belly.
He swallowed hard. Damn dog—how'd he get there first?
"And what about you, Thomas?" Emma tilted her head and grinned, her heavy hair swirling with the movement. "You haven't said much about your job, but right now I've got to tell you, I'm not buying the consultant story. I'm thinking Secret Service, maybe. I can just see you skulking around the White House Rose Garden whispering into your lapel."
"My lapel?"
"Yeah, you know, 'Sector Four Clear, sir!'" She tossed back her head and laughed, her eyes closing in enjoyment.
Thomas took another swig of his coffee and stared at her, amused, then suddenly annoyed. What was he doing here with this woman? He should say goodbye right now, before he spent any more time with her, before he started thinking crazy thoughts. Before he started liking her.
Besides, he was going to be dragging if he didn't get at least a couple hours of sleep. In just five hours he had one of those Saturday-morning "bagel bashings" at the office. Shit. And he had a match later in the afternoon. Shit. He was thirty-seven years old—way too old to stay up all night and then try to play rugby. It was a sure way to get himself killed.
Those were real good reasons to call it a night. But he couldn't. He wanted to look at Emma's smile, hear her laugh, fantasize that maybe she was as decent as she seemed. He needed to live the lie just a little longer.
Maybe just a few more minutes.
"And what makes you say that, Emma?" He watched her hand go unconsciously to Hairy's head, where she caressed the dog's little Don King clump of hair.
She had the sweetest hands, tapered and smooth and sure. He remembered the sight of her with the old couple in the waiting room, so kind when the vet broke the news that their dog had died. Her voice had been comforting and soft. She'd held the old woman's hand.
"I'm an animal behaviorist, Thomas, and human beings are animals just like Hairy, here. So I've gotten pretty good at reading people."
You and me both, babe, he thought. "Like you're reading me now?"
She gave him a Mona Lisa smile and tilted her head. "A lot of times I have to start with the pet owner before I can help the pet, so yes, I've been observing you."
"And how do you do that?"
Emma grinned at him again. He wished she'd stop doing that because her grin had a hypnotic effect on him, making him feel like he was falling down some kind of spinning vortex.
"Mmm." Emma leaned back in her booth, still cradling Hairy against her. "Have you ever read any Agatha Christie? Do you know the character Miss Marple?"
"I think so."
"Well, when I was a kid, I couldn't read those books fast enough—I just inhaled them one after another.
And the thing that intrigued me the most was how Miss Marple could peg a person just by watching their mannerisms."
Thomas was starting to sweat a little. They had more in common than she could possibly know. "Really?"
"Facial expressions. Body postures. Tone of voice—all the indirect ways people communicate with each other. Sometimes the words being said and the posturing taking place are at opposite extremes—but it's the indirect communication that always tells the truth." She shrugged softly, still stroking Hairy. "As it turned out, I ended up being the Miss Marple of the dog and cat world—an expert in animal communication—
which never relies on words."
As she spoke, Thomas analyzed how he was sitting. He tried to relax his shoulders and listen attentively but not too enthusiastically. He mentally calculated the position of his hands, eyebrows, chin.
She laughed again, her powder-blue eyes glittering. "But don't let me scare you, Thomas."
Vortex time again. Thomas lowered his eyes to Emma's baggy Penn sweatshirt in an effort to avoid her gaze. That turned out to be a mistake, because her body nearly screamed out that she was soft and round and female and within arm's reach. The arch of her throat was graceful. Her wrists were small and elegant. He could see her
He swallowed hard. Damn dog—how'd he get there first?
"And what about you, Thomas?" Emma tilted her head and grinned, her heavy hair swirling with the movement. "You haven't said much about your job, but right now I've got to tell you, I'm not buying the consultant story. I'm thinking Secret Service, maybe. I can just see you skulking around the White House Rose Garden whispering into your lapel."
"My lapel?"
"Yeah, you know, 'Sector Four Clear, sir!'" She tossed back her head and laughed, her eyes closing in enjoyment.
Thomas took another swig of his coffee and stared at her, amused, then suddenly annoyed. What was he doing here with this woman? He should say goodbye right now, before he spent any more time with her, before he started thinking crazy thoughts. Before he started liking her.
Besides, he was going to be dragging if he didn't get at least a couple hours of sleep. In just five hours he had one of those Saturday-morning "bagel bashings" at the office. Shit. And he had a match later in the afternoon. Shit. He was thirty-seven years old—way too old to stay up all night and then try to play rugby. It was a sure way to get himself killed.
Those were real good reasons to call it a night. But he couldn't. He wanted to look at Emma's smile, hear her laugh, fantasize that maybe she was as decent as she seemed. He needed to live the lie just a little longer.
Maybe just a few more minutes.
"And what makes you say that, Emma?" He watched her hand go unconsciously to Hairy's head, where she caressed the dog's little Don King clump of hair.
She had the sweetest hands, tapered and smooth and sure. He remembered the sight of her with the old couple in the waiting room, so kind when the vet broke the news that their dog had died. Her voice had been comforting and soft. She'd held the old woman's hand.
"I'm an animal behaviorist, Thomas, and human beings are animals just like Hairy, here. So I've gotten pretty good at reading people."
You and me both, babe, he thought. "Like you're reading me now?"
She gave him a Mona Lisa smile and tilted her head. "A lot of times I have to start with the pet owner before I can help the pet, so yes, I've been observing you."
"And how do you do that?"
Emma grinned at him again. He wished she'd stop doing that because her grin had a hypnotic effect on him, making him feel like he was falling down some kind of spinning vortex.
"Mmm." Emma leaned back in her booth, still cradling Hairy against her. "Have you ever read any Agatha Christie? Do you know the character Miss Marple?"
"I think so."
"Well, when I was a kid, I couldn't read those books fast enough—I just inhaled them one after another.
And the thing that intrigued me the most was how Miss Marple could peg a person just by watching their mannerisms."
Thomas was starting to sweat a little. They had more in common than she could possibly know. "Really?"
"Facial expressions. Body postures. Tone of voice—all the indirect ways people communicate with each other. Sometimes the words being said and the posturing taking place are at opposite extremes—but it's the indirect communication that always tells the truth." She shrugged softly, still stroking Hairy. "As it turned out, I ended up being the Miss Marple of the dog and cat world—an expert in animal communication—
which never relies on words."
As she spoke, Thomas analyzed how he was sitting. He tried to relax his shoulders and listen attentively but not too enthusiastically. He mentally calculated the position of his hands, eyebrows, chin.
She laughed again, her powder-blue eyes glittering. "But don't let me scare you, Thomas."
Vortex time again. Thomas lowered his eyes to Emma's baggy Penn sweatshirt in an effort to avoid her gaze. That turned out to be a mistake, because her body nearly screamed out that she was soft and round and female and within arm's reach. The arch of her throat was graceful. Her wrists were small and elegant. He could see her
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