Susan Donovan: Take a Chance On Me

Emma gasped when she entered the exam room, though she couldn't say which of the two creatures there alarmed her more.

Was it the tiny, shivering collection of skin and bone, skittering around the linoleum on long toenails, eyeballs bulging and urine squirting?

Or was itthe six-foot-forever package of man in a power suit, pivoting his blond head, one steel-gray eye narrowed as if to take aim directly at her hormone-secreting glands?

"Good morning, gentlemen. I'm Dr. Emma Jenkins." She pulled a portable exam table from the wall and took a steadying breath before she faced them again. "I understand we're having a few problems?"

"That's correct." The man's voice was as stiff as his posture. "Potentially serious problems, I'm afraid."

Nodding, Emma looked from Mr. Dudley Do-Right to the dog-yes, she'd graduated first in her class and was almost certain the animal on the floor was a dog-and back again.

This had to be the most mismatched human-canine pair she'd ever seen-and she'd seem some doozies.

These two were Butch Cassidy and the St. Vitus' Dance Kid. Hairless and Mod. Batman and Rodent.

"I'm glad you came to see me." Emma turned to wash her hands, and felt Studly Dudley's eyes boring holes into the back of her neck. He continued to stare as she bent down for the dog, placed him on the stainless steel table, and peered into the little, frightened face.

"So what's happening, Hairy?"

She already had a fairly good idea. The new-patient questionnaire said "Hairy" was an adult male Chinese Crested of unknown age, six pounds, six ounces, of quivering anxiety and incontinence. His owner-a business consultant named Thomas Tobin according to the form-was referred by a Baltimore colleague to her Wit's End Animal Behavior Clinic.

"Let's have a look, okay, little man?" She bent closer and scratched the dog behind one fuzzy, Yoda-like ear. With a sigh, Emma removed the collar of sharp metal prongs from around the dog's neck, and watched relief flood Hairy's dark eyes.

And she wondered what kind of complete moron would put a pinch collar on a puny, terrified creature like this.

She straightened to her full height, bringing her eye-level with the moron's red power tie.

"Mr. Moro-Tobin." She let her gaze travel over the clean-shaven chin and the pale, stern mouth. She studied the slight bend in his nose that hinted of familiarity with flying fists and blood, then met his piercing silver eyes. There was a tiny scar above his right eyebrow shaped just like a semicolon.

It certainly gave her pause.

Lordy! Why had this seriously big, seriously bad boy stuffed himself into a suit? With another quick survey, Emma decided he'd be more at home in a black leather jacket and threadbare jeans. The image gave her heart palpitations.

She needed to hold her ground. So she held up the offending piece of metal.

"This pinch collar might be a bit severe for a toy breed, Mr. Tobin." She flung it into the waste can with a resounding ka-ching! "And inflicting pain really isn't the way to get a dog to walk alongside you-even the biggest, most aggressive animals. Besides-" She scanned Semicolon Man from his wingtips to the tips of his golden eyelashes and grinned. "You look like you might be able to handle a bruiser like Hairy without the aid of metal spikes."

Thomas Tobin stood ramrod straight near the examination table, aware that he himself was being examined. Clearly, this pet psychiatrist chick had been giving him hell since the second she walked in here, and he didn't much like it.

How in God's name was he supposed to know what kind of dog collar to buy? He spent his life plotting bloody murder with adulterers and psychopaths-he didn't exactly have time to serve as equipment manager for the Butt-Ugly Dog Club!

"Thank you for that update," he said flatly.

Then for some odd reason, Thomas found himself seized with the need to prove to this woman that he wasn't entirely insensitive. So he reached over to pat Hairy's head the way he figured any pet owner would.

The dog cringed with each pummeling.

"Mr. Tobin!" Emma grabbed his wrist, which turned out to be a rock-solid twist of heat, bone, and muscle. "Could you be a little gentler, do you think?"

He stared at her.

She stared at him.

The drum of his pulse hammered against the pad of her thumb and vibrated all the way down into the pit of her belly. And as they remained linked and the seconds ticked by, everything inside her-every cell, every chromosome, every piece of mitochondria-went on alert.

Sexual alert.

"How-" She blinked. The man's skin was on fire. She swallowed and tried again. "How long have you had this dog? Is this the first dog you've ever owned?"

"Ten days," he said. "And yes. This is definitely a first for me."

Emma decided his eyes weren't cruel; they were solemn and powerful and seemed to pin her down and dissect her without her permission. They didn't frighten her, exactly, but they certainly made her feel a bit off balance.

He pulled his wrist from her grasp. "Hairy is mine by chance, Dr. Jenkins."

"That's a difficult way to begin a relationship, Mr. Tobin."

"You don't say?" He tilted his head and locked his gaze on hers. "The question is what are we going to do about it?"

For an instant, Emma was not entirely sure what they were discussing. The dog, she reminded herself. We were discussing the dog.

With a sigh of relief, she moved her attention from the two-legged enigma to the four-legged one, and bundled Hairy in her arms. She brushed her fingers behind his ears and along his spindly neck.

These itty-bitty exotic hairless breeds had never been her favorite-too prone to rashes, respiratory problems, dental malformations, and any number of behavioral disorders the blame for which she'd like to place squarely in the lap of greedy breeders. And Chinese Cresteds were an acquired taste, most definitely.

But as she looked into Hairy's big, sad bug eyes, she felt a rush of warmth for the tiny dog. He was a living creature. He was scared and anxious and cold and so boldly, unabashedly homely that he was very nearly cute. She ran her fingers down his back, studying the baby-smooth hide of pink blobs and black spots that looked like bloated raisins floating in puddles of watered-down PeptoBismol.

This motif was accented with a scraggly poof of black hair at the tip of his bony tail and a troll-like shock of white fur at the peak of his skull and around his ears. His snout was pointy, like a ferret's.

"Well, now. Have you got it goin' on or what, you little devil?" she murmured into the side of his neck.

Emma felt the heat of Mr. Sexy's gaze, looked up to find him studying her in bewilderment, and wondered again how the hottest man to ever set foot in her clinic had ended up with the world's most unattractive dog.

Then she felt a hot trickle spread down her shirt.

"Piss happens." She smiled and shrugged, reaching for the paper towel dispenser above the sink. Studly beat her to it, and suddenly, one of his big hands was roaming over her damp shirt, rubbing and squishing her breasts with a clump of brown paper towel.

Hell-o! Emma felt her nipples zap to life under his clumsy assault. She was so aroused that she feared flames could be shooting out of her underpants. She'd never been so mortified in her life.

She grabbed his hand. "I've got it."

"Yes, you certainly do," he muttered, stepping back, looking at the floor. "Sorry."

The sound of paper towel brushing over cotton roared like an oncoming freight train in Thomas's ears. He stared at his shoes.