Patrice Lyle - Health Nut 01 - Killer Kung Pao (4 page)

Brownie must have recognized his name because just then a high-pitched,
someone's-murdering-me
piglet squeal erupted from her bag.

Weee. Weee. Weeeeeeeeeeee.

Several people turned in response. One woman having a tarot card reading by the yellow-turbaned psychic looked perturbed and asked, "Was that…a pig?"

Then a sneeze louder than a New York City firework festival rang out. Followed by a coughing attack.

"Mystic Ming allergic to pig," a familiar voice choked out. "Ming berry berry allergic to many things."

I turned to see Mystic Ming wobbling in the aisle across from me. Then his skinny legs buckled, and his face lightened to the shade of a marshmallow.

Right before he collapsed onto the expo floor.

Jock Cowboys & Granny Panties

"Help!" Vesta hovered over Mystic Ming like a bothersome gnat. She shook him, but he didn't respond. "Wake up, Ming. Wake up."

I dove for my doctor's bag and ran to assist the man who'd doomed me to a lonely life, and an even lonelier death. Vesta moved aside as I crouched beside Mystic Ming and checked for a pulse. Yes. He had one. I calculated his heart rate to be seventy-two beats per minute.
Hmm.
That seemed awfully good for someone experiencing syncope.

Medical speak for fainting.

I whipped out my stethoscope—hot pink and encased in rhinestones, a special Internet order from Hong Kong—and pressed the rose-colored dial to his chest. His heart sounded good, and his cheeks weren't chilled when I pressed my hands against them. What was going on?

"Move aside, Pipe." Aunt Alfa snapped the lid off an essential oil spray bottle and angled it over Mystic Ming's face. "Peppermint oil. This pink-haired dude will be alert in no time."

Mystic Ming's eyes flew open, and a look of panic marred his face. "No essential oils. They can hurt Mystic Ming." He swatted Aunt Alfa's bottle away.

She grabbed his wrist, clutching it like a green tea martini on the rocks with sea salt (her favorite cocktail). "Hush. I made this myself. A blast of essential oil never killed anyone."

"You got deadly grip for old lady." He sat up, terror welling in his eyes as he tried to release himself from Aunt Alfa's hold.

But she wouldn't relent.

"It's called Tae Kwon Do. If you practiced daily like I do, you'd be a formidable opponent." Her grasp on his arm didn't loosen. "But you're a wimp."

"Let go, you crazy old bat." His shriek pierced the dull buzz of the conference.

"Quit being a drama queen." Her annoyance was evident in her sharp tone. "That doesn't hurt."

"Get off me, prune face."

Her face tightened. "Didn't your mama teach you to respect your elders? A couple of squirts of peppermint oil will set you straight."

"No." His scream had to have broken the sound barrier because a gray-haired man nearby adjusted his hearing aid. "Ming no like essential oils. What is base oil?"

"Unrefined gourmet peanut oil. The best kind." Her voice swelled with the pride of fine craftswomanship. "Peanut oil has the best penetration quality, so it transports the essential oils quickly into the bloodstream."

"See?" Mystic Ming gasped out his accusation. "Mystic Ming berry allergic to peanut. Like deadly allergic. Peanut oil can kill Mystic Ming."

Aunt Alfa looked at Vesta. "Is that true?"

Vesta nodded. "I cook his extra spicy kung pao shrimp without peanuts, and it's hard to get the flavor right. I've been making it for a while, and I still haven't mastered it."

That was odd. Strict vegans didn't usually cook anything with animal ingredients, especially for obnoxious boyfriends.

"You better figure out recipe soon." Mystic Ming's overt lack of encouragement annoyed me.

He was so ungrateful. I was about to say something when a medical question occurred to me. Why had Mystic Ming popped up so fast when Aunt Alfa was ready to blast him with peppermint essential oil?

"As a doctor, I have to ask you if you're feeling okay." I raked a clinical gaze over him. "You seemed to have made a miracle recovery."

"That right, Dr. Meadows. I play sick to show New Beginnings you doctor." He pointed at my hot pink doctor's bag. "See, you even have bag. Not black like real physician though."

So unenlightened coming from a psychic.

"Everyone knows I'm a naturopathic doctor." I pointed at my nametag. "I'm not trying to hide anything."

He nodded toward the hallway. "Tell that to registration. I not say anything on elevator when I saw your nametag, but I check after. You not register as natural doctor."

I cast a questioning look at Aunt Alfa. "What'd you register me as?"

"Sorry, can't remember." She shot me a wide-eyed,
what-are-you-talking-about
look.

Uh-oh.
Aunt Alfa's memory was sharp as an acupuncture needle. Had she spun a tale on my New Beginnings application form?

She rose to her full height of five foot one, including her three-inch heels and the delicate crow's feet beside her eyes tightened. "You gave us quite a scare, young man. Who do you think you are?"

"Mystic Ming, famous psychic."

"I hope your psychic readings are more genuine than your fainting episodes."

Mystic Ming's face tightened, and garlic spittle sailed out of his mouth. Again.
Eeww.
I moved out of firing range and returned my stethoscope to my bag.

He leaned up on his elbows. "I have best spirit guides in the world, and they got nothing good to say about you, old lady."

"Come on, Ming. That's enough. She was only trying to help." Vesta stood up and brushed off her hands. "Let's get back to work."

"Shut up, you bleached-out blonde. Your hair look cracklier than bale of hay." He rose to his feet and tightened the chopstick holding his pink bun in place.

Vesta's eyes welled with tears, and she darted off. Poor woman. How could she let him be so callous toward her? Didn't she have the nerve to tell him to shut up? Then I remembered all the inconsiderate things Floyd had said to me. Who was I to judge?

Plus what was the possibility of two Sparkle-O-and-dark-chocolate loving blondes with rude boyfriends meeting up? Probably a gazillion to one.

I made a note to talk to her later.

"How dare you say such offensive things about that girl's hair when yours is the color of cotton candy." Aunt Alfa crossed her arms and glared at him.

"Mystic Ming surprised you can still see as old as you are."

My aunt rolled up her sleeves and assumed a martial arts stance, which was impressive given her footwear. How many geriatrics do you know who can walk in shiny high heels and karate chop you?

He backed away from her. "Mystic Ming's hair pink on purpose."

Aunt Alfa eyed his shirt and tightened her lips. "Kick-ass psychic? I doubt that. Your shirt should say lame-ass psychic."

"Me lame?" Mystic Ming stiffened, and his cheeks flushed. "Dr. Meadows lame. She lie on her application for expo. She say she aromatherapist, but she not. She a fake."

Aunt Alfa went on the defense. "You're the phony who faked a fainting episode, and your accent's fake too."

Gasps and murmurs arose from the crowd.

"Everybody love Mystic Ming," he said, fanning his hand as if he didn't care what she said. "And you better get that pig out of here. Pork bad for you."

How dare he say the
p
word in front of Brownie. Now my hair probably really was standing on end.

"Don't talk about his kind like that." And before I knew it, I was pushing up the sleeves of my pink sequined dress.

Maternal instincts at their best.

Mystic Ming smirked. "Figure you get upset about stupid stuff."

"Can it, you pink-haired freak. Brownie's incredible." Aunt Alfa's eyes misted, and she sniffed. "He's the world's best seeing-eye piglet."

Apparently Brownie and I both had new professions.

"Seeing-eye piglet?" I asked Aunt Alfa, but she avoided my gaze.

"Does he wear a harness?" someone asked. "Like a guide dog?"

She turned toward the crowd. "He sure does, and he sees auras too."

What? Since when?

She marched over and let my adorable piglet out of the bag. Brownie toddled out in a teal-blue bejeweled harness that read,
Brownie, Seeing-Eye Pig & Aura Reader.
A crystal ball had been embroidered on the back of his harness in silver thread. Brownie looked up at her with such love, and I swear he smiled.
Aw.

How could anyone not adore him?

"Get that thing out of here." Mystic Ming shot poor, innocent Brownie a super mean look.

"Thing?" A primal protective drive erupted in me, and I edged toward Mystic Ming. "Quit looking at my piglet like that."

"All right, people. Break it up." The brunette from registration—in a
slutty yoga girl get-up
, according to Aunt Alfa—barged onto the expo floor and blew her whistle. "Everyone get back to business."

Sounded good to me. I headed toward Brownie, glad the incident was over.

"Except for you, Dr. Meadows." Yoga Girl's tone jeered with the message
busted
.

I turned to face Yoga Girl and came face to face with someone else instead. The hottest guy I'd ever seen.

And I wasn't referring to his temperature.

He wore jeans, tennis shoes, and a fitted black running jacket. At six-foot-whatever, his chest flaunted muscles firmer than a wedge of Parmesan. His hair was the color of maple syrup. And his eyes were the exact color of my favorite organic dark chocolate.

Hello, Stranger.

He reached over his shoulders and tugged a black cowboy hat on top of his head. "Howdy, ma'am. I'm Tattoo Tex, a tattoo artist from Texas."

My fantasy was officially obliterated. Why did the hot guy have to be a tattoo artist? I wasn't a fan of needles or permanent makeup. And worse yet, why did he have to be a dumb cowpoke? Yes, that was rude, but I despised anything preceded—by the word
Western
.

Western movies. Western novels. Western clothes. Western Medicine for chronic health problems. And I didn't even like the West Coast either, except for Half Moon Bay, California. And that was only because I'd found a super cute sequined clutch on sale at a cool boutique, and I'd eaten the most decadent dark chocolate mousse at an artsy cafe.

"I'm fixin' to move into the booth right over there." Only with his accent,
there
sounded like
thar
.

I forced a smile. "You're right next to me."

He acknowledged me with a gentlemanly nod and peeked at my nametag. "I've never met a doctor who looked like you. I'm afraid most doctors are a bit on the homely side."

My cheeks heated, but I remained professional. Despite being a bit flattered. "A different image is always good for the profession."

He cast a glance
over yonder
at the goods displayed at my booth, and a smile creased his face. "
Health Nuts Rock
? Great title. You write that book?"

Wow. A man who gave me compliments. So refreshing, and so unlike Floyd.

"Yeah, I self-published it." Whenever I got nervous, my heart rate took off. And right now my stethoscope would have detected an all-out flutter-fest.

He tipped his hat in my direction. "Gotta love a woman who has the confidence to write a book."

And gotta love a man whose face the sun had bronzed and whose body God had blessed with superstar genes.

He gazed at my silver sandals and said three words that changed my life. "Hot shoes, doc."

For the first time ever, I wondered what was so wrong with Western stuff.

*   *   *

An hour later—after we'd deposited Brownie in our hotel room with two gluten-free Cosmic Cupcakes and a private viewing of
Babe—
I'd finally groveled over my alleged application transgression to Yoga Girl's satisfaction. And she agreed to let me stay at the show. Was I amazing or what?

Actually I made an amazing donation to New Beginnings. Not to mention the hundred-dollar bill I gave her.

The lure of Tattoo Tex was costing me a bundle.

"No more lying, Aunt Alfa," I said as we walked back toward our booth. "Brownie's not a seeing-eye piglet, and I'm not an aromatherapist."

"It wasn't a lie, Pipe, because your practice does have an aromatherapist, and that piglet does see auras."

I groaned but didn't want to debate the new abilities she'd attributed to Brownie. "Yeah, I know, but I'm not an aromatherapist. I'm a naturopathic doctor."

"No, what you are is hot for that jock cowboy."

Darn. She'd picked up on that. "Shh, I don't want anyone hearing."

Mortified, I guided her by the elbow toward our booth. We wove through the expo hall, checking out the psychic readers and their crystals, tarot cards, and potions for every emotional affliction. I was still disappointed it wasn't a wellness show because I'd hoped to jump-start my book marketing. But when I spotted Tattoo Tex, I quit caring about my sales.

The man was luscious.

He removed his running jacket—since when did workout gear and cowboy hats go together—and revealed a colorful tattoo that started at his shoulder and spiraled down past his elbow. The bulk of the artwork, which looked like a giant gemstone, settled on his bicep.

I wasn't normally a fan of tattoos, but I did have a thing for massive biceps.

"Great tat job," Aunt Alfa said to our new neighbor when we arrived at our booth. "That's the biggest rock I've ever seen."