Читать книгу Kissed by Cat - Shirley Jump - Страница 10

Being chased down Broward Street by an ugly, hungry Great Dane at one in the morning did not rank on the top ten of Catherine Wyndham’s favorite ways to spend an evening. She’d much rather have been curled up in front of a fireplace with a fuzzy blanket, a saucer of warm milk and a freshly opened can of tuna.

The lumbering beast of a dog opened his jaws and lunged forward. Catherine scampered up someone’s back porch, across the railing and into the next yard, leaving the dog barking at nothing but cold November air.

For the ten thousandth time in two hundred years, Catherine regretted ever tangling with that witch. She’d always had a bad habit of helping stray and mistreated animals. She’d picked the wrong black cat one day and had thus been cursed by Hezabeth the Witch to live a half life—which was really no life at all.

Today, though, had been a good day, relatively speaking. Catherine turned the corner, quite pleased with her getaway.

She jerked to a stop. There it was. Their scent. She lowered her head to the ground, concentrating as she tracked. Her instincts perked up, telegraphing a warning signal, but she ignored it.

Five more seconds. I’ve almost—

And then she was being scooped up by a pair of strong, masculine hands. She shrieked and tried to twist away but the man held tight, depositing her into a small metal cage, with no more effort than he’d use to flick a whip.

She let out a second scream of protest. “I know, I know,” he said in a soft, crooning voice. “Right now, you probably hate me, but believe me, it’s for your own good.”

She glared back, swatted at the bars. Futile gestures. He had the upper hand—not to mention bigger hands that could transport her anywhere he wanted her to go.

She hated that. Hated being eight inches tall and about as powerful as a gnat wrestling a gorilla.

He did have a kind face, at least. Better to be kidnapped by a prince than an ogre. She’d been with both in the last two centuries. Handsome didn’t always equal nice or bright, but it did provide a better view.

Ugly or cute, none of the men she’d met had been the knight in shining armor that could end the curse put in place by Hezabeth—her revenge against Catherine for setting the witch’s cat free.

“You love animals so much, how about a taste of life like one?” the witch had cackled. Before Catherine could get away, Hezabeth had thrown some powder at her and muttered something in an ancient language. From that day forward, Lady Catherine Wyndham, heir to the Wyndham estates and fortune, daughter of the Earl and Countess of Wyndham, had ceased to exist. And, thanks to Hezabeth’s addition of a catch-22 twist, Catherine had no hope of ever breaking the curse with some storybook ending.

It didn’t matter. Finding Prince Charming wasn’t at the top of her To Do list. Hadn’t been in fifty-odd years. If he even existed, the chances of meeting him when she wasn’t sporting whiskers were pretty slim.

In the half light of the car, she could see a day’s worth of stubble on the man’s chin, softening the hard edges of his jaw. Faint lines zigzagged down the left side of his face, disappearing beneath his collar.

Scars. From what? From who?

Her gaze skipped over the marks and connected with his eyes. Large, brown and almost…soft.

They looked at her with a kindness and compassion she’d rarely seen in two hundred and twenty-five years of life. She’d traveled the world, by land and by boat, before ending up in the United States and now, the Midwest. All those cities, all those people, and not one had seen her as much more than a waste of DNA. But now, in this small city in Indiana, a man with an almost empathetic gaze.

As if he understood.

Impossible. No one knew what she’d gone through. What a nightmare her life had been since Hezabeth had damned Catherine to an existence filled with pain and loneliness, one no sane person would find believable.

She shook herself. She must be due for a distemper shot. She was getting maudlin again.

“You’re going to be much happier where you’re going.” That quiet, soothing voice again. “It’s warmer there, too.”

Fat chance. Being locked in a cage didn’t fit Catherine’s definition of happy. She wrinkled her nose and cast him her iciest look.

He chuckled. “You’ll thank me after you get a good meal in you.” He shut the door to the car, came around to the driver’s side, got in, then put the car in gear and started driving. He did a good job ignoring her plaintive wails from the seat beside him.

Nice eyes or not, she didn’t want to go wherever he was taking her. She had things to do and this man, with his do-gooder, save-the-world-and-the-whales charity crusade, was getting in the way.

Catherine paced the cage, inspecting every inch. Thin metal bars, secure lock. A flat metal base, cool against her feet.

She silently cursed in English, then added a few choice words in French. The orphans had been close by, maybe five minutes from her. She’d been so focused on finding them she’d ignored the warning signals and thus, had ended up in the hands of Dr. Dolittle.

She’d rescued so many animals over the course of her lifetime—kittens, puppies, even a lost turtle once. It had become her mission, she supposed, which was ironic given that all the trouble in her life had started with saving one black cat.

Still, she wanted to find those kittens. If she could reunite them with their mother, she hoped it would give her a little more closure. Make it easier to accept the inevitable end of Catherine’s life.

And then, just maybe, she’d find a taste of what she was seeking when she came to Indiana in the first place. The ordinary life. No castles. No kings. Just a house with a white picket fence and cookies in the oven.

The problem was getting away before her “rescuer” took her home and made her over into his pretty pet by stringing pink ribbons and a silver bell around her neck.

“Here we are,” he said cheerily a minute later, as if he’d just pulled up outside Buckingham Palace. “Your temporary home.” She hissed, but he just chuckled again. “Ah, give it a chance, little one.” He came around and opened the door. He lifted out the cage, hefted it awkwardly into one arm and carried it toward the building.

Tall and well-built, he had the muscles of a man who had worked hard in his life, not one who bench-pressed his way to perfection. The scent of him—a dark, very human scent—teased at her nose. Wood shavings, pine, a bit of sweat. And warmth. Like a blanket she could cuddle into.

She would not feel any kind of fondness for this Humanitarian Harry who’d interrupted her quest. Once he put her down, she’d find a way to escape and be on her way faster than he could say, “God Save the Queen.”

He opened the door, letting it shut behind them. There was a moment of total darkness as they traveled down a hall and into another room. He flicked a switch, sending the room into light. Catherine blinked until her eyes adjusted. The man laid the cage on a metal table in the center of a small, austere, white room. She peered through the bars, then shrank back. The sheen of stainless steel glinted back at her. Instruments. Medicines. Needles.

Panicking would do nothing but put her at a disadvantage. She held herself steady, focused on escape.

“Let’s get you more comfortable, shall we?” He bent and peered into her cage.

Those eyes. Brown like a river of coffee, so kind they seemed to take her into his heart and hold her there, the way she’d always hoped home would be, but never had been, even two hundred years ago.

Catherine leaned forward, nose to the metal bars.

“Ah, there you go.” He reached in a finger and stroked the bridge of her nose.

She lashed out, catching him good with one nail before he yelped and pulled back. That would teach him for kidnapping her.

Do it again, Buster, and I’ll show you nine more like that one.

He chuckled and wagged his injured finger at her as if she’d been an errant child. She hissed and spat and yowled her frustration, but he merely smiled.

“You’re really going to make me work to get your affection, aren’t you?” He reached for the latch.

Catherine stilled. Finally. A chance to escape. She lowered her body, feigning acquiescence. He unlatched the door and reached inside, two broad warm hands at once encircling her and drawing her out of the cage. His grip was firm, secure.

Inescapable.

Catherine fought against him anyway, but he cradled her close, within the soft comfort of his sweater. A well-worn wool, washed so many times it felt rather like down. He ran a hand along her head, crooning again, saying nothing at all really, but sending a sense of calm rippling through her veins.

Against every instinct she’d honed in the last two centuries, Catherine relaxed, snuggling into that warmth, allowing herself to relax.

Such a long, lonely road I’ve traveled. How nice it would be to let someone else take care of me. For just one tiny, blissful minute.

And then, she’d go back to her life. To finding the kittens. To worrying about the curse, the deadline looming over her.

A low, quiet, strange rumbling started in her throat. Catherine jerked upright. The sound stopped. The man kept stroking her head and again, she relaxed. A second later, the curious sound started again, vibrating through her as gently as the wash of a tide.

Why was that sound coming from her throat? What did it mean? And why did it feel so good?

“There you are, little one,” he whispered, touching every nerve with what seemed such intimate knowledge of the best-feeling places, “I knew I could make you purr.”

She closed her eyes and forgot momentarily about escape. Absorbing simply this man, his touch, his kindness.

A few more seconds, that’s all. Then she’d—

There was a squeak. Catherine opened her eyes only to see a second, bigger cage. He’d betrayed her. She shrieked but couldn’t stop him from placing her inside and shutting the door.

“I’ll be back, don’t worry,” he said. “Sleep tight.”

Catherine hissed and swatted at his retreating form. A second later, the room was plunged into darkness.

She settled onto the newspaper-covered floor and let out a heavy sigh, ignoring the bowls of food and water beside her. Oh Lord, she was tired, more tired than she could remember feeling before. Maybe because the end was near. Six more days and her fate would be sealed. For better or worse, this half existence would be over.

She only had those few days to get a taste of what life might have been like—had she been able to go down a different lane. A life that could have included a husband, children. A home of her own. She’d missed out on all of that, thanks to Hezabeth’s rather warped sense of revenge. If only—

Enough self-pity. Catherine got to her feet and paced the length of the metal container, clean newspaper crunching beneath her paws. She was in a bit of a sticky wicket, to say the least.

First on the agenda was escape. She’d deal with figuring out how to get back to the kittens and the alley where she’d stashed her small reserve of cash for safekeeping later. She’d had two hundred years to ponder her fate and hadn’t reached any answers yet. Better to stay busy with the things she could change.

There had to be a way out. Finding a twenty-five-year-old blonde busting out of the locked two-by-three cage where he’d last seen a pale orange tabby would undoubtedly shock Humanitarian Harry into cardiac arrest. As appealing as that idea was, Catherine pushed it aside and went back to trying to figure out how she could pick a lock with four paws and a spattering of whiskers for tools.

The clock on the wall ticked along at a steady pace. Catherine had four hours to find a way out. Four hours until she changed from a cat…and became a woman again.

She had until sunrise to pull off a miracle.

Garrett couldn’t sleep. Charlie, his chocolate Labrador, snored loudly at the end of the bed. In a corner basket, Ferdinand and Isabel, a pair of muddled-blood cats, lay stretched out and quiet. Garrett, the only human in the room, lay on the bed, eyes open, arms crossed behind his head.

He’d come back to the house he shared with his Aunt Mabel at one in the morning. As always, he’d stopped to check on his elderly aunt, turning off the blaring TV and covering her with a blanket before heading to his own room. Up until a couple weeks ago, when Aunt Mabel had come down with a bout of pneumonia and temporarily needed more care, he’d lived in a cottage that sat on the back of her land.

When her home had been part of an estate, the little house had been the gardener’s home. Ten years ago, Uncle Leo had converted it into a rental property. But when Leo died, leaving a grieving and frail Mabel alone, Garrett had moved into the cottage. Just at the right time, too, given all that had gone wrong in his life then.

Garrett rolled over and punched his pillow into a new shape, but it didn’t make him any sleepier. His thoughts went back to the stray he’d found that night. She was such a tiny thing, all spit and fire. Despite her temper, she was a beautiful cat—short-haired and petite, with a pale orange coat, almost blond in color. He chuckled. Whoever took her home would need a lot of patience and cat treats to win over that grumpy girl.

Exhaustion weighed on him, but not enough to grant him sleep. His mind refused to quit, to give in and stop the reminders.

Garrett hadn’t slept for more than two hours at a stretch in three years. Every time he closed his eyes, the nightmares returned, tearing at him, making him relive that horrible night again and again.

To hell with it. He got to his feet. The Monday morning sun would be up in an hour or so and then sleep would be pointless. As he’d done a thousand times before, he decided to go to the office before the rest of the world woke up. There was always work.

Ever since his last assistant had quit, he’d been running himself ragged, trying to keep up with the appointments, the shelter and the day-to-day of running his practice. Dottie, his receptionist, was a big help, but what he really needed was a second pair of hands to work with the animals. Problem was, he’d been through three assistants in the past six months.

Either he couldn’t hire good help or he didn’t have the personality to keep good help. He had a feeling it was the latter.

Standing around thinking about the problem wouldn’t get it solved. He needed to work on plans for expanding the shelter and hopefully come up with a strategy to convince the Lawford Community Foundation to finance his dream. Their support thus far had been barely tepid, which, admittedly, was partly his fault. He wasn’t exactly a great communicator. If he was going to make his dream happen, he needed a miracle before Saturday night.

Without looking in the mirror, Garrett showered, shaved and dressed. He avoided his reflection, slipping into jeans and a light blue button-down shirt, stepping into loafers and combing his hair into the same pattern as he had for almost twenty-eight years. Minutes later, he’d fed his cats and dropped them off at the cottage for the day, then set off for the office. Charlie panted in the seat beside him, eager for work.

First thing, he’d see how that cat was doing. After tangling with her last night, he’d put off an exam until today. No sense igniting her temper more than he already had. Once she was deemed healthy, he could find her a home.

He’d miss her, despite her cranky personality. He missed every animal that left his building. You can’t keep them all, his mother always told him, or you’ll be running a zoo instead of a veterinarian’s office.

He already had three pets, more than enough for the cottage and for his aunt’s home. And here, in the office, there was always a dozen or so waiting for his attention. Between the shelter and his veterinarian practice, hundreds of animals came into his care each year.

He loved them all. Well, except for Miss Tanner’s giant Doberman. What he wouldn’t give for a little help with Sweet Pea, whose name had nothing to do with her description or her personality. Even Dottie feared the dog, a nearly maniacal barker who ate almost everything in sight. Garrett had to admit he dreaded Miss Tanner and Sweet Pea’s annual appointment. Not to mention her continual “emergency” visits with the dog.

Where her Doberman was concerned, Miss Tanner was a canine hypochondriac.

But the rest of the animals had a piece of his heart. Maybe because they never looked at him with a touch of revulsion in their eyes, never stood there with a question they dared not ask on their lips. They responded only to his touch and his voice, as if they were blind to everything else the world judged about Garrett McAllister.

He pulled up in front of the small white building decorated with a simple sign: Garrett McAllister, DVM. The sky was beginning to turn from gray to light pink as the sun edged up the horizon.

Charlie settled onto a padded dog bed by the front door. Garrett made his way through the darkened office, knowing the path without the help of a light. He’d worked here most of his life, first with Doc West, then by himself when he bought the practice from Doc three years ago. There’d been a year when he’d lived—and worked—somewhere else, but his life had always been here. These rooms were more like home than his own. More familiar, more comforting. The place where he most belonged.

He unlocked the door to the exam room. Last night, the shelter had been full, so he’d kept the tabby here. What he’d do with her once patients started coming in and out at nine, he didn’t know, but he’d figure something out. A freezing rain was predicted for tonight and he had no intentions of letting the cat wander Lawford’s streets.

He flicked on the light. She was sitting on her haunches, every sense on alert. As if she’d been expecting him.

“Good morning,” he said. “Did you sleep?”

She glared at him in response.

He laughed. “Neither did I.” Her food bowl was untouched. “Didn’t like the selections on the menu? Let’s try some canned food then.” He pivoted, reached for a can on the shelf and opened it into a bowl. The first signs of morning orange sky peeked through the blinds. The tabby let out a howl that sounded almost panicked. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” he said, turning back toward her.

She was frantic now, pawing and gnawing at the bars, shrieking in frustration.

“It’s okay, little one. It’s okay.”

She began to toss herself against the door of the cage. Was she in pain? Sick? Garrett rushed to unlatch the lock and thrust his free hand inside to catch her.

With a howl, she leapt past him, missing his grip by millimeters, dashing across the room and out the door he’d left ajar. She was gone in the space of a heartbeat.

“You won’t get far. Not unless you can open doors, too.” Garrett picked up the bowl of food and left the room, following the cat’s path. The office was small and most of the doors were shut. He’d find her soon enough.

One more second and it all would have been over. Her secret discovered—in one heck of a big way.

Nothing like making a grand entrance.

She darted out of the room, down the hall and through the first open door she saw. Just in time. She could feel it beginning to happen. The tingling, the stretching and expanding of her body from cat to woman.

She braced herself, hugged against the wall, knowing the pain was coming, yet jerking away in shock when it did. It was always like this when the change started. She’d never gotten used to it, even after two hundred years.

“Here kitty, kitty,” came the man’s voice. She heard him tap against the plastic food bowl. “Shrimp dinner. Come and get it.”

By day a woman, by night a cat. The curse can only be broken if you find a man who loves you as both a woman and a cat. Every day, Hezabeth the Witch’s screeching voice echoed in Catherine’s mind.

Her arms and legs began to lengthen, the cat’s furry hide transforming into pale skin. Catherine closed her eyes and envisioned a quiet meadow, songbirds, blooming flowers, anything but the hideous half-animal, half-human creature she was for the next few seconds.

There was another momentary protest of pain from her body and then, finally, it was over.

Before she opened her eyes, Catherine ran a hand over her face and skin. As the end of the curse drew nearer, she worried one day it would all go horribly wrong, leaving her stuck between the two worlds and looking like some fifty-cent sideshow in the carnival.

Not today, thank God. Everything felt as it should. Human. Womanly. And then, she realized—

Naked.

“Here kitty, kitty.” His voice again, closer. A few feet away.

Catherine scrambled to her feet, her eyes still unseeing—the last part of her body to adjust to the switch. In a second, she’d have her vision, but right now she was essentially blind.

How could she be so unprepared? The first time she’d transformed, she’d been caught naked in a marketplace in London during the bustle before the holidays, with vendors scrambling to set out their wares in the early morning.

When an unclothed woman had suddenly sprung up in the middle of the square, the fishmonger had dropped his mackerel, the butcher nearly chopped off his index finger, and the ladies readying the dress shop for the day had swooned, silly bats fainting as if they’d never seen a woman without clothes before.

Ever since, Catherine had made sure she was ready for the change, whether it meant stealing clothes from a washerwoman’s line or diving into a charity donation bin.

But this time, she hadn’t had a second to grab anything. She stood naked and cold against the wall, her vision now a blur of colors. How would she get past him? How could she explain being here at six in the morning?

Not to mention the nudity thing.

“Kitty?” The door across the hall clicked open, then shut. “Kitty?” Closer, on the other side of the pine door. This pine door. And then, the knob turned.

A miracle would take more time than Catherine had.