Whispers and Lies. Diane Pershing

every canine in the room—and there were several, as the clinic owned and operated by Louise McAndrews, DVM, was the most popular one in Susanville, New York—to howling and barking.

      Sheer pandemonium, Lou thought to herself, as she remained calm in the middle of the storm. Just the way she liked it. She leaned her elbows on the half door’s rim and grinned.

      “Listen up, everyone,” she said cheerfully to the dogs’ owners, “not to worry. The cat is new to civilization. We just caught her and some of her babies this morning, so she’s much more scared of you than you are of her. Hold tight to those leashes, stay where you are and we’ll get her in no time.”

      She turned to the pudgy, brown-skinned, highly irritated man holding the net. “Okay, Alonzo, go around the other way, through the hallway to Room Three and open the door to the waiting room. Teeny,” she called to a huge, bald-headed man dressed in one of the clinic’s puppy-patterned coats, “you go in this way—” she pointed to the half door she was leaning on “—then surround her and force her into Room Three. I’m going to close this upper door now.” She waved. “Everyone else, sit tight and watch the show.”

      Less than a minute later, the feral rescue cat had been trapped in the adjoining examination room and the huge net had been thrown over her head; as had been intended, the cat’s subsequent scrambling for freedom had gotten her all tangled up in the netting. Now, imprisoned and unable to fight her human captors, she had no choice but to lie inert, still spitting, while Lou injected her with a combination of sedatives and disease-preventing serums. In no time at all, the poor exhausted thing was snoring away.

      Lou thanked her staff, then pulled open the door to the dog waiting room and walked through it toward the reception area, smiling as she did. “Hey, everybody, thanks for the co-operation. You can tell your dogs that the mean, nasty kitty can’t hurt them now. She’s asleep.”

      As a few appreciative chuckles greeted her news, her gaze swept the room and lingered briefly on one of the owners, a tall man wearing dark wraparound sunglasses. He seemed vaguely familiar. But she was too busy and way too tired to place him, or to even spend another second on it. Her appointment schedule was booked to overflow capacity and she had to reserve her strength for the hours ahead.

      Squaring her narrow shoulders, she smiled at the head receptionist. “Okay, Dorothy, start sending in the troops.”

      Three quick-but-thorough appointments later, Lou was in Room Four when the man in the sunglasses was shown in, dragging at the leash of a snorting, highly reluctant pug. From her position on the other side of the examination table, Lou glanced down at the dog, then at the chart and smiled. Of course. Her friend Nancy Jamison’s dog, Oscar.

      Now Lou raised her gaze to check out the human holding the leash. Most definitely not Nancy. Wrong height, wrong sex. The man removed his glasses and offered a broad, confident, white-toothed smile, one that tilted up a little more on the right side.

      Her heart thudded to a halt. Her eyes widened. “Will?”

      He seemed amused by her shock. “Yes, Lou, it’s me. Or are you called Louise now that you’re all grown-up?”

      She shook her head slowly. “No, it’s still Lou. Gosh, I thought you looked familiar.”

      There went that crooked grin again, and her heart skipped yet one more beat.

      “That was quite a show out there,” he said, yanking his thumb in the direction of the waiting room. “I’m impressed. And is the cat really asleep, or is she, you know, euphemistically asleep?”

      “We try not to kill our rescue animals,” she said dryly. “She’s had her shots and she’s resting comfortably.”

      “Well, good for her.”

      Lou couldn’t seem to stop staring at him, at this tall, black-haired, green-eyed man with a face to die for and who had starred in so very many of her dreams so very long ago. He hadn’t shaved yet this morning, and the dark beard stubble only added to his roguish good looks. He wore a dark T-shirt and well-worn jeans that revealed a lean body with defined upper and lower arm muscles, broad shoulders and chest, slim hips and long legs.

      If she’d been a Saint Bernard, there would have been drool dripping from the side of her mouth.

      Which was not only a singularly unattractive image, but if she didn’t stop gawking at the man, she would make an utter fool of herself, not for the first time where Will Jamison was concerned. “So,” she said brightly, “you must be in town for Nancy’s wedding.”

      He made a face. “I was threatened that if I didn’t come, I was out of the family for good.”

      “Well, threat or no, it’s good to see you,” she said, then decided to get down to business. “I see you have Oscar today. Lift him up on the table, please, and then tell me what’s his problem.”

      If Will had noticed her ogling him or her discomfort, it wasn’t apparent, thank God. He picked up the wheezing animal and set him down in front of Lou. “Nancy says he’s been scratching himself like crazy since yesterday.”

      “Ah.” As she donned her rubber gloves, she observed the raised bumps on the animal’s body. “Hives,” she said, then checked Oscar’s eyes and ears, looked into his mouth. “An allergic reaction of some sort. Pugs are prone to this kind of thing, poor babies.”

      As she spoke, she was aware that Will was paying attention. Really close attention. And not to the dog. He was staring at her, actually, like she had stared at him moments ago.

      After a while, it became unnerving. She looked up, met his green-eyed gaze. “Um, you’re looking at me funny.”

      “Huh?”

      “It’s like you’re studying me. What’s up?”

      He didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed, just smiled enough to make the corners of his emerald-colored eyes crinkle and for that little thudding in her heart to crank up again. “You’ve changed.”

      “We all have.”

      “Not as much as you.”

      A twist of annoyance at this obvious reference to her weight loss made her want to snap back with something cutting and smart-ass. Instead, she chose mildly sardonic diplomacy. “You’re referring to the fact that I used to be, shall we say, a bit heavier?”

      “Used to be being the operative phrase.”

      “Up until a few months ago, I was still just as chubby as ever, trust me.”

      “Oh? Recent diet?”

      “Recent death.”

      He winced. “Sorry.”

      Immediate guilt assailed her. The poor man hadn’t deserved that one. Lou shook her head. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry, Will. I was being flip.” A sudden tightening in her throat made her swallow before she added, “I lost my mom.”

      But Will Jamison already knew about Janice McAndrews’s death. It was one of the main reasons he was here at the clinic this morning. A fact of which Dr. Lou was ignorant and, he hoped, would remain so.

      Which had nothing to do with the fact that it didn’t sit well with him to pretend he hadn’t heard the news. “Yeah, my condolences. Nancy mentioned it but I just read about it in the Courier.”

      “Just? It happened a couple of months ago.”

      “I was a little behind.”

      She smiled briefly. “So, you get the hometown paper in D.C.?”

      “Are you kidding? My sister, the managing editor, sends it to me every week. Then I let them pile up until I have time to read them. I’m so sorry about your mother, Lou. Really.”

      She waved it away. “Don’t be. Nancy gave Mom a real nice write-up.”

      She went back to attending to the dog, filling a needle