The Frenchman's Slow Seduction
Read The Frenchman's Slow Seduction Online
Authors: Flora Lanoux
Tags: #cozy mystery, #contemporary romance, #steamy romance, #american romance, #sizzling romance, #strong heroine romance, #veterinarian romance, #romance european hero, #romance french hero, #romance happily ever after
THE
FRENCHMAN’S SLOW SEDUCTION
FLORA
LANOUX
Published by MC Paquin
at Smashwords
Copyright 2013 M.C.
Paquin
All rights reserved.
Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of
this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic,
mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented,
including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any
information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the
written permission of M.C. Paquin.
This book is a work of
fiction. All the characters are fictitious, and any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN-10: 1927833094
ISBN-13: 978-1927833094
(La Carolina Press)
*** Thanks to those of
you who will leave a review of this book at your favorite online
store. Reviews are super important to all indie writers. ***
CONTENTS
“
I missed you last
night,”
Mike murmurs against my cheek, grabbing me from behind.
“Why didn’t you come over?” Now he’s kissing my neck.
I turn to face him,
afraid that someone from the clinic might walk into the lunchroom
and see us. “I was out with a friend,” I tell him. “I only got your
message this morning.”
Pulling me close, he
says, “Promise me you’ll come over tonight.”
Trying to ignore the
effect he’s having on me, I say, “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t
you come over to my place after work?”
With a gleam in his
eye, he leans forward and leisurely kisses me. As things threaten
to heat up, he pulls away. “I’d better get started on the first
surgery of the day.”
Still tasting him on my
lips, I say, “That’s probably a good idea.”
With a laugh, he turns
and walks away.
Watching him, I wonder
about my sanity. What in heaven’s name was I thinking when I jumped
into an office romance; and worse yet, with my boss? I can just
hear Grams, my dead grandmother, saying, “Rachel, you would give an
aspirin a headache!”
Letting out a slow
breath, I reach for a clean lab coat. It’s time for another busy
day at Village Animal Hospital.
With trademark
punctuality, Tim, the veterinary assistant, walks into the
lunchroom. Tim is Mike’s ex-wife’s second cousin. His training is
in carpentry, but due to the building slump he accepted a job at
Mike’s clinic two weeks after I appeared on the scene. Mike trusts
him with a lot of clinic responsibilities.
“How’s things?” Tim
asks, putting his huge lunch into the fridge. Darla, his wife,
makes lunches that reflect their life together: birthday cake, baby
crackers, oysters, leftovers.
“Things are looking up
at the moment,” I tell him.
“That’s what I like to
hear. What’s up first?” he asks.
“We have to clean the
abscess on Mr Bank’s Siamese, Big Boy.”
He groans and reaches
for a clean lab coat. Often, he has been maimed by cats, and the
worst have always been Siamese; I know he must be dreading it.
What a crazy day.
There’s been no middle ground. It’s been a day of extremes,
alternating between huge successes and huge disasters.
By closing time, I’m
desperate to leave the clinic, but Damian, a 16-year-old dog
brought in for euthanasia by elderly owners, has vanished, and
everyone has joined in the search.
When the phone rings,
Albert, the clinic parrot, calls out, “Hello, Village Animal
Hospital, can I help you?”
Answering the phone, I
repeat the same line.
“This is Irene
Johnstone,” a woman says, and my heart sinks. Irene is Damien’s
owner. “We have our own little phoenix,” she says. “Damian has come
back to us. We can’t understand it. He usually has trouble walking
across the room.”
Good grief!
The
unimaginable has happened. Despite his severely arthritic joints,
Damian has managed the four-mile pilgrimage back to his home.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs
Johnstone,” I tell her. “We left the back kennel door open and
Damian’s cage door must not have been properly closed. He ran away
and we’ve all been looking for him. I can come and get him right
now if you like.”
“Oh no, dear. Me and
John have taken this to be a sign that we shouldn’t have him put
down at all. If the old darling wants to be with us that badly,
we’ll have him to the end.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. You should
have seen us. There we were, sitting at the table feeling terribly
sorry for ourselves when John saw Damian walking across the lawn.
He went pale; he thought it was Damian’s ghost coming back to haunt
him. When we realized that it really was Damian, we couldn’t
believe it. He was exhausted but excited as anything to see us. We
feel like we’ve won the lottery.”
Animals have more
sense than people:
that was a truth told to me by a farmer.
Poor little Damian knew to run like hell when he sensed
trouble.
I call off the search,
relieved at how things turned out.
Finished for the day,
Mike and I leave the clinic in our own cars and drive to my place,
which he calls the oasis. There are only three floors and sixty
apartments in the complex, which is made up of three buildings laid
out in a U shape. The center of the complex has a courtyard with a
garden and tall trees, creating not only lush scenery but also a
lot of privacy. The stairs, corridors, and apartment doors are all
on the outside of the building facing the courtyard, giving it a
motel ambience.
The instant we get into
my apartment, Mike grabs me and kisses me all over. “Let’s go to
bed,” he says, tugging me towards the bedroom.
When he throws me onto
the bed, I flash back to something my mother said: “Marry a man
who’s full of love, Rachel, and you’ll have an excellent
lover.”
Having spent the night
at my place, Mike and I get to the clinic together in the morning
and find Lucy, the receptionist, upset about two hundred dollars
missing from the till. A bank deposit is made every day just before
bank closing time; whatever money is taken later is kept in the
clinic overnight.
Strange things have
been happening at the clinic lately. Surgical equipment and office
supplies go missing or are found in odd places and small amounts of
money have disappeared.
“This is getting
serious,” Mike says. “Let’s try a change in routine. Instead of
keeping money in the till overnight, why don’t we file it in a
folder at the end of the day? We’ll keep the new location between
the three of us.”
Seeing how upset Lucy
is, he says, “It’s probably just some kid looking for pocket
money.”
Walking into my office,
I turn on my laptop and check for emails. There’s one from Jean
Paul Gaston, a veterinary researcher at Texas A&M University,
who I touched base with a year ago.
Dear Rachel:
It was with pleasure
that I received your email. I am glad that you liked my most recent
paper. I have attached some articles in reference to that which you
asked me. Do you not think that anatomy is the only pure science?
Kind regards, Jean Paul
There’s a softness in
Jean Paul’s manner that I find touching. I found out about his
research while reading in the library, his passion for anatomy and
surgery leaping out from the pages of a veterinary journal.
Although his research is fascinating, it was his writing style that
intrigued me: it was lyrical, which, in scientific circles, is
highly unusual. After reading his paper, I emailed him some
research questions, and we’ve kept up a friendly correspondence
ever since.
I print off his email
and place it in a tray with his other correspondence. In a month,
I’ll finally get to meet the man behind the emails because Mike and
I will be going to a veterinary conference at Jean Paul’s
university in College Station, Texas.
Lucy walks into my
office.
“Mail,”
she says, tossing several envelopes onto my
desk. On top of the stack is the agenda for the Texas veterinary
conference. I smile when I see Mike’s and my name on the list of
presenters.
The conference talk is
really Mike’s baby. He slightly altered a technique for bone
surgery in cats, and it’s having good results. Excited about his
results, he submitted a paper to a veterinary journal, and it was
accepted for publication. Because of the work I’ve done on the
project, Mike added my name to his paper. The next thing we knew, a
conference organizer asked Mike to present the results and he
agreed. The week-long conference is taking place the second week in
September, and Mike coaxed me into presenting half the paper.
Already, he has a locum lined up for the week we’ll be away. I’m
looking forward to the conference. It’ll be nice to meet up with
old friends.
At lunchtime, as I’m
heading out to lunch at Larry’s, the family restaurant next door, I
see Gordon, Mike’s son, walking towards the clinic.
“Hi, Gordon,” I call
out.
He glances in my
direction and grunts.
Mike has two children
from his first marriage: Gordon, who’s nineteen, and Vanessa, who’s
twenty-one. Both hate me, which I don’t understand. They liked me
fine
before
Mike and I started dating. I mean, it’s not like
Mike’s having a sordid affair or something. And I’m hardly
disreputable.
It’s been nine months
now since Mike and I have been going out, although I’ve been
working for him for over a year and a half. After graduating from
veterinary medicine, I did locum work for a few clinics, including
a stint at Mike’s clinic when he went on holiday for a month.
Pleased with my work and in need of a second vet for his growing
practice, Mike offered me a job, and I gladly accepted. After
working there for ten months, he and I started dating. It feels
great when we’re together, but sometimes I feel like things aren’t
quite right.
Determined to have a
relaxing lunch, I toss away my gloomy thoughts and open the door to
Larry’s. Their homemade soup has never failed to cheer me up.
A half hour later, on
my return to the clinic, I see Mike greeting a young couple with a
yellow Lab. The dog’s head is hanging low, he barely has the energy
to cross the room, and his eyes have lost their glimmer. Dogs with
cancer have a certain look, and that Lab has that look.
Since it’s my afternoon
for surgery, I pick up the surgery list and head to the scrub room.
Tim, who’s assisting with surgery, pokes his head out of one of the
treatment rooms.
“Everything’s set up
for the first surgery,” he says.
“Great,” I tell him.
“I’ll be ready in five minutes.”
“Aye aye.”
Midafternoon, after two
castrations and a spay, Tim and I take a break in the lunchroom.
While we’re eating and chatting, Mike walks in.
“Has anyone heard from
Shane?” he asks.
“Nope,” Tim says,
answering for the two of us.
Disappointed, Mike
leaves for his next client. Shane has been working at the clinic
for two years and he’s always in some kind of trouble. At present,
he’s one hour late for work. Why Mike keeps him on is a mystery to
everyone. We never know when Shane will be in. On paper, his duties
consist of kennel maintenance and running errands. In reality,
Shane does as he pleases for which Mike pays him five dollars an
hour above the going rate. It’s one of those mysteries I’m happy to
ignore.
On my way to the scrub
room, I see Shane in one of the treatment rooms squirting Albert
with a syringe full of water.
“Why are you so mean to
that bird?” I ask.