What Phoebe Wants. Cindi Myers

wants those charts on his desk by noon,” Joan continued. “So you’d better get busy.”

      “No problem.” I shifted the folders to my left arm and headed for the coffee machine for a fortifying cup. “Barb and I will split them up and have them done by eleven.”

      “Sorry, but Barb can’t help you. I had to put her on the front desk this morning.”

      I turned, empty cup in hand. “Why? Where’s Kathleen?”

      Joan shook her head and disappeared around the corner. Dr. Patterson’s nurse, Michelle, joined me at the coffee machine. “Kathleen was dismissed,” she whispered as she spooned creamer into her cup.

      I raised my eyebrows. “Turned him down again, did she?” Dr. Patterson had been badgering the receptionist to go out with him for weeks now—despite the fact that both of them were married, and not to each other.

      Michelle shrugged. “I guess so. Or maybe he decided to move on to greener pastures and didn’t want her hanging around.”

      “Michelle, the doctor needs you in room three.” Joan hurried past us, dragging a loaded lab cart. “Phoebe, don’t forget those charts have to be done by noon.”

      “I can do it if the system cooperates. When is the new transcription system supposed to be installed?” I called after Joan’s retreating back.

      “Soon. You’ll have to make do until then.” She disappeared around the corner, test tubes rattling in her wake.

      I headed for my workroom at the back of the office suite. Windowless and cramped, it resembled the supply closet it had once been. A long counter had been installed to hold the two computers and transcription equipment, and a single filing cabinet provided a place to stash my purse. Nothing fancy, but it was quiet, out of the flow of traffic and no one cared how many empty coffee cups or Diet Coke cans I let pile up as long as I got my work done on time.

      I booted up my computer and popped the first tape into the transcription machine. Dr. Patterson’s Texas twang filled my headphones. “The patient is a well-developed young woman of sixteen, presenting with pain in the left patella.” I rolled my eyes as I typed. Patterson was always going on about the beauty or physical developments of his female patients. If they were over twenty-one he’d note if they were married or single and if they had any children. I wondered if he was making notes to himself for future reference.

      I busted butt and finished the last of the tapes at ten after twelve and was fastening a printout onto the front of a patient chart when the intercom buzzed. “Doctor Patterson would like to see you in his office,” Joan announced.

      I groaned. What was he going to do, chew me out for being ten minutes late? “If he didn’t go on so much about how big a patient’s boobs or behind were, he’d shave half an hour off my transcription time,” I muttered as I gathered up the charts and headed for the doctor’s lair at the other end of the office.

      Dr. Ken Patterson was a tall man with the broad shoulders and thick neck of a former football player. He, in fact, had been a linebacker for the University of Texas before deciding on a career in medicine. His hairline had receded in twin widow’s peaks, frosted with gray, which only added to his distinguished good looks. Patients talked about how charming he was, but I thought there was more smarm than charm in the good doctor.

      “Here are the charts you wanted.” I deposited the stack of file folders on the corner of his desk. It was a massive mahogany piece that was big enough for a grown man to stretch out on. Rumor had it that Patterson had made good use of that space with more than one woman. Frankly, I was glad it wasn’t my job to polish the thing. I turned to leave, but Patterson caught me by the arm.

      “What’s your hurry?” Still clutching my arm, he reached back and pushed the door closed.

      I frowned. I didn’t want to end up like Kathleen, with bills to pay and no job, but neither did I want to end up as Patterson’s next plaything. “I have a lot of work to do,” I said, trying to pull away from him.

      “Yes, I’ve noticed how tense you’ve been lately.” He released me, but continued to block my path to the door. “I think maybe you’ve been working too hard.”

      “I’m fine, really.” I tried to dodge past him and collided with Albert, the life-size skeletal model grinning cheerfully from his stand next to the desk.

      Albert clanked and swayed like a macabre set of wind chimes. At Halloween we dressed him up and stationed him by the reception desk with a bowl of candy, but the rest of the year Albert was a mute observer of the goings-on in Patterson’s office. If those bones could talk…

      “The real reason I wanted to see you is I have a question about one of the notes you transcribed for me.” Patterson walked around the desk, seemingly all business, but I didn’t let down my guard. He pulled a folder from a stack in his out box and beckoned me toward him. “It’s right here. Please take a look and tell me what you think this means.”

      I leaned over the desk, staying as far from Patterson’s octopus arms as possible. Fortunately, I could read upside down. “Patient is recently divorced, suffering from nervous strain.” I looked up at Patterson. “I’m certain that’s what you said on the tape. Is there something wrong?”

      “Not wrong, but I couldn’t help thinking how well that phrase describes your own situation.” He pressed the tips of his fingers together and looked down his nose at me, as if I’d suddenly developed a rare disease. Or a third breast. “You know, Phoebe, not only am I your employer, but I think of myself as your physician, as well. It’s obvious to me that since your divorce, you, too, have been exhibiting signs of nervous strain. I believe I can help you.”

      I started backing toward the door. “Dr. Michaels over at County General is my doctor.”

      For a man of his size, Patterson was amazingly quick. He came around the desk and pulled me to him in a bear hug. It was like being caught in the elevator doors, my ribs creaking, my breath cut off. “I find you so attractive,” he murmured, and began kissing my neck. Wet slobbery kisses. You’d think a man who considered himself a modern-day Don Juan would have a better technique. I struggled, caught tight in his crazed grip.

      Nose buried in my neck, his ear brushed up against my lips, pink and vulnerable. I know how to take advantage of a good opportunity when I see it. I bit down hard.

      He screamed like a woman, a high-pitched shriek that was probably heard two floors away. I shot out of his arms and was standing by the door by the time he straightened up. He had one hand clapped over his ear and his eyes were wet. “Why did you do that?” he asked, seeming genuinely puzzled.

      “Did I mention I have this thing about being held against my will?” I turned the doorknob. “I’m going to pretend this never happened,” I said. “But if you so much as lay a hand on me again I’ll report you to the AMA, the TMA, the BBB and anybody else who’ll listen.”

      “Phoebe, Phoebe, Phoebe.” He started toward me again, arms outstretched, pleading. “I know you’ve been without a man for months now. Surely you must need the physical release—”

      I was out the door before he finished the sentence. My feet pounded down the carpeted hallway in time with my furiously beating heart. “What I need is to be left the hell alone,” I muttered as I rounded the corner, headed toward the front office. Joan was going to hear about the doctor’s latest shenanigans.

      I didn’t see the man at the end of the hallway until it was too late. I had a fleeting impression of broad shoulders and dark hair before I barreled into him. Papers scattered as he was shoved back against one wall. He struggled for balance, holding on to the only support available—me.

      2

      “GET YOUR HANDS OFF OF ME!” I swatted at the stranger as his fingers clutched at my dress.

      “You’re the one who ran into me, lady.” He righted himself and