Sneakers, Sandals & Stilettoes:

Fairy-tales for the Well-Heeled Princess

by

Natasha Deen

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Sneakers, Sandals and Stilettoes: Fairy Tales for the Well-Heeled Princess

Copyright © 2011 Natasha Deen

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: natasha@natashadeen.com

Cover art: Nicola Martinez

Blueberry Hill Press

Published in the United States of America

Print ISBN: 978-1456596705

Dedication

For Alli, Alice, Caitlin, Donnae, Jo, Mel, Nicola, Stacy, & Sven, you keep me sane—an almost impossible task. Thank you.

Other Titles by Natasha Deen

(writing as Bronwyn Storm)

Ethan’s Chase

I Love You a Latte

Praise for Ethan’s Chase

This modern day story will keep you on the edge of your seat!

~ Romance Junkies

This book is AMAZING from beginning to finish...you NEED to read this book.

~ Ohio Girl Talks

A sexy, fun, quick read.

~ Cheryl’s Book Nook

I would definitely recommend this book to anyone!

~ The Long and Short of it Reviews

You have an all-around great read that manages to combine comedy, romance and suspense all in one book.

~Confessions of an Overworked Mom

It's absolutely perfect for a middle of the week book to release some stress from your busy week.

~ A Moment with Mystee

Every time I had to put it down, my mind would be on the book, wanting to see who was trying to sabotage Chase and Ethan's businesses...I just HAD to keep going back and finding out what happened next.

~ Book Reviews by Molly

Chapter One

The day, having begun with small notes of inconvenience, ended in a symphony of disaster and things gone wrong. Aggie pulled into the driveway of her two-storey condo, and the music hit its crescendo. Cymbals crashed and climaxed with the sight of Dillon, the love of her life and the object of her torment, lit by the headlights of her fire-engine red MG Triumph.

He stood on the sidewalk, his latest confection of choice beside him. Drop-dead sexy, the red-head had curves so deep, she would send Barbie running to the nearest plastic surgeon. Aggie turned away so she wouldn’t see them kiss good bye and jabbed her garage door remote hard enough to break the tip of her gel nail. She pulled the car into its space and wrenched her exhausted body from the seat.

“There’s my favourite music producer.”

Dillon’s bass voice washed over her in a warm, sensual tide of low tones and smooth timbres. She glanced up, saw the redhead driving away in a silver Mercedes, then turned to regard him. Late evening, and she was bedraggled, rumpled, and wrinkled. Dillon, on the other hand, dressed in faded jeans and a blue, long-sleeve jersey, had the audacity to look pressed, fresh, with not a stray lock of his ebony hair out of place. The fact that he, naturally and with little effort, carried himself with the grace and confidence of a super-model did nothing but sour her already dark mood.

“Can it, MacKenzie. It’s eight o’clock, and I’m too damn tired for another episode of “As the Bed Sheets Rustle.”” She crawled into the back seat and gathered her briefcase, three cloth bags worth of groceries, and her laptop. She backed out, her mules contacting the cement floor with a dull click.

“Is it Stelner, again?” The dulcet wave of his voice crept with soft steps, to her ear. “I keep telling you, he’s working you too hard.” The warmth of his breath puffed against her ear, the hard comfort of his body brushed her back. Dillon reached in front of her, his fingers wrapped over hers as he grabbed the bags and work equipment.

“It’s not Stelner, just a long day—would you stop helping? I can handle it.” She elbowed him in the ribs, but he had six inches on her five foot, eight inch frame and outweighed her by at least eighty pounds. Blocked on one side by the door and on the other by Dillon, she struggled to hold onto the bags and manoeuvre herself from the mind-melting, knee-buckling proximity of his presence. He wrapped a hand around her waist and tried to grab a bag with the other. Her stomach jumped and jived at his touch.

“Would you stop being so stubborn? Let me help you.”

To cover her excitement, Aggie whirled to face him, intending to force his retreat, and immediately regretted the move. All the best parts of their bodies lined up. Added to that, was the synapse-exploding, brain-liquefying sight of him. Bright blue irises, framed by black lashes, blanched almond-toned skin, a generous mouth and a killer smile. The sight of him coalesced into a sexy bullet that hit her between the eyes and made the air in her lungs exit in a sharp “oh!”

Dillon’s smile widened into a grin and her lungs forgot how to breathe.

“Step away from the bags, Agnes Frump, and let your favourite neighbour help you.”

The use of her full name made her wince. Agnes Frumps of the world never got the Dillon MacKenzies, no matter how many Victoria Secret bras they bought, glamorous their music producing career, or witty their repartee, because the Dillons always loved the Rubies, Opals, and Pearls. Jewelled women who spoke ten languages, did Karate and Yoga, owned Fortune 500 companies, and saved endangered species in their spare time. Next to his bevy of girlfriends, Aggie was tacky costume jewellery, nothing but a cheap knock off of the woman he wanted. “I don’t need your help.”

His eyes clouded over, then cleared back to a sunny blue. “You won’t even let me carry one?”

“No.”

“Okay.” He stepped back and crossed his arms. The indulgent smile on his mouth underscored the trivial stupidity of her pride, and when she had to wrestle with the door—moving and stumbling around like a drunk tortoise, trivial stupidity nose-dived into the humiliation of having made an idiot of herself in front of the one person she most wanted to impress.

She slammed the door shut with her behind.

“Better?”

“Yes.” She tried not to pant the answer.

In one step, he moved towards her and in a swift motion, scooped her into his arms.

“Dillon! What are you doing?”

“If you won’t let me help you with the bags, then I’m going to help you to the door.” He started for it.

“I’m not an invalid.” She did her best to ignore the way her body rippled with pleasure as it jostled and rubbed against him, but her senses dived into the heaven that was him.

“No, but you’ve obviously had a bad day. You’re behaving like an over-tired toddler, and someone has to step in and be kind to you.”

“Well, thanks for the pity good deed. Let me know when you get your badge, Boy Scout.”

He climbed the two steps of her porch. “I take it back. You’re like a sumo wrestler who hasn’t had his lunch. What happened to put you in such a funk?”

“Probably coming home and seeing you with yet another bimbette.”

His chuckle tickled her insides, and she hated both of them for her reaction. She wriggled out his arms, and he set her down on the ground.

“Where are your keys?”

“Umm…”

“Never mind.” He flipped open her jacket, checked the pockets. His hands against her body were efficient, friendly and if his insides shook like hers, he didn’t show it. He reached into her back, jeans pocket and pulled out the keys.

“So? Who was the dish?”

He shot her a quizzical glance.

“You know, the sex-pot, the dolly.”

“Did we step through a time tunnel and into the forties?”

“Leave me alone. I’ve spent the week producing an Ella Fitzgerald retrospective. You’re lucky I don’t tell you to hit the road before I pump you full of lead.”

“What have I told you about reading Sam Spade?” He unlocked the door and stepping through, flipped on her foyer light.

“I gotta do something during the lunch hour, and I finished all the Mickey Spillane books you lent me.” She crossed the threshold and let him take the bags from her.

“You won’t pump me full of lead—you off me, and you’ll die of starvation. Did you get the sea salt?”

“Yes.”

He held a bag to his face, and peered into it, his expression filled with doubt. “You’re sure—you didn’t pick up the regular kind by mistake?”

She rolled her eyes, loving him and feeling exasperated at the same time. “I did one better. Before I came home, I took the Trans-Canada highway from Vancouver, hopped on to a ferry. After it set sail, I waded into the Pacific Ocean, scooped out a litre of water and let it evaporate.”

“Sarcasm will not get you roasted Illabo lamb with tomato, olives and aioli on Monday night.”

“Yeah, but I bet begging will get a certain, gorgeous friend to unpack the groceries.” She kicked off her shoes, wriggling her toes against coolness of the slate floor.

“Of course I’m going to put everything away. You’ll get lost and frightened by all the chrome and large appliances. I picked up the lamb on the way home. We’ll have burgers tomorrow.” He turned and headed into the kitchen. As he flipped on lamps and switches, yellow light splattered the ochre-coloured walls of the living room. Aggie followed and collapsed, face-down, on to the couch.

“You never answered my question,” she said.

“Which one?”

“Who was the dame?”

He laughed, and she pulled a throw pillow over her head to squelch the giggle of delight that always rose in her when he was happy. “Her name is Brandy.”

“Brandy? Brandy?” She hauled herself to her knees and stared over the couch arm, into the kitchen, keeping her gaze on his broad shoulders and ignoring the temptation to let it fall to his glorious behind.

He looked over his shoulder, his profile chiselled, perfect, and the stuff of sculptors’ dreams. “What’s wrong with Brandy?”

“Nothing—unless you consider the names of your previous paramours: Brandy, Damiano, Sherry, and Bailey. Honest to God, are you dating women or aperitifs?”

He turned, a frozen boxed meal in his hand. Dillon held it aloft, like Moses getting ready to fling the stone tablets. A look of thunder blackened his face. “What the hell is this? Haven’t we talked about you and this crap?”

“It’s quick and easy—like you,” she grinned, but his face darkened from thunderous to stormy.

“It’s full of preservatives and salt. I cook for you, why are you buying this?”

“Because you’re not always going to be here—one day you might move on to the Cinnamons, Sages, and Thymes of the world, and I’ll have to feed myself.” Her eyes misted over, and she looked away before he could not only see the tears, but the fears that kept her awake at night, mourning his eventual loss.

“Don’t be silly. I’ll always be here to cook for you—we’ve been neighbours for three years. I’m not going anywhere and with your dismal dating habits, neither are you.”

“And you think Cinnamon will be fine sharing the dinner table with me?”

He frowned. “I’m never going to marry anyone named Cinna—well, okay I might marry a Cinnamon, but never Thyme. I couldn’t stand to watch her pass me by.”

He grinned at his pun, boyish, charming, and her heart puddled into a viscous pool. She tossed a pillow at him. “Stockbrokers shouldn’t be comedians. Where’s my dinner?”

The pillow sailed back through the air and landed on the cushion beside her.

“It’s coming.”

She flopped on to the couch. “So, where did you meet her?”

“Who?”

“The Queen—Brandy, who else?”

“Low blood sugar makes you really grouchy. The gym.” He pivoted on his heel and refocused his attention on the groceries in front of him.

Of course. “Let me guess. She’s a CEO—no, wait—” Aggie thought about the way Brandy’s hair had swung in long, wavy layers, her lush curves, and sexy clothes—“she owns her own business. I’d say she speaks at least three languages, and—” her brow wrinkled as she tried to remember the type of shoes the woman had worn—“she’s got a fetish for antiques—classic pieces. I bet her house is full of Chippendale furniture.”

Dillon appeared over the back of the couch. “What are you, psychic? She’s a dealer in antiques.”

“No, I just know you—children’s charities, right?”

“Yes, she’s on the board for two. Open your mouth.”

Her nose twitched. “Why? What are you planning on putting inside it?”

“Something you really want.”

She doubted that, but she opened her mouth, anyway. He popped in a square of cheddar cheese.

“Do you know there’s a chemical in cheese that acts like opium in the brain? It’s one of the reasons that dieters have a hard time giving it up—cheese literally makes them happy.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Be happy or I’m going to stuff the entire brick down your throat.” He handed her three more cubes.

She laughed, she couldn’t help it. He made her wonderfully, deliriously joyful and the thought of losing him to another woman, broke her heart. “So, how long do you think you and Brandy will last?”

He shook his head. “Give me a break.”

“You go through women like chefs go through paper towels, stockbrokers go through…what do stockbrokers go through?”

“Friends who lecture them on relationships.” He stepped away from her and headed back into the kitchen. This time, she let her gaze linger on the delicious movement of his jean-covered ass.

“Just give me a ballpark—are we talking forever? A fling?” She didn’t voice the last thought—that she needed to know so she could prepare rations of tissues, chocolates, and ice cream, in case Brandy was his idea of perfection.

“You sound like my mother.” His voice climbed to a falsetto with perfect tones of a Cantonese accent, “When are you going to find a nice girl, like Aggie?”

She almost choked on a mouthful of cheese. “Your mother wants you to settle down with a girl like me?”

“She adores you—why do you think I drag you to Sunday dinner?”

“Because you like having me around, not because you thought your mother needed a playmate.” Her tone hit the bull’s eye for huffy indignation.

Dillon gave her a tolerant smile, as though she was being unreasonable but he didn’t mind, and she felt like lobbing the last piece of cheese at him. The smell of sautéed onions and garlic filled the air, calling to her appetite, making her nose twitch with anticipation. Her stomach demanded the dairy product. She stuffed the last bite of cheddar in her mouth and chewed it, alongside the harsh words she wanted to fling at him.

“Of course I like having your around, Aggie. I just meant that mom loves you and dad thinks you’re wonderful.”

“And you?”

He smiled. “And I think you’re swell—like lemon pudding.”

His mother and father adored her, and he ranked her with gelatinous goo. It was enough to send her into an apocalyptic fit. “Pudding?”

Chicken broth and the scent of carrots filled the air. He reduced the heat, covered the pot, and turned to her. “What’s wrong with pudding? It’s light, easy—it’s perfectly fine.”

If he’d called her ugly and boring, he couldn’t have hurt her more. “You know the sea salt is for cooking and not rubbing into the wounds of my already bad day, right?”

His black brows pulled together and his mouth turned down. “What’s wrong with you, tonight? You’ve been snappy and quick to fight since you got home.”

“What’s wrong with me? Here’s a better question, what’s wrong with you?”

He back-pedalled in surprise. “Me?”

“Every night I come home, and every night, you’ve got some stupid girl on the driveway—it’s like you purposely plan it.”

“How am I supposed to cook you dinner, if I’m still on a date? Of course they’re leaving when you come home.” His voice rose with irritation.

“Why can’t they leave sooner? Why can’t you let me eat my stupid frozen food in peace?”

“Because it’s bad for your health.” Impatience licked the words.

“You’re bad for my health.”

“It was Stelner, wasn’t it? What did he do—more work, forgo your promotion?”

“No, I got the raise and the promotion.”

His face lit with joy. “Aggie, that’s great. Why didn’t you say something, sooner? I’m just making fried rice. If I’d known, I would have made you a special dinner.”

Aggie looked into his beautiful face, into the eyes that she could drown in, at the smile that chased away all the dark clouds in her life, and asked, “What if I wanted more than dinner?”

He cocked his head, his expression cute and confused. “Like dessert?”

“How can a man who graduated Suma Cum Laude, and speaks five languages be so obtuse?”

The wrinkles of confusion deepened into fissures. “About what?”

She sighed. “I love you, Dillon.”

His face smoothed out, and the smile she lived and died for, brought the sun into his eyes. “Yeah. I love you, too.”

“No, I mean I really love you.”

He laughed, the sound full of relief, and tinged with a note of exasperation. “Yeah, and I love you too. Geez, you’re my best friend. There’s got to be love.” He cupped her face and kissed her forehead. “I’m going to finish dinner and then we’re going to talk about whatever’s bothering you.”

He moved back into the kitchen. Her eyes tracked his movements and her heart wept because it seemed her lot in life to watch him walk away from her. “Is it the freckles?”

He glanced back. “What?”

“The scrawny limbs—the small breasts? The not straight, not curly hair of mine?”

“Is that was this is about? You’re feeling insecure because you don’t have a boyfriend and I have a girlfriend?”

“No—”

“You’re fine just as you are, Aggie. And one day, you’ll make a man very happy.”

“I don’t want to make a man happy,” she said, desperation raising the pitch of her voice, “I want to make you happy.”

But he added the chicken as she spoke and the sizzling of food, drowned out her words. Too exhausted to put in the effort to yell at him, she turned and lay down on the couch. The sounds of water and his humming mixed with the aromatic smells of dinner. Her lids gained weight and before she knew it, sleep crept upon her and willingly, she let it lead her into a dream world where Dillon loved her.

****

When she awoke two hours later, the house lay in dark quiet. She struggled to her feet, went into the kitchen, and flipped on the light. Dillon had cleaned after himself, the way he always did, and the marble countertops gleamed under the pot-lights. A black plate, covered by an equally black bowl sat on the stove. She went towards it and saw the note lying on top: Aggie, you were sleeping, didn’t want to wake you. Let’s talk tomorrow. Added a special spice to rice, tell me what you think. D.

Chapter Two

She stuck the bowl in the microwave. As the rice heated, sending mouth-watering aroma of vegetables and spices drifting through the house, and she stared at the note in her hand, wishing he’d added “love” or “hope to see you soon.” The chime of the microwave pealed, ripping through fanciful imaginings and the reality of her life crashed to the ground.

Aggie grabbed a fork from drawer and fluffed the brown grains of rice. She took a bite. Parsley, basil, chicken, and vegetables melded together in a harmonious chord of delicate spices and colourful textures. The need to devour clashed with the desire to savour. Dillon didn’t have a talent for food; he possessed a genius for it. She ploughed through the bowl, figuring she’d take her time with the second helping. Metal scrapped against ceramic as she shovelled mouthful after decadent mouthful. Too soon, the black bowl stood empty.

Bare, like her heart.

Vacant, like the other side of her bed.

How many times would she continue to throw herself at him, only to be patted on the head and sent packing with the consolation prizes of friendship, fidelity, and fried rice? Her appetite evaporated. In its place, a bitter taste developed, strong with the vile, pungent tang of unrequited love and the astringent kick of a future sharing a mutual wall with a man who would never see her as anything but a buddy.

The walls closed in. The one she shared with Dillon seemed to grow until it loomed over her like a drywall sentry. Chicken and rice rolled in her stomach. She pushed away from the table and reached for a glass of water. Beyond the bay window, the darkness of night, usually a beacon to stay away, beckoned her with a lighthouse beam. It called her from the choppy waters of inner turmoil and closing walls, and into the safe harbour of the woods that lay beyond her backyard fence.

She flicked the tap back on, refilled the glass, and guzzled it. Aggie glanced at the microwave clock. Ten in the evening was late for a stroll, but if she didn’t get out of the house—even for a few minutes, the pounding of her heart would increase to fatal speeds. She dumped the glass into the dishwasher, raced to her bedroom, taking the stairs two at a time, and grabbed a fleece pullover. Adding a pair of sweatpants to the ensemble, she sped downstairs, shoved her feet into sneakers, and bolted for the open air.

The cool wind eased the clamminess and calmed some of the nausea. She strode through her backyard and out the rear gate into the woods. Like Lot’s wife, though, she couldn’t resist looking back.

The lights in Dillon’s house washed his windows with buttery yellow. His figure moved from the living room, where the television’s blue glow flickered, to the kitchen. He wore nothing but a pair of plaid pyjama bottoms, and her fevered heart and soul etched every detail of his carved, taut body to memory. Her mouth went dry, her limbs felt weighty and light at the same time. She turned away, a new question now possessing her thoughts: did she follow the fatalistic leanings of love and remain his neighbour, or opt for common sense, and put as much geographical distance as possible, between them?

Her steps, heavy and plodding, took her into the tree cover. The rustling and chattering of racoons shivered the leaves, and twigs cracked under her steps. A soft wind tickled her hair, trailing it against her cheeks, as though Mother Nature sympathised with her plight, and offered a gentle, comforting touch.

Aggie kept her head down, her eyes on the lookout for the dark shadows of roots and stones. Thoughts and fears swirled with hopes and opinions. Whole notes and quarters, climbed the scales of her heart and mind, tripping over each other in a frantic tune. Consumed with Dillon, roots, and stones, she didn’t think to keep some of her focus for low branches until one reminded her of its presence with a sharp, hard, smack to her head.

Bright spots of blue, pink, and yellow sparked in her vision. Her eyes clenched against the throbbing in her temples, she rubbed her forehead with one hand. Though she kept telling her feet to stop walking, the branch’s uppercut seemed to have downed the connections between her brain and body. One step, two, eyes still shut, her foot caught in a tree root that sent her tumbling to the ground. She hit the earth with a sound thud, jarred teeth, and another thump to her head. A metallic clang joined the quartet of pain and indicated that she hadn’t tripped over a root, but someone’s discarded junk.

The thud and thump reconnected severed lines because her body—at her command—remained still and huddled under a tree. She massaged her ankle, forehead, and neck. After a few moments, the pain subsided from sharp to a dull throb. She pried her eyes to their fully open position, and began to search for the object of her near-destruction.

The dull glint of metal caught the moonlight filtering through the leaves. Moving slow and deliberate, she crawled along the dirt and twigs to pick up the offensive object. Night’s lamp hadn’t the wattage for a thorough investigation, but she felt the rounded, smooth contours of its shape and the rough, raised bumps of its design. A teapot or some type of knick-knack held the culpability for her twisted ankle and sore head. Aggie let go of the pot but it didn’t let go of her. She shook and flung it, trying to leave the object in the dirt, but the vase seemed to stick to her hands with the tenacity of rubber cement. Repulsed, she renewed her efforts to separate herself from the piece of trash. Still, it remained glued to her. Resigning herself to carrying someone’s junk home, and trying to remember if she had disinfectant in the medicine cabinet, she got to her feet and limped to her condo.

****

In the glow of the ambient light, the jar revealed itself to be a miniature Turkish teapot. Tarnished gold, with strange hieroglyphics and etchings lay buried among dirt and twigs. Instinct told her it was both old and precious. She turned the ornament over, looking for a name or identifying mark, but couldn’t see anything for the mud. Carrying the pot to the sink, she turned on the water and began to rinse the debris. Whatever had caked the pot and her fingers, dissolved and broke apart like icing sugar.

Earth remained embedded in the cracks and grooves of the pot. She scrubbed at it. A pop, a hiss, and deep pink smoke began to pour out of the spout. Too shocked to drop the object, she stood rooted to the spot, wondering just how hard she’d knocked her head. The scent of figs, pears, and jasmine filled the air as the fuchsia fog poured out and surrounded her.

Survival instinct kicked in and doubt followed with a punt that knocked holes in her concussion theory. Frantically shaking the pot, she tried to rid herself of the object. Once again, the rubber cement came back and no amount of vibrating or warm water would release her from it.

The fog spanned out, then began to swirl into a funnel. Spinning and turning, it coiled into a miniature cyclone. Its speed should have created enough wind to whip the paper towels or ruffle the curtain hems, but the air remained eerily still and quiet. Fear dried her throat and adrenaline poured, lava-hot, into her veins. Slowly, she set it in the sink, careful not to jostle it. Since she couldn’t seem to free herself, she opted for stepping away as far as arm length would allow.

“Maybe I hit my head harder than I thought—maybe Dillon put some odd spice in the rice.” The fear in her voice reverberated along the tiled backsplash and echoed in the kitchen.

“Do not be afraid,” said a feminine, child-like voice from the cyclone.

Her heart leaped hard, fast, and intense, crashing against her ribs like a bird smacking into a window. “I’m hallucinating—” She glanced over at the door, debating whether to race next door and risk the humiliation of his laughter, or just drive herself to the hospital with the pot stuck to her hand. Of course, once she started telling the doctors the Turkish pot had spoken to her, the orderlies would leave rubber tread marks on the linoleum floor as they rushed her to the psychiatric ward. Dillon’s amusement was palatable in comparison.

“You’re not delusional—” an embarrassed laugh pre-empted the confident tone. “Can you do me a favour?”

“Um, sure.” Which was more insane, to hallucinate or to have the hallucination talk?

“I appear to be stuck—” The feminine voice dropped low with sheepishness.

“Stuck?” Surprise at her apparition’s plight momentarily blocked fear.

“Yes, can you reach in and pull me out?”

Dread screamed back to the forefront of her emotions, as fear crawled under her skin and rippled her heart. “P-pull you out?”

The cyclone swirled in silence, then, “Yes. I am stuck. Please pull me out.” The woman—if that’s what she was—repeated the words, slower and louder.

Aggie bristled. “I’m not deaf.”

“Then pull me out. I’m getting dizzy and sick.”

“What are you—what am I pulling out?”

“What—are you kidding me?” Her voice rose with incredulity. “A voice is speaking from a pot and you don’t know what I am? I’m a genie and I’m going to be a puking genie if you don’t help me. Soon.”

Okay. If this was her hallucination, it wasn’t going to hurt her—genies didn’t hurt people…did they? She tried to remember the plot line for Aladdin, but nothing came to mind.

“Hurry.” The plaintive, mewling tone ripped Aggie from her stasis.

She stepped towards the sink, stuck her free hand into the vortex. It had a talc feel, like snowflakes without the chill, and swirled around her hand in a balmy eddy. Her fingers prodded the air, touched something semi-tangible. The thing reached back, wrapped around her hand, and began to scale her.

The genie’s touch was soft yet solid. She padded up Aggie’s palm, light and quick, and as she emerged from the fog, she revealed herself to be a tiny, black cat—a kitten, really, about three months old. The tornado spun into itself, smaller and smaller, until it disappeared.

Aggie blinked. Hard. “I didn’t think genies could be animals.”

The genie heaved a long-suffering sigh and rubbed at her emerald-coloured eyes with a paw.

“I’m sorry—did I insult you?”

“No. Human ignorance is something all magical creatures must deal with. An animal can be a genie.”

“Shouldn’t you be in a lamp, not a pot?”

Another heavy sigh, another long-suffering feline look. “Anything that houses a genie is called a lamp, whether it’s a pot or jar—much the same way that a house can be a condo or an apartment.”

Aggie peered at the magical spirit, staring at her from one angle then the next. She was a cunning little thing, with too large ears, jewelled eyes that sparkled in a myriad of greens and lime colors, and sleek, black fur that shone with glossy tones. “Can I touch you?”

“Yes.”

She ran her finger along its back. The genie purred and arched, her semi-transparent tail curled around Aggie’s hand.

“You feel…like cotton candy.”

“Is that good?”

“I love cotton candy. This is one hell of a hallucination. I’m really going to have to talk to Dillon about his spices.”

“It isn’t a hallucination,” she said, in her child-like voice. “I’m real.”

“Real,” Aggie repeated, her cynicism made her nose twitch.

The kitten pointed in her direction. A bolt of lightning fired from her paw and zapped Aggie on the arm.

“Ow!” Smoke, acrid wisps of grey and blue curled from the sleeve.

“Real enough for you?”

“You’re a testy, little genie, aren’t you?”

“You asked for proof.”

“I was hoping for a plate of chocolate or the appearance of a gorgeous half-naked man, not electrocution.” She rubbed the spot where the bolt had hit.

“I’m sorry; I was trying to make a flower.”

Aggie stared at the kitten. “Are you new at this?”

“No,” the genie sighed. “It’s a long story.”

“Do you have a name?”

“Ebony.”

“You’re awfully cute, all paws, fur, and stomach.” Aggie scratched the cat’s forehead. “Hello, Ebony. How long have you been a genie?”

“Long, too long.”

“Give me a timeframe.”

“Since the ages of giants and gods, titans and fairies.”

“Oh, a long time.”

Ebony gave her a contemptuous look that only the feline species had mastered, and coupled with the fact that she was a magical cat, the expression was positively withering. She jumped to the floor and began to prowl the perimeter.

“Give me a break; I’m new at this whole magical thing.”

Ebony padded towards her and head butted her leg. “I’m sorry. This must be very strange for you.”

Aggie sat on the floor, her back against the fridge. “Are you hungry?”

“Genies don’t eat.”

“Tired?”

“Don’t get tired, either.” She leaped onto Aggie’s knees and perched. With her tiny face, large eyes, and even larger ears, she epitomized adorable.

“I can’t imagine spending a lifetime never being hungry or tired.”

“I wasn’t always a genie.”

Aggie frowned. “How did you become one?”

“It’s a long story.”

Of course.

“Thank you for freeing me. As a reward, I will grant you three wishes.”

“Oh.” She rubbed her cheek, thinking about the bolt of lightning. “I don’t really have any wishes.”

“Everyone has wishes. Only…” a note of warning crept into her voice.

“You’re loyal only to the one who possesses the lamp, and you can’t help in matters of love.”

“Yes, I’m servant to the owner of the lamp. As for the other, I don’t like to deal with love. Forcing the heart to care for someone it doesn’t…well, it’s led to some ugly stalking incidents that I’d rather not relive.”

Ebony hopped to Aggie’s stomach, landing with kitten clumsiness. Like her feline ancestors before her, she tried to cover up her awkwardness with a casual lick of her paw and a disdainful swish of her tail.

“How can you be semi-transparent and still have weight?”

She shrugged. “How can your molecules be so far apart from each other and you still appear solid?”

Aggie had no answer for that.

“I should explain the ground rules. First, I can only come to you if you have possession of the lamp and rub it four times. You have to rub it—a swipe or a brush won’t work.”

“That’s very specific.”

Ebony shrugged—an action that disconcerted Aggie to see a cat do. “Back in the day of caravans and camels, there was a lot of jostling—a genie can’t keep popping in and out, asking, “What do you wish?” It also made for awkwardness in situations where possession of a genie was to be a secret.”

“Oh.” Aggie nodded, and unable to resist the allure of a kitten on her stomach, scratched Ebony behind the ears.

Her head tilted to the side, her eyes glazed over with ecstasy. A deep, low purr rumbled from her tummy. “About the wishes…” She opened her eyes and shook her head. “There’s something you need to know.”

“I only get three, right?”

“Beyond that.” Ebony took a deep breath, then stretched up to Aggie until their noses touched. “This lamp is cursed.”

“Cursed?” Her head jerked back and smashed against the fridge door. Wincing, she rubbed the throbbing lump.

“Blame Aladdin. He did it.”

“Are you going to eat me? Damn me to hell?”

“What?” Her eyes widened. “No, of course not.”

“How did he curse it?”

“All the wishes go wrong—the only wish that will ever work is “I wish to undo my last wish.””

“That’s a crummy deal. He got the princess and the castle and now, screw the rest of us?”

“The princess and the castle are precisely why he cursed the lamp.” Ebony sat on her haunches. “In later years, things went badly for him. His marriage came apart and the castle was in constant need of repair. He gained weight, lost his zest for life because if he needed anything done, he only had to wish for it. By the time he realized the error of his ways, it was too late. The princess had long died; the city went on without him.”

“The error was…making too many wishes? That’s why I only get three?”

“He realized that the things that are truly valuable in life are precious because we fight and work for them. If we really want something, we must sacrifice for it, or else it becomes valueless.”

“So he cursed the lamp and all the wishes go wrong.”

“Exactly. It was his way of trying to teach the lesson he was too late in learning.”

“Is that how you ended up in the teapot?”

“Yes. I wished for a forever home.” Her tiny voice mewled with wistfulness. “A place where I was loved and protected, where I didn’t have to fight the cold or heat.” Green eyes stared into Aggie’s and touched her soul. “And I ended up in the lamp. My forever home.”

Aggie picked Ebony up, cradling the kitten in her arms, and crossed to the sofa. “You’ll stay with me. I’ll be your forever home.”

A soft, sad meow rained tears on Aggie’s heart.

“That’s very nice of you—”

“Aggie.”

“Aggie. But you may change your mind once the wishes are done.”

“I’m not going to change my mind. And as for the other part, that’s simple enough, I won’t wish for anything.”

She jerked back, stumbling out of Aggie’s arms. “You have to make wishes.”

“Why?”

“The wind blows, birds sing, genies grant wishes. If you don’t fulfill your part of the bargain, I’m going to be written up.”

“Written what?”

“The genie union. They’re sticklers. I could lose my licence over this.” Ebony scaled Aggie’s arm, her sharp, pointed claws dug through the sweater and left tiny prick marks in her flesh.

“Can’t you explain that you got a cursed lamp?”

“They know.”

“That seems a little callous on their part.”

“There are a lot of cursed lamps, vases, and teapots. I know one genie who grants wishes to excess. You should have seen the time he had a woman who wished for a bigger breasts. It took three guys just to turn her over.”

“So what happens if you lose your licence?”

“I become mortal.”

“Well then. Let them take your licence. Who cares? Stay with me.” She scratched the spot under Ebony’s chin and was rewarded by the rapid thumping of the kitten’s back leg.

“That’ll take two hundred years.”

“Oh.”

“Besides, once I get to ten thousand wishes performed, I can opt out and go back to mortality.”

“Let me guess,” Aggie said wryly, “you’ve granted nine hundred and ninety-nine wishes before me.”

“No. I’m on nine hundred and ninety-seven.” Her large, soulful eyes gazed at Aggie. “You’ll have to make three wishes, if you really want to help me.”

She snorted. “Hmm, three wishes all of which, go horribly wrong. No pressure there.”

“I know it’s a terrible situation, but it’s my job, and I want to be a good genie.”

The longing in her voice made Aggie hug Ebony, cuddle and kiss her. “You are a very good genie. The best. You gave me the options, and I made my decision. No one could ask for more.”

“Don’t you have anything you want desperately—even if it came out wrong—don’t you want to make a wish and see what happens?”

“Definitely not. Besides, there’s only one thing I want, and no one can help me with it.”

“Love?”

“What else?”

“It’s such a hard thing to find.”

“I know.” She rubbed Ebony’s head with slow, thoughtful strokes. The kitten purred, and rolled on to her back. “I love him with everything that’s in me to love, but he just doesn’t care for me that way.” Tears cobbled her throat, each drop a heavy stone that rubbed the tissue raw. “One day, I’ll get over it. Someday, I’ll look back and think, thank goodness we didn’t end up together. But right now, it sucks. Big time. I can’t help it. Sometimes, I just wish I was in his arms—” She jerked upright. “Oh, no! Ebony, that wasn’t a—”

But it was too late.

The room went cave-black, sounds like fireworks and bullets exploded in Aggie’s ears and bright sparks of light shot out, in front of her. Then everything went sickeningly quiet.

Chapter Three

“Shh. Take it easy, you’re okay.” Dillon’s voice soothed the ache and confusion thrumming through Aggie. His hand on her forehead, stroked her to consciousness with smooth, gentle movements.

“Oh!” She shifted, wincing at a sharp pain that lanced the spot behind her ears. “I had the weirdest dream—what did you put in that rice?”

Her words came out incoherent, a whimper of pain, her mouth seemed…strange—elongated, narrow, unfamiliar. Surprised by the garbled nature of her speech and her senses, she tried to lick her lips, only to realize she no longer had any. Her tongue pricked against teeth that were far sharper than she knew them to be.

Terrified, she wriggled and squirmed from Dillon’s grasp, opened her eyes and fell to blonde, hardwood floor with a thump and a series of clicks. She looked around. The leather furniture, the Asian-inspired décor, and the red, black, and white design scheme indicated she was now in Dillon’s home, but…how? Aggie tried to rise to her feet, but got only as far as her knees, since her vision reached as the mediocre height of the couch cushions. Terror and confusion graduated to full-on horror as her inner senses contradicted her sight and told her that she was standing—on four feet. She took a step, heard a click, retreated another three steps and the clicking sound accompanied her.

“Dillon, oh my God, what’s happening?” She looked down and wretched when she realized she no longer had feet. Paws. She stood on canine paws.

“It’s okay girl, I know you must be frightened.” With slow, smooth movements, Dillon crouched on all fours, and held his hand out in a friendly gesture.

“Frightened? I’m not frightened—I’m freaking out! For God’s sake, I’m a dog.” Rather than words, her sentence erupted from her throat in a high-pitched whine-howl.

His face spasmed with apprehension. “What’s wrong, Princess? Are you okay? Let me see you—maybe I missed a broken bone or bruise.”

She scrambled back, her claws click-clacking on the floor and her body sliding as it tried to maintain traction on the slick surface. “I’m a dog, I’m a dog.”

It seemed so stupid, to keep repeating the same thing over and again, but though her senses appeared comfortable with this disastrous turn of events, her brain and soul couldn’t wrap itself around this new aspect of being.

“Oh, baby girl, I’m so sorry. Are you hurt? Please come here, Princess.” Dillon remained on his hands and knees. His kindness flooded her and washed away some of her terror.

“Dillon,” she said, wanting to burst into tears but her ducts wouldn’t follow orders, “I’m a dog.” Since she couldn’t cry, she did the next best thing. She flopped on the floor and howled.

“Shh, shh. Pretty girl, it’s okay.”

She howled even louder. “No, it’s not. You finally tell me that I’m pretty, and I’m in a dog’s body.”

“Come here, Princess. I’ll take care of you.” He inched towards her and the concern in his eyes sopped up her hysteria.

She chuffed, sighed, and wished she could do more than howl. All the words she ever wanted to hear, and she was trapped in the body of a species that drank out of toilets. She half crawled, half crept towards him, both her doggy and human side needing the comfort of a friend. Dillon’s fingers curled around her ears and scratched the spot just behind them.

A flick of his fingers and her current predicament was driven from her mind in one blissful scratch. It was as though someone had injected her brain with a potent blend of muscle relaxant and endorphins. The disaster of her current situation forgotten, her body slumped against him. Pleasure sped along her muscles and nerves, so pure and intense, it made her eyes roll back and left her drooling.

“You like that, huh?”

No. She loved it, craved it, needed it for the rest of her life. His hands moved to massage the back of her neck, which felt good but it couldn’t compare to the ear scratching. She jittered and head-butted him, trying to get his massage back to her ears.

“What? Did you want a tummy rub?” And he began to rub her chest.

“Oh…oh, my.” No wonder dogs went nuts. This wasn’t pleasure, it was heaven with fingernails. His touch spread through her entire body, massaging her heart, warming her belly, and made her feel so good, the ear scratch seemed torturous in comparison. She slammed her head against his chest and wanting to crawl inside him, though she didn’t know if that was her human-self or her inner-dog.

His other hand moved to her ears and between the two spots, she had no desire to do anything but rest her weight on him and pant with ecstasy. A low, rhythmic thumping interrupted the silence of the moment. She glanced behind her and saw a dark, red tail slapping the ground. Aggie jerked away, instinctually disconcerted by its sight. Scrambling to her feet, she tried to get a better look at her tail, but only succeeded in making herself dizzy. Aggie sat back on her haunches, feeling mournful. “I’m a dog.”

“Who do you belong to?”

“You.”

“Did you lose your collar?”

“I don’t have one.”

He leaned against the leather couch and watched her. “You’re well-fed, glossy coat—someone’s got to be missing their Irish setter.”

“I’m a what? I’m not even Irish.”

Dillon stretched towards her, his hands circling her neck. “No collar, not even a depression of fur to say you ever had one.” His fingers moved to her ears and she prepared herself for another drool-worthy rubdown. But he only flipped her ears back and peered into them. “No tattoo.” His inspection continued to her mouth and teeth.

“This is both uncomfortable and slightly creepy. Please take your fingers away from my jowls.” Jowls. God, she had jowls. “Me and my stupid mouth, Ebony and that stupid lamp—pot. Some wish come true—in his arms, and I’m a freaking dog.” She needed to get back to her house, and she’d undo her hasty words. Aggie twisted her head away from Dillon, licking her teeth to get rid of the feeling of fingers in her mouth. She scrambled to her feet—paws, trying not to slip, scratch his floors, and all the while, look dignified doing it.

“I wish Aggie was here.”

That stopped her, and she slid to her stomach, the cold floorboards stealing the heat from her tummy. “What?”

He grinned, his teeth flashed white against the black stubble of his morning beard. “I swear, it’s like you’re talking to me.”

She snorted. Men. Of course she was talking to him—what did he think? Dogs just made sounds for the hell of it?

He rose to his feet and moved to the window. “Aggie is my neighbour. She would know what to do.” He turned back to face her. “She’s very dependable, my Aggie. Reliable, too.”

Great. She was a freakin’ Maytag dishwasher.

“It’s a little too early to wake her up.”

It was? She pushed to a standing position and went looking for the microwave clock.

“Are you hungry?” Dillon’s bare footsteps followed her into the cherry wood and stainless steel kitchen. “I don’t have any dog food. But I do have some raw beef—it’s for dinner tonight, but I don’t think Aggie will mind a menu change.”

Uncooked meat. Yuck. She wasn’t that much of a dog. The sweet-spicy aroma of cinnamon buns hiked along her olfactory tracts and left bread crumbs of brown sugar and frosting for her to follow. Cursed by canine height, however, she couldn’t see where they were. Her snout twitched, her nostrils quivered as she scented the air. She moved to the spot by the fridge, her claws clicking on the tiled floor. Lifting onto her back end, she placed her front paws on the counter top and hauled herself to a fully upright position.

Bingo. Cinnamon buns, the cream cheese frosting still melting along the toasted ridges. One snap of her jaws and she inhaled an entire pastry in one, lupine bite.

“Princess—hey, be a good girl! That’s not for dogs.” Dillon cupped the scruff of her neck and hauled her down before she could get her jaws around another one. Two vertical lines formed in the ridge between his eyebrows as he frowned at her. “Can dogs eat pastry? I know you can’t have chocolate…” he sighed and rubbed his forehead. “I wish Aggie was here.”

He reached for a bun at the same time that he glanced at the clock. “It’s almost six—I wonder how mad she’ll be if I wake her up early.” Setting the pastry down, he licked the tips of his fingers and reached for the cordless phone.

“I’m not home.”

Her phone rang into the silence of his house, and echoed in her ears.

“There’s no answer.” Worry crumpled his forehead and lips. “That’s not like her to shut off the ringer. She was really upset last night—” He walked to the patio door and stepped out to the balcony, saying, “I hope she’s okay.”

Aggie, who knew perfectly well that she was okay—though much hairier and with very bad breath—snuck back into the kitchen for another bun, and hoped that her canine metabolism would burn off the calories.

“Princess!”

She whipped a guilty look at Dillon, the proof of her cinnamon culpability evidenced by the bun in her jaws. Dropping all four paws back to the ground, she dashed for a corner, chomping all the way.

His footsteps pounded behind her, then his arms wrapped around her hips, bringing her to an undignified tackle by his LCD flat screen. Dillon’s hand came around to her mouth and dug in, trying to get the bun. She tried to chew without biting his fingers, as he wrested the pastry from her.

“You,” he panted, as he collapsed onto the floor, the soggy remnants of breakfast in his palm, “are a very bad girl. What if this stuff is like anti-freeze or chocolate?”

“Leave me alone. I’m hungry, furry, and have an unsettling urge to lick myself in places that a tongue should never go.”

“What if you can’t process it, or it screws up your digestive system?”

Dog or human, he still dictated her nutrition and food intake. It was adorable, anal, and she loved him even more. Her inner-canine took over, and she licked his face. He tasted of salt and sweet, and another yummy spice she couldn’t name. Her nose by his jaw, she sniffed, and then sniffed again, her nose trailing into his hair. More than his soap and the rumpled scent of sleep, she smelled the sour bite of fear and worry. There was also a deeper, richer aroma—misty oceans and waterfalls—and instinct said this was Dillon’s natural scent.

His fingers tangled in her fur and laughing, he pushed her away. “Yes, I love you too, Princess.” He dumped the food and washed his hands. Then he picked up the phone and hit a button.

She heard her answering machine kick in.

“This just isn’t Aggie.” He muttered the words, and the sour smell spiked the air.

“I’m fine—I’m right here.”

An absent-minded smile touched his lips. He patted her head. “There’s a good girl. I’m sure she’s all right; she’s a grown woman. She can’t cook or choose boyfriends…she’s emotional and high-strung—”

“I am not!”

“—sarcastic, and grouchy, but she’s got a good head and common sense. She probably just turned off the ringer.” Doubt crept into his face and graffitied worry lines into his forehead. “Aggie never turns off her phone.”

He moved to the roll-top desk, reached into a drawer and pulled out a pair of binoculars. Then he opened the patio door and went outside. She followed him, but came to an abrupt stop when she saw the stairs.

Dillon, half-way down, turned and looked back. “What’s wrong?”

“The stairs. How the hell do I get down them?”

“Come on, girl.” He patted his leg. “Come on.”

“Easy for you to say, you only have to worry about two legs,” she muttered. Her right paw reached towards the first step and hung in the air, pedaling. She turned and looked at her rear-end. The front part of her was easy enough to navigate, but how did she handle the back end? Visions of tumbling down the stairs gave her vertigo. She whimpered and retreated.

Dillon moved towards her. “Do you need help? Want me to carry you?”

The humiliating image his words created sparked her courage. She put her hind end into reverse and turned around, so her tail faced the stairs. Then, looking behind her and keeping a focused eye on the steps, she went down the stairs. Backwards. As she passed Dillon, she flashed him a triumphant smile, but he only looked at her with a confounded expression on his face and followed her into the yard. The dew from the grass wet her paws and soaked into the hem of his bottoms.

“If I get charged as a peeping Tom,” he said, “she’s paying the fine. I would knock on the door, but if she’s turned off the ringer and trying to get some sleep, she’ll kill me for disturbing her. What kind of stupid, bone-headed thing is she doing by not answering the phone?” Irritation and anger murmured in the question. “First, she goes all PMS on me last night. Now, she’s giving me the silent treatment.”

He stopped by the back fence and putting the binoculars to his eyes, peered into her windows.

“Yeesh, I could be in the shower.”

“She might be in the shower.”

“You’re a genius.”

He took the binoculars from his eyes and looked at her, his expression embarrassed, his laugh sheepish. “I could be over-reacting—”

“You think?”

“She’s my best friend—I know Aggie better than she knows herself. It isn’t like her to not answer my calls.”

Aggie snorted. If only he knew the lengths she went to, just to answer a call—or be in his arms.

“She tries to pretend that she’s tough, but she traps and releases insects that come into her house. Whenever we’re watching football, she cheers for whichever team is losing. And she goes to sleep listening to the song of whales.” He shook his head, laughing but worry dripped from the sound. “She loves Sam Spade and she’s a total creature of habit. It’s not like her to leave a phone unanswered—she even answers when the caller id says it’s telemarketers. She’s chronically adorable, funnier than hell, and she’s got a great ass.” He jerked at the last part, so did she. “You didn’t hear that.”

“I most certainly did. Since when have you been checking out my rear end? And why do you have to wait until I’m a dog to admit it?”

“Best friends don’t check each other out. Where did that come from?” He frowned and rubbed the stubble on his chin. Then he snapped his fingers and his face smoothed free. “I know what it is—standing here, looking at her balcony.” He raised the binoculars and began another investigation of her window. “One night I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a run. When I got back—” he pointed to her patio door. “She stepped out. It was late, dark. She didn’t see me. But the moon was full and bright. I saw her perfectly. She wore this long, silk negligee, and she’d left her hair down…” his eyes grew unfocused. “The wind swept along her body and blew at the strands of her hair…and I remember thinking, “This must be how Romeo felt when he saw Juliet.”

He knelt by her and smiled. “You wouldn’t know the play, but it’s one of Aggie’s favourites, especially the balcony scene. I never liked Shakespeare, never understood any of it—but that night, I got it.” He closed his eyes. “But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief that thou, her maid, art far more fair than she.” He rose to his feet. “She’s always quoting that damn line—don’t tell her I know it by heart.”

Aggie’s heart thundered in her body. Of all the rotten times to be stuck in a dog body.

“Let me tell you, Princess, there’s nothing worse than having that kind of feeling for your best friend.”

“Thanks a lot. I should bite you, just on principle.”

“It’s weird and uncomfortable—“

“God, this is just getting better by the moment. I’m not that unattractive.” Despair and irritation, like dirt and water, mixed together and spackled her heart in mud.

“I didn’t sleep that whole night.” His fingers massaged the top of her head. “The next morning, though, everything was fine. I saw her and didn’t feel a thing. That was a year ago, and nothing like that’s happened, since.”

A low, mournful whimper escaped Aggie’s throat. If she could dig a hole big enough, she’d bury herself. A moment, a mere second that she’d held his attention. She’d never known, and it had come and gone so quickly, she’d barely made a blip on his attraction radar. Her heart felt squeezed dry of happiness. It pounded as though she’d run a marathon—crossed the finish line to find no cheering crowds, no joyous, loving face—just the pain of last place and the empty feeling of a deserted street and littered dreams.

Dillon bent down and cupped her face in his hands. “Enough about me. What about you, Princess? Do you have to go?”

Yeah, she had to go, all right. First, she’d find the genie, then she’d find a real estate agent.

He swept his hand in a gesture that encompassed the lawn. “Go ahead, girl. Do whatever you need.”

Oh. My. God. He expected her to toilet in the great outdoors. Well, duh, Aggie, of course he did. She was a dog. The idea of peeing in front of Dillon—on his lawn, which didn’t even have the benefit of trees or shrubs, but stretched out in a green expanse of grass, horrified her. She whimpered and whined. And when she realized she really did have to go, her vocalizations took on the sharp tones of necessity clashing with embarrassment.

“It’s okay, be a good girl.”

“I’m fairly certain good girls don’t do this—unless their drunk.”

“That’s it,” he said as she started to pace the perimeter, “find your spot.”

She tried, but every place felt like the stage of Carnegie Hall—and the spotlight of the sun shone down on her, lighting her moves for all the world to see.

“Are you shy? Do you want me to turn around?”

“No, I want you to take me to a proper toilet.”

“What’s wrong, my Princess?” He knelt in front of her, and rubbed the sides of her head.

Necessity was quickly outstripping modesty and if Aggie didn’t find a spot—soon—she was going to burst. She ran for the back fence and leapt against the lock, trying to open it with a paw.

“You want to go in the woods?”

She barked once—and surprised herself by the deep, throaty sound she made.

Dillon shook his head. “You’re a very strange dog, but you’re adorable.”

“Yeah, yeah, flatter me later. Open the door. Now!”

He flicked the latch and she bolted past him, using her weight to slam the door open.

“Princess, wait! You don’t have a collar.”

She darted ahead, her loping stride no match for his bi-pedal run. Finding a shrub to hide behind, she relieved herself. Aggie circled the spot and for reasons she could barely fathom, scratched at the dirt, using the scent pads in her paws to leave a canine signature.

“There you are—” His words came in quick pants as he appeared from behind a tree, picking leaves out of his hair. “I’ve got to get you a collar and tags, provided no one’s looking for you. Come on, let’s go back.”

Smiling and having every intention of following his suggestion, she sauntered beside him…until she heard it. A quick trilling of sound, warbling like a brook skipping over pebbles and stones. And it bypassed all her conscious thoughts, and hit a zone in her brain she didn’t know existed. Her nose quivered, her ears twitched, and she froze. The noise came again. Her head darted one way, then another, down then up, and found the source. A squirrel, high up in a tree, and looking at her.

Scarlet red light flashed in front of her eyes, and a need, all consuming, deep, and ancestral possessed her. Charging forward, she raced to the tree, barking with all her energy and no clue what she was saying or why she was doing it. She reached the trunk, hopped one way then another, her craving for the squirrel obsessive and frenzied. The animal chattered at her. She had no clue what it said, only that it had something to do with her lineage and was derogatory in nature. Incensed, her volume went from loud to jet engine. She clawed at the trunk, the squirrel only laughed.

“Princess! What are you doing?”

“I have no idea, but I gotta get that damned squirrel!”

Dillon tried to pull her away, but she dug her paws into the dirt, and kept barking at the rodent. Finally, he wrapped his arms around her, picked her up, and hauled her back to his house.

****

Back at Dillon’s home, she sat quietly as he took a picture of her, downloaded it on to his computer, and printed out a bevy of “Found” posters.

“What do you think?” He held one up for her inspection.

“I’m a dog, and I’m still cursed with red, not-wavy, not straight hair. It’s enough to leave me permanently depressed.”

“Be good, I’m going to go and have a shower.”

Her ears perked at this, and the depression fled. Morality gave a half-hearted speech about the necessity for Dillon’s privacy, but the opportunity was just too glorious to pass up. She jumped to her feet and followed him to the bathroom door.

He laughed as he closed it in her face. “Thanks for the offer, but I think I got this.”

Damn. When it came to him, her life was one missed opportunity after another. Sighing with disappointment, she shuffled from the ensuite and hopped onto his bed. She sniffed at the pillows and sheets. His scent lingered, solitary, blissful, and warm. So he hadn’t done anything with Brandy. Pleased that she’d made it into his bed—even if she was in doggy form—she looked for a spot to rest.

She circled and circled again, tamping down the blankets, then using her claws to re-fluff them. Then she sank to the mattress. The sound of the electric razor buzzed through the door, domestic, safe, and sent a pleasant warmth spreading through her. She closed her eyes and drifted off.

The click of the door snapped them open. Dillon came out, water beading along his body and racing in sexy rivulets down his chest into the white towel slung around his hips. Aggie licked her chops. What a way to wake up. Her eyes tracked him as he moved across the room, using another towel to dry his wet hair. And when he doffed the one around his hips, every cell in her body sat up at attention.

She drank in the sight of his naked form, silently urging him to turn around. He did and caught her staring.

“Stop looking at me like I’m going to be eaten.”

“Eaten? More like devoured.” The words came out in a soft growl. Her gaze remained cemented to him, though her eyes didn’t know which part to focus on—the hard pecs, the twelve-pack of abs, the long legs, or that delicious, wonderful part of his anatomy that made him a man. She stared. A manly man. “Wow, Dillon, you’ve been blessed.”

His eyebrows arched upwards at her low, rumbled, growl “I’m lucky you’re a gentle dog, for a second I thought I was an appetizer.”

“No way, babe, you’re a main course, all the way…” her gaze ran the hard planes and steep grooves of his body, “and dessert. What I wouldn’t give to be a girl, right now.”

He pulled on a light-knit beige sweater, a pair of boxers, and his jeans.

“Slow down,” she said, “what’s the hurry? Give a girl a little time to enjoy the view.”

He ran his hand through his wet hair; the dark strands fell into waves and errant half-circles. “Will you be okay, alone? I have to take Brandy to an antique auction.”

The mention of his latest girlfriend took all the life and color from her. She sank back on to the bed and rested her nose under her paws. “Why did you have to mention that name?”

He sat on the bed, pulling on his socks and shoes. “Truth is, I’d rather be here.”

“You would?” Her ears twitched with curiosity.

“I swear, it’s like you understand everything I say.” His fingers scratched a pleasurable path along her jawbone. “Can’t be helped, going out. She’s the sister-in-law of my boss, and I gotta play nice. Truth is, she creeps me right out.” He grinned. “She wasn’t much of Aggie’s type, either. If only she knew, all the women I bring over—business contacts, not a real date in sight.”

“What?” She barked the question.

“Ha! You sounded just like her.” He rubbed her tummy and the human in her wanted to stay mad, but her inner-dog melted under his loving touch. “Aggie labours under this misconception that I’m a chick magnet—”

“Because you are—”

“Truth is, she’s the one I spend the most time with—what’s the point in dating, when you’d rather hang out with your buddy?”

His buddy. She felt like biting his hand.

“Okay.” He gave her one last scratch then rose from the bed. “Be good while I’m gone.” Dillon went into the bathroom and came out with a bucket of water. “Here’s something for you to drink.”

“Eww, that’s the bucket you use when the toilet or sink backs up. I’m not drinking out of that.”

“I’m sure you’ll be fine, but I’m going to keep you in the bedroom while I’m gone—it’ll only be for a couple of hours. I just don’t want you destroying anything.”

“Wait, don’t leave me in here—I have to go home!” She launched to her feet, but the blankets tangled around her paws, impeding her movements and sending her stumbling back onto the bed. “At least put me outside where I can jump a fence or unlock the door. I have to get back home—don’t go!”

But he only patted her head, dashed for the door. It closed, the sound of the spring and lock sliding into place, banged with the finality of a judge’s gavel.

“Dillon! Come back—” She struggled to her feet, staggering off the bed and racing to the door. She slapped at the knob, but possessing neither fingers nor an opposable thumb, she remained trapped by two inches of oak.

The firing of his car’s engine sent her racing to the window. He drove away, leaving her alone, trapped, and with no chance of escape.

Chapter Four

Aggie flopped onto the bed, contemplating the myriad of screwy ways her life had turned sideways in the past twenty-four hours. From human to dog, omnivore to scavenger, drinking chardonnay to drinking out of a toilet bucket. The only thing remaining constant in her life, was her “buddy” status with Dillon. In her current furry form, she doubted he’d continue to make her Coco Vin Rouge.

Rising to her paws and trying not to get tangled in the blue and white bed sheets, she sprung from mattress to floor and padded to the door. Stupid, round knobs. Had it been a handle, at least she could have jumped and pulled, but what the heck was she supposed to do with the gold globe staring back at her?

Crouching to her haunches, she slid a paw under the door and pulled. Failure. She rose, hopped, and slapped at the knob, but only received sore paw pads in return. Growling with frustration, she sat back and considered…maybe, if she got a towel, tossed it around the knob…her brain chased the details of her plan and caught it.

Jumping to her feet, her claws clicking on the blond tongue and groove floor, she pushed open the bathroom door and pulled an oatmeal-coloured hand towel from the metal rack. Two paws out the door, she paused, her nose quivered as a delicate, watery scent tugged her back with nimble, languid fingers. She dropped the towel to the floor, turned, and headed back, the stone tiles cold and hard against her paws. Her snout continued to tremble as her nostrils flared open and closed; her mouth salivated in anticipation of devouring the tasty morsel of…whatever that was.

She headed to the shower, but found nothing other than the soapy disappointment of Dillon’s body wash. Then she tried the Jacuzzi, her thirst growing in intensity, her desire for the “whatever” increasing until she panted with need. The tub, however, held only a few particles of dust and the rubber ducky she’d bought Dillon as a joke. That left the sinks—nothing—and…the toilet.

“Oh, no. No!” Her growled command to her body met with mutiny. The dog in her wouldn’t be denied by prissy human disdain for latrine water. She controlled her back paws, but the dog in her possessed the front. Canine appetite outweighed the “ick” factor. Half her body dragged the other half to the toilet and hoisted her front paws on the seat.

Her head twisted one way, then another, but the need to drink consumed her thoughts and desires. Aggie wrenched herself from the porcelain commode, falling to the floor with a hard thud. Stumbling to her paws, she dashed from the bathroom and into the bedroom. Her thirst screamed for the water and strained at the reigns of her human side. She snapped up the towel, firmly anchoring the material between her teeth, and ran out of the bathroom. The siren call of the toilet sang a melody of thirst-quenching harmony that swam out the door and curled around her nostrils. She ignored the scent, prayed for strength to resist with a pious and earnest heart, and turned her attention the knob.

Fifteen minutes later—or so she supposed—sweat panting from her tongue and off her pads, she gave up. The idea of using the towel like a loop, holding one end and pulling on the other to open the door seemed good. But in reality, the cotton was too thick, the material too soft, and the knob too slick to provide a good grip on the door. She flopped to the floor. Her nose and spirits dived so deep, she contemplated the idea of drowning her sorrows in a good swirl of toilet water.

The doorknob caught the mid-afternoon sun and gleamed with smug satisfaction of having bested her, and this irritated the hell out of her. Beaten by a piece of polished metal. What kind of woman was she—what kind of dog was she? Both her female and canine counterparts would run her out of their clubs if they ever found out a bit of scrap metal had proven her better.

Heaving herself to her paws, she channelled all the western heroes she could remember—The Duke, Clint Eastwood, and Calamity Jane. Then she stepped into her personal high noon shoot out with the knob, the object that held her prisoner and had mocked her previous efforts. Using the paneled door to hold her weight, she got to her hind feet, put both front paws on the knob, turned, and slammed to the floor.

Five times, ten times, fifteen. Each effort produced a micro-movement towards success. Her twentieth try met with glorious, triumphant success. The doorknob gave way with a soft click and into the miniscule crack, poured forth the sweet, delicious scent of freedom. She scratched at the wooden edge, leaving claw marks in the door. Panting with exertion, she worked and scraped. What seemed like days later, the crack graduated into a gap big enough for her to fit a paw through and yank the door open. She bolted from the bedroom, ran down the stairs and went to the front door. The smell of cinnamon buns, however, jerked her from her original trajectory and sent her skidding towards the kitchen.

The pastries sat on the counter, decadent, and unguarded. She’d denied her inner-dog the toilet water, she wouldn’t deny it a snack.

“Silly Dillon. He should have put it away.” Her stomach thanked his oversight and she dug into two pastries.

Refreshed, she moved to the front door—her next barrier in her journey to freedom. She passed by a waterfall of mid-morning sunlight that spilled from the window and pooled into a warm puddle on the floor. Her inner-dog whined to lay down in the spot, curl into a ball and snooze for a few hours, but her human side issued the commands. She moved from temptation and walked to the front door. Unlike its bathroom counterpart, this wood and metal guardian carried with it the added obstacles of two locks and a security system.

Aggie looked at it, then at the keypad, trying to configure a plan. The high levels of glucose floating in her blood and stomach, however, blurred her vision and muddled her thoughts. Her doggy side brought to mind, the warm, lovely spot, just the perfect size and location for a nap. She gave a large yawn that could have swallowed the door, and then canine nature overtook human urgencies. Feminine resolve, already weakened by the digestive process, fought with doggy instincts and lost.

Just a few minutes—a quick doze. She padded to the rug of sunlight on the floor, warmth penetrated through her coat and with the strength and speed of a powerful narcotic. She sank to the floor and allowed blissful sleep overtake her.

The sound of the key in the lock jerked her from slumber. Bounding to her feet, she raced to the door—not so much to greet Dillon, but to run through when he opened it.

“Hey—Princess!” His form filled her view. She wriggled past him, but he crouched and caught her by the chest and hips. “How did you get out?”

“Don’t ask—and from now on, leave the toilet seat down.” The scent of a woman’s musky perfume, the dosage heavy and cloying, surrounded her senses. She sneezed and blinked the burning sensation from her eyes.

“What’s that?”

The nasal voice grated on Aggie and set her growling. She squiggled, nosing her way past Dillon’s hips and arms, poking her snout and eyes through the gap in his hold, to see the owner of the voice. Brandy.

The woman’s lip curled into a snarl as she pointed to Aggie with a long, red, fingernail. “When did you get that?”

“I found her on my porch this morning, when I went to get the newspaper,” said Dillon, panting with exertion as he restrained Aggie. “That’s funny. She’s never growled, before.”

Brandy’s dark eyes narrowed with dislike. “I’m not a dog person.”

“That makes us even, I’ve always disliked brandy,” said Aggie, who had matters of a genie-kind on her mind and was in no mood to stay a dog for a second more than necessary. She continued to slither and snake in Dillon’s arms, twisting and shimmying, but he held fast.

“I think I need to get her inside for a minute,” he panted, his breaths coming in warm puffs that tickled her ear. “Do you want to come in?”

“I suppose.” She acquiesced with ill-grace and a petulant tone. Brandy stepped into the foyer and placed a large, cloth bag to the side as Dillon hauled Aggie inside and closed the door.

She whimpered, and then gave him the most heart-wrenching look that she could manage, and scratched at the door.

“Do you need to go outside, Princess?”

Brandy snorted. “She’s a little scraggly to be called “Princess.””

Aggie growled and met Dillon’s gaze. He offered a small smile as he rolled his eyes.

“Hand me the collar and leash from the bag, please.” He crouched beside Aggie and scratched that spot behind her ears. Pleasure made her eyes roll back, and she whined with delight. She pressed into him, trying to maintain a semblance of dignity and not roll onto her back.

“Your bag is still on the steps.” Brandy followed her words with an investigation of her nails and a fluffing of her hair.

This time, it was Dillon who growled. “Could you hold the dog while I get it, then?”

Brandy barred her lips in contempt. “You just found it—it could have a disease or insects.”

“I don’t know what you’re afraid of,” Aggie said, “pestilence would be too terrified to land on you.”

Dillon sighed. “Fine. Then could you please go outside and get the bag while I hold her?”

She grimaced, as though he’d asked her to lay tar while wearing a bikini and stilettos. Brandy wrenched the door open, scooped the bag off the step and then slammed the door behind her. “Here.”

“Thank you.”

The dark green burlap bag rasped dully as Dillon reached in and pulled out a pink collar with the name “Princess” in tiny diamantes.

“Pink? On a red-coloured dog?”

If that woman didn’t shut up soon, Aggie was going to bite her. Hard.

“Aggie has red hair, and she says it’s the shade of pink you choose.”

“Aggie, Aggie, Aggie. That’s the only name you’ve talked about all day. God, you’d think the two of you were an old married couple.”

“She’s my best friend, and she’s missing.” He looped the collar around Aggie’s throat and tightened it.

“She’s a grown woman—she probably went off with some guy for the weekend.”

Dillon jerked open the door. “You should leave. I mean, thank you for waiting and lending me a hand with my dog. Everything’s under control, and I have to take Princess for a walk. You can go. Now.”

“Oh.” Brandy’s eyes dimmed. “Why don’t I come with you—then I’ll take you out for dinner. My treat, for your help today.”

“Thanks, but I should stay home. In case Aggie calls and needs me.” He gestured to the porch. “Drive safe.”

His curt dismissal had Aggie’s tail wagging and her tongue lolling from her mouth in a wide, doggy smile. Brandy traipsed through the door, but she paused at the threshold and flicked a finger under his chin. He jerked back, she followed. Dillon kept retreating, she pressed into his personal space until not even sunlight could get between them.

A wet dog nose, however, could prove an effective tool to pry them apart. Aggie held her breath, swallowed her revulsion and goosed Brandy. The redhead yelped and leaped aside. She adjusted her skirt and seared Aggie with a contemptuous look.

“Not so close, Princess. We hardly know each other.”

“I know all I need to—now get.” Her words came out as a low growl.

Brandy’s face oozed dislike but she mopped her expression before turning to Dillon, and saying, “I’ll see you later. I had a great time—I’ll call you, and we’ll do dinner.”

He watched her saunter to her luxury car and muttered, “Remind me to change my number.”

Aggie stepped outside. The wooden slats of the porch creaked under her weight and the breeze curled around her, tossing her hair into playful tufts. Her inner dog wanted to snap at the air and play chase with the aromas curling around her, but human nature pushed her home, and to Ebony. She broke into a trot and felt an unceremonious yank at her collar.

Aggie launched an evil glare and hit the target—Dillon’s dark eyes. He shrugged and loosened his grip on the pink leash. She pulled. He reigned her back. Sighing with exasperation, she stretched, then shook her body, starting at her head and working her way through to her tail. Her ears flapped against her head and her jowls made the most un-lady-like slapping sound. Then she sat and gave him the most pitiful, “how could you yank my collar?” look she could manage.

“Pout all you want,” he said, “but I’m not losing you. The posters are up, and you’re my charge until your owners claim you.”

“I don’t have owners—but I’ll let you claim my heart, if you want.”

He gave the sides of her face a vigorous rub, and despite the indignity of having her jowls mashed and squashed, the impromptu massage made her smile and sent soothing chemicals canoeing through her blood.

“You’re such a good girl, no matter what Brandy says.”

“Come on, let’s go to my house and get this genie wish over and done with.” She tugged at her leash, pulling him towards her home.

“What are you doing?” He yanked her backwards—not hard—but with enough pressure to heave her to an abrupt stop. Then he began to haul her in the opposite direction, towards the back of his house.

She pulled.

He tugged.

“Hello, Dillon, I need to get home. Men may find it romantic and Nature-Boyish to pee in the great outdoors, but I’d rather have my low-flow and some toilet paper.” Bearing all of her weight down, Aggie gave a good, hard, yank, and launched him off his feet. She stumbled back; he stumbled forwards, losing his grip on the leash. Once she’d ascertained that he’d keep his balance, she ran for her home.

As she bolted up the steps, the piercing realization that she couldn’t get into the house, stabbed her brain, punctured the rhythm of her stride, and sent her careening into the front door. She rotated to the side, and hit the metal with a solid clunk, but no concussion. “Crap. Now what?”

Dillon barrelled up the stairs and provided the answer. She whined, scratched at the door, and made a grade-A ass of herself in a desperate attempt to impersonate Lassie.

“What is it, girl?”

“Timmy’s in the well.” Her doggy voice box left a lot to be desired when it came to sarcasm, but figuring even dogs got annoyed, she let the irritation pour out and said, “God’s sake, man, I’m all but throwing myself against the door. Take the damn hint and open it!” She cast a mournful look at the claw marks her nails left in the paint.

“Did you hear something while I was gone?” Fear tightened his voice and made his skin look like leather pulled too tight.

“Oh, no, don’t worry.” Contrition left a guilty hole in her stomach. “I’m fine—I have an urge to chase the magpie in that tree, but honest, I’m good. Please, just open the door and let me get the lamp.”

But Dillon was already digging into the hanging flower pot and pulling out her key. “I always told her it was a stupid idea to keep her key there, but she never listened. Now, some psycho’s taken the key, broken into the house and done something terrible to her.” He blew the dirt from it, moved to the door and engaged the lock in a quick, harried action.

“Right, but he had the courtesy to replace the key back into the pot. Honestly, Dillon, you’re sweet and imaginative, but those brain cells aren’t firing properly.”

The door opened and Aggie nosed it ajar, only to have him yank her back.

“There could be a psycho in there—you’re not going in, first.”

He didn’t just melt her heart, he liquefied it with the genuine concern he had for a stray dog. The beauty and kindness of his spirit tattooed her heart with the everlasting ink of forever love and engraved his name on her soul. She hopped to her hind feet, laid her paws on his chest, and licked his nose.

He grinned. “I swear, it’s like you know what I’m saying.”

She jumped down, and let him precede her into the house, knowing that he’d find nothing—except a tarnished Turkish teapot and the left over crumbs of her dinner.

Dillon moved with caution. With one hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, then peered around the jamb, and Aggie, who respected his caution but had no time to waste, danced behind him, impatient but trying to honour his motivation.

Dillon stepped into the house and put his finger to his lips. An expression of consternation crossed his face.

Yeah, I’d feel pretty stupid shushing a dog and using sign language to do it.

Standing in the foyer with late afternoon light washing the house with orange tones, he scanned the open plan—from the living room to the great room and back. His shoulders dropped and a deep sigh hissed through his teeth.

“I was—I was afraid she’d be broken and bleeding on the carpet.” His voice caught as emotion overwhelmed him. The scents of relief, anxiety, and fear entwined, a pungent melody of aromas that left her heart breaking for his worry, and hastening her steps to the kitchen, for the lamp.

“Where are you going?”

“Kitchen. The sooner I change, the sooner you stop worrying about me.”

He followed behind, then as her foot-falls laid her path, he pulled ahead, taking the lead. So sweet, so protective, and so brave. She would never—could never—love anyone the way she loved him.

Aggie followed him into the kitchen. Afternoon light poured in through the windows, illuminating the room. Everything was as she’d left it, though the lamp eluded her vision.

Dillon moved to the patio door, opening it, and stepping onto the balcony. He came back in, closed the door, then changed his mind and pushed it ajar. “Just in case we need to make a hasty exit—don’t want to fiddle with locks and knobs. I’m going to check upstairs. Stay here.”

“No problem.”

His footsteps receded down the hall and she turned her attention to locating the lamp. The faint scent of figs and honey became thicker as she moved from the patio to the sink. Hoisting herself to her hind feet, she peered into the silver basin and found her treasure. It lay on its side, motionless.

“Ebony, can you hear me?”

No answer.

Worry for her genie friend and concern for herself had droplets of acid raining in her stomach. Even on her back legs, she hadn’t the height to dip her head into the sink and pull it out. Casting a quick glance at the hallway, she went to the table and grabbing a stool leg between her teeth, dragged it to the sink. Metal screeched against the floor, a horrible shrieking sound that made her ears ring and vibrated through her teeth.

She glanced backwards, cocking her ears for any sound of Dillon’s approach, but the house remained quiet. Aggie hopped on to the seat and grasping the lamp in a gentle, toothy vice, she pulled it out. She jumped down, landing with an awkward thump that twisted her back ankle. Ignoring the tendrils of pain beginning to curl around her tendons, she nosed the lamp.

Apparently, nosing a lamp didn’t count as a rub. She tried to rub it, but her paw movements were jerky, succeeding in shoving the lamp or spinning it. In the midst of yet another attempt, rapid contractions to her bladder reminded her that she hadn’t seen a bathroom since early that morning. Unwilling to leave the lamp, she held it in her teeth and headed out the back door. A backwards trot down the steps, quick diversion to the side of the house—where there were no windows for Dillon to peer out and see her—and she emerged, relieved in more ways than one.

Halfway up the stairs, she paused. If Dillon saw her taking the lamp out of the house, he’d make her put it back. And if he did a thorough search of the home, then he wouldn’t return. She back pedalled down the steps and ran to the common fence that separated their properties. Hiking to her back legs and bracing her front paws on the wooden slates, she tossed the lamp at the rim of the fence—and hit it. She tried again, and again, and on the fourth attempt, the genie gods took pity on her and the lamp toddled over the edge and into Dillon’s yard.

Delighted at her clever manoeuvre, she raced up the steps, into the house and went looking for her friend. She found him in her bedroom, standing in front of her dresser with the panty drawer sprawled open.

“Just a clue, Dillon, but murderers don’t generally hide in a woman’s underwear drawer.”

He turned at the sound of her barks and gestured to the mound of lace and silk. “Women—my mother—always put personal items in their underwear drawer. I have no idea why, but…” a deep, heavy sigh ladened the room. “I thought maybe, if she had a boyfriend or a secret, I might find it in here.” He held up a handful of thongs and bikinis. “But all I’ve found is her addiction to Victoria Secret.”

“It’s not an addiction. Lots of women have panties for each minute of the day.” She walked to the drawer and nosed it closed.

“I don’t know what to do, Princess.” He flopped onto the bed. “The police say she has to be gone for a week before I can do anything.” His hand scraped his jaw-line, his eyes took on a tired, weary quality. “But disappearing without a word just isn’t her style.”

She placed her paw on his denim-clad knee and licked his hand. “I’m right here—and if you take me home, I can figure out how to undo this damn wish.”

His gaze met hers and in the fathomless depths of his dark pupils, she saw resignation, worry, and…love. They misted with tears, leaving glistening jewelled droplets on his eyelashes. “You want to hear something terrible, Princess? I came up here, wondering if I would find her lifeless body and when I didn’t, I almost passed out with relief. But then I started thinking about what Brandy said, how Aggie could have a secret boyfriend—and the idea that she might be in love made me as sick as when I thought she was dead. And the thing is, it’s not the fact that she would have kept it from me.” He took a deep breath. “It was the idea that she might be in love, and the man wasn’t me.”

His words shocked the strength from her legs. She fell to the ground, with a woofed, “What?”

“I know. Best friends aren’t supposed to have those kinds of thoughts. They aren’t supposed to notice their buddy’s behind or link her to Juliet.” He rose from the bed in a slow, painful movement, crossed the room, and rested his head against the pane of window. “I’m in love with my best friend. Madly. Deeply. You’re not supposed to be in love with your best friend. That’s not just wrong, it’s stupid. You can lose a girlfriend, and you can lose a friend. But do you know how screwed you’d be if you lost both in one fell swoop?”

She wanted to move to him, to comfort him. And once he’d settled, she wanted to throttle him for the illogical bend of his thinking that had kept them apart for three years and turned her into a dog, but she couldn’t do either. The surprise of his confession, the fruition of her dreams, stole all thought and strength and left her in a muddled, furry mess.

“She’s gone. My Aggie’s gone, and I don’t know where to find her. She was upset last night, and I wasn’t paying attention—she needed me, and I assumed it was just work related. And now,” his voice broke. “She’s missing. Her car’s here, her purse is here, and the only conclusions left to me are so horrible to consider that I can’t even bear to think of them.”

What are you thinking? Where could I be, if not by your side? I love you, Dillon. I love you.

A tear trailed down his cheek. “I feel like such a failure—I can’t go to the police. She’s an orphan, there’s no family for me to call. None of our friends know where she is, and her office is closed until Monday. The only other place she’d go is my parents, but they say she never called.”

He turned back to the window. “Do you think she might be in the woods—do you think she might have done something…unspeakable to herself?”

Bolts of comprehension lit the sky of her mind and sent realization thrumming through her body. “You think I might have offed myself?”

That he’d dived off the deep end of possibilities spurred her into action. She jumped up, raced to him and grasping his jeans in her mouth, pulled him to the door.

“What?”

“Let’s go home. This charade’s gone on long enough. You love me, I love you, and I’m going to undo this stupid wish, save Ebony, and kiss you by the end of tonight.”

Chapter Five

After a frantic series of woofs, barks and whines, Aggie conveyed her need to go back to Dillon’s house. They hurried down the steps to the sidewalk, hung a left on the sidewalk, and saw Brandy’s car parked on his driveway. Aggie froze, Dillon retreated.

“Dillon—woo-hoo! I’m on the porch.”

He managed a weak wave, an even weaker smile, and bent down to Aggie’s ear. “I would never encourage you to run away from me, but if you could manage a fast trot and get me out of this, I’ll give you gourmet meals for the rest of your life.”

She sat on the pavement and looked into his eyes with earnest sincerity. “I can do you one better, if you’ll just get me to the backyard.”

“Well, it was worth a try.” With a sigh, he rose and slow, leaden steps took both of them to his front stoop.

“Brandy, what a…surprise. Why are you here?”

She leaned against the railing, her hands jammed into the pockets of her trench coat, and smiled. “I forgot my bag.”

“Oh, I would have brought it to work and given it to Maxine.”

Her grin turned predatory, and Aggie heard Dillon gulp—hell, she bet the voles underground heard it. “I was in the neighbourhood.”

“Right.” He moved past her and opened the door—just wide enough to fit his hand through. “I think it’s right here—”

“That’s fine.” She pushed through the door.

Dillon’s body went rigid with annoyance and Aggie’s lip curled. She ached to take a bite out of the brassy redhead. Aggie trotted inside and gripping the bag between her teeth with enough force to leave holes, she tossed it at Brandy.

Dillon grinned and his pride made her body go heavy with pleasure. “Isn’t she the smartest dog?”

“Yeah, she’s a regular Lassie.”

“Lassie was a male, twit.” Aggie nosed the bag, pushing it onto Brandy’s open-toe Jimmy Choo sandals. Her fake Jimmy Choo sandals. Aggie snorted and turned away from the heavy scents of Brandy’s perfume. The patchouli burned her nasal passages—but that was probably because to her doggy nose, it seemed as though Brandy had bathed in the fragrance.

“Since I’m here…” She untied the belt of her coat with slow, deliberate movements and made a production of removing the trench from her shoulders. The stretch poplin material slipped from her in a crackled rasp, revealing smooth alabaster skin. A lot of it. Underneath the coat, she wore nothing but black, lace panties, matching bra, and a smile.

Aggie gasped at the sight, inhaled a mouthful of perfumed air that set her coughing and sneezing. Dillon gaped, his lips moving but no sound emerging.

“Where—where are your clothes?” His question came out in a shocked gasp. Dillon’s eyes were gaunt, horrified, his expression full of terror.

“The car—I didn’t think I needed them.” She swayed towards Dillon, the rhythm of her walk, sultry, slow, that sent burning flashes of jealousy coursing through Aggie.

Dillon—God bless him—retreated from the half-naked woman in his foyer, babbling, “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“No misunderstanding.” Brandy purred the words. “I want you; I’ll have you.”

“I don’t think that’s appropriate—you’re my boss’s relative.”

“Exactly.” She slunk towards him with a voracious smile. “Think of how Maxine will feel if I’m upset. You don’t want me upset, do you?”

Aggie blitzed an end run around Brandy, positioned her furry body in between her and Dillon, and growled.

Brandy’s face contorted with contempt and distaste. “Can’t you do something about that mutt?”

“Yes, yes, do something about me. Take me outside and let me get that lamp.” She whined and yipped, pulling at Dillon’s jeans with her teeth.

“Princess, what is it? She probably needs to go out. Excuse me.” He sidestepped Brandy as though she was a land mine, gingerly toe tapping past her coat, and hurried to the patio door. The quick clicks of Brandy’s heels behind him, made his eye twitch.

“You don’t have to come with me, I’ll just be a—” He turned as he said it but his words were cut short as he slammed into Brandy. She laughed and wrapped her arms around him, her grip as tight as an octopus.

“That’s all right. I think I’ll enjoy coming with you.”

He jerked, wriggled his way out of her grasp, and flashed Aggie a frustrated glance. His jaw rippled and his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat.

“Just get me outside, and I’ll take care of this sex-crazed behemoth.”

He flipped the lock, and Aggie bounded outside. She barrelled down the stairs—head first, praying she wouldn’t break anything important. Impatience and frustration marred her judgment, and she ran about the yard, her search pattern vague and scattered. Afternoon shadows of the house and fence played against the grass, creating shapes where there were none. Common sense finally kicked in and reminded her that the lamp would be by the fence, and not in the middle of the lawn. Aggie sniffed and kept her gaze roaming the perimeter for any sign of glittering metal.

Edginess and aggravation hampered her efficiency, but she found the lamp in a dark corner by the fence. She grasped it in her teeth, pulled it into the open. Once again, she tried to rub the lamp, but it just jumped and hopped from her grasp.

The sounds of Dillon and Brandy reached her sensitive ears. Desperation and frustration throbbed in his voice, manipulation and coercion slithered in hers.

“Come on, come on—this must be possible for a dog, it worked for a cat!” Still the trick to rubbing the lamp eluded her. Heavy, rapid footfalls sounded on the steps. She grabbed the lamp and ran for the side of the house.

“Princess, where are you?” The thud of his feet on the grass moved towards her.

She pawed the pot and a frustrated growl revealed her location.

Dillon appeared from around the corner. Confusion drew his brows together. “What do you have?”

“The answer to our prayers.”

A frown wrinkled his forehead. “Here, give me that. What are you playing with?”

She dodged around his legs and ran for the open yard, skidding to a stop when Brandy blocked her path. The antique dealer’s eyes narrowed as she stared at the Turkish teapot.

“What’s that dog doing with my stuff?”

“Your—” incredulity made Aggie’s jaw drop and the lamp fell to the ground. “It’s mine, you lying piece of...” Her mind whirled, but couldn’t think of a big enough insult. She snapped up Ebony’s house, and growled. Her fur bristled, her lips curled back from her teeth.

“Your what?” Dillon came to rest beside Aggie. He glanced at her, the lamp, then went back to watching Brandy.

Her finger, the red-lacquered nail as long as a talon, pointed to Aggie. “She’s got my antique pot.”

“That’s not yours—it can’t be.”

“It is. That mutt took it from my bag.”

His arms folded in front of his chest, Dillon’s face turned as black and stormy as the clouds before a hurricane. “Liar.”

Brandy’s head snapped back, her eyes narrowed into tiny, brilliant, slits. “What did you call me?”

“You heard me. There’s no way this pot is yours. Princess couldn’t have taken it from your bag—we would have seen her.”

“It’s mine. And if you want to keep your job, you’ll give it back to me.”

“Don’t threaten me.” Rather than gaining volume, his voice dropped to low, ominous tones. “And stop hitting on me. I don’t want you.”

She snarled, the sound vicious and threatening. “You really don’t want that cushy job of yours, do you?”

“Try and get me fired.” Anger and conviction burned in his expression and made him look like a god about to wage war. “I’ll sue you and Maxine for so much money, those pieces of lace you’re wearing will be all you have left.”

“Don’t threaten me.”

“It’s not a threat; it’s a promise.”

While they continued to argue, Aggie slunk away, creeping from them in slow, quiet steps.

“Hey!”

She jerked at Brandy’s scream.

“That’s mine.”

Her hand snaked into Aggie’s view, and dog instinct took over. She dropped the lamp and bit Brandy. The woman screeched—more shock than pain—because Aggie hadn’t put any pressure or force into the bite, and recoiled from her. Grabbing the lamp in her canine jaws, she bolted for the back fence.

“I’m getting that dog put down. It bit me—I could have rabies!”

How do you think I feel? I’m the one with the bad taste in my mouth.

“You’re not touching my dog.” Conviction and promise throbbed in his words.

“I’m calling the authorities right now.”

Aggie scrapped at the lock, but her claws and paws proved as ineffective on the fence as they did with the lamp. Dillon and Brandy continued to fight. Her voice screeched into the air, ripped into Aggie’s ear drums, and left her panicked.

“I’ve got a friend on the board—I’m going to make sure that dog is put down by the end of the night.”

“Don’t even try it, lady.”

As their voices rose into the descending twilight and euthanasia coalesced into a possible future, desperation gripped Aggie. She tossed the lamp to the ground, threw herself on top of it, and wriggled, stroked and did every action that could conceivably be thought of as “rubbing.” The welcome hiss of smoke and the sight of pink vapours curling into the air brought a sob of joy from Aggie.

“What the hell—?” Dillon’s voice sounded behind her.

Mist continued to climb in sensuous, rippling tendrils.

“Hurry, Ebony. I’m about to be put down.”

A pop, a bang, and the joyful sight of Ebony’s kitten face appeared. Aggie heard a thump behind her and turned. Dillon remained standing, his expression shell-shocked and disbelieving. The soles and heels of Brandy’s shoes greeted Aggie—the redhead had fainted and for that, she was grateful.

“Aggie, where have you been?”

“Aggie?” Dillon’s astonishment made his voice jump an octave.

“Ebony, I’ll explain later—turn me back. Quick!”

“You have to wish it.”

“Fine, fine. I wish to undo my last wish. Now hurry!”

Blackness engulfed her. As the brilliant shades of light exploded around her, and unconsciousness overtook her senses, Aggie prayed the wish would work.

****

Muffled sounds—water, voices—rippled into her mind. The scent of fresh laundry and the feel of a warm blanket called her to waking life. Her eyelids fluttered. A great weight seemed to rest on them, but she pried them open and blinking, looked around. The fuzzy image of Dillon’s face swam into view. She squinted and squeezed her eyes shut, then re-opened them.

“Hi.” He said it softly, as though a normal speaking voice might shatter her.

“Am I human again?” Even as she asked the question, she knew the answer. Her inner-sense sent messages from toes and fingers, and the crinkle of the sheet against her breasts shouted her human form.

“Yep.” He held up a glass of water. “Want some?”

She nodded and rose into a sitting position. The sheet slid from her, and cold air hit her body. She looked down and the messages her body had sent her came into sharp, fibre-optic clarity. “Why am I naked?”

“I have no idea. Genie magic, perhaps.”

“You’ve seen me naked.” She pulled the sheets up to her armpits, though the action seemed pointless.

“So have you.”

A blush of pleasure and guilt set her ears tingling. “Oh yeah.”

He settled on the floor beside her and leaned against the couch cushion. “So many things make sense now.”

“Thanks for the drink. Where is Brandy?” She took the glass from his hands.

He grinned. “Gone, long gone.”

“She knows about the lamp—”

His grin widened. “Who will believe her? I’m not going to say anything, neither are you.”

Aggie leaned over, set the glass down on the floor, and reached for his hand. “I’m so sorry—I’ve cost you a job.”

“Nothing of the sort. While you were passed out, I called Maxine. We sorted everything out.”

“Really?”

He chuckled. “She likes her sister-in-law even less than I do.”

She glanced around the room, not seeing the lamp, and fear gripped her. “Where’s Ebony?”

“Exploring. I told her she could wander around, have some time away from that claustrophobic lamp.”

“That was sweet of you.”

“So is your quest to rid her of the lamp and make her your pet.”

She cocked an eyebrow.

He smiled and shifted to his knees. “You’ve been passed out for a few hours. We talked. How did you end up a dog?”

She blinked. Admitting she loved him was no big deal, since she knew that he loved her back. But telling him the rash words that turned her into a canine made her feel foolish. “Oh, I wished wrong.”

He leaned in to her. “What did you wish?”

She looked into his dark eyes, saw the desire and affection pooling in them and grinned. “I wished to be in your arms.”

“Why?”

She moved towards him, until their noses touched. “Because I love you—and I know you love me, too.”

He sighed and took a breath that shuddered in his chest. “I do, with all my heart. When I thought you had left or had been hurt, Aggie, I wanted to die.”

“Don’t die on me—unless it’s in the Shakespearean sense.”

“Huh?”

“Orgasms.”

“Oh.” His pupils dilated into large, black circles. “Aggie?”

“Hum?”

“If you don’t kiss me, I’m going to die—and not in the cool, Shakespeare way.”

“We can’t have that.” She tilted her head, his lips came tantalizingly closer—a sudden thought, and she pulled away. “Wait—I can’t do this, not yet.”

His eyes snapped opened, surprise filled the black irises. “Are you kidding?”

“Don’t whine—I’ve been waiting on you for three years. You haven’t even gone twenty-four hours.”

“So…why are you torturing both of us?”

“Ebony. How can I celebrate when she’s still stuck in that stupid lamp? If I don’t make another wish, she’ll be stuck there until the next unsuspecting human comes along, and I can’t do that to either of them.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “Ebony,” he called, “come here.”

The light sounds of her steps, the scent of figs and vanilla, and she was in front of them.

“Now,” Dillon said to Aggie, “repeat after me. I wish to undo Ebony’s last wish.”

“Oh!” Aggie clapped her hands, delighted. “You’re a genius.”

She leaned in, intending to give him a quick kiss of thanks, but as her lips touched his, the fruition of a dream coming true overtook her. Their mouths melded into a warm, soft embrace. His tongue flicked along her lip. She opened herself to him, the sizzling sensation of their tongues intertwined sent her senses reeling—

“Excuse me. Kitten genie who would like to be made mortal.”

“Oh—Ebony, I’m so sorry.” She pulled herself from Dillon’s embrace. “I wish to undo Ebony’s last wish.”

If there was dark or fireworks, Aggie didn’t see them. All she saw was Ebony, flopping over like a dropped rag doll, and turning from semi-transparent to a solid consistency. “Is that what I did?”

“More or less.”

She picked up the tiny kitten. Ebony’s soft breaths puffed against her hand. “Is she okay?”

“Yeah. She’ll probably be out for a while—you were unconscious for six hours.”

Aggie stroked the soft fur. “What a good friend she is—she brought me the best wish of all. You.”

He smiled and wrapped his arms around both of them. “We should get her a playmate and decide whose house we’re keeping.”

She gazed into his face, seeing nothing but contentment. “I’ve had three years to love you and decide to make a life with you. You’ve only had fourteen hours. Are you sure you want to rush into living together?”

“I was thinking of marriage.”

“M-marriage?”

He pressed kisses against her eyes and cheeks. “You don’t know how scared I was when I couldn’t find you. How terrified the thought of never having you in my life, made me. You’re back and you’re safe, and wherever you are, is where my home and my heart will be.”

Joy did a victory dance in her chest and her heart beat so fast and happy, it almost broke her ribs.

“From bachelor to husband and kitten father, all in one day.”

He smiled, took her in his arms, and said, “Sounds like a wish come true.”

Chapter One

Her parents had named her Vanessa, and for this she had never forgiven them. Vanessa. It conjured other names, like Redgrave and Williams—women who personified the class, grace and sophistication it took to shoulder a name that meant ‘butterfly.’ Vanessa Helph, on the other hand, was more suited to a name that meant ‘earnest but ineffective’ or, better yet, ‘well-meaning but harmful to the appendages.’ She could no more carry the ethereal moniker than she could wrestle the packing boxes under her arm into submission. They poked, prodded and did their best to pitch her down the smooth, tiled steps.

“Nessie, darling, over here!”

Nessie. The nickname’s origins had their roots in her then-seven-year-old brain and in madness. Seeded by the exquisite pain of seeing Vanessa Redgrave on the silver screen and knowing she could never live up to the name, she had concocted Plan A: begging her family never, ever to call her Vanessa again. When they’d asked her what name she should be called, did she have the imagination to ask for something more suited to her gangly limbs and crooked smile?

Of course not. Her limited brain matter had fizzled and bubbled. In the ensuing grey smoke that emerged from her fried synapses was Plan B, the spectacularly stupid, “Call me Nessie.” The next year she found out she now shared a name with an elusive sea creature living in Loch Ness. Had Vanessa grown to the height of her family members and scaled the tape measure at a satisfying six feet—or even a satisfactory five foot, eight inches—she wouldn’t have minded. Instead, she barely reached five foot, one inch. And that one inch Nessie would defend with her life.

“Nessie!”

The insistent, exasperated tone in her older sister’s voice brought Nessie from her somnambulant trance. Against the cafeteria’s bubble-gum pink walls, standing among stark white Formica table tops and plastic plants assaulting her vision, she spied Nina. Her sister stood waving her arms in the air as though she were an air-traffic controller and Nessie a slow-witted jet. With each wave of her slim arm, her pert breasts bounced under her black lace top, as did the blood pressure of every male in the cafeteria. Her bangles chimed like a siren’s melody, and already men were rising from their chairs, eyes glazed as the urge to lie prostrate at Nina’s feet overwhelmed them. Nessie sped to the table before her sister caused a riot.

Nina wrenched the boxes from her hands and tossed them aside with a disdainful swing, nearly knocking three inches of cardboard into the blond head of the man seated at the table next to them. He flicked down the newspaper in his hands, looking over the top of the print to ensure boxes and feminine fists were nowhere close to his head. Then, with a casual nod in Nessie’s direction and an assessing glance in Nina’s, returned to his grapefruit and New York Times with a crinkled snap of paper.

“Nessie, what are the boxes for?”

“You’ve heard of the engineer’s raincoat, haven’t you? Cut holes in a garbage bag and wear it like a jacket? I thought I’d see if cardboard boxes would be as effective. If they are, I’ll call it the Shoe Designer’s Hoodie and market it to Gucci.” The cold metal chair met the back of her legs with an icy greeting that sent chills through her stirrup pants.

“It’ll never work.” Nina shoved a plate of pancakes—drowning in maple syrup, cream and strawberries—in her direction. “Plastic repels. Cardboard absorbs.”

Nessie pushed the chipped plate back in her sister’s direction, reached for a slice of toast and nibbled around the butter. “Maybe, but cardboard is much friendlier to the environment. It breaks down.”

Nina wolfed down half a pancake in one predatory inhalation and made it look feminine and dainty. “You’ve got a point,” she said, after she’d swallowed. “At least you’re not using them to pack up your office—”

“Cubicle.”

“Whatever.” Another pancake surrendered to the sweet annihilation of Nina’s mouth. Above a syrup-dripping slice of strawberries and cream, cobalt-blue eyes gazed into Nessie with the penetrating, soul-seeking stare only her older sibling could give. Overhead, Corey Hart sang his reasons for wearing his sunglasses at night, and the blond man rustled his papers.

Nessie’s silent determination faltered in the wake of the laser-blue stare and Corey’s soulful crooning. “The boxes really aren’t for an experiment on raincoats.”

The fork clattered onto the plate as Nina slid her elegant jaw into the cradle of her hand. “No kidding.”

“The boxes—” Nessie nodded towards her trusty cardboard sentries, “are Plan D.”

“Plan D? What happened to the first three letters of the alphabet?”

“Plan A was to hope that the company wasn’t bought out. That failed. Plan B was to talk to Grace and see what her plans were—are. They’re to fire and humiliate me. Plan C, well,” she tried to ignore the surge of embarrassment that made her ears turn hot. “That didn’t work. Plan D is to resign, while I still have dignity, and find another job.”

Nina pursed her mouth into a tight rosebud of anger but thankfully made no mention of Plan C. “You would run because Graceless is threatening you? She can’t fire you—you’re the only reason her department sees any success.” Nina’s lungs expanded and contracted, pushing fury into her words.

The thought of her supervisor turned the dry toast in Nessie’s mouth into ashes marinated in polluted rainwater. Rustle. Rustle. The man turned his pages, and Corey Hart gave way to Bruce Springsteen.

“She’s going to fire me—this takeover is just the excuse she’s been waiting for.” Unlike Nessie’s older sister, whose rapid breaths came from righteous indignation, Grace Hart’s huffing came from the same black source that prompted young, soulless boys to pull the wings off flies and magazine editors to put pictures of chocolate cakes right next to the articles about how to lose weight.

For the past three years, Grace had been blowing threats of firings and huffing about demotions. And now, with Leo Schumacher buying out Victor & Victoria, Nessie’s straw house was about to come crashing down. The wolf of unemployment would devour her, bit by plump bit.

“Nessie, this is 1984, not 1884. She can’t just fire you.”

“Yes, she can. If I fight or argue, she’ll ruin my chances of ever getting another job in the industry.” She’d meant the sentence to come out with the quiet dignity of a woman accepting her fate. Instead, it emerged with a steam engine’s wail, and loud enough to catch the attention of the blond man still seated beside them. His concerned gaze levelled her whining—though whether he was concerned over her loss of composure or his potential loss of hearing, she couldn’t tell.

“You’re her golden goose; everyone knows that.”

“Not the new owner, nor any of his people. According to the records of V & V, Grace is the one who designed the top five best-selling shoe styles, not me.”

“How do you know that?”

Nessie raised guilty eyes to the cracked ceiling. “I just do.”

Her sister said nothing, and Nessie managed a record five seconds of silence before her overactive conscience got the better of her. “The new owner is all about profit and productivity. I snuck into Grace’s office last week—”

“What? You did something underhanded?” Nina leaned in, her eyes sparkling with interest. “How did it—oh! Those bruises on your leg and the bump on your head—were they the result of your Mata Hari act?”

Nessie could only nod in miserable acknowledgment.

Nina’s laugh tinkled, silvery, delicate, and rippling with love. “Oh, darling. You’re much too honest to pull off anything deceitful. You know whenever you’re nervous or think you’re doing something wrong you always end up hurting yourself.” Nina grabbed Nessie’s hand and kissed her palm with sisterly affection. “You should have let me do it.”

“I can’t always have my big sister charging to my protection,” she grumbled.

“Of course you can. What’s the point in having an FBI badge if I can’t flash it and terrorize the witch who’s trying to bully my baby sister?” Nina turned and, with a glamorous smile, signalled to the waiter for a refill of her coffee. “Why did you sneak into her office?”

“She keeps the personnel files in there. I wanted to know what was in mine.”

“And?”

“She’s written me up as though I’m just a run-of-the-mill, average worker-bee with delusions of grandeur. Grace says I’m a troublemaker, and she’s twisted all of our meetings to make me look as though I’m a nut case. And she took credit for all of my designs! When the culling comes from the owner, he’s not going to want a deranged worker-bee who can’t design a shoe.”

“Technically, bees don’t make shoes. As for deranged bees, everyone knows they make the best honey.”

“I read up on our new owner.” Nessie plunged ahead, anxious for Nina to see her side and lend support. “He always brings in his own people for the management positions, and they bring in their own. Average people like me are going to be fired.”

“You’re not average.” Nina’s voice held the hard, disciplinarian edge of a schoolteacher who’d heard a student utter a foul word.

“You’re right. I’m less than average.”

“Less than average?” Her sister’s voice had gone deadly quiet.

“Yes.” She spat out the word. “According to Grace I have no talent, and look at me—I don’t stand a chance of holding the job on the basis of eye candy.”

“That’s all right. You’ve always preferred salty snacks, anyway.”

“Don’t tease. Look at this hair.” Nessie jerked the chin-length strands towards Nina. “Deathly black, impossible to color, forget about trying to feather it like Heather Locklear’s. I’m plump, with this round, moon face, and I’ve got little tiny hands.” Her voice quavered under a week’s worth of trying to be brave when all she felt was small and hopeless. “The only thing I have to give me any dignity is that I’m five feet and one inch.”

“Technically darling, you’re only five feet and three-quarters of an inch.”

Nessie gasped. “That was told to you in the strictest confidence.” She stuffed the buttered section of toast into her mouth.

“I haven’t told anyone except you, and you already knew,” Nina responded with a callous shrug. “Here,” she pushed a cup of coffee towards Nessie. “Drink.”

But Nessie couldn’t get down a sip. The fear and uncertainty of her upcoming week clogged her throat and made it impossible to do anything other than hold the cup and sniff the fragrant scent of Columbian roast.

“You forget your decrepit fashion sense,” Nina said, almost as an afterthought. “The new owner won’t keep you on account of your terrible taste in clothing and inability to dress with today’s fashion. He’ll never believe you can design shoes that can catch the interest of today’s youthful generation.”

“Et tu, Brute?” Now, even the salty tang of butter on fresh bread had lost its taste.

“Of course not. I’m by your side till the bitter end.” Nina resumed her demolition of pancakes and strawberries. “Your tirade, however, is trademark Nessie. You rip yourself apart, call down all the curses from the gods, then pull yourself together and emerge victorious. It’s usually around Plan E—at the worst, Plan G.”

“I do?” Nessie’s brow wrinkled as she considered this possibility, then dismissed it. There was no way to emerge victorious when the company had been sold and the only woman who stood between her and unemployment had all the compassion of a vampire bat.

“Always. I’m simply pointing out that you missed the third point on your triangle of self-sabotage: your so-called terrible fashion sense.”

“I did have a hard time getting this belt to cinch properly,” Nessie pointed out.

“What a perfect reason to give up, paint a strip of yellow down your back and run.” Nina snorted.

“Not give up. Leave with dignity.” She reached across the scarred table to grasp her sister’s hand. “If I leave on my own accord, it’ll look better on my résumé. But if I were fired by—” Breath and courage failed Nessie. It was one thing to think of the name of the man about to ruin her life, a whole other thing to say it. “Do you know what they call Him?” The fear of Him made her voice drop into a hoarse hiss.

Nina’s blue-sky eyes opened heavenward. She leaned in and whispered back, “Sir?”

“No.” She ignored the deadpan tone that always indicated her sister wasn’t taking her seriously. Despite the fact she hadn’t a clue what Leo Schumacher looked like, she glanced around the cafeteria, checking for his presence. “The Lumberjack. Do you know why?”

“He likes to cut down trees, skip and jump, and press wild flowers. Then—let me guess—he puts on women’s clothing and hangs around in bars.” She paused and leaned in further, until she and Nessie were almost nose to nose. “Does he know that Monty Python based an entire song on his life?”

“I bet you whip suspects with rubber hoses,” Nessie said, tossing her sister a dirty look which slid off Nina’s pearl-white smile. “No, they call him the Lumberjack—”

“Because he wears plaid. Oh, God,” Nina released her hand and flopped back into her chair. “You’re going to be fired by a plaid-wearing, flower-picking, cross-dressing, woollen-socked multi-millionaire who cuts down two-hundred-year-old trees because he likes to make birds homeless and see chipmunks cry.”

“You’re being silly.”

“No sillier than you.”

Words and maturity failing her, Nessie hurled a piece of toast crust at her sister’s head. Since the bread’s trajectory was mapped by a plump and un-athletic shoe designer who couldn’t get her coal black hair to feather or layer, it completely bypassed Nina and, instead, bounced squarely off the left eyebrow of the blond man.

Once again his gaze impaled her.

“I’m so sorry,” she squeaked.

Instead of answering her, he turned to her sister. “Do you have the same athletic prowess as your sister?”

“No,” Nina answered. “I have much better aim.”

He rose from his seat.

Up to now, the only mark he’d made on Nessie’s consciousness was the rustling of his paper and the occasional clink of his cup meeting its saucer. But as he stood, packing up his papers and shifting the cutlery, he not only marked her consciousness, but tattooed it, as well. The width of his shoulders and his skyscraper height branded her awareness, while the style and grace of his movements—more suited to a dancer than the muscled, broad male specimen in front of her eyes—imprinted her senses and obliterated any thought of work.

The man went around his table and sat on the other side.

“Should you feel a further urge to hurl anything,” he said, for the first time addressing Nessie, “bear in mind that I’ve already had toast and grapefruit. Perhaps you can toss a few of your sister’s strawberries, or a slice of pancake.”

“I really am sorry.”

“Of course you are.” He unfolded his paper once again. “Don’t throw anything hot or scalding, as I’ve no desire to be burned—even if it’s an elf who sears me.”

Nessie gasped in horror, her fingers reaching to pull her hair from behind her pointed ear and shield the deformity from the stranger’s view. “That’s not funny. It was just the way I was born.”

“Who’s being funny?” His silver-blue gaze manacled her. “I happen to be very partial to elves.” Then, with a flick of his wrists, he disappeared behind his newspaper.

****

In the Women’s Casual Footwear Department, under fluorescent lighting which convulsed in a death throes worthy of a National Geographic special, Nessie twitched, waited, and counted off the seconds until the meeting with Grace would draw to a close.

“Now that Victor & Victoria is in the closet of a new owner, shoes will be moved and sorted.” Grace’s nasal pitch set Nessie’s teeth on edge. The euphemisms for firing were as excruciating as a root canal without medication. Put together with Grace’s insincere smile, they all left Nessie wishing for Novocain—or at the very least, a stiff double shot of whiskey—to dull the pain.

“Some of you,” Grace’s drill-bit whine tore into Nessie’s nerves, “are like old, comfortable slippers. Dependable. Reliable. You, of course, will be staying. Others...” Her gaze circled the room, then fixed on Nessie; the look in Grace’s eyes was that of a Dark Ages dentist trying to remember where she left her chisel. “Are more like a passing fad. Superficial. Trivial. And gone as quickly as you came.”

A murmur rippled through the employees, accompanied by furtive, sympathetic glances at Nessie.

“I am meeting with Mr. Schumacher for the next few days and will be unavailable to you. If you have any questions or concerns, I’m leaving Vanessa Helph in charge—”

For a brief, shining moment, it felt as though the dark, heavy fog which surrounded Nessie lifted, allowing her to glimpse a blue sky and yellow sun.

“After all, with the company shuffling, who will notice if she screws up?”

The black fog rolled in once more, and, with it, sharp flashes of lightning that illuminated the unchanging, flat wasteland she called a career.

“That’s not fair,” Nessie said, gripping her bucking courage with sweaty fingers. “I’m just as competent as the other people here, and I don’t appreciate your intimation that the department will go to pieces just because I’m in charge.”

Pencil-thin eyebrows rose in Grace’s lined forehead. Her eyelashes, looking like fat, black, stranded spiders, blinked in wide-eyed innocence. “Really, Nessie. Did I say that?”

“Yes, you—”

“I only said that with the reshuffling, your relative inexperience at running a department won’t be noticed.” Her voice was oiled precision, the insincerity and deception well coated by years of climbing the corporate ladder and stepping on any fingers and toes that got in her way. “This doesn’t bode well for you. I thought we’d resolved your mistrust of your superiors. As your manager, I have to document these instances, Nessie. I’m sorry to say that today’s outburst will go into your file, and it won’t look good for you.”

“What about my design for the jelly shoes? Is that in my file?”

Grace’s smile slipped from her bright pink lips. “We can discuss that after this meeting.”

She dismissed the group immediately and, after issuing an imperious command for Nessie to meet her in an hour to discuss the plans for the next few days, disappeared in a whirl of shoulder padding, heavy perfume and frosted hair.

Nessie retreated to the relative safety of her cubicle. Grace had painted the walls of the department a dark, malevolent shade of purple and, though Nessie tried to quell her imagination, it always felt as though she were being stalked by merciless grapes bent on revenging the deaths of their kind by stomping on the humans who would make them into wine. She dashed to the cushioned walls of her cubicle, but she couldn’t outrun the despair that trailed on her heels. Nessie tossed her notes for the meeting onto her pressboard desk.

Her phone rang once, then went dead—the department employees’ code for a Graceless meeting. She stepped from the high-watt light of her desk lamps and back into the gloom of Grace’s maze. Not only had Nessie’s supervisor painted the walls in dark shades and kept the lighting at a consistent forty-watt hue, but she’d put black velvet curtains on the windows. Grace kept the employee cubicles scattered and separated by large, fake trees and potted plants.

She said dark colors spurred creativity, the greenery gave an outside atmosphere and the wind-blown setup of the cubicles afforded individual privacy. Nessie didn’t buy it for a second. The cubicle arrangement was to ward off co-worker camaraderie, the clutter of greenery to thwart any attempt to communicate from above the cubicle walls and the dungeon atmosphere to send her serfs careening into the fake plants or walls, thereby making a racket and alerting Grace that the peasants might be forming a rebellion.

Nessie kept her shoulder to the wall, squinting in the dim light to keep herself from slamming into a fake ficus and quietly whispering, “I don’t drink wine. I don’t drink wine,” to appease any wrathful grape spirits. A shaft of light pierced the gloom, and like the voice of judgment Grace’s voice boomed into the quiet.

“Vanessa. Come here.”

She slunk towards the light with less enthusiasm than Dracula. Blinking in the bright sunlight streaming through the floor-length windows and bouncing off the white walls and even whiter furniture, Nessie located the wraith-like presence of her boss. Unlike Grace, who planted herself in the middle of the bright office, Nessie kept to the threshold, figuring if doorways were safe places to hide in case of earthquakes and tornadoes, surely they could provide a modicum of protection from the venomous hurricane of a middle-aged supervisor.

“Where were you going?”

Grace was just a shadowed figure silhouetted against the light. Suspicion slunk in her words, forced joviality slithered in her tone, and Nessie didn’t need to see Grace’s face to know that her eyes were drawn into distrustful slits.

“To the bathroom.”

“Isn’t it interesting how my staff has to visit the cafeteria or the restroom as soon as a meeting is finished?” Grace closed the venetian blinds and revealed her fanged smile.

“We’re all caffeine junkies, I suppose.” Nessie painted a serene expression across her face, though her heart was a canvas of trepidation.

“I wanted to speak to you about the duties for which you’ll be responsible.” Grace hesitated, seeming to search for the correct words, but her calculated silence wouldn’t fool a two-year-old. “However, if I can’t trust you, then I can’t put you in charge of the department.”

The ropes of a trap lay in Grace’s words, and Nessie knew there was no safe place to step. If the ropes didn’t catch her, then Grace would have a steel cage strategically placed nearby.

“If that’s your decision, I’ll abide by it.”

Grace smiled—at least, Nessie thought that was the general intent of the bared teeth and brittle chuckle. While other people had laugh lines, Grace had grimace grooves.

“That’s such a shame. Your record at V & V isn’t perfect, Nessie, and I had hoped you would show some initiative at the eleventh hour to save your career.” Grace pulled a gold lipstick tube from her desk drawer. She pushed aside the blinds and used the window’s reflection as a mirror to apply frosted pink stain to her lips. “If you can’t help me, then I can’t help you.”

“I’m sure that I’ve been at the forefront of all your plans, and I know you’ve done all you can to…move my career in the path you deemed fit.”

The blinds dropped back to the window sill with the brittle rattle of metal. Grace turned silently and soundlessly, her angled body made even more linear by the tension that drove her bony shoulders to her hoop earrings.

“Vanessa. You have such a—distinctive way of speaking, so breathless and husky. And with that sweet, little girl voice of yours, I wonder if that’s what prompted our revered Mr. Holt to hire you.”

A sharp, forceful breath burned its way down Nessie’s throat. “He hired me because I had imagination and he thought—no, he knew I could make a difference in the company.”

“Dear girl, there you go again, reading innuendo where there is none. It was a simple observation, Nessie. If your own guilt and shame prompts you to—”

“I have nothing to be guilty about, Grace.”

“Defend yourself where no explanation is necessary, that’s your own concern.” She levelled a soulless gaze at Nessie. “I wonder what our new owner would think of your outburst.”

She’d sidestepped the rope, but Nessie could feel the sharp points of the steel trap circle her ankles and lick their metal teeth in anticipation of a tender morsel. “I earned this career, fair and square, Grace. And if Mr. Schumacher is any kind of boss, then you, not me, will be the one defending your actions.”

“Career? That’s a joke. After two years with this company, you’re nothing more than a glorified gopher—despite my best efforts to pour talent into that plump body of yours. Don’t you ever feel too old to be this low on the totem pole?”

Nessie caught a whiff of cologne—plums, sandalwood, and citrus—then felt a warm hand on her shoulder.

“Come now, Grace,” Barry Holt gave Nessie’s shoulder a friendly squeeze. “Give the girl a break. We can’t all have had our start on the same pole that began your career, can we?”

Scarlet blotches mottled Grace’s cheeks.

“I came to see Nessie,” he continued. “Vanessa, come along with me.”

“We were discussing whether she could take over my duties while I’m in the meetings with the upper management.”

“Of course she can’t, Grace. When it comes to venomous gossip and spiteful manipulations, no one can fill your shoes.”

The scarlet blotches became a map of red fury that tracked every vein and freckle on Grace’s face.

“I meant,” she said in a hard, stiff voice, “overseeing the designs and campaigns.”

“Oh.” One silver eyebrow arched upwards. “Is that what we pay you to do? My mistake. I thought you were the crucible through which all our staff tested their courage and strength of will. Come along, Nessie.”

He pulled her into the hallway and closed the door.

“Is that true? Did she really start her career on a stripper’s pole?”

“What a dirty mind you have, Goddaughter—”

“Shh!” Nessie glanced around. “Our secret. Remember?”

His laughter rippled through her, calming the internal storm created by Hurricane Grace into the more manageable—though ulcer-producing—waves of anxiety. “What makes you think she wasn’t a firefighter?”

“Because her coworkers would have shoved her into the nearest burning building. Why did you come to get me?”

“I figured Grace would play mind games with you.”

Even with the sombre lighting of the department, she could feel his loving gaze on her.

“I’m sorry, cara, I wish I could fire her. Unfortunately, she was the president’s pet. Fred was always partial to cloak-and-dagger management, and Grace is his very best spy. Though now that he’s sold to Schumacher, I’m hoping she’ll be the one getting the axe.”

“What’s he like?”

“Fred? Manipulative, slimy—Nessie, you’ve worked here too long not to know all about him.”

“Don’t tease. You know I meant Leo Schumacher.”

“He’s a gentleman.” Barry propelled her through the labyrinth of plants and cubicles, and back to the grey walls of her office.

“Which means he’ll be polite enough to sharpen the blade before he gives me the axe.”

“I see Grace’s ongoing style of management has done wonders for your self-esteem.”

The urge to seek comfort and absolution from Barry, who wasn’t just her godfather but vice-president of the company, propelled Nessie to confess. “I...” The scarlet heat of shame warmed her cheeks. “I snuck into Grace’s office—”

“Ah.” Silver eyebrows rose like an ocean wave. “That explains the bruised fingers and wrist guard.”

“Actually—” The words poured out in a guilt-induced rush. “That injury was from last week when I snuck into Nina’s bedroom looking for my birthday present.”

“And what did you get?”

“Bruised ligaments and broken fingernails.”

“I meant the gift.”

“Oh. Dinner at The Manhattan and a play.”

“That doesn’t sound like Nina’s style.”

“The play was a naughty interpretation of The Wizard of Oz. It was good, though I’m pretty sure the Tin Man should have been too rusty to do some of those positions.”

“That sounds like Nina. What did you see?”

“Not much. A lot of it was innuendo, and the stage was cluttered with shrubbery.”

“I meant in Grace’s office.”

“Oh.” Nessie yanked open the bottom drawer of her filing cabinet and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “I wanted to see my personnel file. Here, I photocopied it. Barry, she makes me sound totally incompetent. She didn’t give me any credit for any of my shoe designs—and five of them are our best sellers.”

He sat at her desk, flipping through the papers. “Is that really a smart idea? Keeping the photocopy in an unlocked drawer?”

“It’s Grace. She’s only interested in locked drawers. The best place to hide something is right in front of her.” Nessie dropped a kiss on the top of her godfather’s head. “I’m glad I have you on my side. With all the changes, if I keep my job, I’ll need all the upper level contacts I can get. You’re part of my Plan E—if I don’t go with Plan D and quit.”

Barry cleared his throat. It was an innocuous sound, innocent and trivial. But for Nessie, who had known him all of her life, it sounded with the death rattle of Plan E.

“Oh, God. Barry what are you not telling me?”

The papers dropped to her desk, forgotten as he took her hands in his. “Leo bought me out, as well.”

His words hit the back of her knees like a Louisville slugger.

“It’s all right, Nessie. You’re talented, driven, and Leo’s reputation precedes him. He’s a good man, really. You’ll be fine.”

It took all her energy to stand upright, and her words emerged more as a whisper than a statement. “But up to now, you’ve been the only reason I haven’t been fired. Without you here, and with Grace beaking off to Mr. Schumacher, I’m as good as gone—and I’ll never get a proper reference from them.”

“It’s not as bad as that. Leo’s been asking about you.”

“Oh.” She sounded—and felt—like a deflated balloon.

“He’s been asking about you, and he hasn’t talked to Grace yet.”

“Oh?” Barry’s words inflated hope back into her.

“Yes. Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”

****

Everything will be fine. In the two days since Barry had uttered those fateful words, Leo Schumacher’s axe had levelled so many employees that Victor & Victoria was beginning to look like a clear-cut forest. If Barry had still been here, then—godfather or not—the carnage of fired employees and packed boxes would have made Nessie do something rash and horrible. Like hide his chocolate bars, or stuff the vents of his Mercedes convertible with confetti.

She hunkered in her chair, as helpless as a chipmunk seeing its favourite tree being shredded into toothpicks, and listened to a third of her department fell their possessions from off their desks and into boxes.

“I can’t believe this is happening!”

Nessie’s ears perked at the fierce whisper coming from the other side of her cubicle wall. She peered over the top. White light from her coworkers’ cubicles strove upwards and spent itself on the fronds of trees and plants but illuminated no figure amongst the greenery.

“This is just horrendous.” The hiss sounded as though it came from the silk palm tree. Knowing that a palm tree would never hiss at her—especially one made out of cloth, Nessie headed towards the plant.

“Who’s there?”

“Shhh! Keep your voice down before your voracious vocalizations make me visible to that vapid, villainous viper.”

“Jack! I’d recognize those alliterations anywhere.”

Thick, round, black-framed spectacles, perched on a carrot-tip nose that was nestled on a cantaloupe-shaped head, emerged from the shrubbery. “Vanessa, my pearl. How are you?”

“Fine. Are you all right?”

He stepped over the palm’s trunk—no easy feat, given his short, stubby legs. “Me? Why wouldn’t I be all right?”

“Your choice of words. You only resort to the latter letters of the alphabet when you’re very upset.”

“Who wouldn’t be upset at a time like this?” he asked mournfully. “I’ve had to write up so many pink slips, I’m going to have to see my doctor about Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, and my psychiatrist about my new phobia for all things coloured pink.”

“It’s not as bad as that,” Nessie said, with an enthusiasm she didn’t feel. “On the bright side, two of Grace’s henchman got the sharp end of Leo’s axe—and I heard that he’s been chopping away at Fred’s spy network.”

“He also got rid of Myrtle.”

“Myrtle the Turtle?” she gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as though it could cover the horror of what she’d uttered. “Poor, harmless, old Myrtle?”

“The same.” His lament was one tone shy of a funeral drone.

“She’s been with the company since the hair on Fred’s head was still his.”

“I know.” Jack pulled at his polka-dot bowtie. “If she’s gone, so am I.” He ran his hand along his neck, seeming to feel the edge of Leo Schumacher’s blade.

They were all goners, and there was just one thing left for her to do.

“Jack, I’m going to go and see him.”

His round, blue eyes grew wide and, because of his far-sighted prescription, made him look like a dishevelled, frightened owl.

“Have you lost your mind? No one goes to him. They’re summoned, commanded, dragged, but they never go. Leo will whip a waif like you, wage war and win with a warlord’s wallop. He’ll—he’ll—” Jack blubbered into silence, and Nessie sent up a quiet prayer of thanks that he’d run out of ‘w’ words.

“I’m going—I’m fired anyway, aren’t I? I might as well go down kicking.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Plan F. I’ve got all my work on those shoe designs, and I’m going to prove that I’m the one who deserves credit, not Grace.” She cupped Jack’s baby-soft and hairless chin in her hand. “If all goes well, I’ll put in a good word for you.”

He wriggled, flapping his arms like an owl trying to calm its ruffled feathers. “Good luck,” he whispered, then retreated behind the palm tree.

She didn’t need luck; she needed a miracle. Nessie headed to her cubicle and, after finding the files, searched for her courage. But it, like bell bottoms and polyester leisure suits, had retreated to a place she’d never find. A hard, walnut-shaped seed of fear lodged in her throat, grew roots and held her to the floor.

With a deep breath and the firm reminder to herself that it wasn’t just her career but also Jack’s she was fighting for, she pulled herself free of anxiety and set off to initiate Plan F. Grape-coloured walls gave way to white paint and deep-pile blue carpeting as she stepped out of the door of the department and into the elevator bank, where she slammed to a stop. “You!”

“Me. Are you planning on hurling any more breakfast foods in my direction?” He asked the question nonchalantly as he set down the latest issue of Sally on the small table that stood opposite the elevator doors.

“Of course not.” She glanced at the clock hanging on the wall. “It’s lunch time.”

His eyelids didn’t even flicker. Her brain, on the other hand, flickered and then fluttered out like the unreliable power source that it was.

“What I meant to say is ‘no, I do not plan on flinging anything at you.’ Besides, it’s lunch time, so I couldn’t very well toss breakfast foods at you, could I? Although,” she cocked her head, staring at the black numbers on the clock’s face. “It’s noon, and technically that would fall under brunch. So I suppose I could hurl a few pancakes your way—not that I would, of course.”

His expression—or lack of it—didn’t change. “This is a very odd conversation, and you’re a very unusual woman, Nessie.”

“How do you know my name?”

“Your sister yelled it across the cafeteria, don’t you remember?” He strode towards her, though with the grace of his movements he almost seemed to float across the carpet. He moved with the lithe rhythm of a dancer, and had he done a leap and pirouette she would not have been surprised.

“Who are you?” She stumbled back and found herself pressed against the wall. “What are you doing here?”

“Working.” He plucked at the folders in her hand. “And you? Are you scurrying off with the company’s secrets?”

“Working?” She clutched the folders tighter to her chest. The walnut was back in her throat, harder and bigger than she remembered. “Are you one of Leo Schumacher’s henchmen?”

His ice-blue gaze froze her. “Certainly not.”

“Then who are you?”

“Ah, Mr. Schumacher.” Grace’s voice exploded in Nessie’s eardrums. Traitorous ears—they didn’t have the decency to shut down; instead, they forced her to listen to the echo of Grace’s words. Nessie closed her eyes—screwed them shut—and wondered if she clicked her heels, she would find herself in bed, and that the past week had just been a very, very bad dream.

“Vanessa, what are you doing with Mr. Schumacher?”

“I have no idea,” she whispered. She opened her eyes to the wintry gaze of her new boss. “Leo Schumacher?”

He pried the folders from her grasp. “You, of course, can call me The Lumberjack.”

Chapter Two

A faux pas of such magnitude required more than a simple apology, but faced with the arctic stare of Leo and the calculating gaze of Grace, whose pointed nose twitched at the scent of disaster, Nessie could think of nothing. Defenseless and mute, she did the only thing possible: she imitated a marble statue. That her sudden lack of movement fooled the new owner into believing a careless janitor had left a figurine blocking the hallway, she doubted. But mercifully—or perhaps, cruelly, depending on what he had planned for her—Leo said nothing.

Nessie watched, immobile and inactive, as he and Grace boarded the elevator. The ring of its bell turned cold marble back into warm flesh. Clammy, sweaty, goose-pimpled, about-to-lose-her-job flesh, but at least blood still flowed in her veins. For now. The high probability existed that her life’s force—in the form of her job—would soon be spilled on Leo’s floor.

Five minutes later, when Plans A through Z: Sub-Section 1-A87 failed to give her a proper framework for an apology, Nessie opted for simplicity. A graceful, eloquent “I’m sorry I called you names and spoke badly about my supervisor” would have to suffice. If he pushed, she would hide behind the shield of her conversation with Nina being protected under a sisterly version of the clergyman-penitent privilege.

A quick visit to the ladies room to splash cold water on her face and Nessie entered the elevator and went to face Leo—feeling very much the forest twig about to wrestle a chainsaw. By the time she reached his floor, adrenaline had made her shirt damp and her heart beat so hard and fast it could be the percussion section for the next song to be released by New Wave pop band.

She stepped into the hallway. Recessed neon-blue light lined the top and bottom of the white walls. The posters of V & V’s best-selling shoes observed her halting, slow progress. By the time she reached Leo’s outer office, Nessie was breathless and in desperate need of water. Lacking the requisite courage to push the door open, she once again—and involuntarily—replayed her marble statue act.

“What are you doing here, soldier?”

The gruff voice, its decibel level rivalling a cannon, boomed behind her. Had she really been made of marble, the vibrations of marketing guru Archibald Tyles’s attempt at a whisper would have shattered her. As it was, Nessie was sure x-rays would reveal cracked fissures along the slopes of her bones.

“Archie, keep your voice down.” She cast an anxious glance around the hallway and netted success—Leo didn’t appear from behind the bushes or leap around a corner to confront her.

“I am,” he answered in a stage whisper loud enough to be heard by orbiting astronauts. Archie leaned his round, meaty face close to hers and asked, “Why did he order you here?” He followed the question by gripping her arm with his stubby, sausage-shaped fingers and propelling her into the reception area of Leo’s office.

“I’m here of my own accord.”

“That’s my girl. Face the enemy rather than hide in the shrubbery,” he boomed. Had she matched his gigantic size, then the slap he bestowed upon her back would have felt like a tickle. Being almost two feet smaller than Archie, however, Nessie careened towards the water cooler at Mach 3 velocity. She saved herself from a watery bath by veering left and using the trajectory to crash land on the couch.

“Thank you,” she gasped, checking her body to see if her suspicion—that she had an Archie-sized hand print cratered in her back—was true. “Why are you here?” She heaved herself from the couch and moved to the water cooler to pour herself a cup.

“Confronting our revered leader. Myrtle’s missing and I intend to find out why. She was a good soldier, prompt, competent. There was no reason to fire her. I respect authority and the ranks of my commanders, but I can’t surrender to this latest offensive strike.” He launched himself into a chair as though it contained a grenade. The chair groaned and shuddered under his weight, the creaking of its springs sounding with the metallic version of “Get off me, you great big brute!”

Before Nessie could offer a response—or a suggestion that Archie might prefer to sit on something built for his weight, like the floor, the door of Leo’s office opened. Nessie had never experienced the sensation of time standing still, but as soon as her gaze lighted on him, that’s exactly how she felt.

The doorway framed his body like a work of art, though even da Vinci couldn’t have painted a more perfect figure. Blond hair lay in waves around his head. The fibres of his red knit jersey seemed to cling with love and devotion to his biceps and chest, and his grey pants fell in perfect lines around his legs. He was gorgeous, glorious, and if Nessie had to face the axe she couldn’t think of a more handsome man to wield it.

Wait.

What had she just thought to herself? She rifled through the cabinets of her mind, searching for a “What to Do When Attracted to Your Boss, Who is About to Fire You” file but her mental manila folders were empty on this subject.

“Miss Helph, Mr. Tyles, to what do I owe this visit?” Leo asked the question in quiet, emotionless tones, but somewhere in the distance, Nessie swore, she could hear the screech of an axe blade being sharpened against a grinding wheel.

“I can’t speak for this private,” bellowed Archie, speaking in his normal, indoor voice. Nessie had never spent any time with him outdoors, too afraid that his volume level when not surrounded by walls would mean permanent hearing loss and eardrum damage for her. “But I’m here to discuss Myrtle, and I’m not retreating until I accomplish my objective, sir!”

Leo gave no indication of impatience or irritation at Archie’s demands. Instead, he simply nodded, then turned his eyes on her.

“What can I do for you, Nessie?”

A forest of conflicting desires and answers sprang up around her. From ‘kiss me’ to ‘please don’t fire me,’ the thick, double canopy of attraction and career blocked intelligent thought. Once again, Nessie found herself doing the statue imitation. She marshalled every ounce of determination, broke free from the frozen state Leo seemed to put her into, and babbled, “I—you—see.”

A nod of his head acknowledged her inane response and, with a glance, he summoned Archie. Her friend, his body erect and shoulders thrown back, marched towards the office. Though the size and width difference put Archie at an advantage, the aura of power and control that Leo exuded made Archie look like a bulldog puppy approaching a grown rottweiler.

Leo stepped aside as Archie barrelled past. With a final glance in Nessie’s direction, Leo followed. She stared at the clock on the wall and counted three seconds of silence before the deep boom of Archie’s voice sounded, though Leo’s oak door prevented her from hearing precisely what Archie said. Her friend’s monologue lasted for two seconds and was followed by silence. The quiet stretched on, growing more eerie and ominous with each sweep of the clock’s second-hand.

Three minutes after Leo’s door had closed, it opened, the soft click as loud as gunfire in the hushed office, and Archie stepped out. Tears ran down his red face as he heaved great blubbering sobs. She jumped to her feet but, unable to decide if she should to go him or get him a glass of water, she waited for him to move. He stumbled toward Nessie and wailed what she assumed was either a sentence or a question. She rushed to meet him, but midway he halted. He shook his head, babbled another sentence—or question, she still couldn’t tell—and lurched out of the outer office.

Nessie eyed the entrance to Leo’s office, then regarded the exit door. Pride said that she should stay and face Leo. Common sense said that a pink slip was far less painful than a verbal dressing down, and reality added that if he made Archie cry, then Leo would shred her into little, tiny, irrecoverable pieces. The majority of her emotions sided with a plan of retreat, but she managed only a few steps before the quiet yet commanding voice of Leo, speaking her name, froze her in place.

She peered over her shoulder, expecting to see him looming just behind her. Instead, he was twenty feet away. Arms crossed over his chest, he leaned against the doorframe of his office.

“You had wanted to speak to me, hadn’t you?”

“I—me—you, yes. Speak. I speak.”

“Now that we know you have a handle on nouns and verbs, perhaps you would like to come into my office and we can work on adjectives, prepositions and subjects.” He uncrossed his arms and walked, with feline grace, to where she stood. The spicy notes of his cologne, sandalwood and bergamot, mixed with the headier scent of sheer, raw, masculine power. With each step he took, every breath, he exuded confidence. She doubted he had ever heard the word “no,” let alone ever been denied anything he wanted. Nessie was out of her depth, professionally and personally.

“Nessie?” He swept a hand towards the office. “Shall we?”

“Yes, sir.” Quaking in her suede slouch boots, she wobbled towards the door.

“Unless you’re planning to follow that ‘sir’ with a salute, I’d rather you just call me Leo.”

She looked behind, gave him a weak smile and continued her wobble to the office. Once inside, she found the nearest chair and collapsed into it before her legs gave out on her. Rather than taking a seat at his desk, Leo chose to pull his chair around to her. His leg brushed against her knee as he sat down, and the nerve endings in her leg fired and sparked at the unexpected touch.

“So, Nessie, what did you want to tell me?”

Your voice is as smooth and rich as melted chocolate. Can I lick you all over and see if you’re just as smooth and rich everywhere else?

“I wanted to—” For the life of her, she couldn’t remember. And though her memory and plans of attack could usually be jump-started by a moment of quiet thought, Leo’s presence precluded both quiet and thought. The only thing her brain seemed able to do was to consider all possible anatomical locations for warm chocolate and calculate how long it would take her to lick it off him. “I wanted—” Her gaze flitted around the room, and landed on the doorway—“I want to know why Archie was crying.”

Leo leaned back in his chair, his long legs grazing hers as a small smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “I presume he was overcome by emotion.”

“But what kind of emotion?”

He shrugged. “I’m in no position to guess.”

“Of course you are.” His blasé response replaced her timidity with confidence. “You were in the office with him—surely you can take a guess at what made him cry.” The conviction of her words made her bend towards him.

Much to her surprise, he turned to face her, and leaned in until their faces were just a few inches apart. The indescribable scent of masculinity and power curled in sensual ribbons around her, binding her to the spot and holding her captive to Leo’s penetrating, sizzling gaze.

“When it comes to certain people,” he said, and his deep voice vibrated through her bones and made her atoms quiver, “I’m in no position to judge their emotions. I find these people endlessly fascinating. They arouse my—” His warm gaze drifted to her mouth, lingering there and sending a coil of heat spreading through her. “Curiosity.”

A moment of simmering silence blanketed the room. Graced with this unexpected moment in which she didn’t have to respond, Nessie allowed all her senses to bask in Leo. From the smell of him, the sight of those pale blue irises outlined by a dark circle of indigo, straight through to the deep timbre of his voice and the feel of his slacks brushing against her legs, Nessie’s senses swam in him, drowned in him, and she had no desire to throw herself a lifeline.

Leo shifted, putting himself no closer to her, but the infinitesimal movement narrowed her focus to his lips. His mouth—oh, boy, his mouth. It was firm and full and made a woman want to nibble, bite and suck it. His lips curved sinfully, sensuously, and if there was ever a mouth made to be kissed, it was Leo Schumacher’s.

“Nessie.” Deep in her fog of sexual fantasy, her thoughts made clumsy and slow by the perfect male specimen seated before her, she heard Leo’s voice sounding with the perfect tones of an enchanter. Bass timbres of seduction loosened her bonds of inhibition as he said, “What do you want from me?”

She looked up quick and fast, saw a flash of blue and then nothing as she closed her eyes and dived into the heaven that was his mouth. The moment her lips met his, she felt his body tighten with surprise and shock. And at that precise second, her fog chose to evaporate, leaving her lips on the lips of the man who held her job in his hand. Nessie bolted back from him, scrambling to her feet and knocking the chair backwards in the process.

Leo smiled. “I’ve had quite a few employees in my office in the past few days. I must say, Nessie, your visit is fast becoming my favourite.”

“Oh, oh.” She slapped her hands against her mouth until she could figure out something more intelligent to say. Until then, she stood with wide, horrified eyes, staring at her soon-to-be-ex-boss. He, on the other hand, lounged in his chair, licking his lips.

“Is that watermelon gloss?” he asked. “I didn’t think it would taste so good.”

Slowly, about fifteen minutes behind schedule, her brain kicked into gear and reminded her that she was here for an apology. Two, to be precise, but she could only deal with one catastrophe at a time. “Sir—Mister—Leo, I’m terribly sorry.”

“For the kiss?”

“No, for gossiping about you in the café,” she said, still fixated on the original apology. She frowned, realizing that, technically, her answer should have been ‘yes.’ “Though I am sorry for the kiss. It was out of line.”

“The kiss?”

“No, the gossiping.”

Leo cocked his head and regarded her with an expression between amusement and total confusion. “Keeping up with your conversations is rather like trying to run a marathon with cement shoes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He rose from the chair. “It makes for an exciting change of pace. Was there anything else?”

After kissing her boss, admitting to pilfering her personnel file from her supervisor didn’t seem like the best career move.

“That’s it, for now.”

His gaze ran a quick inspection of her body. “Too bad. Should you have anything else on your mind, my door’s always open to you.”

“Yes, sir, thank you.” She turned away before the twitching of his mouth could give way to full blown laughter. At the doorway, she glanced back. Leo stood at his desk, his gaze on the scenery outside the window, his fingertips on his mouth.

****

The buzz of hungry men and women hummed in the company cafeteria. A canvas of rain covered the floor-length windows, painting wet patterns against the patio tables and driving the staff of Victor & Victoria indoors for their lunch. Nessie huddled in the food line, the scent of beef soup tickling past her nose. She gazed at the pepperoni pizza and meat pies warming under the red heat lamp, but her appetite—to her consternation—hungered for a meal of a different variety. One that was about six feet three inches tall, was clad in Ralph Lauren clothing and tasted of spice and sex.

“What you want for eating?”

She glanced up at Olga and sighed. “I’m not really that hungry. What are your sandwiches today?”

“Egg, tuna, chicken salad and roast beef.”

“I’ll take an egg, with fries.”

Olga had the brawny body of an NFL linebacker and the voice of a gravel truck engine. Rumour had it that she had stowed away to America in the belly of a Russian fishing vessel, while others said she made her way from communism to democracy via KGB connections. The rough angles and grooves of her body and the tight curls of her steel-wool gray hair, however, could not diminish a spirit so sweet that even the angels couldn’t compare. Today she looked at Nessie with that same peaceful countenance and serene smile.

“You are worried about the layoffs, da?” she asked.

“It’s on the list of my troubles,” Nessie confessed.

“People are gone so fast—no time to even wave goodbye.”

“I know. I heard Myrtle got the axe, but she was gone before any of us could find her to ask what happened.” She shifted closer to the food racks, allowing those behind her to move ahead in the line.

“You must not worry,” Olga counselled, though with her thick Russian accent and gruff voice, it sounded more like a command.

“I do worry; I did something rash and stupid, and I have no idea how to fix it.”

Olga smiled and her monk-like peace washed over Nessie. It calmed her, but it couldn’t clean the anxiety from her soul.

“You must not fret.”

“Hello, it’s me. The biggest adventure my life sees is when the NBC shuffles the television show schedule and I can’t find Dangerous County. The problem isn’t the firing—it’s whether I’ll be able to list this job on my résumé, or—” She thought briefly of Leo’s lips against hers. “If I’ll have to fudge a little.”

“Fudge?” Olga’s thick eyebrows rose in confusion.

“Lie.”

“Ah.” The confusion abated and smoothed out the deep furrows in Olga’s forehead. She turned back to the soup. “You are incapable of making this fudge—you couldn’t even make chocolate.”

“Thanks…I think.”

“Come,” continued her friend, “I have fudge brownie. I give you one, and then you go eat and emerge victorious from your troubles. You will come up with a plan. I know this.”

Bolstered by both the cafeteria woman’s confidence and the mention of a brownie, Nessie followed her friend down the line, took the proffered dessert and waited to pay for her meal.

“There you are!” Grace’s screech shredded the relaxed hum of the cafeteria. Forks dropped and conversation ceased as every head turned to see the cause of the commotion. Grace streaked towards Nessie in a flurry of silk, hairspray and venom.

Acid churned its way through Nessie’s stomach. She swallowed the rising bile and faced her supervisor. “Yes? Is there something I can do for you?”

Grace smiled, her eyes bright marbles. “How wonderful to see you here. I would have thought you would still be in the conference with Leo.”

Nessie frowned. “There was a conference with Leo? Did you send me a memo?”

Her supervisor laughed, a brittle, shattering sound. “No, dear. I meant your impromptu meeting this morning.” The hard look in her eyes took on the menacing quality of a bomb about to explode and her voice increased in volume as she added, “I saw you.”

The acid went from churning to full boil. She needed to calm Grace down—or at least get her to a more secluded location where she could vent and scream without humiliating Nessie in front of her coworkers.

“Grace—” She reached forward to grip her boss’s arm and lead her back to the office, but Grace retreated.

“I often suspected you’d done something underhanded to get Barry to hire you, and now I know exactly what that was.” Spittle flecked the edges of her mouth and a few drops landed on Nessie’s cheek.

Along with anxiety and embarrassment, anger began to churn within Nessie. “If you’d just calm down, we can go—”

“Why do you want to leave the lunchroom?” Grace’s voice rose again, drowning out the quiet murmurs of conversation that had started up. “Are you ashamed for your coworkers to find out that you tried to have sex with Leo in order to save your job?”

The silence that descended in the cafeteria had an eerie, catastrophic quality. No one moved, no one breathed. Even the air seemed to freeze.

Her face turning redder than the heat lamps, Nessie faced her coworkers. “I didn’t—” She swallowed the rock of humiliation lodged in her throat. “I wouldn’t do that—”

“Are you calling me a liar? I saw you putting the moves on the boss.” Grace hissed the words as she circled Nessie, her gaze full of poison and spite. “That kind of scheming may work on television soap operas, but this is the real world, and you’re going to be fired. Leo won’t let me do it until after the reviews are in, but consider yourself canned. I’m going to spread the word and, by the time I’m done, you’ll be lucky to get a job flipping hamburgers.”

Grace stalked out of the cafeteria, leaving Nessie with sixty pairs of eyes staring at her. Her face flamed with mortification so deep she would have to climb fifty feet just to reach rock bottom. Her eyes burned with tears she refused to shed, and her ears were sensitive to the whispers hissing through the room. She swallowed hard, blinked away the wetness, took a deep breath and looked around the cafeteria. No one made eye contact with her, save one: Candy-Ann Williams, head of HR.

Candy-Ann rose from her table with the grace of Aphrodite emerging from the waves and came at Nessie with the force of Ares about to wage war. Candy-Ann’s name suited her appearance. With her long, blonde hair, curved figure and angelic face, she epitomized sweet. Her personality, however, was like a jaw breaker: hard, uncompromising, and—if she didn’t take kindly to you—liable to smash teeth. She took her position as Human Resource Manager with the seriousness of an oath and could repeat every policy, labour law and government initiative.

“My office. Now.” Candy-Ann’s brown eyes held no quarter.

Olga grabbed Nessie’s hand and pressed another brownie into it. “I have answer,” she whispered, “not yet, but I have it.”

Nessie squeezed Olga’s fingers in response, then followed Candy-Ann.

After they stepped into the office, Candy-Ann dropped the shades of the window which looked into the corridor. Nessie’s palms turned slick with sweat. Candy-Ann closing the shades was never a good thing—it meant she wanted no witnesses. She closed the door with a forceful click and turned to stare at Nessie.

“I’m really sorry, Candy. I didn’t mean for it to happen—”

“After all our years of friendship, you go and do something like this.” She moved away from Nessie and took a seat behind her desk, scraping her hair behind her ear as she did so.

“I feel terrible—stupid and terrible—” Nessie knew this woman held to the policies of sexual harassment with the same zeal and ferocity that priests held to their vows. “It was a rash—”

“How could you kiss Leo and not tell me about it?”

“It’s going to be on my record and my—what?” The image of her being led out the doors of V & V in shackles, currently playing in hi-fi and VHS clarity in Nessie’s brain, paused. She dropped into the nearest chair and asked again, “What?”

“Vanessa, the man is gorgeous. How could you put the moves on him and then not tell me?”

Nessie rubbed her forehead, hoping to stimulate coherent thought, or at least to develop a theory about her friend’s unusual behaviour. “Aren’t you going to read me the riot act on all the policies I violated? Employee fraternization or sexual harassment or something?”

Candy shrugged. “Victor & Victoria doesn’t care if employees fraternize. Did Leo look harassed?”

“No.” She sat back in the cloth-and-wood chair and called her memories to mind. “He looked amused.”

“There you go. No harassment, ergo, no problems.”

“You’re sure there’s nothing in the Employee Handbook of Ethics and—” She gulped at the look of murder in Candy’s eyes. “Sorry. Of course you would know if I violated any policy.”

“If anyone should be in violation, it’s Leo. No man that glorious should be allowed to wear clothing. Did you notice the way his pants hugged his—”

“Yes.” Nessie’s internal temperature rose to heat-wave levels. “I noticed. Heck, every woman in creation has noticed.”

Candy reclined in her chair. “And his butt is—”

“Lord, is it ever.”

The room lapsed into silence.

“So.” Candy roused herself from what Nessie guessed were x-rated thoughts. “How was the kiss?”

“I don’t really know,” she confessed. “Our lips touched, but it was over before it began.”

“Well, how did he feel?”

Nessie closed her eyes and remembered the feeling of Leo’s mouth against hers. “Warm, firm—surprised. God. What am I going to do? I’m fired, no doubt about it.” She jerked from the chair and began to pace the carpet. “Rather than reliving my moment of lunacy, I should be figuring out a plan to get another job.” Her gaze caught Candy-Ann’s. “Would you give me a reference? Help me combat Graceless’ latest plan of destruction?”

“Don’t listen to her,” Candy scoffed. “From what I’ve heard, Leo’s more than used to women making idiots of themselves and throwing everything from their bodies to their panties at him—”

Nessie winced.

“Sorry, that was insensitive. What I mean is that you shouldn’t worry.” She paused, a mischievous light coming into her eyes. “If you are fired, I’ll give you a reference—on one condition.”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“You have to go back and kiss Leo. Really kiss him, tongue and everything.”

“Have you lost your policy-loving mind?”

“Come on, it’s not like you’ll have to worry about seeing him the next morning. Don’t you want to know what it would feel like?”

“More than I care to admit,” grumbled Nessie.

“Good. It’s a deal.” Candy gave her a victorious smile. “I’m giving you the rest of the day off. You don’t need to see Graceless the Hartless right now, and besides, if you go it’ll make it look like I came down on you. And that should buy you a couple days’ worth of peace.”

Nessie rose and left the office, heading home and hoping tomorrow would be better.

****

Her mind racing with plans to save her job and avoid Candy-Ann’s requirements for a reference letter, Nessie hurried back to her office. She had collected her jacket and handbag and was in the midst of skulking out of her cubicle when Brittany, one of the company’s gofers, waylaid her.

“Taking an early afternoon?” she asked, sympathy lighting in her dark brown eyes. “I heard about the hullabaloo in the cafeteria. Can’t say I blame you for leaving.”

“Oh, she’s not leaving of her own account.” The serpentine voice of Grace slithered and snaked as she writhed her way past Brittany to trap Nessie in her cubicle. “I got a phone call from Candy-Ann. She’s been given the rest of the day off to consider her options.”

Right. Stick my tongue down Leo’s throat or don’t get a reference letter. Some option.

Brittany glanced at Nessie, empathy darkening her eyes and pulling her mouth down. “I should get these memos for the employee reviews out. Nessie, if you just give me a minute, I’ll find yours—that’s why I stopped you in the first place.”

“Nessie won’t be receiving one of those letters.” Grace’s smile had enough teeth to make a crocodile jealous. “I’ve already spoken to Leo, and he agrees that we’ve both seen enough of Nessie’s—abilities—to make a decision about her future with this company.”

Grace’s words napalmed Nessie’s seedling plans and turned her hopes into charred grey remains. Avoiding her boss’s triumphant smile, Nessie pushed past the women and hurried for the elevators, but Grace’s cruel laughter followed her all the way home.

Chapter Three

With heavy, weary steps, Nessie made her way up the porch stairs and into the two-story home she shared with Nina. The bells hanging on the doorknob jangled and, right on cue, Nessie heard the scraping of dog claws against a wood floor. Caleb, their seven-year old sheltie, resident guard dog, lap-warmer and furry vacuum cleaner, careened past the foyer table and crashed into the French doors of the living room—woofing all the way.

His misjudgement didn’t faze him for a millisecond. Ignoring the wet nose imprint on a glass panel, he twisted himself around and came at Nessie in a whirlwind of black and white fur, pink tongue and canine grin. He leapt against her legs. Knowing his sensitive feelings, she knelt down in surrender so he didn’t think his security measures were ineffective. Bolstered by this successful guerrilla move, Caleb initiated the final action in his sentry roster. He licked, kissed and made a wet, sopping mess of Nessie’s face. She used the sleeve of her shirt to wipe her cheeks, but as fast as she dried, his tongue continued to flick out to undo all her work.

“Some guard dog you are,” Nessie said, shoving the sheltie back on his hind paws and ending his security shift. “I can only hope that should a burglar ever enter the house, he’ll have the foresight to stand in your way so you can knock him down like a bowling pin and lick him into submission. If those offensive strikes don’t work, trust me, your breath will prove to be the ultimate offensive weapon.”

Caleb apparently took this to mean his mistress was pleased, because he promptly rolled over and demanded a belly rub.

“You’re so cuddly,” she cooed as her fingers delved into his soft, long fur. “Look at all of these fatty layers. You may have to rely on them in the next few months while I look for another job.”

“He won’t have to rely on anything.” Nina came into the foyer, complete with her after-workout yogurt cup. She sat down, Yoga-style, and used her toes to peel off her leg warmers. “Did you really get the axe, or are you just doing your Chicken Little impression?”

“I haven’t been fired, but it’s a matter of time.”

“That’s what you’ve been saying for the past week.”

“That was before The Disaster.”

“What disaster?”

Silence.

Nina looked up from her snack cup. “Come on. You’ve kept me up to date on every soap-operatic episode at V & V. Don’t give me commercial breaks now.”

“I may have—that is, I inadvertently—oh heck, I accidentally kissed my boss.”

Nina’s mouth fell open, displaying masticated granola and yogurt. “Oh, my God. You kissed Grace?”

“No! Leo.”

Nina’s mouth closed, though her eyes stayed open and unblinking for what seemed like an inhuman amount of time. She chewed the food in her mouth with the concentration of a placid dairy cow.

“You accidentally kissed Leo.” She spoke the words with careful deliberation, rolling each sound around her tongue like a tasty spoonful of blueberries, granola and yogurt.

“Yes.”

“How do you accidentally kiss someone?”

“Well—”

“Did you slip and fall? And Leo saw you trip, and rushed to your aid—” Nina’s supposition picked up speed as her energetic hypothesis brought a fevered glimmer to her eyes, “but he slipped as well and fell under you. So, instead of a face plant onto the floor, you planted your face on him.”

Nessie grimaced. “Not exactly.”

Nina’s eyes grew wide at this latest bit of information. “Your face got planted on another part of his anatomy?” She whispered the words with an intensity that begged Nessie to say that this was precisely what had occurred.

“Of course not!”

“Oh.” Disappointment made Nina’s shoulders droop and took the feverish light from her eyes. She scooped another spoonful of yogurt into her mouth. “Then what happened? How did you kiss him? Did he like it?”

Nessie waved her hands to put a halt to the barrage of questions. Caleb chuffed in irritation as his rub came to a momentary halt. Resuming her massage, she began to tell her sister about the kiss, the lunchroom, and the review.

With each new detail, Nina’s eyes grew larger. If her gaze got any wider, Nessie would need to knock out the doorjamb just to get her out of the house. When Nessie hit the climax of the story, the spoon clattered to the floor, spraying blotches of blueberry yogurt on the floor.

“You kissed Leo—just reached out and grabbed yourself a tasty morsel of man hunk. Nessie, you really are going all Mata Hari on this!”

“I thought you said that I was Chicken Little,” she grumbled, continuing to pet Caleb, who snored in blissful ecstasy.

“Mata Hari meets Chicken Little—coy, seductive, and with just the right touch of hysteria to keep men interested.” Nina turned her rainbow-colored legwarmers into makeshift sponges as she used them to mop up the splattered yogurt. “Speaking of which, how did Leo take the kiss—did he kiss you back? Why—”

“In a word, shock. And no, he didn’t kiss me back. He didn’t fire me on the spot, but he didn’t kiss me back.”

“I don’t know what you’re worried about,” Nina said. “You’re not fired, and as for Grace, you should know better than to believe anything she tells you.”

“This has nothing to do with her, and everything to do with me,” Nessie clarified. “If I was in Leo’s shoes and had an employee kiss me, I would get rid of him. That kind of behaviour is unprofessional.”

Nina shrugged. “Maybe, but Leo doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who’s easily ruffled by a woman’s kiss. Besides—” she leaned over and tweaked Nessie’s ear, “he did say that he was partial to elves.”

Nessie batted her sister’s hand away. “Don’t tease me.” The idea that he found her pointed ear delightful rather than deformed was a fantasy too precious to voice.

Since Caleb wouldn’t allow her to rise without complaint, she took a more comfortable position on the floor, stretching out her legs and kicking off her shoes. “Okay, let’s say I’m not fired. Then why wouldn’t I be pulled in for a review—optimistic reasons.” She fell silent as positive explanations eluded her.

Nina snapped her fingers. “Simple. He overheard you talking about Grace stealing your ideas. Those jelly shoes have been such a hit—he doesn’t need to talk to you, because the sales figures say it all.”

The tight band around Nessie’s heart loosened. “That sounds plausible enough. So let’s pretend he doesn’t care about the kiss, knows about the jelly shoes and wants to keep me on. It still doesn’t change the fact that he brings in his own managers, and they in turn bring in their own people. What I need is a plan to really wow him—make me stand out in the crowd and keep me at Victor & Victoria.”

“You don’t think shoving your tongue down his throat doesn’t already make you stand out?”

“I didn’t shove anything down his throat.” She scowled at Nina.

“But you did kiss him.”

“Our lips may have met—but I assure you, they’re not on intimate terms with each other.” Nessie followed her words with a self-righteous tilt of her chin.

“Maybe,” Nina conceded, “but you also called him The Lumberjack within his hearing.”

“Is it my fault he chose to sit next to us?”

“You also threatened to fling brunch foods at him—”

“Are you trying to see me perform Chicken Little: The Sequel?” Nessie glared at her sister.

“No, only saying that, in his books, you’re already unforgettable.”

“I meant,” Nessie huffed, “unforgettable on a work level. Impress him with a new design, innovative creations—heck, perfect attendance!”

“If that’s the case, then I won’t offer any ideas.”

“I already know your suggestions: wear something tight and low-cut.”

Nina looked at her, askance. “I would never offer you that kind of plan.”

Nessie sighed with the hope her sister had some secret agent idea that would guarantee her job.

“You’ve already kissed him—what’s the point of cleavage? I was going to say wear black lace underwear—not to show him, mind you. It’s just that a girl can’t help but feel confident when she’s wearing sexy undergarments.”

“I suppose you wear lace every day.”

Nina rose to her feet with a wicked smile. “As if. I don’t wear underwear.”

“Oh, that I could bleach my brain and disinfect my memory.” Her fingers scratched a circular path around the silky fur of Caleb’s ear. “There’s so much to sort out—not the least of which is a new shoe design. What do you think of a high-end sneaker?”

Nina’s forehead wrinkled in thought. “Define high-end. Are you talking price or heel?”

“Neither. The athletic shoe industry is exploding. Between Nike’s waffle-sole shoe and Puma’s Velcro fasteners, there’s a lot of room for innovation and design that wouldn’t put a dent in a person’s wallet.”

“So what are you thinking? Of merging waffles with fasteners?”

Nessie frowned as the next great shoe idea danced in the wings of conscious thought but refused to take center stage. “I don’t know; I need to clear my head. Maybe some fresh air will help.” She glanced outside, where a bright sun held court in a blue sky.

“I think I’ll go for a walk,” she said, then in that same instant wished she’d never spoken at all.

In the Helph household, the term “walk” was more than a four-letter word. It was taboo—like swearing in church, lying to a judge, or wearing white after Labour Day. No one spoke it—few dared spell it, for the simple reason that “walk” was the vocal version of doggy cocaine. One utterance, whispered or spoken, would send Caleb into sheltie frenzies of ecstasy, delight and excitement. He would bark, twirl—he was even known to do a mambo shuffle, complete with hip wiggles and arabesques.

Though Nessie had petted him throughout the conversation, and Caleb lay on his stomach, legs splayed in the air and a viscous line of drool leading from his jaw to the floor, the word “walk” had a Lazarus effect. He twisted, turned, exploded to his feet, and canine skull collided with human forehead.

The speed of a thirty-five-pound dog traveling at “Oh-My-God!-A-Walk!” velocity sent Nessie crashing back. Her head smashed into the drywall, the pain enough to make her forget the throbbing in her forehead. She blinked, bright multi-coloured lights dancing around her head as a conga band drummed a jungle beat at her temples.

Through the haze of pain and fog, she saw Nina rush to her side. The cool feel of her sister’s hand against her temple dispelled some of the ache, but Nessie still felt as though she’d been on the wrong end of a locomotive.

“Darling, go lie down. I’ll bring you up some aspirin and a cold wash cloth.” Nina hooked Nessie’s arms around her shoulders. With a strength that ensured the highest marks at the FBI agent physical testing and belied her fragile frame, Nina hauled her sister to her feet.

“What about Caleb?” Nessie’s voice sounded muffled, as though she spoke with a mouthful of cotton.

“I’ll take care of him.”

“Oh, okay.” Staggering around the dancing sheltie—who was in the middle of a rumba—Nessie stumbled up the stairs and to her room, where a queen bed held thick pillows, even thicker duvets, and no frantic dogs or evil supervisors.

****

At precisely six o’clock in the morning on the following day, Nessie entered the bathroom, flipped on the light, looked in the mirror, and screamed. It wasn’t the average scream, prompted by the sight of what fluorescent lighting and restless dreams could do to a person. This howl of desperation and disbelief, so high and keening that even banshees would flee in terror, was the result of seeing what a solid hit from a sheltie’s head could do to the blood vessels around the human eyes.

“I’ve got two black eyes!” Nessie wailed like an ambulance siren, though she needn’t have bothered with the emergency-level volume. Before she could finish the final hiss of “eyes” she felt Nina’s presence at her side. Through puffed, swollen eyes she discerned her sister staring back at her via the mirror’s reflection. Nina put a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide and full of horrified empathy.

“It’s…it’s not so bad,” she whispered, then fell silent at her sister’s disbelieving glare. “All right, so it’s bad. On the bright side—”

“Yes?” She drew the question out, turning a one-syllable word into five syllables’ worth of challenge.

“The purple and indigo colors really bring out the hazel flecks in your eyes.”

Nessie groaned, then tried to pry her eyes open further, but they remained resistant to silent pleas for cooperation.

She leaned in until she was mere inches from the mirror and stared at her reflection. The skin around her eyes had the mottled, puffy look of a cadaver left in the river for days, and it would take her entire bottle of foundation to hide the abstract of broken blood vessels and bloated flesh.

She took a deep, steadying breath, but her insides continued to dip and dive. “Okay, Plan A: avoid all contact with people. That shouldn’t be too hard, considering Grace’s outburst in the cafeteria. I’ll be persona non grata for the next few days.” She stared pensively at her eyes, hoping that some of the swelling had gone down in the last fifteen seconds. No such luck. “I don’t figure I’ll need a Plan B…although I should come up with a better story for this injury than that my dog decked me.”

“That’s the truth, though.”

“No way. It’ll put Caleb in a bad light. I don’t want people thinking my dog is a ne’er-do-well and violent.”

Nina’s wind-chime laugh tinkled off the tiled walls. “Only you would put your dog’s reputation ahead of your pride. Come on, hop in the shower, and I’ll make you some oatmeal. Then we’ll get you fixed up.”

****

Leo Schumacher had many abilities, talents and actions. He could walk, stride, jog—hell, he could even skip and frolic, if the mood took him. But he never skulked, slithered or slunk. Nor did he engage in any of skulk, slither and slunk’s sister activities. So what prompted him, at seven fifty-five in the morning, to creep into the Ladies Casual Design Department with the mindset of a secret agent but none of his panache or grace?

Leo’s palms sweated, his heart raced, and his brain screamed, “You own this company—walk in here like a man, damn it! At least stop hunching over like Quasimodo with a backache!” Try as he might, however, he couldn’t do it. True, he did own the company and all the furniture, design ideas and office supplies in the building, but he wasn’t here for business reasons, and that truth prompted the overproduction of adrenaline and testosterone.

So what drew him into the bowels of the department, with its soul-sucking dark walls and dim lighting? A woman. The woman; the one who proved the Schumacher Love At First Sight Guide to Marriage to be more than a legend told at Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Vanessa Helph.

She should come with a sign that said, “Warning. Deep curves ahead” or perhaps “Watch for falling inhibitions.” One look at her, and all the Schumacher indications of forever love hit: dry mouth, loss of appetite, nausea, sharp pains in the left side and chest, and blurred vision. Thank God he’d listened to all those stories told over turkey and stuffing, or else he would have checked himself into the nearest hospital for a thorough battery of tests.

He crept closer to her cubicle, cursing Grace’s labyrinthine setup of cubicles and potted plants. A creak, a snap, and Leo dived for cover—right into a cactus. To the utter relief of his appendages and exposed skin, the needles of the fake plant proved to be made from a hard but harmless type of rubber. Rather than impaling himself on the plant, he got a few hard jabs in the rib and face, as though the cactus, like his brain, questioned this impetuous, rash side of his personality. They weren’t the only ones wondering how he’d lost his mind.

In his thirty-three years of life, Leo had proven one thing to himself: he was incapable of spontaneous, impulsive action. He was a thinker, a planner. Leo didn’t just look before he leapt, he weighed, measured and brought in a survey team. Then, perhaps, he’d hop or jump. God forbid that he leap. Yet, here he was, his arms wrapped around a dusty, rubber cactus which hugged him back with the ferocity of an arduous suitor. And for what? The moment he could trespass into a cubicle because—dear God, he could hardly admit it—he missed the scent of Nessie’s perfume.

The hum of the furnace reached his ears as a draft of hot air ruffled his hair; its drone sounded too much like an indulgent chuckle. For the first time grateful for the dim light because it hid his reddened face, he channelled his usual confidence and strode to Nessie’s cubicle, where his bravado promptly deserted him at the doorway.

Photos covered the grey walls of her cubicle, though in the darkened room he couldn’t make out anything more than their white borders. On the sides of the computer monitor, sticky notes fanned out like paper wings, while filing shelves rested flush against the walls, patiently awaiting her return. He sat in her chair and, since it was set to her diminutive height, it drove his knees to his chest. Not that he cared. She sat here. Her body warmed this—what the hell did she sit on? He ran his hands over the nubbed, ripped fabric and made a mental note to look over the state of office equipment in Grace’s department. Leo suspected an inspection would find her desk and chair in pristine condition, her subordinates’ possessions in desperate need of furniture euthanasia.

He took a deep breath, then another. No scent of orange blossoms, almonds or vanilla. In the dark, unfathomable recesses of his brain he knew he wouldn’t be able to smell her perfume. It was too light and delicate. And this acknowledgement forced another confession. He’d come to her office just to be in a place that she frequented. Maybe it wasn’t too late to get himself to a hospital—he’d just have to make sure it was the psych ward rather than the intensive care unit.

But since he was already here and still had an hour before employees arrived…

He adjusted the chair so his knees no longer knocked against his shoulders, then flipped on the desk lamp. White light, pure and brilliant, momentarily blinded him. Daylight having been captured by the geniuses at the utility company and now illuminating his environment, Leo—to his great disgust—descended further into rash madness and began to look around the cubicle, hoping to discern a nugget of her true personality, a shared commonality that he could mine and from it smith a relationship.

Why couldn’t he just talk to her like a human being? Oh, right. Because the very sight of her turned his mind into a desert, stripped and barren of any intelligent thought, and sent his heart skittering across the dusty moors.

Relegated to a D-rated Sherlock Holmes, he stared at the photos and sticky notes and gleaned the following: she had a close relationship with her sister, liked organization, and—judging from the contents in the wastebasket—was either extraordinarily fond of brownies or sought to be the cause of their annihilation from earth. He chuffed with irritation. Such paltry clues. Holmes would not only smack him but take away his pipe and cape, then beat him with said accessories.

Leo sighed, the deep, desolate exhalation of a man who knew love had turned him into a lunatic. He turned his attention back to the notes and discovered that Nessie dotted her “i”s with circles. Leo found this oddly endearing and, coupled with her jaunty “y”s, he added this to his list of why he had to marry Vanessa Helph. He felt a prickle along the back of his neck. The phantom scent of orange blossoms tickled past his nose.

Then he heard Nessie clear her throat.

Faced with a situation he had never before encountered, Leo did the only thing possible. He took a page from Nessie’s book and imitated a statue. Then he urged his heart to stop racing and intelligent thought to rain down and quench his parched mind.

“Sir? Can I help you?”

Oh, that he could voice all the ways she could help him. He saw the rough reflection of her in the black screen of the computer and, when he could no longer keep his back to her, he turned and saw that she wore dark sunglasses. The urge to ask, “Why are you wearing sunglasses in a room with dark purple walls and amorous cacti?” was superseded by the question, “How did you manage to navigate through the maze while wearing sunglasses?” Leo, however, held his tongue, because past experience told him that to question Vanessa was both delirious and dangerous. He could no more predict what would emerge from those bee-stung pink lips than he could guarantee a life with her next to him.

“Good morning, Nessie.”

“Did you need something from me?”

“What would you like to give me?” Damn. Hell. He’d leapt and landed in asphalt. His voice had dropped two octaves with the question, and he would bet it was because of the Vanessa fantasies which kept him awake at night.

Her head tilted down and though he couldn’t see her eyes for the dark lenses covering them, he knew she wasn’t staring at his face…or his chest. Necessity dictated that he stand. Right now. His gaze was level with her luscious, kissable, lickable, suckable—and therein lay the second reason to stand. His penis didn’t seem to understand that while it was all right to dream and fantasize about her, it wasn’t all right to show that he was thinking about her. Even if she was delectable. And delicious. And—he pulled to mind the unfortunate time when he was thirteen and had walked in on his sister and her boyfriend in flagrante delicto. His blood temperature receding from lava-esque levels, he said, “Nessie, I asked you a question.”

“What do you want me to give you?”

He leaned against the desk because his legs had given out at her open-ended question, and he crossed his arms in front of his chest before his booming heart crashed through his ribs. “I’m afraid we’re repeating ourselves. I hate to think we’ve run out of things to say to each other so early in our relationship.”

She froze. “What relationship?”

See? his brain goaded him, this is why you bring in the survey team before leaping. “Don’t we have a business relationship?” he asked, hoping she would argue that their kiss had put them on an entirely different level.

To his utter disappointment, her shoulders dropped with relief. As soon as they descended, however, they hiked themselves back to her earlobes. “How long will this relationship last?”

Dangerous. Delirious. He saw the flashing hazards, knew he should detour, but talking to Nessie gave him a delicious, bubbly feeling—even though, most of the time, he felt positive that the effervescence would float him into oblivion.

“How long do you want it to last?”

“Why are you answering all my questions with questions?”

“Why are you?”

“Because I don’t have the courage to ask the question most in need of asking.”

“And what question would that be?”

A sigh of exasperation greeted his question.

“Ah, of course, you lack the fortitude to ask it.”

A nod answered him. With the sunglasses still perched on her pert nose and her arms folded in front of her, she looked like a cross between a fairy princess and an FBI agent for the President.

“Nessie. At eight in the morning on a fall day, has the sun already proven itself too bright for unprotected eyes?”

Nessie fumbled with the sunglasses, taking them from off her eyes and tucking them in a drawer furthest from Leo, and keeping her face averted from him. Her furtiveness stoked his curiosity.

“I’m going to put my lunch in the fridge,” she said. Nessie turned, her plaid skirt flowing in an arc around her legs.

“Look at me.” He spoke with soft tones, but the command in his voice, unbidden and borne from years of management, reverberated through the words. Her shoulders slumped and with a sigh heavier than a two-ton truck, she did as commanded.

He gripped the edge of the desk to prevent himself from rushing to her side. Anxiety plucked a staccato rhythm on the strings of his heart. “Ah, I see the necessity for the sunglasses now.” Worry made his voice into an emotionless monotone.

Silence.

“Vanessa, why do you have two black eyes?”

“Broken blood vessels and other fluids pool around the eye area, giving it the dark discoloration.”

He swallowed a sharp retort. “Let me be more specific. What incident caused your injury?”

She said nothing and so he did the only thing possible.

He rose and went to her.

****

Though she had thought she would be the only one at V & V this early in the morning, the man uncurling from his seated position with a panther’s grace, and advancing towards her with the stalking sleekness of the dark cat, proved her wrong. The urge to run flashed across her consciousness, but it came and went as fast as a lightning bolt. Pouring steel into her spine, forcing her shoulders back, she adopted an expression of casual disregard.

If Nessie had steel keeping her back straight, then Leo had titanium. He came at her, erect, rigid, his hands curled into tight fists at his side. His eyes glittered like freshly fallen snow; the hunter’s look in them gave the irises a shine that frozen water never could.

“Who did this to you?”

“I—” She sighed. “My dog—but it was an accident! He’s a sweet dog, I promise.”

An arched eyebrow spoke his surprise, and the hunter’s look in his eyes dimmed but didn’t extinguish.

“I’m telling the truth. Our heads collided last night when I mentioned the word ‘walk.’”

His fingers threaded into her hair; gentle force tilted her head back. She slid along the precipice of nonchalance and seduction, then dived over the edge and into the glowing warmth of his eyes, their endless, deep pools pulling her under with the force of a riptide.

“Promise me that this was an accident,” he rumbled, “that no one laid their hands on you.”

“I promise.” Still swimming in the heated ocean of his gaze, her words came out in a husky gasp.

“Does it hurt?”

Rendered mute by his proximity, she could only shake her head.

He took her hand and led her out of the cubicle, into the elevator, and into his private bathroom. Scooping her up as though she was lighter than air, he set her on the marble sink countertop. Then he took a slate grey towel and wet it.

“Your foundation is too dark for your skin tone,” he told her as he used the fluffy hand cloth to wipe away the makeup with soft, gentle strokes. “It brings more attention to your injury.”

“That’s what Nina said.”

“Smart woman.”

The feel of his hands against her skin touched her soul with soft, silken threads. He epitomized smooth, warm and strong. She closed her eyes, and each gentle swipe of the thick towel, temperate from the hot water, erased the headache that hammered against her temples. The heat from Leo’s body left her feeling languid. Her limbs grew heavy, as though she’d drunk warm brandy and now the golden notes of the drink relaxed every molecule in her body. Too soon, his ministrations ceased. The cold air stole her dreams and brought her back to reality.

She opened her eyes and saw that he watched her. Leo nodded towards the mirror. “I think I got most of it off.”

She turned, looked and agreed, though she said, “Now I have no cover, and I’ll be pestered with questions.”

“I’ll make sure you’re left alone.”

“How?”

“Leave it to me. As for the foundation—” He knelt by her feet and opened the bottom drawer. Pulling out a small glass container, he said, “I think you’ll find this shade better suits you.”

She wrapped her fingers around it, making sure her grasp caught his hands, as well. He had long fingers, tapered and lean, and he didn’t let go at her touch. “You have a bottle of foundation in your drawer.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it would look silly sitting on top of my desk.” He followed his words with a wink, and a smile. Nessie’s heart grew wings and fluttered to the ceiling, where it joined the choir of singing angels.

“How did you come into possession of this foundation?” She pressed the question. Though the angels sang and her heart waltzed, the possibility existed that this foundation belonged to a special woman in his life. The singing chorus and dancing organ paused and waited for his answer.

“My mother broke her leg two weeks ago. I’ve been doing her grocery shopping for her.”

The choir broke into a rock version of “Hallelujah” and her heart began to moonwalk.

“Your mother wears the same shade of foundation that I do?”

“No.”

The joyous chorus faltered. “Then why did you buy it?”

“It was an impetuous and rash act, borne out of lunacy.”

“That’s a lot of weight for a five-dollar purchase to bear.”

“Good thing the bottle is tempered glass.”

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

His eyes clouded over, turning as dark as the sky before a storm. “Perhaps one day, when I’m comfortable with the rasher side of my personality.”

Her hand reached out and grasped the sinewy muscles of his forearm. Dark blond hairs covered his skin, and they felt crisp yet soft against her fingers. The drunken, languid feeling began to swirl in her again, but she had other, more pressing priorities which needed to be addressed. “I’m not a spontaneous person, either. I like to plan ahead.”

His smile broke the clouds in his eyes. “I’ve noticed.”

“Kissing you was never in my plans.”

The upward turn of his lips faltered, then fell, turning his smile bittersweet.

“I say this,” she continued, “because my job is important to me. I don’t want to lose it because of a kiss.”

The storm returned, this one full of thunder and fury, blackening his countenance and making his scowl dark. “You think I would fire you over that?”

The challenging look in his eyes made her want to run for cover, but short of hiding under the sink, there was nowhere for her to go. “It was unprofessional of me, and given the job reshuffling currently under way, my action could be misunderstood.”

He leaned into her, forcing her to retreat until her back pressed against the mirror. “Tell me,” he bit the words out, “what I misunderstood.”

Mere inches separated them. She could see the gold, wheat and copper strands that made up his blond hair, the dilation of his pupils. The scent of his cologne circled her and the heat of his body melted her professional shield into a molten puddle. His lips formed a firm, obstinate line, and the urge to kiss that rigid wall until it turned soft, moldable and yielding, nearly overwhelmed her. She gripped her restraint with the desperate commitment of a woman hanging off a cliff.

Forcing her gaze to meet his, she said, “I don’t think there was any misunderstanding, Leo. I just wanted to apologize for kissing you. It wasn’t appropriate.”

“No one will ever consider me a Don Juan, Nessie, but I’m no monk. While I may not have bedded hundreds of women in my thirty-three years on earth, I am schooled in the art of lovemaking. What you did yesterday was not a kiss.”

Not a kiss? Not a kiss? He may have teased her about her ears and her choice of breakfast foods to fling, but no one could question her amorous actions. Feminine pride brought heat to her cheeks and had her pushing back, forcing his physical retreat. “Lips touched lips. That makes it a kiss.”

Leo glowered with derision. “During rush hour on the subway, I’ve had women brush against my body and fall into my arms. Are these women hitting on me?”

“I know what a kiss is, and I kissed you!”

“Like those women on the subway hit on me,” he snorted.

“Those women aren’t attracted to you!”

His eyes glittered, a muscle in the back of his jaw throbbed. He leaned in and once again, she found her back against the mirror. “Are you confessing to an attraction for me?” There was no mistaking the triumphant shine in his eyes, nor the challenge in his voice.

She gulped and resisted the temptation to smack herself. “I’m saying there is a large difference between women being jostled by the movement of a train, and a conscious—though erroneous—decision on my part.”

“That wasn’t a kiss,” he repeated with the obstinacy of a mule. He grabbed her by the hips, pulling her towards him until every part of her body knew each hard, angled plane of him, and muttered, “This is a kiss.”

Then his mouth swooped in and claimed hers.

Chapter Four

Grace’s insistent demands kept Nessie hopping from one task to another. So much so, that she feared she would soon grow a cotton tail. A furry tail and a taste for orange-coloured vegetables, however, could not corrode the memory of Leo’s mouth on hers. That soul-shattering, mind-bending, knee-buckling kiss kept her awake at night, and fantasies of what else might have happened ensured the battery companies would see a healthy profit at the end of their quarter.

She hadn’t seen Leo for fourteen days; but today, she promised herself that would change. Nessie twirled in her new office chair, a stir stick dangling from her lips, as she watched the clock hands inch their way toward noon. No matter what decrepit task Grace thought up to occupy Nessie’s lunch hour, be it cleaning out the shared fridge or running photocopies of useless designs, she had plans of her own—and they all involved putting herself within kissing proximity of Leo Schumacher.

“Vanessa.”

Nessie’s nose twitched with anxiety at the sound of Grace’s voice. She turned to see her boss’s head peering around the cubicle door. That the rest of Grace’s body remained hidden by the cloth panels gave her head a creepy, disembodied look. “Leo wants you to meet him in the boardroom.”

Her heart thumped an excited rhythm. “He wants to see me?”

“He wants to see everybody,” she scowled, her crow’s feet etching a diagonal formation around her eyes.

“Oh.”

The crows took wing at the disappointed tone in Nessie’s voice. Grace’s mouth curved into a cynical smile as the pointed talons of her fingernails curled around the doorframe. “What’s the matter, dear, hoping that he’s still panting for your affections?”

Nessie rose, smoothed the lines from her oversized jersey shirt and walked out of her cubicle. The bait about her conduct found its hook in her insecurities, but she forced a smile, and freed herself from its sharp edge with a contemptuous stare. “Is that the best you can do?”

Overjoyed that she’d managed to jump back into empowered waters and avoid the butter-lined skillet, Nessie hurried to the boardroom before her manager could cast another line.

She took her seat, smiling at both the faces she knew and those she didn’t. Leo strode in. He chose a chair three positions away from Nessie.

“Thank you all for coming,” he said, once the men and women had all taken places around the walnut table. “I know the past few weeks have been emotional and uncertain. Now that employee reviews have been completed, new staff put in place and others moving on to different companies, I’m meeting with each department to outline the new visions for Victor & Victoria. If you’ll take a look at the sheets in front of you, I’ll walk you through the upcoming changes.”

With this introduction, Leo began to explain his plans for the women’s casual-wear unit, including merging it with the ladies’ dress-wear, implementing modified policies and procedures, and updating the design for the office space of Grace’s section.

The new color scheme of neutrals and forest tones may have seemed tame and mundane to non-Grace employees. But for those who had worked and toiled under the grape-coloured sky and forty-watt sun, a sigh of relief rose to the ceiling as a new day—sans bruised shins and fatigued eyes, dawned.

“Now that the Women’s Department has been expanded, there will be positions open for new management, including team leaders and supervisors.”

Grace lifted her hand in an imperious gesture. “Excuse me, Leo, why was I not made aware of this?”

“Of course you were made aware.” Leo regarded her as though she were a crooked, dead tree cluttering his forest. “You agreed to every one of these new policies.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but his gaze shifted to one of silent warning, and she snapped it shut.

“If anyone is interested in applying for a team-leader position, let me know. As for the supervisory roles, I have three candidates. Each person will have a group assigned to them and be given six weeks to create a new shoe design. The results will be judged by the company employees, and the two who place at the top will be given the positions.”

He rustled the papers in front of him. In the silence that filled the room, Nessie swore she could hear the drum roll in the background. “The three candidates are Germaine Smith, who will head Team A, Grace Hart leading Team B, and Vanessa Helph, responsible for Team C.”

Grace’s nostrils flared and her lips curled as though she smelled a foul odour. “Leo, I’m already a supervisor. I’m unclear why I need to compete for my own job.”

He leaned back, the leather chair rocking in silent compliance. His long fingers interlaced with each other as he regarded her. “That you are now questioning executive decisions you helped create seems to hold your answer.”

“I never agreed to compete for my job!” she cried.

His chair snapped into an upright position. A flash, and his eyes turned from cool blue to an arctic, indigo shade. “You agreed employees whose performance was not bad enough to require firing but not good enough that they should be kept without question would be given an opportunity to fight for their job.”

“Well, yes,” she wailed, hands rising as if imploring heaven’s intervention, “but I didn’t think you meant me.”

When the chuckles and titters abated, he said in a bored, uninterested tone, “Now you know.”

“Compete for my job like it’s a horseshoe toss?” Her sparse eyebrows climbed her forehead as her hands descended to mortal levels. “Fred would never had made me—”

“Fred’s not here anymore, is he?” Leo unlaced his fingers and reclined in his chair. “If you feel this is beneath you, Grace—”

“I do—”

“Then I’ll be happy to accept your resignation.”

Her mouth opened and closed but no sound emerged. She looked around, gaping and incredulous. No one made eye contact, save Nessie, who couldn’t pass up the opportunity to watch Karma at work.

With a quiet and commanding, “Ladies, gentlemen,” Leo brought the group’s attention back to the meeting. Nessie, lost in her thoughts and suppositions about Leo, paid only cursory attention to the rest of the discussion. Fifteen minutes later, when everyone had left, she remained.

“You really aren’t a lumberjack, are you?” she asked Leo.

The corners of his mouth twitched. “I am every bit the callous and axe-wielding maniac that legend makes me out to be.”

“Then why didn’t you fire Grace outright?”

His eyes narrowed and a harsh scowl marred the smooth lines of his face. “Lawsuit. If I gave you and Germaine the promotions and fired her, she would file a complaint. She wouldn’t win, but in the interim, she would cost me time, money.” A warm glow lit his eyes and a soft smile burnished his mouth. “She would also drag your name through the mud, and I couldn’t allow that.”

“You couldn’t?” Seduced by his words, Nessie rose from her seat and glided to the chair next to him.

“Not in the slightest. You, Vanessa Helph, are one of the most popular and well-regarded employees in this company. A lot of people like you. If I ever allowed Grace to damage your name, I’m sure I would have a mutiny on my hands.”

“Oh.” Her voice slid down two octaves.

“And I like you a lot.”

“Oh.” His words gave her insides a weightless, floating sensation, but the way he looked at her anchored Nessie in deep, churning waters of excitement and attraction.

“In fact—” He pulled her chair until its arm bumped against his. Leo’s warm breath fanned her ears as he leaned close and set her senses tingling. “I like you very, very much, more than I’ve ever liked anyone before.”

Not daring to look at him, she stared at the motivational poster on the wall. “Really?” She could barely get the word out for the jerky, excited churning of her heart, which shredded her breath to pieces and took all strength from her limbs.

“Truly.” He nuzzled the delicate cartilage of her ear and turned it into Nessie’s new favourite erogenous zone. “Vanessa Helph, with the short black hair that won’t feather, and these delicious elf ears that I want to nibble on for the rest of my life, I adore every inch of you.”

She turned to face him before the pleasure he exacted made her pass out. “I’ve never done this before,” she whispered against his lips.

“That’s okay, I’ll show you,” he whispered back, his kisses detouring past hers to trail an erotic path along her jaw and down the throbbing pulse at her neck.

“Will you give lessons?”

His chuckle rumbled along her collar bone. “Absolutely.”

“Weekly?”

“Daily—multiple times.”

“For Germaine, as well?”

His mouth stilled against her skin. He pulled away and looked at her with a quizzical expression. “We’re not talking about lovemaking, are we?”

“What? No,” she said. “I’ve done that before.”

“Of course you have,” he murmured, resuming his former activities and once again mapping her neck and face with kisses. “Who could ever resist making love to you?”

“Lots of people,” she breathed, then immediately regretted her admission she was not irresistible to the male sex. “Leo.” She pushed him away, before his sensual ministrations torpedoed all her feminine pride and she confessed to a bedpost with a meagre four notches.

He lifted his head.

The heat in his gaze didn’t just torpedo feminine pride, it exploded Nessie’s inhibitions and burned them to cinder. Desire bubbled, stripping away her reservations and leaving her professional thoughts charred ashes.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she demanded in a husky voice that contradicted her words. “You’re making me forget the point of the conversation.”

“Good.” He kissed the tips of her fingers, then the knuckles, making her aware of every molecule and nerve ending. “Let’s change the topic into something more interactive.”

“Leo, I’m serious.”

His eyes gleamed with wicked intent. “So am I.”

Using every ounce of her willpower, she pulled away from him, but he held the tips of her fingers. “I want management lessons, and I want you to offer them to Germaine, as well. If I win, I want to do it fair and square.”

He sighed as he released her hands. “Did you know your nose crinkles in the most adorable fashion when you’re being virtuous?”

“Leo,” she sighed with exasperation.

“There it goes again.” He traced the bridge of her nose with the tip of his index finger. “And to think, I was once the Paragon of Forethought. One look at you, and all I want to be is the Paragon of Foreplay.”

She made a sound, incomprehensible, primitive, and debated the pros and cons of sexually attacking Leo in the middle of the conference room. His finger left her nose to trace the outline of her lips.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he commanded, “before I convince myself that a boardroom table is an appropriate place to bring all my fantasies to fruition.”

He pulled his hand from her, his fingers curling into a fist. Then he pushed the chair away with his foot and increased the distance between them.

“I have no problem coaching both you and Germaine in management techniques. I’ll even offer it to Grace.”

“Thank you.”

“Group sessions,” he murmured. His gaze ran a sensual perusal of her body. A blue fire glowed in his irises and made his voice throb. “If I’m alone with you, all I’ll want is for you to coach me in techniques of an entirely different sort.”

****

The day after Leo’s announcement, Grace approached Nessie with words of reconciliation. If she would pull out, Grace promised to give her a raise. When financial gain failed to sway Nessie, her competitor’s agenda went from diplomatic to battle.

Grace’s warfare strategy ran the gamut from spreading rumours to ransacking cubicles and files. When the time and delays caused by Team B failed to garner any information on Nessie’s designs, Grace launched the final offensive. She poached Helga Guntherhaag, the premier shoe designer, from JBC Shoes.

This last charge napalmed the momentum of Team C. Resignation and defeat replaced motivation and excitement. It took Nessie an entire week to convince her team that they could still meet the challenge and win. Her pep talk worked its magic on everyone but herself. Helga’s designs set industry standards, and Nessie was terrified of losing.

A week before the presentations were due, Nessie came to her office to find a set of dieffenbachia plants blocking her door.

“Oh for the love of—” She hacked her way past the silk leaves and thick trunks, ploughing her way into the cubicle to discover her computer taken apart, all her writing utensils missing—and most infuriating—Grace had pilfered her stash of brownies. Nessie strode from her cubicle, vowing to defend the honour of her treats.

“Psst.”

She stopped and glanced around, looking for the only person who would hiss at her. Ladders, drop cloths and unpacked boxes full of new office equipment now shared space with the cubicles and fake plants, and blocked Jack from view. The whispered summons came again. Nessie located him by the rubber plant and hissed back.

Jack’s round face poked through the broad, green leaves. “I bring nefarious news from your nemesis.”

“Grace sent you with a message for me?”

He bristled. “I would never take messages from that malicious miscreant of malcontent. No, my pearl, news of a different variety.” He glanced around the office and, seeming to find his presence safe, continued. “Molly from accounting, she and I are—” His round face flushed red. “Quite close. She told me of strange purchases on Grace’s company card.”

He paused, with a dramatic raising of his eyebrows.

“Go on,” Nessie encouraged, hoping the purchases were of a personal nature. If Grace lost her job for fraud, then the threat of Helga diminished and Nessie could start breathing again.

“She bought strobe lights, dry ice. This is only supposition—” He leaned towards her, and the scent of mint and aftershave wafted past. “But I believe she’s planning a light show. Nessie, your poster boards won’t stand a chance against this.”

“Pomp and ceremony won’t hide a shoddy product,” she said bravely. Even as she spoke, though, her thoughts began to speed up, racing to find an idea that could rival Grace’s.

The furnace crackled to life. Jack’s head jerked back.

“It’s just the heating—” But he’d already bounded back into the shadows.

Thoughts of retaliation for the brownie theft ebbed in the waves of morality washing over Nessie. Darn Jack. He’d tossed her into the shark-filled waters of ethics. Should she use illicitly-gained knowledge and revamp the presentation, or continue with the presentation her team planned? She had no right to the information, and that in itself answered her quandary. Nessie sighed and headed back to her cubicle.

****

The day of the presentation dawned with ominous overtones. Black clouds drew a heavy curtain over the sun. Nessie’s shower was devoid of hot water, and the toaster burned the bread. If a black cat crossed her path, shoved her under a ladder and broke a mirror over her head, the signs couldn’t be more nefarious. Nessie, however, had a plan.

She opted for cereal over toast, used the cold shower to rejuvenate herself, and wore a cheerful yellow skirt suit to combat the cloudy sky. As for the cat, ladder and mirror, she took a cab in an effort to avoid any felines and cracked sidewalks. If she was about to lose, she would do it with her head up, chest out and with a warrior’s—not a wimp’s—attitude.

Victor & Victoria buzzed and hummed with excitement. People flitted by her, calling out their good wishes for the presentation, all of them promising to be there in support. Ego wanted her to believe their words. While she didn’t doubt their sentiment, she knew the voting populace would be swayed by dry ice and a Helga design. She headed to her office, where she found her team in various positions and expressions of defeat.

“We can’t go out there,” Tala said, shoving a scalding cup of coffee into Nessie’s hand.

She set down the drink and stripped out of her coat. “Why?”

“I heard Grace is doing a pyrotechnic show.”

“She can’t use fireworks,” scoffed Nessie.

“A laser light show.”

“Lasers aren’t relevant to the product. She still has to prove her shoes are better than ours.”

“There’s a computer commercial wtih a woman jogging her way through thirty seconds of film to announce their new product and you want to argue relevance?” Stewart paced the office; his pronounced Adam’s apple bobbed and jerked in rhythm to his steps.

“Point taken,” Nessie conceded, “but it doesn’t matter. We’ve got a great design, a fantastic presentation—”

“We have poster board. Germaine’s got a water show.”

“He does?” Uncertainty began to worm its way through Nessie, starting in her stomach and spreading outward until every inch of her skin wriggled with anxiety. She shook her head to clear her mind and said, “Who cares? Look, we’re not supposed to know any of this, so put it out of your minds. Besides, no one wants Grace to win. Stop worrying.”

“That was before she stole Helga. With Leo offering company stock and bonuses for record profits, people will vote with their wallets. They may want us to win, but if Grace’s design is better, we won’t stand a chance.” Tala flopped into a chair.

Self-pity warred with pride. And lost. “Stop it!” Nessie commanded. “We didn’t pull all-nighters just to turn into marshmallows at the eleventh hour. Go take a walk, eat something. Just clear your heads. The competition starts in one hour and, no matter what, I’m proud of all of you. We did the best job possible, and that’s what matters in the end.”

A grudging acknowledgment preceded half-hearted cheers. Stewart tried to start a group hug, but knowing exactly what body parts he wanted to hug, she and Tala dodged his efforts. After the group cleared out, Nessie noticed a small paper plate, almost hidden under a bushel of file folders. Underneath the plastic wrap covering it were brownies. She lifted the plate, intending to help herself to some chocolate courage, and saw the note underneath: Keep your eyes and chin up—solutions come from looking up, not gazing down. Olga.

Maybe, Nessie thought, but support definitely came from good friends who knew to layer loving words underneath chocolate treats. She unwrapped the plate and went to take a brownie. The ring of the phone, however, stalled her plan.

“Good morning, Vanessa Helph speaking.”

“Good morning, Miss Helph.” Leo’s voice rumbled, rippled and caressed her with bass tones. “How did you sleep?”

“Considering that you kept me talking on the phone until two o’clock this morning, I should think you know exactly how I slept.”

“I’m sorry, that was naughty of me. If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t get any sleep. Our conversation was just too…arousing.”

His words jolted her, high-watt charges full of memory and fantasy. She sat on her desk, twisting the telephone cord around her finger. “You shouldn’t tell me things like that. It takes my focus.”

His velvet laughter, edged with a wicked tone, pulled her need taut. “I think it puts your focus right where I want it.”

“Is that why you’re calling me this early in the morning? To satisfy your lustful needs?”

“I’ll need a lifetime with you to do that,” he said, his tone laced with promise. “Right now, I need you to meet me in the boardroom. Rumours are flying that some of the presentations will hold everything from a light show to an air show, and I’d like to be prepared.”

“No problem. I’ll meet you there.”

A crash sounded, followed by Leo’s heavy sigh.

“Grace just tipped over the table of refreshments,” he said. “If you could bring some paper towels and a mop, I’d appreciate it. I’ve got to go and sop up some of this mess.”

She hung up the phone, put her purse back in the drawer, and headed out. On her way to the elevator, she spotted Grace standing in front of a custodial closet, amid a bucket, stereo, “careful wet floor” sign, and mop.

Her competitor’s mouth twisted, then pulled into a sneer. “I suppose it’s only good manners that I wish you luck.”

“When has common courtesy ever factored into your decisions?”

Grace snorted with derision, and it proved too much for Nessie to bear.

“I was a faithful employee and a damn good one—we all were, and we didn’t deserve the garbage you tossed. The way you treat your subordinates is beneath contempt. No one wants you here, and short of a miracle, you’re gone.”

“Oh, poor, poor, Vanessa Helph. Someone dared to hurt her delicate feelings,” Grace retorted. Her voice shifted from sotto voce and took a hard, guttural edge as she said, “Life is hard, Nessie, and you have to fight and claw for every inch you gain. You never deserved this job. I detest nepotism, and if you ever thought I’d let you get away with it, you’re stupider or more naïve than I thought.”

Nessie gaped at her. “You knew? This whole time you knew he was my godfather and you still spread that despicable filth about me sleeping my way into the position?”

“One good turn, and all that.”

“You really are beneath contempt.”

“Save it for the talk shows. In the meantime, be a good dray-horse and take this stuff to Leo. I forgot the paper towels.” Grace turned away, fighting with the custodial lock and hissing curses. “God damn piece of crap.”

Nessie watched the struggle between woman and door. The temptation to leave Grace to her misery flooded her consciousness, but her conscientious nature couldn’t be repressed. With a sigh of resignation, she said, “Let me try.”

Grace stepped back with a contemptuous curtsey. Growling under her breath, Nessie took the key. A jiggle, a wiggle and the lock opened. Getting the heavy door to swing on its hinges and springs, however, proved to be a two-woman effort.

“How did you get it opened in the first place?” Nessie gasped.

“Steve was here, and then he disappeared for one of his two-hour coffee breaks. Idiot janitor,” Grace panted as she struggled to hold the door open. “The only thing he’s good for is a bit of tongue action on a late night.”

Trying to erase the image of Grace and the greasy-haired Steve locked in a passionate embrace, Nessie went into the room and grabbed several packages of paper towels. She heard a commotion out in the hall and turned to see her supervisor staggering to keep the door open, her head craned to see the ruckus.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know.” The older woman stepped around the door, and it began to swing shut.

“Grace! The door!” Nessie raced for it, but an armful of paper towels hampered her efforts. By the time she reached the door, it had closed. Nessie pounded on the steel surface.

“Keep your pantyhose on,” she heard Grace mutter. “I’m here.”

The key slid into the lock and the duelling of metal against metal ratcheted up Nessie’s hopes for rescue, until the god-awful, sickening sound of the key snapping reached her ears.

“Hello?”

“We have a small problem,” Grace said. Then she laughed. “Wait. You have a small problem.”

“Get me out of here!”

“Didn’t I tell you to hold onto your pantyhose? I’ll get you some help.”

“Hurry! The presentation’s about to start.”

Silence.

And more silence.

Nessie’s heart plummeted into her patent-leather pumps as realization dawned. “Don’t you dare leave me in here!”

“Would a woman beneath contempt do such a thing?” Grace’s triumphant voice pushed through the metal door.

Nessie’s stomach joined her heart. “Grace!”

“Stop screeching. I’m going to go and get help.”

Nessie wound her spirits around the fragile thread of sincerity in Grace’s voice.

“In the meantime, enjoy some music.” A click of the radio, then the sounds of Steve’s favourite heavy metal music group piped through the door.

Nessie groaned. “Grace, cut the music. Just go and get Leo.”

“Who said anything about our great and mighty boss? I’ll stick a note in Steve’s office.”

And with Grace’s words, the thread snapped and sent Nessie tumbling down.

Chapter Five

Locked in the custodian’s closet, with the smell of ammonia and bleach burning her eyes, Nessie considered her options. Screaming would prove useless. Tears, pitiful. In the sallow but functional light illuminating the cramped quarters, she cast a critical gaze around the room and searched for a way to extricate herself.

Metal shelves lined the brick walls. Rags, cleaning solutions, and buckets crowded each level. If she mixed a solution of detergent and water, started now and scrubbed for sixteen hours at a time, she might eventually wear a hole in the wall in about forty-five years—give or take a decade.

“Think, think!” she urged herself. She could come up with a plan. So far, she’d dismissed cleaning, pounding, yelling, praying and crying. Five strategies, five dead ends.

At the back of the middle shelf, she found a pack of matches. She considered lighting a few rags on fire. It would set off the overhead alarm and bring attention to her plight. Unfortunately, with the plethora of toxic chemicals, by the time the firefighters found her, she would be dead either from smoke inhalation or poisonous gas.

Nessie paced, her heels thudding in rhythm to her mumbled mantra, “Find the answer, find the answer.” Thud. Thud. Mumble. Mumble.

She stopped and stomped. Flecks of cement scattered along the floor. Could someone hear the pounding? She grabbed the heaviest mop she could find, turned it on its head and banged on the floor until the tremors vibrated through her bones and made her teeth rattle, but fifteen minutes later, no one had come. Frustrated and sore, she cursed in all the languages she knew. Since Nessie spoke only English, that didn’t take long.

Sweat dampened her hair and made her shirt cling to her chest and arms. She tossed the mop to the floor and wrenched off her blazer. The mop gods, no doubt angered by her callous use of one of their subjects, spewed down fire from the sky. Okay, so maybe the click of the furnace kicking into its cycle and the ensuing gusts of hot air had nothing to do with enraged mop gods, but it sure felt that way. Then again…where there was air, there was freedom.

She searched the room again, this time looking for a ladder or a stool—anything that could help her reach the furnace vent. Height-increasing tools, however, proved non-existent, and the hot air blowing down carried away her idea to climb through that network of vents. Nessie raised her eyes heavenward, praying for some kind of intervention.

And she found it. She smiled. Olga had been right. Help came from looking up.

Nestled high on the left side of the wall, almost hidden from view, lay the fresh air ducts.

Nessie unhooked the top two buttons of her blouse, pulling the damp silk away from her body and creating a cool draft to dry the perspiration from her skin. After hiking her skirt to her thighs, she hooked her hands on the shelves and started climbing.

She pushed aside the rags and paper towels and scampered on top of the highest shelf. The vent cover lay tight and flush against the wall, and no amount of prying would budge it. Nessie peered over the edge of the shelf, scanning the room’s inventory and trying to remember if she’d seen any screwdrivers or, perhaps, dynamite sticks. No luck. She heard a tinkling and chiming as the change she’d stuffed into her pocket fell out. Nessie grabbed the coins, then peered at the screws holding the vent screen in place. Phillips. Perfect. Working slowly, the quarter occasionally slipping from her sweating fingers, she loosened them, then pried open the vent.

It came off with a rattling “schunk.” She peered into the opening. The duct maze bled into midnight darkness. She couldn’t take any matches, and there had been no flashlight on the shelves. Taking a deep breath and praying she wouldn’t get stuck or run into any duct rats, she crawled into the vent.

****

Seeded by Nessie’s non-appearance, the uneasy feeling burrowed into Leo. Tardiness wasn’t in her vocabulary, let alone in her portfolio of behaviour. He put in another call to her office, but the phone rang without answer.

“Has anyone seen Vanessa?” he asked, replacing the receiver and directing his question to the people in the boardroom.

Germaine shook his head, while Grace said, “Yes, on my way here. She was helping me get the mop and bucket, but there was a problem with the key and door. I left a note for Steve, and Nessie’s going to wait for him.”

Waiting for a janitor when a promotion was on the line? The uneasy feeling in Leo stopped burrowing and took root. He pivoted towards the door.

“Where are you going?” Grace asked.

“To check on Nessie. It’s not like her to miss a meeting.”

“No,” Grace agreed as she tossed sodden napkins into the garbage, “but someone could get stuck in that room, and you know how conscientious she is.”

He frowned. “Are you paying her a compliment?”

She snorted. “I’m many things, but not a hypocrite. If she lets her bleeding heart and concern for others overrule her career, that’s her problem.”

“Leo, did anyone reorder the coffee and snacks?”

He turned to answer Germaine’s question and planned to then resume his debate with Grace, but his action seemed to unleash a floodgate. Before he could breathe, let alone respond, people crowded around him, each of them needing last minute directions and advice. Irritated because he couldn’t leave, Leo put in a phone call to security. His worry diminished from scratching to itching proportions, but it didn’t go away. He wanted nothing more than to verify that Nessie was okay, but even as he thought of it, he lectured himself for his silly emotion. There was no reason for him to worry. Nessie was perfectly capable and self-sufficient. Restraining himself from the urge to rush to her side, he went to lend a hand putting the chairs in order.

****

The smooth metal of the vent creaked with her movements. On her hands and knees, Nessie kept her breaths shallow because of the dust. She sang loudly, hoping to scare off any vermin that might call the vents home. After what she figured was about a hundred feet, the vent branched off. She could go left, right or straight. Since the boardroom was to the left—if the twists and turns of the duct work hadn’t led her astray, she veered off in that direction.

Two verses into her tune, she saw a light in the distance and to the right. Crawling as fast as she could—given the two inches of leeway on each side of her—she rushed to the light. Her knees screamed in agony and needles of pain pierced her palms, but she ignored them, pressing on in hopes of rescue.

When she reached the light, she peered through the slits and discovered the blue tiles and white fixtures of the men’s washroom. As she waited for someone to come along, she massaged her hands and tried to come up with a third verse to her makeshift song.

What felt like hours later, the door swung open. In strode a tall, portly man with a moustache and thick, black hair. She had no idea who he was, but if she ever had a son, she vowed to name him after the man.

“Hey! Hey! Can you hear me?”

The man froze in mid-whistle. The newspaper under his arm crackled.

She curled her fingers through the lattice work and leaned into the screen. “Mister! I’m up here—can you hear me? Please I need your help.”

He lifted his gaze to the sound of her voice. When their gazes met, his eyes grew round and wide, his mouth gaped open.

“My name is Nessie and I’m stuck in the vent. Please, can you call security?”

The man’s mouth puckered, his brow knit together and he stared at her as though she was an apparition. Then his face ironed free into a smooth, jovial smile.

“Is this Candid Camera?” he asked.

“Candid—no! I’m stuck in the vents!”

“Come on, where is the mike?” He crouched to peer under the stalls, then took his inspection to the sinks.

“There’s no camera. My name is Vanessa Helph. I work in the Women’s Design Department, and I was locked in a closet by Grace Hart,” she tried to keep her voice calm, but it cracked under the strain of the frustrating conversation.

“Tell Mr. Funt he needs to do his homework. There is no Women’s Design Department.”

“Yes, there is!” She rattled the screen, incensed by the man’s obtuse manner, and spat out, “Leo merged Casual and Dressy. Don’t you read your memos?”

The man’s face twisted into a disapproving frown. “I’m not going to play, if you take that kind of tone with me.”

Nessie rattled the screen again, throwing all her weight into it and wishing she could wrap her hands around the man’s neck and rattle him. “I’m sorry. Look, could you please call security?”

“No. I don’t like this prank, and I refuse to play.” He turned and walked to the door. His strides held the sharp, jerky steps of an offended rooster.

“See if I name any of my children after you!” Nessie howled. But the possibility of his moniker living on in the next generation gave him no pause, and he continued his rooster-walk to the exit.

Nessie banged and pushed on the screen, but she didn’t have the strength to move it. And since she had no room to manoeuvre, she couldn’t turn herself around and kick it in. She crawled backwards until she reached the initial bend in the ductwork and continued on to what would hopefully prove to be the boardroom.

Now singing a top-forty tune, she pressed on, ignoring the torn pantyhose making its way to her ankles, the skittering of claws against aluminum, and concentrated on the image of Grace boiling in a vat of hot oil. As she reached the chorus of the song, a weak shaft of light pierced the gloom of the ductwork. Faint, rhythmic pulsing reached her ears and could only mean one thing: she was close enough to the boardroom to hear the music from a presentation. For this, she offered up a prayer of thanks.

The duct rose at a thirty-degree incline. In Nessie’s exhausted state, it felt like the steep inclines of Mount Everest. Her limbs shaking, her lungs burning, she crawled at less than a sloth’s pace, then turned right, where a beam of light shone from the floor.

Tears of joy and failure fell as the booming bass resolved itself into the familiar tones of her team’s presentation music. She felt like a hero for making it to the boardroom, but knowing she was missing her group’s presentation, that she’d failed them as team leader, made her feel like a schmuck. Nessie crawled to the dusty vent and, looking down, beheld the shining walnut wood of the boardroom table.

“Hey! Hey!” She pounded her flat palms against the vent cover. Each rap sent sharp pricks of pain that pulverized her. “Can anyone hear me?”

Of course they couldn’t, but unlike the washroom scene, this time Nessie wasn’t leaving. She would wait, scream for help as soon as silence descended, then beg for forgiveness for letting her team down. In the meantime, she leaned on the vent, trying to get a better view of the scene below.

The full weight of her body pressed against the vent accomplished in seconds what it had taken her long minutes to do in the storage room: She crashed through the screen.

Nessie screamed as solid floor gave way under her and she collided with air. She grabbed onto the edge of the ceiling, but her fingers, slick and damp, lost their grip. Too shocked to sing as a way to count time, she fell for what seemed like hours and hundreds of feet. In reality, given the height of her body and the table top, she probably fell only a couple of feet. Two or twenty, it didn’t matter, as her legs took the full brunt of the tumble, twisting her ankle and dropping her onto one knee.

She rose, pain streaking through her body, and looked around the room. The faces of her coworkers held shock, surprise—a couple of them could have been the models for Munch’s The Scream. A few people stood on their feet, their chairs overturned behind them. Leo stood off to the side, his arms still outstretched as though he had tried to catch her. The music faded into silence. Seventy people stared at her, waiting for an explanation, and there was only one thing to do.

Slowly rising to her feet, and projecting an “I planned this all along” attitude, she said, “Though the women’s liberation movement has given women a lot of freedom, females in the workforce still have to kick down walls and break through ceilings to get the careers they want.”

She pushed her hair behind her ear and felt the sticky, clinging film of a spider’s web against her hand. “How much easier it would be to do all of this in a pair of comfortable yet fashionable pumps.” She glanced behind her to see her team, their mouths agape, their eyes wide and unblinking. “Our group—” She gestured to her teammates. “Have designed a shoe for the modern woman. Slim, high-heeled, made with the classic and timeless materials of leather and suede, this sexy stiletto gives us girls what other shoes have failed to do: arch support and cushioning in the toes. It combines the best of sneaker and dress wear. Now today’s women can kick down those doors, break through ceilings, and still look sexy doing it. If you’ll allow me to turn the floor back to my team, they’ll tell you all about our new design.”

Then, trying not to hobble or wince, she walked along the table to where Leo stood. He reached out, caught her by the waist and gently lowered her into a chair.

“While I think we all appreciate Nessie’s innovative presentation,” he said, plucking the cobweb from her hair, “I believe it would be prudent to take a fifteen-minute break.” As the group dispersed, he turned to her.

“Leo, my team needs to finish the presentation.” She tried to rise, but he put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her back.

“Tell me that you didn’t plan to crash through the ceiling.”

She rubbed her ankle and winced. “It’s a long story, involving the janitor’s closet, a broken lock and Grace. I didn’t plan it—” She looked up at him. “But when I crashed through and had everyone looking at me, I figured I could use it to help my team.”

He stared at her a moment. Then he laughed, his eyes crinkling at the sides, and said, “Vanessa Helph, who defends the honour of dogs and lies about her height, you’re something else, and I love every inch of you—even the imaginary ones.”

He spoke the words and she forgot about the campaign, the pain in her ankle, the boardroom—everything but him. “You do?”

“I do.”

“Oh,” she sighed. Endorphins rushed through her body and voided all of her aches. “I love you, too.”

He grinned and leaned in. “I’d kiss you,” he whispered, “but that might sway the votes.”

She grinned back. “Promise me that I’ll get the kiss, later.”

His smile said she’d get that kiss—and more.

****

“Ummm,” Nessie moaned as pleasure rippled through her body, “that’s the spot. Oh! Yes! Go slower, Leo. And harder.” Her growl of satisfaction turned to a roar of displeasure as Leo’s ministrations ceased. Rising from her horizontal position on the couch and opening one eye, she demanded, “Why did you stop?”

He chuckled. “Because it’s time to ice your ankle.”

“But I was enjoying the foot massage.”

Leo kissed the tip of her nose, then turned back to wrapping the tensor bandage. “Don’t pout. Later, I promise.”

She sighed and snuggled back into the overstuffed cushions of his sofa. “It feels so good to spend the night with you, watching movies, hanging out—”

“And having your very own servant to cater to your every whim.”

“Well, that does takes the some of the pain away,” she grinned.

“I’ll bet.” He stuck the pins in place and then, gently moving her feet from off his lap, rose and went to the television. “What’ll it be?” Leo held up two videocassettes. “Romantic comedy or action adventure?”

“How about a game, instead?” She held out a bowl of popcorn.

He reached for a handful. “What kind of game?” His grin, full of seduction and promise, sent shivers tickling up and down her spine. “Like spin the bottle?”

“Truth or Dare.”

Leo groaned and collapsed onto the floor. His eyes closed, the back of his hand against his forehead, he said, “Sixteen, six, yes and yes.”

Nessie leaned over the edge of the couch to peer at him. “What?”

“Truth or Dare. I’m answering your questions.”

She finished chewing the popcorn and swallowed. “Thank you…er, what were they?”

“Sixteen, six—”

“No, I meant what were the questions?”

“How old was I when I lost my virginity? How many lovers have I had? Do I always use protection? And, have I ever had my heart broken?”

She combed her fingers through his hair. “You’ve slept with six women?”

He frowned. “Why? How many have you slept with?”

She reached for the bowl of candy and tossed a few pieces of Skittles into her mouth. “I’ve never slept with any women.”

A hail of popcorn rained down on her. “Smart aleck.”

“My smarts are what landed me an executive position at my company.”

He raised himself up on one elbow. “It wasn’t just your smarts. No one would deny a promotion to a woman who crawled through ductwork just so she could support her team.” His gaze scanned her body and he leered at her. “With you looking so delectable, I can’t help but thinking up of a few other positions you can land—injured ankle or not.”

“When I said that I wanted to play Truth or Dare, I didn’t plan to ask you questions of a sexual nature.”

“My loss,” he said, his gaze riveted to her chest.

“Hey!” She pushed against his broad shoulders. “Pay attention.”

“I am.” His long, tapered fingers slid along her thighs, pushed under her cotton T-shirt and came to rest against her ribcage.

“I wanted to know,” she said, barrelling ahead before the heat of his touch sent her thoughts heading to the bedroom. “What did you really do with Myrtle?”

He sighed. “If I answer your question, then is it my turn?”

“Absolutely.”

“Myrtle was two years from retirement but fretting because her daughter—who lives in California—just divorced her husband and needed help with the children. She—Myrtle—wanted to move out there but was afraid of the implications quitting would have on her 401K plan. So I offered her a severance package. Satisfied?”

He sat up, pulled her onto the floor and then flush against his chest, and began to nuzzle her neck. Her stomach flipped and dived, her skin goose-pimpled and became hypersensitive to every touch, breath and kiss.

“What about Archie?” she gasped. Seduction loosened her grip on her grand plan to delve into Leo’s professional demeanour.

“That’s two questions. You said that if I answered one, it was my turn.” The kisses he rained down on her neck muffled his voice.

“But you haven’t asked me anything.”

“I have a dare in mind.”

His words pulled the invisible line of desire taut, coiling need and want deep in her belly. “Answer my question and I’ll do anything you want.”

His body stilled against hers. “Anything?”

“Anything.” She captured his head in her hands, burying her fingers in his thick mass of hair, as her tongue flicked out to tease and tempt his earlobe. He hissed with pleasure.

“I told him what I did for Myrtle, and that’s why he left the office crying. Called me a saint and pledged undying allegiance to me.” Conversation ceased as Leo’s mouth descended onto hers. The agile movements of his mouth and fingers combined and tortured her with slick, heated promises of pleasure.

Leo gripped her by the hips, held her tightly, pulled both of them to a standing position.

“Vanessa Helph,” he said, “do you know the first time I ever saw you, I felt dizzy, nauseous and had sharp, shooting pains in my side?”

Her eyebrows crinkled together. “I know you’ve slept with more women than I have, but I have to say, this sex talk isn’t doing a whole lot to turn me on.”

He laughed and nipped at her nose. “The symptoms are Schumacher signs of love. All the men get it when they meet the women they’re destined to marry and spend the rest of their lives with.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “Are you asking me to marry you?”

“Actually, at this precise moment I think I’ll just ask you to loosen the grip you have on my neck.”

“Oh! Sorry.”

“That’s better. A man has a hard enough time breathing when he’s about to propose marriage.” The sparkle in his eyes dimmed, and in its place was a nervous sincerity that turned Nessie’s heart into liquid. “I know that we’ve only known each other for a short time, but I also know you’re the one that makes my heart beat. Marry me, Nessie.”

His voice cracked, and her body melted at his vulnerability.

“Leo, you know I will—but are you sure?”

He grinned. His face flooded with relief and the spark reignited in his eyes. “Didn’t I tell you that I’m partial to elves?”

“Well, yes, but I didn’t think you were serious—besides, I’m not really an elf.”

“You’re ethereally beautiful, have pointed ears, and when I look at you, I feel immortal.”

“You know—” She traced his ear with her finger. “Mythology says that elves were worshipped as fertility gods.”

The sparkle in his eyes became a raging fire that set Nessie’s body ablaze.

“If that’s the case, then I had better get started on my worship.”

Then, with a wicked grin, he took her to bed.

About the Author

When I was a kid, there was only one thing I wanted to be: a superhero. So, I practiced my boxing skills while saying things like, "POW! Take that evil doer!" But there came a day when my dreams were dashed—the day I realized being a klutz was not, in fact, a super power. These days, I don't get to orbit space stations (and thank God, because I get motion sick on a merry-go-round), but I still get to wear the capes, leotards, and say things like, "Stand aside! This job calls for Writer Girl!"

Visit Natasha at www.natashadeen.com

Coming Soon!

What Happens in Vegas

It’s not that Binda Morningstar’s an idiot—the girl’s got more degrees than a thermometer—but there’s something about a crisis that makes her lose her mind…and accidently injure anyone within a ten foot radius. But if she’s going to rescue her boss from a cursed jewel, she’s going to have to keep it together. Unfortunately for her, the cop on the case, Corin Hawthorne, has her losing her mind and her heart…and if he gets anymore drool worthy, she’s going to lose her inhibitions, too. To save her boss and win her man, she’s got to outrun a mobster, outwit the YIFFS at a sex fetish convention, and outthink an ex-wife—and she’s got to do it all without breaking an arm or inadvertently hitting anyone with pepper spray…it’s all got Binda hoping that what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

Love in Miami

The move from Georgia to Miami was supposed to bring peace and calm, but for the past three months, Angel Baxter’s been playing reluctant mediator to her nana and their eighty-five year-old neighbour. Between ripped up azalea bushes, wrecked bird baths, and her grandmother prancing across the lawn like a deranged pixie, Angel’s nerves are frayed and she’s got more problems than a three-legged cat in a dog pound. But help shows up in the sexiest form: Harry Garret, the neighbour’s gorgeous grandson. The gardener offers his hand in the negotiations, and the rest of his body on a date at a French restaurant. But when her nana’s pranks go too far, will Angel lose out on more than peace and quiet, but on a chance at love, as well?