by Liz Stafford
www.beautifultroublepublishing.com
Copyright © 2011 by Liz Stafford
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including but not limited to: printing, photocopying, faxing, recording, electronic transmission, or by any information storage or retrieval system without prior written permission from the authors or holders of the copyright.
This book is a work of fiction. References may be made to locations and historical events; however, names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination and/or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), businesses, events or locales is either used fictitiously or coincidental. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only.
Published by
Beautiful Trouble Publishing, LLC
PO Box 61
Colfax, NC 27235
www.beautifultroublepublishing.com
Cover Art: Les Byerley http://www.les3photo8.com/
Editor: Barb Wilson
Proofreader: Novellette Whyte
http://authorgurunovellette.blogspot.com/
Formatter: Jim & Zetta, http://www.jimandzetta.com/
E-book Conversion: Jim & Zetta, http://www.jimandzetta.com/
ISBN: (e-book) 978-1-61788-204-3
NOTE ABOUT EBOOKS
eBooks are NOT transferable. Re-selling, sharing or giving away eBooks is a copyright infringement. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author or Beautiful Trouble Publishing.
CAVEAT
This work of erotica contains adult language and sexually explicit scenes, which are smoking hot. This book is intended only for adults, as it is defined by the laws of the country in which the purchase is made. Keep this book out of the hands of under-aged readers.
Chapter One
Tonya maneuvered the Lexus along Broadway, checking out the Christmas lights in the store windows. Business had been slow and she’d decided to close the clinic and go home early. Two days after Christmas, traffic was sparse. People were home resting up for New Years. New Years—another wasted holiday. A day with no paycheck. What was there to look forward to, anyway? Her family was all back east, in the snow. It just wasn’t Christmas without snow. She turned up the radio to drown out the Scrooge-like thoughts.
Over the sound of Michael Bublé’s soothing voice, tires squealed. Someone shouted. A cat wailed—long and high-pitched. The sound brought every hair on Tonya’s body to attention. She raced toward the commotion, dismayed to see that a cat had been hit by a car. The animal, a Persian by the looks of it, lay there all glassy-eyed, its hind legs jerking in uncontrollable spasms. Its long black hair was coated with blood.
Tonya ran to the scene. She pushed between two male elbows. In response to the muttered, “Watch it,” from the blue-covered elbow, she said, “I’m a doctor. A vet.”
She knelt beside the limp cat. Tonya eased open an eyelid and checked the pupil’s dilation. No doubt about it, the cat was in shock. The only clear-cut physical injury was a broken rear leg. It lay at a right angle to where it should. More than likely there were internal injuries. She wouldn’t know more until after a thorough exam, which she’d do at the clinic.
Tonya peered up at blue-sleeve. “Anyone know who the owner is?”
“My cat,” came an accented voice—she couldn’t place it right now, and didn’t try—from just over her shoulder. Gosh, how long had he been standing there? His breath was a mixture of garlic and something else, some kind of meat, she thought.
“We have to get him to my clinic.”
“S’cuse?”
She pointed left. “I am a doctor.” She wasn’t sure how much this pussy-tingling man understood, but he got the gist. He smoothed a hand over curly hair, stood and backed away as she got to her feet. He, as did most people, towered over her by well over a foot. She tilted her head for a better look. Yes, dark curly hair and equally dark eyes. Tonya fell instantly and irrevocably in love. She would have to do something about his clothes. He had on a light blue shirt and orange striped tie. God, who dressed this man? She stifled a giggle. No way was this one married.
Together they maneuvered the cat onto a piece of cardboard they found in the gutter. Thankfully, the kitty had stopped screeching. She hated when pets cried. Its eyes were still glassy, its pulse erratic. The owner steadied the cat on the cardboard.
“Stay here while I go get my car.”
“S’cuse?”
She raised a finger in the universal signal to wait. Pulse thumping, she ran to the car and drove fifty feet to pull up beside him—the man she would someday marry.
She got out and raced around to open the rear door and help him inside. Good thing the clinic was only four blocks away. Rianna Farraday, her partner, had been fortunate to find this building—it had once been a Chinese restaurant—in the heart of LA.
Tonya tilted the mirror hoping to keep an eye on the cat, but all she could see was the very worried owner. He was obviously foreign, but since he’d only spoken a few words, she’d been unable to place the accent. She loved accents. To stereotype his looks would be wrong, but still, those dark eyes, slightly hooked nose and wavy black hair said he was probably Turkish or Iranian. And gosh, did he smell good—a combination of vanilla and maybe basil. Weird for a guy. But perfect for him.
Something inside her jangled. Something not related to the adrenaline rush related to the emergency. Of course she recognized horniness. She had a healthy desire for sex. But relationships and Dr. Tonya Lansing didn’t mix. She’d been there, done that more times than she could count. No man she’d ever met could handle a woman who owned a business. Sure, at first they smiled and acted all proud when they introduced her to their friends. Then weeks passed; the men grew aloof and stopped calling. She couldn’t count the times she’d checked her cell phone to make sure it was charged.
Oh, who was she kidding? Deep inside, she knew what it was they couldn’t handle—a woman who worked twenty hours a day. Two years ago, she’d had to make the choice: put the energy into the business or a man. There just wasn’t enough to go around. So, the clients’ pets became her children. All the woolgathering brought the devastating reminder that this man was indubitably and unquestionably off-limits.
Inside of ten minutes, they were at the clinic with the cat lying on the cold metal table. Tonya performed a thorough exam, then patted the man’s trembling fingers that held onto his cat. She raised her wait-finger again and rushed to the back to turn on the x-ray machine, praying for the damage to the cat—and her heart—to be minimal.
Chapter Two
Gaspar Zakaria watched the doctor leave. All five feet, eighty pounds of her. Doctor, his ass. The little thing couldn’t be more than thirteen years old. In a minute, she’d come through that door accompanied by one of her parents, who really was a vet, and they’d all share a hearty laugh. That flowing golden blonde hair and smooth makeup-free face did nothing but add to doubts about her age.
But therein lay the problem. In thinking her a child, he’d acted like a child himself and pretended he couldn’t speak English. Oh well, what was the harm? If she could fix Shamira, they could go their separate ways and he’d never have to see this woman-child again. Never have to admit his mistake. And his lie. Gaspar hated people who lied.
The door opened and she came in. She’d divested herself of the sweatshirt. Hot damn! He’d been thinking of her as a doll. A Kewpie doll. The kind with the big, round eyes and plump baby’s body. But this was no Kewpie doll. She was a Barbie doll—like the ones his
sister used to play with—a living, breathing, anatomically correct Barbie doll. His eyes must have bugged out or something because she laughed.
“Most people react that way the first time.” She tilted her head to look up at him.
“S’cuse?”
“When I— Oh never mind.”
Gaspar raised his brows at her.
“Let’s start over.” She turned and took a white lab jacket from a stand in the corner. When she slipped her arms into the sleeves, her breasts popped forward and made him ache in a bunch of places at once. She straightened the coat but didn’t button it. There was a blue and white nametag on the left breast pocket, but he couldn’t read it. Darn, why hadn’t he worn his glasses? If he had, the darned cat wouldn’t have gotten out of the car in the first place.
The vet stuck out her hand. “Doctor Tonya Lansing, veterinarian extraordinaire.”
He couldn’t stop his hand from jumping into hers. His name almost squirted from his mouth. He managed to stop it just in time.
She laughed. “Name. What is your name?”
He nodded, pretending to understand…and reluctant to remove his hand from her very soft one. If he did, though, the tremors might stop shooting up his arm.
She stabbed a finger between those gorgeous breasts. “Tonya.” Then she poked him in the chest and waited.
God, please get him out of this before the lie snowballed into an avalanche. “Gaspar Zakaria.” He pointed to the cat. “Shamira.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Gaspar and Shamira, though I wish it were under better circumstances. Well, the x-ray machine should be warmed up by now. Shall we go?”
Tonya gently picked up the cardboard, still under his cat, and carried it to the other room. She slid the cardboard from under Shamira and gestured for Gaspar to stay outside the room. A true foreigner would question this, but Gaspar knew well the need to stay away from the 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 grip, man. He slammed his fists down again.
The phone rang. Since the receptionist wasn’t in yet, he answered, hoping it was a cancellation of his first appointment. “Good morning, Gaspar Zakaria here.”
“Good morning, this is Taryn from Tender Hearts Pet Clinic.” His heart jumped. Why hadn’t Tonya called? “We wanted to let you know that Shamira is doing fine. She rested well through the night and just finished her breakfast and a bowel movement.” There was a giggle. “Not at the same time, of course.”
“Of course. When can she come home?”
“Doctor Lansing isn’t in yet. She will examine Shamira later this morning, and someone will call to let you know.”
“Okay, thanks for calling.”
Sounds in the outer office signaled the receptionist had come in. After checking messages, she’d bring the coffee she’d gotten in the habit of picking up at the local coffee shop each morning.
When she came in, he told her about Shamira’s accident. The receptionist was a cat-lover herself—had five of her own feline creatures. They commiserated a moment.
“What time’s the first appointment?” he asked.
“Ten minutes.” She thumped the desktop with a knuckle. “So, drink up. A clean lab coat is in the closet.”
The morning was busy, and it passed quickly. He hung the lab coat on the back of his desk chair and flopped into it. His lunch had been delivered. The lamb biryani sat steaming in its Styrofoam container. Gaspar distracted his wandering libido with a forkful of pistachio sour cream and a cashew.
The door opened and the receptionist poked her head around the door. “Sorry to disturb you, but we have a walk-in. Looks like a dislocated shoulder.”
Most times, he made patients who arrived without appointments wait till he finished eating, but a dislocated shoulder was damned painful. He shoved the food aside, washed his hands in the adjoining bathroom, slipped into the lab coat and opened the door that adjoined the examination room.
And nearly ducked back into his office because, there on the table sat none other than Dr. Tonya Lansing, woman-child vet.
Chapter Five
Tonya shot off the table when Gaspar came in. She tripped over her sneakers and launched
shoulder-first into the wall, then crumpled right there on the floor, pain shooting to places she’d forgotten existed. When the pain subsided enough she could breathe, she opened her eyes. And came face to face with that face, those eyes, that V between his eyes, the five o’clock shadow that made her wear out a set of batteries last night.
He put a hand to her forehead. “Checking for a fever. You’re all flushed.”
Was there laughter in his voice?
Tonya didn’t dare look him in the eye.
She did deserve laughter. She was acting like a schoolgirl having her first breakup. Okay, get your ass in gear. Go sit on the table like a good girl and let the lying, bastard, lying, son-of-a-bitch, bastard pop the damn shoulder back in place so you can get the heck out of here.
Why Rianna wouldn’t do it for her, she had no idea; they had to put several pet’s shoulders back in place over the course of a year. Nothing to it.
But noooo. Rianna had to throw her in the car and come here, of all places. Man, would she hear about it when Tonya got back in the waiting room.
Gaspar took out a thermometer and—
“It’s my shoulder that’s hurt, you idiot. Nothing else. So put that thing away.”
“Wow, you get testy when you’re in pain. Let’s make a deal—I will put it away if you get back on the table.”
“Okay. Okay.”
He put out a hand. Tonya didn’t want to touch him. Been there, done that yesterday and still felt his hands on her boobs— Wait, that was in her fantasy.
She sighed, took his hand, and allowed herself to be helped onto the table. Her feet dangled off the end. Even the moving feet hurt the shoulder. He stepped between her legs—which officially stopped them from dangling. Whoa, he’d wedged himself in there last night too. Damn, that was also the fantasy.
“Want to tell me what happened?” His gentle fingers probed the bad shoulder.
“Not really.”
“Okay. How is my cat?”
“Fine. You can take her home tomorrow.”