Long Haired Persian by Liz Stafford

Chapter One
     
    Tonya maneuvered the Lexus along Broadway, checking out the Christmas lights in the store windows. Business had been slow and she’d decided to close the clinic and go home early. Two days after Christmas, traffic was sparse. People were home resting up for New Years. New Years—another wasted holiday. A day with no paycheck. What was there to look forward to, anyway? Her family was all back east, in the snow. It just wasn’t Christmas without snow. She turned up the radio to drown out the Scrooge-like thoughts.
    Over the sound of Michael Bublé’s soothing voice, tires squealed. Someone shouted. A cat wailed—long and high-pitched. The sound brought every hair on Tonya’s body to attention. She raced toward the commotion, dismayed to see that a cat had been hit by a car. The animal, a Persian by the looks of it, lay there all glassy-eyed, its hind legs jerking in uncontrollable spasms. Its long black hair was coated with blood.
    Tonya ran to the scene. She pushed between two male elbows. In response to the muttered, “Watch it,” from the blue-covered elbow, she said, “I’m a doctor. A vet.”
    She knelt beside the limp cat. Tonya eased open an eyelid and checked the pupil’s dilation. No doubt about it, the cat was in shock. The only clear-cut physical injury was a broken rear leg. It lay at a right angle to where it should. More than likely there were internal injuries. She wouldn’t know more until after a thorough exam, which she’d do at the clinic.
    Tonya peered up at blue-sleeve. “Anyone know who the owner is?”
    “My cat,” came an accented voice—she couldn’t place it right now, and didn’t try—from just over her shoulder. Gosh, how long had he been standing there? His breath was a mixture of garlic and something else, some kind of meat, she thought.
    “We have to get him to my clinic.”
    “S’cuse?”
    She pointed left. “I am a doctor.” She wasn’t sure how much this pussy-tingling man understood, but he got the gist. He smoothed a hand over curly hair, stood and backed away as she got to her feet. He, as did most people, towered over her by well over a foot. She tilted her head for a better look. Yes, dark curly hair and equally dark eyes. Tonya fell instantly and irrevocably in love. She would have to do something about his clothes. He had on a light blue shirt and orange striped tie. God, who dressed this man? She stifled a giggle. No way was this one married.
    Together they maneuvered the cat onto a piece of cardboard they found in the gutter. Thankfully, the kitty had stopped screeching. She hated when pets cried. Its eyes were still glassy, its pulse erratic. The owner steadied the cat on the cardboard.
    “Stay here while I go get my car.”
    “S’cuse?”
    She raised a finger in the universal signal to wait. Pulse thumping, she ran to the car and drove fifty feet to pull up beside him—the man she would someday marry.
    She got out and raced around to open the rear door and help him inside. Good thing the clinic was only four blocks away. Rianna Farraday, her partner, had been fortunate to find this building—it had once been a Chinese restaurant—in the heart of LA.
    Tonya tilted the mirror hoping to keep an eye on the cat, but all she could see was the very worried owner. He was obviously foreign, but since he’d only spoken a few words, she’d been unable to place the accent. She loved accents. To stereotype his looks would be wrong, but still, those dark eyes, slightly hooked nose and wavy black hair said he was probably Turkish or Iranian. And gosh, did he smell good—a combination of vanilla and maybe basil. Weird for a guy. But perfect for him.
    Something inside her jangled. Something not related to the adrenaline rush related to the emergency. Of course she recognized horniness. She had a healthy desire for sex. But relationships and Dr. Tonya Lansing didn’t mix. She’d been there, done that more times than she could count. No man she’d