A Dose of Murder by Lori Avocato

good-looking kind you’d see on the soaps. Vance could win an Emmy on appearance alone.
    What the hell was wrong with me?
    I should be jumping his bones right now. If I broke one, it wouldn’t matter. He was an orthopedic surgeon and, I’m sure, could fix himself right up.
    I reached up and kissed his cheek. He looked taken aback, as if it should have landed on his lips. “It’s been a long time—”
    He grabbed me in a bear hug.
    â€œHey, watch those precious hands of yours,” I said.
    He released his grip as if I might break one of his highly insured fingers. Vance’s sense of humor—actually lack of—never failed to astonish me.
    â€œI’m kidding, hon.”
    He laughed. Forced it.
    â€œIt
has
been too long. My secretary called you many times. Doesn’t Miles’s machine work?”
    I wanted to ask if she was going to take me out, but looking at his face, I knew there was no other way to work things. She made all his calls for him, social
and
business.
    Vance had grown up in a family of doctors, living in a ritzy neighborhood in Greenwich. I’d met him during his residency at Saint Greg’s. His family never laughed at my jokes either. For that matter, I’m sure they didn’t root for me to become Mrs. Doctor Vance G. Taylor.
    Still, Vance had this notion in his head that we were in love. At least he said he was. I cared about him deeply and would nurse him back to health if, God forbid, he should become ill. Yet, I couldn’t see myself as Mrs. Doctor Vance G. Taylor any more than his parents wanted me to be.
    â€œI guess Miles’s machine is on the blink,” I out and out lied. Next, I made a mental confession followed by good reasons why I had to lie. If God didn’t buy it, I’d be sunk. I knew Vance’s secretary had called several weeks ago, but until lately, I hadn’t felt the urge for . . . that. So, I ignored the calls. “Good thing I called you.”
    He leaned near, nuzzled my neck.
    For a few seconds, hormones readied to dance throughout my body—but they fizzled out as usual. “I’m starved. Where we heading?” I knew better than to try to make plans for us. Vance did all the “man” stuff, and, right now I didn’t have the desire or the strength to argue. A few years back I tried, but to no avail. He played by a different set of rules. Ones written in some good ol’ boys’ yacht club in the days before feminism. So, who was I to argue?
    â€œThought we’d head over to Harbor Bay. I’m in the mood for surf and turf.”
    Vance was always in the mood for surf and turf, and his version was Maine lobster (at outrageous market prices) and prime rib. Harbor Bay was a damn pricey restaurant with the best seafood in Hope Valley, located on the bank of the Connecticut River.
    â€œSounds like a plan.” When he lifted my black coat off the chair to help me put it on, I asked myself if I really should be going. I mean, it might seem as though I was using Vance. In some respects I guess I was, but I’d never once lied to him about my feelings. I never used the L word with him, although he’d told me that he loved me plenty.
    When I’d try to break up, he’d refuse. I came to the conclusion that Vance used me as much as I used him, and neither of us was hurting each other. He really wanted someone for an occasional date and bedding.
    I needed him for the occasional date and . . .
that
too.
    I followed him outside to his waiting Mercedes. Vance drove a silver one with a license plate that had MD on it. Sometimes I worried that someone would follow us for free medical help when we headed out.
    Freshly fallen snow crunched under our feet and my damn toes nearly froze in the stupid sexy heels I’d worn. Vance looked at my feet.
    â€œYou should have on boots.”
    â€œYeah, right.” Once in the car I made him put the heat on full