Sheila Roberts - What She Wants

He shook the fragment at Chica. “What is this?”

Her tail curled between her legs and her head hung. She turned, slinking off toward the kitchen.

“Yeah, you should be ashamed. Bad dog!” She had a dog door and a huge yard to play in. She didn’t need to swipe his books and eat them. “Why did you do that?” he demanded. She didn’t make a habit of eating his books. But then, he didn’t make a habit of leaving them lying around on the couch. And, he had to admit, these had smelled a little musty. Maybe Chica had mistaken them for something dead.

Well, they were as good as dead now, he thought.

He picked up part of a page and read.

“Armande, I have never met a man like you,” breathed the contessa.

“And you never will. I will satisfy your every desire. Forever,” he whispered as he gently lifted her hair, exposing her lovely white neck.

Desire and a lovely white neck—that was all he was going to see of the contessa and Armande. Jonathan retrieved the waste can from under the kitchen sink and got to work.

Chica watched as he cleaned up the mess.

“Yeah, you did this. Those were research, you know,” he informed her.

She whined.

He relented. “Okay, you’re forgiven. Come here.”

She came, her tail wagging hopefully.

He knelt and pulled her against him and rubbed her head. “I guess those books just looked too good to resist, huh?”

She licked his face.

“Yeah, yeah. I know, you’re sorry. I’ll find ’em online and download them on to my e-reader. But no more eating my books, okay?”

Chica barked. Okay.

Once the mess was cleaned up, he’d spend some time on the island of Crete, with a suave tycoon and a beautiful businesswoman. He’d snitched The Undercover Tycoon from Juliet. He’d spotted it lying on top of a pile of books on the stairs and, unable to stop himself, had pinched it and smuggled it out in the pocket of his windbreaker. She’d happily have lent it to him if he asked, but no way was he asking to borrow one of Juliet’s romance novels. He’d never have heard the end of it, especially from Neil. He’d managed to get it out of the house undetected and he’d get it back in the same way. Nobody would be the wiser.

“No eating this one,” he told Chica, showing it to her. “It’s not ours.”

She yawned and settled down next to him on the couch.

This story had a contemporary setting, and it didn’t take long for him to get involved in the plot. Although the hero and heroine were hot for each other, something was standing in the way of their love—the business. Her family used to own it but now she only ran it. And the tycoon wanted to sell it out from under her.

As Jonathan read, he made notes on his iPad, treating the novel as if it were a college textbook, the same as he’d done with the other book he’d read. This particular hero seemed to have an overabundance of testosterone. He was strong and forceful, and while he and the heroine clashed—a lot—she seemed to appreciate that forcefulness. So, women wanted a man who was forceful, a take-charge kind of guy.

Jonathan added that attribute to the list he’d started. Forceful, take-charge. He could be forceful. Maybe.

* * *

Adam returned from his Alaskan adventure late Sunday night to make a shocking discovery. His key didn’t work in the lock. He wasn’t dreaming and he wasn’t drunk. This was the right house. His house. But his key didn’t work. Even finding the lock had been a pain since his wife hadn’t left the porch light on. What the hell?

He rang the doorbell.

No one came.

He rang again.

Still no one.

Chelsea’s car was there. What was going on? “Chels,” he called. “Chelsea?”

Finally the entry hall light went on and he saw the shadow of a slim body on the other side of the frosted glass panel. She must have fallen asleep.

That in itself was odd. She always waited up for him.

Now she was at the door but it didn’t open. And the porch light stayed off, leaving him standing there in the dark.

Her voice drifted out to him, muffled and distant. “Go away, Adam.”

What? “Let me in. My key won’t work.”

“It won’t work because I had the locks changed,” said the voice.

Maybe he was dreaming, after all. Or she was joking. “Okay, babe, you’ve had your laugh. Now open up.”

Instead of opening the door, she turned off the entry light and disappeared. “Chels!” He banged on the door. “This isn’t funny anymore. Open up.”

One neighbor was two wooded lots away and whoever had purchased the house next door hadn’t moved in yet. Still, he caught himself checking over his shoulder to see if anyone had heard. He felt like a fool standing there, demanding entrance into his own house. Changing the locks, that wasn’t even legal. But what was he going to do, call the cops? He’d wind up sleeping on the couch for the rest of his life.

This was nuts. He took out his cell phone and dialed her.

“What?” she answered.

What, indeed? Who was this snappish woman?

“Do you mind telling me what’s going on?” he asked.

An upstairs light went on and a window opened. Their bedroom. For a moment he saw her face, framed by the bedroom light. Chelsea had long, chestnut hair, big hazel eyes and Angelina Jolie lips. The lips weren’t smiling.

She held a box wrapped in white paper and tied with a pink ribbon. He recognized that box. And now she was going to... Oh, no. That was breakable. “Don’t—” he began.

Too late. She dropped it. The box landed with a crunch. So much for the candy dish the clerk at Mountain Treasures had convinced him to buy.

His wife had lost her mind. “What are you doing?”

A moment later, something else came fluttering down, like a poorly designed paper airplane—the card that went with the box.

“All right,” he said into the cell phone. “What was that all about?”

“Guess.”

“You didn’t want to give my mom anything for her birthday?”

Wrong guess. The call ended and the bedroom window slammed shut.

He called her again. “I don’t get it.”

“Does the number seven mean anything to you?”

Seven, seven. Crap! Their anniversary. Their anniversary was this weekend and he’d forgotten. “Shit,” he muttered.

“Yeah, that’s what you’re in,” she said. “It was bad enough you just had to stay up in Alaska and fish, but not to send flowers, not even call...”

“I called.” That was feeble. He’d left a message on voice mail telling her what time he’d be in. No mention of their anniversary.

Because he’d forgotten. Forgotten! What was wrong with his brain? A twenty-pound salmon, that was what. He felt sick.

“And then I found the package and thought you’d left it as a surprise.” Her voice was wobbly now, a sure sign that she was crying. “And what was it? Your mother’s birthday present. And her birthday isn’t until next week. And I already bought something because you never remember!”

He wouldn’t have remembered this year, either, except he’d been talking to his mom on his cell a few days ago and she’d dropped a hint when he happened to be downtown, walking past a shop. More than a hint. She’d come right out and said, “Your wife is not your personal secretary, Adam, and you should be able to remember your own mother’s birthday.”

Yeah, and he should’ve been able to remember his own anniversary, but he hadn’t. He’d stuck his mom’s present in the closet and forgotten about it. Just like he’d forgotten another important date. “I knew it was coming up,” he said. No lie. He’d planned to remember. Lame.

“This is the last straw. I’m tired of you taking me for granted. You do it all the time.”