What Phoebe Wants. Cindi MyersЧитать онлайн книгу.

      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