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Drake’s eyes darkened as he looked down at her, curiosity mingled with a dawning new awareness. Kate tensed, sure he was going to say something witty and suggestive.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said slowly. ‘She’s rather difficult to get to know.’
‘I’m difficult!’ Her momentary speechlessness gave the vet time to step in by smoothly suggesting that his assistant had had time to give the dog his antibiotic injection by now.
‘I don’t think there’s any chance of infection to his nose, but I’ll give you some antibiotic cream to take with you, Drake, just in case. Come and get Prince and I’ll give you a sample box from the surgery.’ He smiled at Kate. ‘It was nice to meet you, even in this roundabout fashion. The mouth-trap here doesn’t give up much, but I won’t pretend not to know who you are…we get given lots of gossipy magazines for the waiting room here. I hope this doesn’t put you off your visit..?’
He was blatantly fishing, and Kate ignored Drake’s restless movement to cruise by the bait. ‘Oh, I’m not staying with Drake. I’ve rented my own house on Oyster Beach…’
‘Next door to mine,’ Drake chipped in, only to be totally ignored by his so-called friend.
‘Oh, really?’ The blue eyes twinkled at Kate. ‘Ever been out on a racing catamaran?’
‘No, she hasn’t—she gets seasick in the bath. I thought you were going to get me that prescription? You have a sick tortoise over there who’s been waiting long enough.’
‘Mmm, he does look a bit green,’ said Ken, with a glance at his next patient, clutched to the chest of an old man who looked not unlike a wrinkly tortoise himself.
Kate bit off a gurgle as Drake glared at her. ‘You wait here,’ he said sternly.
Ken pointed towards the chairs, using the same tone of voice. ‘Yes, sit, girl, sit!’
Christy was on the phone and Kate hovered by the desk for a few moments thinking to ask her if she knew anything about rats. But the receptionist seemed to be getting into an argument about a bill, so Kate moved to a discreet distance, inspecting the various posters on the walls.
She was standing in front of a glossy chart showing the life cycle of the blowfly complete with close-up photographs of the rear ends of maggoty sheep when a gravelly voice said: ‘Revolting little devils, aren’t they? And fancy having to live in a sheep’s bum! Give me a good, old-fashioned, lusty leech any old day.’
Kate turned to find herself the target of a pair of vivid green eyes deep-set in a pale, intense face. For a brief moment she was distracted by the mop of flaming red hair, unpleasantly reminded of the woman who had given her so much cause for discomfort, but then her senses responded to the very male impact of the unshaven chin and sexy mouth, the lazy, white-lidded gaze and the lean, tapering body encased in a black tee shirt and jeans. His face said he was somewhere in his thirties, but the decadent eyes were much, much older.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said, consciously trying to act normal. It was difficult when he looked so fascinated by her own eyes, but perhaps that fathomless gaze was just part of his technique. ‘Some maggots have a useful side, too. Like leeches, they’re being used medicinally in some hospitals—to help remove dead tissue in and around infected wounds. They’re supposedly more effective than surgery because they don’t excise any healthy flesh.’
Oh, yes, have a conversation with the man about rotting flesh—very normal, Kate!
He received the lecture in flattering silence, moving around to lean a casual shoulder against the wall. ‘I’ll never swat a fly again,’ he vowed, hand on his heart. ‘But I still prefer blood-suckers to scum-suckers. Leeches seem like they might be more fun to hang around with at parties…’
‘You would know,’ she murmured, and bit her lip, thinking that might have been a bit rude.
His eyelids drooped, his trade-mark, world-weary smile hiking his sensual mouth. ‘OK, now we both know that you know who I am,’ said Steve Marlow, former bad-boy rock-star, now New Zealand’s—and one of Hollywood’s—most sought-after composer of movie-music. ‘Am I allowed to know who you are?’
‘Kate.’
‘Tell me, Kate…’he jacked one black-booted foot over the other as he trotted out one of the most hoary old clichés in the pick-up business ‘…do you come here often?’
Her heart didn’t even miss a beat. ‘Only in the maggot season.’
He laughed, his attractively harsh voice projecting off the walls. Shaking his head, he looked around the now-empty waiting room. ‘Are you here to pick up an animal?’
‘I’m here with a friend.’
‘So am I. My nephew’s pet rabbit who has been losing some of his rabbity-bits in order not to over-populate his hutch.’ He placed his hand on the wall above her head and leaned confidingly closer. ‘Has anyone told you what absolutely stunning eyes you have?’
‘Yes. I have,’ said Drake, striding across the floor to slip his hand under Kate’s elbow and tug her away, her feet stumbling as Prince blundered eagerly between them to head-butt Steve Marlow in the thigh.
‘Ouch! Can’t you keep this damned dog of yours under control?’
‘I am. He’s trained to attack tired, old, talentless has-beens who sleaze around younger women desperately trying to relive their faded days of glory!’
‘I still can’t believe you said that,’ a mortified Kate was repeating as he encouraged Prince to jump up into the back seat of the Land Rover and settle down on his tartan rug. ‘You just insulted a Kiwi icon. It’s a wonder he didn’t punch you in the nose, like he did that music critic backstage at the Oscars!’
‘He’d have to pump up those skinny arms first!’ sneered Drake, hustling her around to the front passenger door.
