Dan All Over Again: Dan All Over Again / The Mountie Steals A Wife. Barbara Dunlop

through the receptionist’s desk and snagged a key. “And (c) I’m tired of being a rung on the ladder that everyone else uses on their way up.”

      “You’re so cute when you’re angry,” Pam said with a grin. “Even when you’re pulverizing butter rums. So what are you going to do, insist that Mr. Nicholson let you present a campaign, too?”

      “Hah! And let him pat my head and tell me how ungentlemanly that would be?” Cassie gave her a slow smile. “I’m simply going to walk into the presentation and show them my stuff.”

      “What if he fires you on the spot?”

      “He won’t.”

      “Uh-oh. This is starting to sound—dare I say it?—impulsive.”

      Cassie stopped. “This isn’t impulsive. No, not at all. It’s going to be a well-planned attack in the name of all that’s fair and good in the world. And I’m going to be honest about it. You know I can’t stand dishonest people.” She slid the key into Roger’s doorknob.

      Pam whispered, “Wouldn’t breaking into Roger’s office fall slightly under that category?”

      “Of course not. I have a key. No breaking anything.”

      “Cassie, what if someone catches you and you’re arrested? We’re arrested? We’ll be in the Police Beat section of the paper. We could be shot by a trigger-happy cop who’s out to prove himself!”

      “We won’t.” Cassie opened the door. The office smelled like Roger’s last splash of cheap aftershave. “When I chose a career in marketing, I decided this was something I was going to stick with, follow through on.” She flicked on the light.

      Pam took up a lookout position near the door. “You’re thinking about your ex-marriage, aren’t you?”

      “Of course not. I’m thinking of that cross-stitch thingee I started five years ago. It sits in my wicker basket and reminds me of all the puzzles, paintings and hook rug kits I didn’t finish. Every Sunday, I put three stitches in the thing. At least I’m making progress. Oh, stop looking at me with that I-know-you-better-than-you-do smirk of yours. Okay, yes, I am thinking about my ex-marriage. You don’t know how scary it was for me to realize I’d become my mother. She’s hopped into and out of so many marriages, I’m surprised she isn’t perpetually dizzy. As a matter of fact, she is, God love her.”

      “You’re nothing like your mother.”

      “Not now, but I was then. I was suddenly married to a gorgeous stranger. The first blush of excitement turned into the reality of bills, routines and the mention of babies, and I panicked. Probably the same way Mom did in her seven marriages. I wasn’t ready, I ran away and…I hurt Dan.” She was sure the thickness in her throat was the result of eating too many butter rums. “I swore I would never start something I cared about and not finish it.” She consulted the small, leather-bound notepad she wore on a chain around her neck. “I have $12,420 to save before I can escape this place and start my own company. In 1.4 years, I should be able to bring you aboard. This is what being sensible does to a person: (a) concrete goals and (b) no broken hearts.”

      “Sensible. Yeah, well, I know you’ll never have a broken heart again.”

      Cassie smiled. “Thanks for your vote of confidence.”

      “Because you’ll never find anyone who’ll fit that compatibility list you have.”

      “Hey, you’re supposed to support me.”

      “I’m not your bra, I’m your friend. I’m telling you, you’re going to be a lonely old woman before you find a man who matches the criteria on that list, watching The Rockford Files reruns and conversing with your nine cats. You’ll be one of those people who never throws anything away and you’ll be dead a week before anyone knows it. They’ll have to wade through thirty years of trash to find you. Or something worse.”

      “No, I won’t. At least I won’t be a seven-times-divorced lonely old woman without goals or a career.” Like her mom, dragging her daughter all over as she skipped from place to place, living wherever an acquaintance or boyfriend would permit until she got bored or wore out their welcome. No roots, no traditions, and no sense of being able to depend on her mom when she needed her. Not even a father to provide a speck of stability, since three years after her mother had divorced him, he’d died in a sailing accident. She blinked back the thought and opened one of Roger’s drawers. She pulled out a wrinkled tube of Preparation H. “Would I be totally evil if I put Ben-Gay in here?”

      Pam screeched in laughter, then quickly sobered. “Yes. Totally.”

      Cassie tossed it back in with the other junk in the drawer: wart remover, corn pads and an assortment of nasal sprays. After rooting around in the papers on his desk, she held up a brochure for the Naples Snook Rodeo, a fishing tournament starting the next morning. “Ugh, at seven o’clock. The weirdest thing in the world is for someone to get up before dawn all excited to go fishing. It was a phenomenon I never could figure out.” She flipped open the brochure, pushing away the memory of Dan tiptoeing around their bedroom in all his naked glory as he got ready. “Whew, is it warm in here?” She fanned herself, forcing her attention back to the brochure and not Dan’s bare butt in the early morning light. “Hey, it’s sponsored by the Lure ’Em In Tackle Company. Isn’t that handy-dandy?”

      “Perfect! So you’ll go talk to some of the fishermen, maybe even the company officials?”

      “Talk?” She wrote down details on a receipt for Dramamine. The box was still sitting on the desk. “I’m going to learn everything I can about fishing lures, fishing and fish by hanging out with one of the contestants.”

      “What if the guy gets fresh, and you’re out there by yourself? Dangerous, dangerous indeed.”

      “He won’t. Besides, all I’d have to do is show him my egret legs, and all thoughts of seduction would go flying out of his mind.” She lifted a leg sheathed in dress pants.

      “I think you’re a little hard on yourself and those legs of yours.”

      Cassie knew Pam was also picturing the white bird with spindly legs and an S-shaped neck.

      “Don’t worry, I’m not going to approach just anyone. I’ll ask one of the officials to hook me up with someone reputable. Hook—get it?” Cassie giggled. “I am going to be so good at this. If you’re worried, come with me.”

      “No can do. I promised Andy I’d help him do yard work this weekend. But I’ll go to the docks with you.”

      “That’d be nice,” Cassie said as she closed up Roger’s office. Besides Marion, a neighbor in her apartment building, Pam was her closest friend. Cassie didn’t mind that they both tended to mother her a bit. She stopped in front of the chart. “Roger, you little weenie, you don’t know it yet, but I’ve just declared war.”

      DAN MCDERMOTT double-checked his fishing poles, making sure each one was snug in its holder. Then he checked the cooler—enough beer to last him the weekend. Checked the rods again. Something was missing. He poked his head down into the cabin where his little dog, Thor, was studiously chewing his pig’s ear—a gruesome gift from Granny.

      So it wasn’t Thor or the beer, or his poles, sunblock, shades or anything else he could think of.

      Maybe he needed a bigger boat. Women were always saying size didn’t matter, but a guy could never have one that was too big. A boat, that was.

      “Hey, Dan, gonna be weird you not competing this year,” Jessie said, stopping on the way to his boat.

      The sun had barely peeked over the horizon, but the city dock was crowded with men who definitely had a say about bigger being better. Fish, that was.

      “Yeah, it’s killing me.” But it wasn’t. And it should be. He should at least be excited about spending a whole weekend fishing. But he wasn’t. He should be pleased as punch with his life as a successful,