machine’s rays.
Chapter Three
Tonya pushed the button to take a picture of Shamira’s broken leg. She had trouble hovering her finger over the button, it was shaking so badly. What was wrong with her hand? Another dumb question. She knew perfectly well it was leftover trembling from Mr. Gaspar Zakaria’s touch. Stop! Stop! Stop. You cannot—will not—fall for him. The man is off-limits.
Somehow Tonya managed to take, and process, the x-rays of the cat. She slipped the films inside the lighted boxes and put on her glasses to view the first one, of the cat’s hind leg.
“Looks like a break in the metatarsus,” came a soft voice from over her shoulder.
The sound—and accent-less English—made her literally leap into the air. She spun on Gaspar, claws distended, ready for battle.
“I owe you a serious apology.”
“You damn well do.” She whirled away and, stiff-spined, went back to reading the x-rays. How dare he deceive her that way! No, it was her fault, for being taken in by a handsome face. For thinking he might be different from other men. For falling under the spell of his touch.
He’d been right, though. The cat’s leg was broken about an inch from the first phalange. As far as she could tell, there were no internal injuries.
“I think we should keep her overnight.” The words came out in staccato fashion. She couldn’t help herself. Rage at his deception was barely held under control.
An agonizing hour later, she had treated the cat for shock and settled it comfortably in a cage at the back of the clinic. Several times Gaspar apologized. Each time she ignored him. Even when their hands touched as he helped move Shamira into the cage.
Just get through this and send him home—the words became her mantra. Get him out of here and she wouldn’t have to see him again. In a day or so, when it came time to release Shamira, Tonya could just sign off and let Taryn, the tech, take care of everything. Taryn would be instructed to encourage Mr. Gaspar Zakaria to take the cat to his own vet for follow-up care.
Finally, the paperwork was done. Tonya shut the door on a still-apologizing Persian. A gorgeous, pussy-drenching Persian who apparently had knowledge of cat anatomy. And spoke English like a pro. She’d think about that later. No. No. No. She would not think of him any more.
Tonya threw on a threadbare robe, reheated some chicken curry and ate it in front of the television. Though her favorite show, NCIS, was on, and she was looking at the screen, the only show playing before her eyes was she and Gaspar—even though her anger at him hadn’t abated one iota. They were doing things she hadn’t done in a very long time.
She leaned back on the cushions, remembering his face. The tiny dimples at the corners of his mouth when he smiled. The double V between his eyes when he was worried. The five o’clock shadow that, because of his very dark hair, was probably there all the time.
Her fantasy-gaze roved lower. Not too much chest hair. Just enough to twiddle as her fingers made their way toward his deep, dark areoles. Nicely defined muscles, though he was no Arnold Schwarzenegger. That was okay with Tonya. She hated a guy that looked better than her. Her robe sagged open as her fingers tweaked her own nipples to eraser-like points. Her right hand pushed lower—on herself, yes, but at the same time, on her imaginary lover. More hair there: an oh-so-defined arrow pointing down, down, to the prize in the Cracker Jack box-ers.
She popped open the top and–
Yikes!
Time for BB to come out and play. Hopefully, the batteries were fresh because she’d need them big-time tonight.
And later she would write one hundred times why she would not think any more about Gaspar Zakaria.
Chapter Four
Gaspar pounded both fists on his desk. Damn, he was mad. And tired. He’d spent the entire night sitting in this chair berating himself for screwing the vet. No. Screwing with the vet. Get a
Chapter Three
Tonya pushed the button to take a picture of Shamira’s broken leg. She had trouble hovering her finger over the button, it was shaking so badly. What was wrong with her hand? Another dumb question. She knew perfectly well it was leftover trembling from Mr. Gaspar Zakaria’s touch. Stop! Stop! Stop. You cannot—will not—fall for him. The man is off-limits.
Somehow Tonya managed to take, and process, the x-rays of the cat. She slipped the films inside the lighted boxes and put on her glasses to view the first one, of the cat’s hind leg.
“Looks like a break in the metatarsus,” came a soft voice from over her shoulder.
The sound—and accent-less English—made her literally leap into the air. She spun on Gaspar, claws distended, ready for battle.
“I owe you a serious apology.”
“You damn well do.” She whirled away and, stiff-spined, went back to reading the x-rays. How dare he deceive her that way! No, it was her fault, for being taken in by a handsome face. For thinking he might be different from other men. For falling under the spell of his touch.
He’d been right, though. The cat’s leg was broken about an inch from the first phalange. As far as she could tell, there were no internal injuries.
“I think we should keep her overnight.” The words came out in staccato fashion. She couldn’t help herself. Rage at his deception was barely held under control.
An agonizing hour later, she had treated the cat for shock and settled it comfortably in a cage at the back of the clinic. Several times Gaspar apologized. Each time she ignored him. Even when their hands touched as he helped move Shamira into the cage.
Just get through this and send him home—the words became her mantra. Get him out of here and she wouldn’t have to see him again. In a day or so, when it came time to release Shamira, Tonya could just sign off and let Taryn, the tech, take care of everything. Taryn would be instructed to encourage Mr. Gaspar Zakaria to take the cat to his own vet for follow-up care.
Finally, the paperwork was done. Tonya shut the door on a still-apologizing Persian. A gorgeous, pussy-drenching Persian who apparently had knowledge of cat anatomy. And spoke English like a pro. She’d think about that later. No. No. No. She would not think of him any more.
Tonya threw on a threadbare robe, reheated some chicken curry and ate it in front of the television. Though her favorite show, NCIS, was on, and she was looking at the screen, the only show playing before her eyes was she and Gaspar—even though her anger at him hadn’t abated one iota. They were doing things she hadn’t done in a very long time.
She leaned back on the cushions, remembering his face. The tiny dimples at the corners of his mouth when he smiled. The double V between his eyes when he was worried. The five o’clock shadow that, because of his very dark hair, was probably there all the time.
Her fantasy-gaze roved lower. Not too much chest hair. Just enough to twiddle as her fingers made their way toward his deep, dark areoles. Nicely defined muscles, though he was no Arnold Schwarzenegger. That was okay with Tonya. She hated a guy that looked better than her. Her robe sagged open as her fingers tweaked her own nipples to eraser-like points. Her right hand pushed lower—on herself, yes, but at the same time, on her imaginary lover. More hair there: an oh-so-defined arrow pointing down, down, to the prize in the Cracker Jack box-ers.
She popped open the top and–
Yikes!
Time for BB to come out and play. Hopefully, the batteries were fresh because she’d need them big-time tonight.
And later she would write one hundred times why she would not think any more about Gaspar Zakaria.
Chapter Four
Gaspar pounded both fists on his desk. Damn, he was mad. And tired. He’d spent the entire night sitting in this chair berating himself for screwing the vet. No. Screwing with the vet. Get a
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