What Phoebe Wants. Cindi Myers
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