I didn’t know what had come over me. I’d never done anything so daring in my life.

I pushed aside a momentary nudge of guilt by telling myself that Patterson deserved this small payback after the way he’d treated me. Women everywhere would be thankful if they knew what I’d just done.

I passed Jeff near the end of the hallway. “What are you looking so smug about?” he asked.

I gave him what I hoped was a mysterious smile. “My mama always said nothing would make your day like doing a good deed for someone else and she was right.”

He angled himself against the wall, blocking my way. “What good deed did you do?”

I shook my finger at him. “Oh, but it’s more virtuous to do your good deeds in secret.”

“Since when are you virtuous?” He reached out and stroked the bandage at my throat. “Barney. Definitely your style.”

I fought against a blush. “It was all we had. They’re very popular with kids. Would you like one?”

His voice was a low rumble that set up vibrations in my chest. “I can think of a few things I’d like from you, but a Band-Aid isn’t one of them.”

My knees suddenly felt wobbly. I fought the urge to hold on to him for support. “Dream on,” I said, sounding a little out of breath.

He leaned closer, a decidedly wicked grin making him more handsome than ever. “Sometimes dreams come true, you know.”

He let me by him and I tottered to my room, which was miraculously back together. A mixture of victorious exaltation and frustrated desire made me giddy. So Jeff wasn’t right for me? A woman could flirt, couldn’t she? I probably needed the practice. And putting one over on “Dr. Love” was enough to make anyone happy.

I sank into my chair. Yes, from now on I wasn’t putting up with crap from anybody. I was declaring a one-woman revolution. I reached for the phone and punched in Darla’s number.

“Darla, I want to make an appointment. I need a color job.”

“Okay. Let me make sure I have some Bashful Blonde in stock.”

I glanced at my reflection in the darkened computer monitor. “Forget the blond. I’m ready for a change.”

“A change? What kind of a change?” She sounded alarmed.

I twirled a lock of hair around my finger. “I think I’m ready for something more exciting. More daring.” My grin widened. “I’m ready to be a redhead.”

AT FIVE O’CLOCK ON THE DOT, I escaped from work, leaving Jeff on his hands and knees in my office, threading computer wire along the baseboards. “Leaving already?” he asked as I walked past.

“I have an important appointment.”

“Another hot date with the vampire?” He had a way of arching one eyebrow when he said something meant to tease me that made my mouth go dry.

Hormones, I reminded myself. Just those damned hormones. “Next time I see him, I’ll drive a stake through his heart.”

Jeff put a hand over his heart. “Remind me to never rub you the wrong way.”

You’re never going to rub me the right way, either, I thought, but did my best to keep the sentiment from my face. Jeff Fischer was sexier than any man had a right to be, but he was also six years younger than me. Not that much older than Just-a-waitress. Wouldn’t Steve laugh if he thought I was having my own midlife crisis?

With that thought souring my mood, I drove to Hair Apparent. It was one of those huge places with six stylists, two manicurists, a tanning booth and a massage therapist. The year before, they’d added the words Day Spa to their name and prices had shot up twenty percent. But I stayed with the place because of Darla. It’s hard enough to find a friend these days, and even harder to find a good hair stylist.

Darla greeted me with what looked like a giant, economysize bottle of ketchup in her hand. “What do you think?” she asked, holding up the bottle so that a beam of sunlight from the front window struck it. “It’s called Ravishing Ruby.”

“It looks like ketchup.” Maybe my decision to be a redhead had been a little hasty….

“It looks better on. Trust me.” She shoved me into a chair and wrapped me in a plastic cape.

“What’s with the Barney bandage on your neck?” she asked as she fastened the cape.

“You don’t want to know.” I grabbed a magazine off the counter beside the chair and opened it at random.

“There are two people you do not keep secrets from in this world—your hairdresser and your best friend. I happen to be both, so spill.”

I didn’t have to look in the mirror to know my face was redder than my hair was going to be. “I had a run-in with Dr. P. this morning. Apparently, he’s got the idea that I should be his next conquest.”

She frowned. “The lech. But what does that have to do with the bandage on your neck?”

“He, uh, apparently thought it would be cute to leave his mark on me,” I said grimly.

“No! A hickey?” Darla’s squeal silenced every other conversation in the room. Chairs swiveled in our direction and the other stylists froze, combs and scissors poised as they waited for the next revelation.

I sank down in the chair. Darla began combing out sections of hair and everyone else went back to work. “That man’s got a lot of nerve. You ought to report him.”

“Yeah, like that hasn’t been tried before. It never does any good. He’s this big respected doctor and I’m just some sex-starved receptionist.” I frowned at my reflection in the salon mirror. “No, the best thing to do is to just stay out of his way until he gets tired of it and decides to pick on somebody else.”

Darla’s scowl let me know what she thought of that strategy, but a good friend knows when to keep her mouth shut. She shook the ketchup bottle and began squirting color onto my hair. I closed my eyes. It looked like the fake blood they used in movies. I could always tell people I’d been the victim of a tragic accident.

“What did people at work say?” she asked.

“Most of them didn’t notice. The only one who gave me a hard time about it was Jeff.”

“Jeff? Who’s Jeff?”

I opened my eyes. “This kid who’s installing my new transcription equipment.”

“Just how old is this kid? And is he good-looking?”

I shifted in the chair. “Too young. Twenty-six.”

“Oooh. Twenty-six is a good age in men. They’re too old for fraternity parties and most of them still have all their hair. He’s handsome, I’ll bet. He must be, or you wouldn’t have ignored the question.”

I picked a piece of lint off the cape. “I wouldn’t call him ugly.” Tall, muscular, thick brown hair, dark brown eyes—no, that definitely wasn’t my idea of ugly. “It doesn’t matter what he looks like.”

“He’s that good, huh? So, are you gonna go out with him?”

“I’m not going out with him. He’s just a kid.” I swiveled the chair around so suddenly Darla missed my head altogether and a big blob of the fake-blood-looking hair color landed on my shoulder and dripped down the front of the cape.

Darla wiped at the spilled color with an old towel. “Twenty-six is not a kid. And he’s only six years younger than you. Just because you married an old man when you were nineteen doesn’t make you old. Besides, haven’t you heard that younger men and older women are more compatible sexually? There was a therapist on Oprah last week talking about it.”

Maybe six years didn’t sound like much to most people, but it felt like more than six years to me. I was mature for my age. Though come to think of it, that doesn’t sound like the compliment now that it did when I was nineteen. “Darla, he’s installing some computer equipment in my office. There isn’t anything sexual about that.”

“Sure there’s not.” Her expression told me she didn’t buy it. “He’s just a hot young stud who is interested enough in you to notice a love bite from another man on your neck and comment on it. And you’ve just spent ten minutes protesting how impossible it would be for you to have the slightest interest in him. That’s longer than you’ve talked about any man other than Steve the sleaze.”

I glared at her in the mirror. She laughed. “All right, I’ll drop the subject if you tell me one thing.”

“What’s that?” I was still suspicious. Darla had a way of getting confessions out of me that I didn’t want to give.

“Did this Jeff guy have anything to do with your sudden decision to become a redhead?” She pointed at my reflection in the mirror. “And be honest.”

“It didn’t have anything to do with Jeff.” I smoothed the cape across my lap. “I’ve thought about this for years.”

“Then why didn’t you do it before?”

“Steve wouldn’t let me.” Even as I said the words, I knew they sounded pathetic.

“What did he do, lock you in the house and threaten to take away your car keys?” She shook her head and made clucking noises under her tongue. “Sorry. I just can’t stand it when men try to tell their wives what they can’t do with their hair or their clothes or anything like that. It’s like they think women are children who need to be kept in line.”

“Steve always told me he liked my hair just the way it was,” I said wistfully. In fact, the first thing he ever said to me was “Hey beautiful, do blondes really have more fun?”

Okay, so it wasn’t a great pickup line. I was nineteen at the time. Steve was thirty and I thought he was suave and sophisticated. I didn’t care what he said to me as long as he said something.

“Well, I’m glad you decided to do this.” Darla set her minute timer and grinned at me. “It’s going to look great. So why now? What happened to make you decide to do it today?

I managed a smile in return. “You might say I owe it all to some samples of Viagra.”

“Viagra? The sex pill? Are they giving it to women now?”

“Nope. And a certain troublemaking man won’t be taking it, either.” I told her about swiping the doctor’s samples and dumping them down the toilet. “It was sneaky,” I concluded. “But it sure felt good.”

“Sneaky? It was brilliant. And it serves him right, the old lecher.”

“I’m sure he’ll just get more samples, but it makes me feel like I have a little power over him now. I know his big secret.”

“Speaking of secrets, I have some more news about your ex and Just-a-waitress.”

I squirmed in the chair, remembering the last “news” Darla had told me. “I’m not sure I want to know.”

“You’re going to know soon enough, anyhow. When she was in here she also told Henry that she and Steve-o are getting married.”

My stomach clenched and I locked my jaw, freezing my face into what I hoped was an indifferent expression. I shouldn’t have been surprised, considering that they were going to have a baby, but the information hit me like a punch. “Oh, hon.” Darla put her hand on my shoulder. “You didn’t really want him back, did you?”

I shook my head so hard little drops of color spattered across the front of Darla’s smock. “No. Never.” I didn’t want him back. But Steve marrying someone else was the final evidence that a chapter in my life was over. He was moving on, but what was I doing? I lived in the same house, held the same job, did the same things and I was still alone.

“Come on over here to the shampoo bowl.” Darla nudged me toward the back of the shop. “If you like, I do a pretty good rendition of ‘I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair.”’

A bit of a smile broke through my gloom. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

She patted my shoulder. “You’ll feel better once you see the new you. I guarantee a certain younger man is going to be hot for you once he sees you in red.”

“It’s been a long time since anyone was even lukewarm,” I said. “I don’t see why Jeff should be any different.”

“But you want him to be, don’t you?” She put her face close to mine, staring into my eyes. “Don’t lie, Phoebe Elaine Frame.”

I shrugged. “Sure, I’d be flattered if some gorgeous young stud thought I was all that. But it’s not going to happen.”

“It could.”

“Even if it does, I don’t think it would be smart to get involved with him.”

She turned on the water and tested the temperature against her wrist. “Who said anything about smart? What you want at this point in your life is fun. You haven’t had nearly enough of that lately. Sounds like young Jeff could be just the ticket.”

One way or round trip? I wondered as warm water cascaded over my scalp. Or did it really matter? If I was only going along for a pleasure cruise, did it really matter where it took me or how long it lasted?

4

I HAD A HARD TIME KEEPING my eyes on the road on the way home that evening. I kept tilting my head to look in the rear-view mirror at the stranger who stared back at me. Oh, she had the eyes, mouth and nose I was used to seeing when I looked at my reflection, but she also had a gorgeous head of shiny, copper-colored hair. I smiled every time I saw this “other” me. Suddenly, my eyes were bluer, my skin looked creamier. And all because of a change in hair color. “Who would have thought?” I murmured, and forced my gaze back to the road. I couldn’t wait to show off my new look at work tomorrow. What would Jeff say?

I smiled, imagining his reaction. I was still smiling when an ominous clunk sounded from beneath the hood, followed by a horrifying grinding noise. I put on my blinker and steered onto the shoulder. The grinding grew louder and I shut off the engine and stared out the front windshield. A bitter odor wafted up through the air-conditioning vents.

A string of choice curses fought to climb up my throat, but what came out of my mouth was “OhGodohGodohGod.” I bailed out of the car and hurried to pop the hood. The acrid odor was stronger. Was it my imagination, or did the whole engine appear to be leaning to one side?

I backed away, eyeing the car warily. The urge to kick something was strong, but I’m superstitious about cars. I think they can sense when you’re upset with them, and mechanical failure is their chief way to get back at you.

Yeah, I know people say cars can’t think, but who says they don’t have intuition? The minute you begin to hate one, they know it and will make your life miserable.

I stomped to the shoulder and looked out at the traffic flying past. Someone would stop soon and maybe they’d have a phone I could use to call a wrecker.

A pickup sped by so close its tires slung gravel at me. A chorus of catcalls and whistles sailed toward me.

Cars honked. Men whistled. One made an obscene gesture. Another man yelled that he was in love with me. Women looked the other way. Some even changed lanes so they wouldn’t have to drive on my side of the road. But no one stopped.

So much for chivalry or Good Samaritans. I searched the shoulder for a good-size rock. The next idiot who made a rude suggestion was going to get it in the windshield.

I’d found what I thought was a good weapon when a black pickup slowed and pulled in behind me. “Thank God,” I said, walking toward the truck. “I thought no one was going to st—”

The door opened and a pair of long legs in tan slacks emerged, followed by a pair of broad shoulders and strong arms. I swallowed and grinned weakly. “Hello, Jeff. Imagine meeting you here.”

He took a long time looking at me, his gaze traveling from the tips of my pink-painted toenails to the top of my coppery hair. “I like it,” he said at last. “Very sexy.”

I wasn’t sure if he meant my new hair color or me in general, but I didn’t dare ask. “What do you know about cars?”

“A little.”

I followed him around to my upraised hood. He looked at it for a moment, then leaned in and wiggled something. Then he slammed the hood. “Broken motor mount,” he said.

“Is that expensive to fix?” Who was I kidding? Everything about cars is expensive to fix.

“Shouldn’t be too bad. How long have you had the car?”

“I just got it yesterday.”

“Then it should be under some kind of dealer warranty. I’d take it back to where you bought it.” He slipped a phone from his shirt pocket. “We’ll call a wrecker to tow it to the dealer.”

“Won’t they be closed?” It was almost seven.

“If it is, the wrecker driver can leave it in the yard and you can stop by tomorrow to arrange everything.” He punched in a number. “What’s the name of the dealer?”

“Easy Motors. Over on Alameda.”

He made a face, then spoke to someone on the line. “Ben? This is Jeff Fischer. I’ve got a friend here who has a Mustang with a broken motor mount. Can you tow it for her to an Easy Motors, over on Alameda?”

He gave the driver directions, then disconnected. “He’ll be here in ten minutes.”

“Thanks.” Now that the car was taken care of, it felt awkward standing here with him. Cars raced past, stirring up dust that blew back at us in a hot wind.

He took my arm and steered me toward his truck. “Let’s wait inside.”

The truck was clean and relatively new. It smelled of leather and Jeff’s cologne. I sat on the edge of the seat, next to the door and found myself imagining what it would feel like to lie back in that cool leather seat, with Jeff slowly undressing me….

See what kind of trouble hormones will get you into? I crossed my arms and my legs and wondered if Jeff would think I was strange if I asked him to turn up the air conditioner. The air in that cab was definitely too warm.

“So, Red.” He turned toward me, grinning. “Did I ever tell you I have a thing for redheads?”

My heart pounded. “Uh…what kind of thing?”

He slid his hand along the back of the seat, toward me. “I think they’re very…exciting.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not an exciting person.” But I was definitely getting excited. I squeezed my legs together and tucked my hair behind my ears. “So, did you finish installing the transcription system?”

His grin never faltered. “Don’t think you’re going to get rid of me that easily. I’m under contract to stick around and teach you how to use the new software.”

I swallowed hard, imagining hours spent in my little cubicle with Mr. Testosterone. “I’ve been a transcriptionist for years. What’s to learn?”

His eyes darkened and his voice lowered. “Oh, I’m betting I could teach you a lot.”

He moved a little closer. I couldn’t decide whether to scream or throw myself at him. Throwing myself at him was definitely winning out when a horn sounded behind us and a purple-and-black wrecker pulled alongside.

We climbed out of the truck and met the wrecker driver beside my car. He was a whip-thin man with long gray hair pulled back in a ponytail, his denim work shirt rolled up to reveal arms corded with muscle. “Hey, Jeff. How’s your old man?”

“Doing great, Ben. Thanks for coming out. This is Phoebe Frame.”

Ben nodded, then turned to the car. “You bought this from Easy Motors?”

I nodded. “I’ve only had it since yesterday, so it’s still under warranty—isn’t it?”

Ben made a noise that might have been laughter. “Good luck getting anything out of that bunch.”

I retrieved my purse and Ben hooked the car up to the wrecker. I started to climb in beside him, but Jeff pulled me back. “Ben can take care of it. I’ll drive you home.”

I didn’t think that was a good idea, but before I could say anything, I heard clanking chains and tires on gravel and Ben pulled out into traffic, my Mustang hoisted behind him like the catch of the day.

“Okay. Thanks.” At least driving, he’d have to keep his hands to himself. As for me, I could always sit on my hands.

“I’m starved. Let’s get something to eat.”

Eating was too much like a date. I was not going to date Jeff. “I really need to get home,” I said.

“You have kids?”

The question jolted me. “Uh…no.”

“Good.”

Good? “Why is that good?” Was the world infested with men who didn’t like children?

“It means you don’t need to get home. And everybody has to eat, don’t they?”

We ended up at a place called Pizza Junction, which combined Old West decor with Italian food in a sort of spaghetti Western theme. “You’ve eaten here before?” I asked as we made our way past bales of hay festooned with braids of garlic.

“It’s very good.” He slid into a booth and I sat across from him. “I recommend the Lariat Special.”

I ordered a Diet Coke and agreed to split the Lariat Special with Jeff. He apparently wasn’t a man who believed in small talk. As soon as the waitress brought our drinks, he looked me over and asked, “How long have you been divorced?”

I stripped the paper from a straw and wadded it into a knot, avoiding his gaze. “Six months. We were separated six months before that.” Anticipating the next question, and wanting to get it over with, I added. “We were married twelve years.”

“Was it your idea, or his?”

I had to hand it to Jeff; he had nerve. I imagined him tackling computer problems this way: find out everything you can so that you approach the problem armed with information. I could have told him these things were none of his business, but why bother? It wasn’t as if I had any real secrets to hide. “It was his idea. He said he didn’t want to be married anymore.” I swished my straw around in my Diet Coke. “He has a young girlfriend now.”

He took a long pull on his beer. “He’s crazy.”

“Because he left, or because he took up with a younger woman?”

“Both. What could a younger woman offer that you couldn’t?”

He sounded so certain of right and wrong here. So naive. “You don’t understand now, but one day you will. Of course, right now, younger women for you are in high school.”

He leaned back against the booth. “I’ve always been partial to older women.”

“Then go visit the nursing home.”

He grinned. “Touchy, touchy. You know what I mean.”

The arrival of our pizza saved me from having to find an answer to that. Jeff was telling me he was interested in me and I couldn’t deny the powerful physical attraction I felt for him.

As we worked our way around the pizza, I turned the conversation to safer topics. I found out Jeff owned the company that distributed the software I was going to be using, as well as a number of other medical and dental programs. He had a small office with a few employees and spent most of his time in medical offices, selling or setting up new systems.

“Is every office as much of a soap opera as ours?” I asked.

“Pretty much.” He looked thoughtful. “They’re mostly women, you know, so it’s always interesting for a new man to enter in to the mix.”

“I’d think you’d enjoy the attention.”

His grin returned. “Oh, I do. I certainly do.”

He managed to eat most of the large pizza, and there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him that I could see. I’d confined myself to two pieces and hoped all that cheese wouldn’t translate itself into an extra inch on my hips by Friday.

It was almost nine o’clock by the time Jeff drove me home. I sat against the passenger door, staring out at the dark streets and thought of all the times some boy had driven me home from a date in high school. I had the same feeling now, that sort of jittery, sick-to-my-stomach sensation, anticipating whether or not he would kiss me, and what I would do if he tried. You’d think, at my age, I’d be over that kind of nervousness, but apparently it had come back to haunt me, like post-adolescent acne.

I had my door open seconds after the truck turned into my drive, but Jeff was almost as quick. “I’ll walk you to your door,” he said.

He came around the truck and tried to take my arm, but I shied away. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing.” I fumbled in my purse, looking for my keys.

“You’ve been jumpy all evening. What’s your problem? What is it about me that you especially don’t like?”

“It’s not you in particular,” I said, and headed up the walk. “It’s just…I haven’t had the best of luck with men lately.”

“Not all men are jerks like your husband.”

I thought of Dr. Patterson and the man who groped me in the elevator. “Just most of the ones I know.”

I started to unlock the door, but he covered my hand with his own. “I’m not like them.”

I sighed. “You say that, but your mind works like theirs.”

“How can you say that? You don’t even know me that well.”

He was leaning very close, and his eyes were dark with a desire that both frightened and thrilled me. “I know you’re probably going to try to kiss me right now,” I whispered, any intention I’d ever had of refusing him vanished from my mind.

He took a step back and shook his head. “I don’t think so. The mood you’re in, you’d probably bite my lips off.”

He turned away and I sagged against the door. “Good night, Phoebe,” he called when he reached his truck.

When he was gone, I let myself inside. I told myself I’d talked my way out of a tight spot. After all, I really didn’t want to start anything with Jeff.

But the part of me that never lied wished I’d let him kiss me.

5

THE NEXT MORNING, I was waiting at Easy Motors when they opened the doors. A teenage receptionist with allergies greeted me with a smile that soon faltered when I told her I’d bought a car there a few days before and now it needed a repair.

“You’ll have to talk to Frank,” she said, reaching for the phone. “He’s in charge of that.”

In charge of what? I wondered.

“Mr. A-dams,” the receptionist whined into the phone. “We have a customer out here with a prob-lem.”

A few moments later, a man in a rumpled brown suit came into the room, hand extended. His grin was too large for his face, wrapping around his cheeks toward his ears. “You’re the owner of that little Mustang they towed in last night, aren’t you?” he gushed. “Darling car. I can tell by looking it suits you to a tee. Come into my office and we’ll fix you right up.”

He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and steered me toward a glass-fronted cubicle that reeked of stale cigars and onions. Sweeping aside a stack of dog-eared repair manuals, he pushed me into a folding chair and took his own seat behind a green metal desk. “Now, how can we help you?”

I tried a smile of my own. “It’s simple, really. I bought my car here two days ago and last night it broke down. A friend told me it looked like a broken motor mount. So I had it towed here to be fixed.”

Friendly Frank nodded and plucked a multipart form from a stack on his desk. “We can do that. We can do that. Fix you right up.” He began writing furiously on the form, pausing twice to punch numbers into an ancient adding machine at his side. The machine whirred and clacked and unreeled a stream of yellowed paper. Frank added a final figure and pushed the form toward me. “Sign at the bottom and we’ll get right to work.”

Numbers danced down the page in cramped script. My gaze fixed on the figure at the bottom. “Four hundred and seventy-two dollars!” I shoved the paper back toward him, gasping for breath. “I’m sorry. I must not have made myself clear. This repair should be covered under the dealer’s warranty.”

Frank’s smile vanished. “Your car is seven years old, and there’s no such thing as a warranty on a car that old.”

“But I’ve only had it two days.”

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “I don’t make the rules, lady. I just enforce them. Now, do you want the repair or not?”

“Not!” I stood. “I’ll take the car somewhere else.”

“Fine.” He handed me a second form. “That’ll be eighty-nine, ninety-seven.”

“For what? You haven’t done anything.”

“Storage fees.”

“This is outrageous.”

“Don’t blame me because you bought an older car. You should have opted for one of our premium models.”

“This is not my fault,” I protested.

“What do you know about cars, Mrs. Frame?”

I glared at him, but didn’t answer.

He rose and patted me on the shoulder. “Do yourself a favor. Next time you go shopping for a car, bring a man along.”

I jerked open the door and stormed into the lobby once more. “I want to see the manager,” I told the receptionist.

Her eyes widened. “Mr. Adams is the manager.”

I turned and saw Frank smiling at me. Not the cheery grin with which he’d greeted me, but the look of a sly fox.

I wanted to rip that smile right off his face. I wanted to scream, to throw punches, to do something to make him quit looking at me as if I were a bug and he was about to squash me.

I didn’t have the strength to beat him up or the clout to make him afraid of me, so I did the only thing I knew to do. I gave him the haughtiest look I could manage. “This isn’t the end of this,” I announced, and stomped out the door.

I stalked down the sidewalk, my shoes slapping against the concrete, sending tremors up my legs. My stomach churned and my heart raced. I hated this feeling of helplessness. No matter what Frank said, Easy Motors had cheated me. But there was nothing I could do. They had my car. They had the six thousand dollars I had paid for the car. And unless I gave them more money, I wasn’t going to have the money or the car again.

“Aaaargh!” I yelled in frustration. A man on a bicycle stared at me and swerved across the street to avoid me. I didn’t care.

I took a deep breath and deliberately slowed my steps. “Don’t fall apart, Phoebe,” I muttered. “Think this through. There has to be something you can do.”

I started to feel a little better. I wasn’t going to let Frank Adams and Easy Motors get to me. If they were going to fight dirty, then I would fight dirty, too. I didn’t have much experience, but I was a fast learner.

MY MOOD HADN’T IMPROVED MUCH by the time I arrived at work, but my co-workers’ enthusiastic reaction to my new hair color made me feel a little better. Of course, there’s always a spoilsport in every bunch. Joan Lee made a face when she saw me. “I don’t think it suits you,” she said. “Too flamboyant.”

“I can be flamboyant,” I protested.

“Transcriptionists are not flamboyant,” Joan announced, as if this was a fact obvious to everyone but an idiot.

“Maybe red hair is just a start.” I tossed my head in what I hoped was a confident, flamboyant manner. “Maybe I’m thinking of changing careers.”

Joan shook her head and walked away. I could see my next job evaluation. Hair color not suited to job description.

I filled my coffee mug and headed toward my cubicle. Jeff met me in the hallway. He grinned. “I think there’s a flamboyant Phoebe underneath your mild-mannered guise as an ordinary transcriptionist,” he said.

The idea pleased me, but I wasn’t about to let him know it. I was still a little miffed about the way he’d walked away from me last night. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you eavesdropping will get you into trouble?”

He lifted one eyebrow in that sexy way of his. “Maybe I’m a man who likes trouble.”

I bit back a smile and hurried past him, to my office. He followed. “Did you get everything settled with your car?”

I tightened my grip on the coffee mug. “Not exactly.”

“Not exactly?” He intercepted me in the doorway. “What do you mean, not exactly?”

“The manager at Easy Motors says I don’t have a warranty. They want almost five hundred dollars to fix the car, or ninety dollars to release it so I can take it somewhere else.”

Jeff frowned. “Want me to go talk to them?”

“No!” Just what I needed, a man getting me out of this fix. “I’ll take care of it myself.”

He shrugged. “Just thought I’d offer.”

I pushed past him and sat at my desk. I dug the phone book out of the drawer and flipped through it. “What are you looking for?” Jeff asked.

“Are you always so nosy?” I punched in a number and waited while it rang.

“Houston Banner. Bringing you the news first.”

“Hi. I’d like to speak to your consumer affairs reporter.”

“I’ll transfer you to editorial.”

An elevator-music version of “Livin’ La Vida Loca” filled my ear. I swiveled my chair around and saw Jeff still watching me. After a moment a man’s voice barked, “News desk. Sanborn.”

“I’d like to speak to your consumer affairs reporter.”

“No such animal.”

I blinked. “Pardon me? What happened to Simon Saler, the Consumer’s Friend?”

“He quit. Said he wanted to be a sports reporter.” I heard a chair squeak and the rustle of papers. “He got tired of people writing in wanting to know where they could buy the last bottle of Coty perfume or complaining they saw a roach run across their table at Casa Lupe.”

“My aunt gets her Coty from a specialty store in Dallas. And how would you like it if a roach shared your lunch?”

“Well, why didn’t you say something while Simon was still here? Maybe he wouldn’t have run off to write about the latest fight on the basketball court.”

“But what am I supposed to do about the car dealer who sold me a lemon car?”

“You’re on your own, dearie.”

Fat lot of help he was. I slammed down the phone. “What are you going to do now?” Jeff asked.

“I’ll think of something. Right now, I’d better get started on these charts or Joan will make me clean bedpans or file appeals with insurance companies.”

“Go ahead and use your old software to get caught up,” he said. “But then I want to start teaching you the new program.”

I sat and scowled at the tower of folders beside my monitor, then glanced at the idle computer down the counter from mine. “Joan’s going to have to hire someone to help me if she expects me to keep up,” I said, and reached for my headphones.

Jeff sat on a stool and rolled it over next to me. “So, are you really contemplating a new career?”

I shrugged. “Maybe.” Actually, before that morning, the thought had never occurred to me. Not that I wouldn’t enjoy a more glamorous, better-paying job, but transcription was all I was trained for. “I think I’d better handle one life change at a time,” I said.

“I didn’t realize changing your hair color took that much out of you.”

I frowned at him. “I meant my divorce.”

“That was six months ago. Old news.”

“Which goes to show you’ve never been divorced.”

“I don’t intend to be, either.”

“What, you’re going to remain single all your life?” I slipped the headphones over my head and popped the first tape into the machine.

“No. But when I marry, it’s going to be for life.”

“That’s what I thought, too.” I switched on the tape and Dr. Patterson’s drawl filled my ears. I didn’t want to listen to Jeff’s naive pronouncements about the sanctity of marriage. I could have told him no one plans to bail out before “death do us part.” Sometimes you just don’t see it coming, like a headon collision. Most people survive, but it doesn’t mean you aren’t a more careful driver for a while.

He seemed to get the message and left me alone after that. He fiddled with the other computer for a while, then wandered off to some other part of the office. I worked faster once he’d left. There’s something disconcerting about listening to a description of an old Mr. Miller’s problems with impotence while a sexy stud sits three feet away.

Just before lunch, I finished up a stack of letters to referring physicians and set out to deliver them to the various offices in the building. I could have sent them out with the next batch of interoffice mail, but delivering them in person was one of the few legitimate excuses I had for escaping my cubbyhole.

The last of my letters went to the OB-GYN office on the second floor. Dozens of fruitful women in designer maternity wear kept three physicians and twice as many nurses and techs busy. I could never look at the “wall of fame” beside the reception desk, with its photos of smiling moms and dads with their newborns, without feeling a pang of sadness. I kept telling myself I still had plenty of time to have kids, but there was that pesky matter of needing someone to be the father. I wasn’t crazy about diving back into the whole relationship thing any time soon.

“Thanks, Phoebe,” the receptionist, Beverly, said when I handed her my letters. “I think I’ve got some for you, too.”

While Beverly went in search of the letters, I turned my back on the family photos and surveyed the waiting room. A trio of women in various stages of pregnancy sat reading copies of American Baby and Modern Maternity. The nurse came to the door and beckoned one woman and she levered herself out of the chair and waddled toward the exam room. There was something familiar about her long blond hair, her glowing skin….

I clutched the edge of the reception desk, overcome by the urge to scream or puke, I wasn’t sure which. The lovely Madonna waddling away from me was none other than Just-a-waitress Tami, the future Mrs. Steven Frame.

“Here are those letters. Thanks for waiting.” Beverly shoved a stack of envelopes toward me. She frowned. “Are you okay? You look a little pale.”

“I’m…fine,” I lied. In any case, there was no medical cure for what ailed me.

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