The Cupcake Queen. Patricia Coughlin

trial and error she’d come to wield it with finesse.

      If this small-town Don Juan thought he could rattle her twice in one lifetime, he was sorely mistaken.

      “What is it with you, lady?” he asked, when he appeared to have looked his fill at last. His tone was cordial, gentle even, but his voice was deep, the gravelly kind of deep that could give a woman goose bumps if she let it. “Are you flat-out crazy?”

      “What makes you ask?” she countered coolly.

      “Oh, I don’t know, something about you dumping coffee on strangers and wanting to walk a plank naked.”

      “Oh, that. Yes, I’m flat-out crazy.”

      Their eyes met. He might have a bigger Adam’s apple than she did, but she had a few assets of her own—a sub-Arctic tone and a dismissive gaze that had cut the machismo out from under inebriated frat boys and philandering Fortune 500 executives alike. The combination had never failed her.

      Until now.

      For the first time in her life she brought it to bear full force on a man and nothing happened. No stuttering or shifting of feet, and not so much as a flicker of embarrassment.

      Concentrate, she told herself, allowing her lips to curve into a subtly amused smile. Next to public rejection, men most hated being laughed at.

      “Now it’s my turn to ask you a question,” she said. “Do you cop a feel off every waitress who slaps a $1.99 special in front of you? Or is it only crazy ladies you can’t keep your hands off?”

      First he laughed. Then he stepped around the chesthigh counter separating the entry and office, and planted his palms in the center of her desk. An ancient leather bomber jacket hung open over his black sweater and jeans. He was also sporting several days’ black stubble, and she would bet an extra week in Danby that if she bothered to check out his feet, she’d see some battered member of the boot family. The complete “bad boy” ensemble. Generations of self-proclaimed rebels had adopted it to affect a menacing, misunderstood look, with an undercurrent of raw sexuality.

      And for good reason, she acknowledged to herself. It worked. As he continued to lean forward slowly, Olivia subdued the urge to wheel her chair out of reach.

      “I think I’ll keep you guessing about my taste in women,” he said, his too deep voice now also too close. “I will tell you this much. If I ever do decide to put my hands on you, I’ll make damn sure you know who it is touching you. I’m scared as hell you’ll get spooked again and hurl something really lethal at me.”

      Funny, he didn’t look scared. He looked pretty damned amused, Olivia decided, bristling. “Let’s get something straight. I didn’t throw coffee at you because I was spooked. The truth is, I wasn’t even upset,” she added, shrugging. “It was strictly a matter of principle.”

      “Yeah?” The corners of his wide mouth curled upward. “What principle is that?”

      “The one that says a man keeps his hands to himself unless I invite him to do otherwise.”

      His grin became full-blown. “Unless? Or until? Either way, lady, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

      “Lucky me,” she murmured, taking the hand he extended to seal the bargain. It wouldn’t have surprised her in the least if he turned out to be a fast-fingered Harry as well as a groper. The tags were from her college days, when she and a small group of close friends would pigeonhole a man according to his most impressive—or offensive—quality. Instead of prolonging the handshake, however, or rubbing a finger suggestively against her palm, he shook her hand in crisp, businesslike fashion and let go.

      It was a little like being dismissed and she wouldn’t have let him get away with it if Doc Allison hadn’t come charging into the room in her usual rush.

      Her boss was in her thirties, a trim brunette with a no-nonsense manner and a habit of doing at least two things at once. Now she continued scribbling notes on a chart, slapped a list on the desk and began talking to Olivia.

      “Do you think you can find these medications in the stockroom? And please rummage up some vitamin samples to give to Honey-Bunch’s mom when she checks out.”

      “Right away.” With no small amount of pleasure, Olivia aimed a lofty look at the man in front of her. “I’m afraid it’s going to be a few minutes before I can check you in.”

      She got to her feet slowly, certain he was like most men and wouldn’t be able to resist checking out those parts of her that had been hidden under the desk. At this point even that small, pseudo-victory would make her feel better.

      “Don’t bother,” he replied to her comment about the wait. Not only did he ignore the chance to check her out more thoroughly, but he turned away, shifting his attention to the vet, who had stopped writing and looked up at the sound of his voice.

      She immediately broke into a friendly smile. “Hey, stranger. I didn’t know you were here.”

      “You asked me to stop by, remember?”

      “Of course. But you’re way early.”

      Curious, Olivia lingered by her desk, shuffling papers for as long as she dared. It was long enough to note that his return smile was also friendly, as opposed to the nasty smirk he’d used on her.

      “I finished setting up that new trail sooner than I expected,” he was saying. “If this is bad timing, Doc—”

      “Not at all,” she assured him, taking his arm and tugging him along with her through the Staff Only doorway that led to her private office. The ease with which he fell in step with the other woman was not lost on Olivia. “I’m anxious to have you take a look at…”

      That was the last thing she heard before the door swung shut.

      What? Take a look at what? She resisted the urge to stamp her foot. Telling herself she really wasn’t interested in his reason for being there, or anything else about the man, she got busy gathering the medications on the list, presenting them to the furry little dog’s “mom” and recording payment for the visit.

      As soon as the woman and dog left, she headed for the bathroom, or, more accurately, the mirror over the bathroom sink. Wishing it were full length, she inspected herself from a variety of angles. She looked fine, she decided. Better than fine. She looked the way she always looked, like herself. Obviously, if there was a problem, it wasn’t hers. Not that she’d been concerned otherwise. Merely curious. Mildly curious. Blame it on boredom.

      Just the same, she took time to remove her lipstick and reapply it. She also combed her hair, then bent at the waist, tossing it forward and back to lose that just-combed look. Men were suckers for tousled hair and for anything else that helped link women and bed in their thoughts. Last, she pulled a tiny gold perfume atomizer from her bag and gave herself a quick spray of Sultry, rubbing the back of her wrists together until the scent of the aptly named perfume drifted over her.

      She inhaled deeply. There, that was better. Strictly speaking, the perfume violated the terms of the wager. Sultry was French and hideously expensive by anyone’s standards. It was also worth every last penny, and she wasn’t going to lose a minute’s sleep over what Brad would say if he knew she’d smuggled it along.

      If she’d freshened up for the benefit of Doc Allison’s visitor—which she assured herself she had not—it was a wasted effort. Either he was a very fast looker or he had left the back way. She would like to think he’d ducked out the back to avoid another round with her, but she was too good a judge of character. Nothing about him suggested he was a man who shied away from confrontation.

      Perhaps his choice of exits had to do with whatever Doc Allison had invited him to see in her private sanctum. Hmm, that had definite possibilities. Her boss was married, happily so by all appearances, but she sure wouldn’t swoon from shock to discover he was over-stepping his bounds.

      “Typical tomcat,” she muttered.

      A