Busting Loose

M
ORE
FROM
K
AT
M
URRAY

 

 

 

 

 

KAT MURRAY

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

M
organ Browning, DVM, stared his archenemy down. “You can't beat me.”

His enemy blinked.

“I'm smarter. I'm stronger. And I can think.”

“I will take you down.”

The phone blinked again, signaling that this little intimidation exercise had not, in fact, helped solve the problem of how to get the voice mail off the machine to make the light go off.

“Dammit.” He pushed away from the desk in disgust. Why had Jaycee left for the day already? It was only three. She was the only one who knew how to make the stupid machine behave.

She'd given him a month to find a replacement for her as she trained to move up from receptionist to vet tech. And in reality, he agreed with her choice to become a tech.

But why, God why, did she leave him alone for the afternoon without teaching him how to make the ugly thing stop blinking?

The bell above the door swung open, and Morgan summoned up the friendly smile he always pasted on for paying customers. But as he turned and caught sight of his patient, the smile broadened naturally.

“Bea, hey. What's going on?”

“I—” She glanced at the phone as it rang, then at the empty chair. “Do you need to get that?”

“No, it's fine.” He reached for Bea's Boston terrier, Milton, whom she'd adopted a few months ago. “Did you have an appointment?” The dog licked his face, smudging one lens of his glasses more so than it already had been.

The phone stopped ringing, and blissful silence—but for the dog's snuffled breathing—filled the waiting area. He sighed in relief, then his body clenched again when the phone rang once more.

“No appointment. I just . . . okay, are you sure you don't want to get that?” She pointed a finger at The Devil. “We can wait a few minutes.”

“Ignore it.” He was. Morgan held the Boston up to eye level, squinting through the smudge. “Hey, dude. What's up?”

“He keeps scratching.” Bea puffed and blew some baby-fine white-blond hair out of her eyes. Her hair reminded him of a pile of feathers, it looked so lightweight. And she wore it in a short style that framed her face, too short for pulling back like most women he knew. But a face like that deserved a frame.

“Dogs scratch, Bea.” He hid a smile behind Milton's back. To Bea's mind, every whimper and whine was a new health scare for her pup. “But let's go take a look at—”

“Okay, that's it!” Bea swerved around the desk on heels so high they had to be a danger to her health and plopped down in Jaycee's old chair. Picking up the phone and pressing two buttons he never would have considered pressing together, she chirped, “Morgan Browning's office, how can I help you?”

Morgan's eyes nearly bugged out as far as Milton's. The flighty, sometimes ditzy-acting Beatrice Muldoon had just sounded like a true professional. Fascinated, he leaned over the desk to observe.

“Yes, of course. Oh, the poor thing,” she cooed. “Let me check for you, please hold just one moment.” Pressing another two buttons, she glanced over at him quickly. “Appointments this evening?”

He shook his head. “None so far. Who is it?”

“The Peckinpaughs. Their family dog is throwing up. Do you want to . . .” She motioned to the phone.

“Yeah, just a minute.”

He picked up the receiver, then stared helplessly at The Devil. “Help.”

“Men,” she muttered, then pressed a few buttons and waved for him to continue.

“Thank you,” he mouthed and pointed toward the open exam room behind him, holding up a finger to indicate he'd be there in a moment.

She nodded and scooped Milton up, walking to the room and closing the door behind her.

God almighty, those legs of hers made his mouth water more than any medium-rare steak ever could. The things he would give up in life to be able to watch her kick off her shoes under his exam table and crawl up there for—

“Hello?”

Shit. “Yes, hello, Mrs. Peckinpaugh. I hear Toby's having some trouble.”

Legs could wait. At least for now.

 

“No, Milton, stop that.” She bent down and placed her fingers between his scratching paw and his neck, earning an unintentional swipe over her knuckles for her trouble. “Ow, that hurt.”

“Did he get ya?”

Morgan's voice from behind startled her, and she straightened so fast, the blood rushed from her head. His hands went around her biceps to steady her and ease her into a chair.

“Whoa now. Didn't mean to scare you. Just sit a second. Standing up at that altitude might really get ya.”

“Altitude?” she asked, bringing her hand up to inspect the scratch. Just a red scrape, no broken skin. She eyed the dog, who looked innocent. A look he'd been perfecting for a few months now.

“The heels,” he said with a smile. “They're tall enough to have you ducking low-flying aircraft. Need me to check your pulse?” He was watching her eyes from behind hopelessly smudged glasses, and she knew he was taking stock of whether her pupils were dilated. Or not dilated. Whatever it was those medical types looked for.

Cutie. Dr. Cutie. Wanting to save the world, one forlorn case at a time.

“I'm fine. But Milton needs help.”

Morgan looked skeptical at that, but he sat back on his haunches and called the dog over, who trotted toward him with ease. Morgan removed his collar to inspect the skin under. “Where is he scratching?”

“His shoulders and neck, mostly. Sometimes at his ears.”

“You're using a flea and tick prevention?”

“The one you recommended, yes.”

“Bathed him in anything new?”

“No. Same stuff since I got him.”

“Hmm.” Morgan picked up the dog and checked under one leg, then the other. “Any other problems? Not eating, not drinking?”

“He's fine, other than the scratching.”

“Well, then I think you're gonna make it, my man.” He roughed up the top of Milton's head with two knuckles in an adorable gesture of manly affection for the small dog. “I think he's got allergies.”

“Allergies? The dog?” She rolled her eyes. “It would figure I'd get a high-maintenance canine. Allergies.”

He refrained from making any sort of joke about a high-maintenance dog for a high-maintenance woman. It was a softball, even she could admit it. She appreciated the restraint. But he did smile and hold out a hand to help her up.

“I'll get some samples of allergy meds. But really, you can give him the human stuff. I've got a paper around here somewhere that gives you the dosing instructions based on his weight.”

He walked back out to the front desk and started opening file cabinets at random, peering in, and slamming them shut again quickly. Milton escaped deep under the desk, in a dark corner, as if sensing something bad was coming.

The phone rang again, and Morgan completely ignored it.

After the third ring, she asked, “Should I get that again?”

“No, I can do it.” His voice was muffled in a drawer.

Uh-huh. Right. Since he didn't know how to take a call off hold, he could obviously answer the complex office phone system. To soothe his male ego, she said, “You're busy—I'll just answer this one.” She slid around him, her thigh brushing against his shoulder.

And okay, wow, her nerve endings stood up on point for that one. Clearly, if she was getting hot for the vet, she'd been in Marshall too long. Finding him adorable in a distant,
sure, he's cute
sort of way was one thing. Getting hot for the good animal doctor was another thing entirely.

“Morgan Browning's office, how can I help you?” She listened, scribbling the message down on a pad of paper to pass to him when he was through. “That's wonderful, I'm so glad you're considering a dog from our shelter. I have to tell you, I just got my Milton from there a few months ago and it was the best decision I ever made.”

Morgan turned to watch her, but she shrugged. How hard could this be?

“What kind of dog were you looking for? Mm-hmm, yes, okay . . .” She scribbled down the qualities the family was hoping for on a pad of paper. “I'll have Dr. Browning give you a call back in a bit after he's had a chance to think about it. How does that sound? In the meantime, there's a form online you can print off and fill out to bring in with you. That would save you some time when you come in. Yes, just go to the vet website, then click on the tab up above for the shelter. Yes, that's right. Well, thanks to you, too. I hope you find what you're looking for!”

She hung up and smiled, then caught Morgan's stare. “What?”

“How did you do that?”

“What?” She looked at the phone. “Answer it?”

“No, know how to do all that . . .” He waved a hand around like he was swatting flies. “All that talking crap. Know all the right things to say.”

Bea rolled her eyes and patted his cheek . . . which was easy to reach because he was squatting by another file cabinet. “Sweetie, talking is what I did for a living. Acting on a soap is ninety percent talking. And when I was still auditioning for gigs, I was night receptionist at a twenty-four-hour pharmacy.”

“But even with the adoption stuff . . .”

“I just went through this process a few months ago. It's fresh in my mind. They're looking for a small dog, more of a lap dog than anything. No kids, just the wife and her husband. Empty nesters.” She pushed the pad toward him and stood. “That's their number. I told them you'd check what's available now and get back to them.”

He grabbed her arms again, like he had in the exam room, but it had nothing to do with catching her before she fainted. His hands were warm against her chilled, bare skin, the pressure just a little insistent.

“You can answer the phones.”

She nodded slowly at his wild-eyed gaze. “Yes.”

“You can talk to people.”

“I manage to use real words and everything,” she bit off.

“Can you use e-mail and figure out a calendar program?”

“Morgan, who the hell doesn't know how to use e-mail anymore? What's this all about?”

“You're hired.”

“I'm what?”

 

Bea walked into the big house, dropped her keys and bag on the floor by the row of boots, flipped her heels off out of habit more than any desire to please their housekeeper, and set Milton down on the floor. The dog, as if to make up for all the trouble he'd caused her that afternoon, had the good sense to go hide somewhere. Likely wherever little Seth had been earlier, dropping crumbs. Kid left a trail of Cheerios in his wake like he was inviting ants to a picnic.

“Bea?”

And shit. Peyton's voice. Darting upstairs would cause too much noise. Maybe if she quietly walked toward the office, she could slip away unseen. Her sister might just assume one of the hands was dropping something off in the office. She might—

“Miii-mon!”

Seth's delighted shriek—Milton's butchered name—had her closing her eyes in resignation.

“Bea, we're all in the dining room.”

She sighed and headed that way. As she turned the corner and saw everyone sitting down, she bit back a second useless sigh and propped her shoulder on the doorjamb. “Yes?”

Her brother Trace patted the seat next to him. “Sit. We're eating, and there's plenty, as usual.”

Milton hopped up into the chair, tail wagging excitedly at the idea of being invited to dine with the big people who had the good food.

“Oh no. No, no, no.” Emma walked around the table and used a napkin to shoo the dog back down to the floor. “I tolerate that barking cat in the house, but I won't have him sit at the table.”

“Calm down, Emma. He was just confused.” To placate the housekeeper, she sat and grabbed a plate. Nothing made Emma happier than people eating her food. Emma nodded her satisfaction and headed back to the kitchen—her kingdom, over which she reigned on high—and left the siblings, plus their mates Red and Jo, to eat. “Pass some veggies, please.”

“Try protein,” Peyton suggested, handing over the platter of fried chicken instead.

Bea's mouth watered, but she used one finger to nudge the platter of fried trouble to the side. “Thank you, no. The vegetables if you please.”

“Here.” Peacekeeper Red, who'd moved in with Peyton that spring, handed over the mixed veggies with a smile. Over the clatter of silverware and Seth's excited babbling from his high chair, he asked, “How was your appointment? Everything okay?”

Bea scooped a heavy serving of vegetables on her plate, debated a second spoonful, then decided no. They were likely cooked in butter and oil. She'd grab an apple on the way back to her garage apartment across the ranch. “Milton has allergies and I have a job.”

The screech of a fork over a plate made her cringe. When she glanced up from her forkful of green beans and carrots, she stared into four identical shocked faces.

Peyton, naturally, was the first to break the silence. “A job? Like, where you're actually going to work?”

“No, the other kind, where I do nothing and get paid for it,” she bit out.

“So your old job,” her sister replied.

“Acting. Is. Work.” Her jaw ached from clenching.

“How exciting!” Trace's girlfriend, Jo, exclaimed, a little louder than socially acceptable. “Doing what?”

Just to piss Peyton off, she answered, “Working at Harem Ladies.”