Take a Chance on Me (23 page)

The truth was, Aaron wasn't comfortable thinking of himself as a killer. It went against everything he thought he was. Sure, he had a few bad habits, but he'd never killed anyone. Scott Slick changed all that. The little faggot had gone too far.

Aaron looked around him—this place would be perfect for his purposes, if the time came. He didn't want to have to do it—and he hoped to God he wouldn't have to—but he was ready just in case.

He wasn't a stupid man, but when he lost big, he could get so angry that he couldn't think straight. If Slick had only been willing to listen to him, it wouldn't have happened. But Slick had laughed at him, told him it was out of his hands now, and Aaron got so pissed off that he reached around, grabbed the first thing he could get his hands on, and hit that little pecker in the head with it—blood everywhere, all over his new Reeboks and down the front of his shirt.

He'd had to drive out to the boonies and start a fire at the edge of a farm field, where he burned everything to a crisp.

And he'd just paid a hundred bucks for those shoes! He drained the drink and thought about leaving. He had a long drive and he'd had a lot to drink.

But the woman at the bar was still looking at him, still grinning at him, still sticking her boobs in his direction.

Why the hell not?

He got up and walked toward her. It's not like he was married anymore. Not that that had ever stopped him.

« ^ »

I f Emma had been alarmed at the sight of Thomas Tobin in a suit, then how could she describe what she was feeling now, seeing him sprawled out in a waiting room chair with disheveled hair, unshaven face, and worried eyes, his powerful legs sticking out of a pair of loose shorts, his broad shoulders and chest draped in a washed-out rugby shirt ripped at the elbows and splayed open at the collar?

Stunned was a good word. Like a doe in the high beams. Like a dieter looking into The Cheesecake Factory display case. Like the love-starved woman she was, looking at the most delectable serving of man she'd ever seen.

Thomas raised his eyes to the door. He scrambled to his feet, tucked Hairy into the crook of his arm like a football, and waited for her to reach him.

The journey across the waiting room played havoc with Emma's sympathetic nervous system. Her mouth went so dry she was afraid she'd dehydrate while her hands were so wet she had to wipe them on her sweatshirt.

She came to a stop and slowly raised her chin. Thomas hovered over her, his blond head lowered, his eyes wary and waiting. "Hey, Emma," he said in a husky whisper.

A bolt of hot lust spiked Emma to the floor through the cork soles of her Birkenstocks. Just a simple two-word greeting in that raspy male voice and she was toast. A goner.

Hairy began to squirm.

"He's got to pee." Thomas began to walk away but suddenly turned and peered at Emma, like a man double-checking the door lock before leaving on vacation. He narrowed one eye. "I'll be back."

Emma wheeled around to watch the Terminator stride out the door, noticing how long his legs were, how much taller he was than her, how much bigger, and how if she wanted to she could reach her arms straight out and they'd be the perfect height to grab on to his tight butt.

She blinked hard and shuddered. What was she—insane? Why the hell did she drive out here—to torture herself? She must be ovulating.

"Your boyfriend's been real worried about his little dog."

Emma spun back the other way. She hadn't noticed there was anyone else in this room, in the world! But an older couple sat on a pair of yellow vinyl chairs just a few feet away, and the woman smiled sadly at her.

"My boyfriend?" Emma was trying to force the haze from her brain. It was one in the morning. She was tired. She was crazy. She was ovulating—how was she supposed to carry on a conversation?

"I'm sorry. Your husband, then?" The woman produced a brave smile and Emma could see she'd been crying. The man had been crying, too.

Emma sank down into the chair next to her. "Actually, I'm the little dog's vet. I'm here to—" She stopped, unsure how to finish and aware it wasn't important anyway. She reached for the older woman's hand, thin and dry in her own. "Why are you here tonight?"

The woman's chin began to crumple and her lower lip trembled. "Leonora—she's our Shih Tzu—didn't come in from the backyard after Letterman."

"I knew right then…" The man lowered his eyes and shook his head. "She always comes in after Letterman."

"She got out under the fence again," the woman said. "We called and called, then went out searching and found her by Frederick Road . There's so much traffic there."

"Do they have her in surgery now?"

She nodded. "The vet already told us not to keep our hopes up. There was a lot of…" The woman's voice broke and she began sobbing. Her husband's arm went around her and he completed her sentence.

"Internal injuries, you know."

Emma knew all too well what happened when a Shih Tzu met a Subaru. She gripped the woman's hand while she cried.

She'd seen countless people grieve for their pets over the years, from macaws to Mastiffs. When a pet died, the sense of loss was profound, pure, and uncomplicated. The intensity of the bond between animal and human would forever awe her.