Catnapped Read online

  “I’d like to check around some more. Call the shelters. You might want to leave food and water on the porch. He might show up if he’s hungry.”

  “I simply cannot believe I’ve spent two whole days in pursuit of a recalcitrant cat.” He shook his head, his hands on his hips. “It’s not a very dignified activity for a reasonably intelligent adult. Two adults, now that you’ve joined the search party.”

  I pulled open my car door, reaching inside for a business card and pen. Quickly, I scratched my home number on the back of the card and handed it to him.

  “Give me a call if he turns up. Otherwise, you’ll be hearing from me tomorrow.”

  “Despite the circumstances, I’m delighted to meet you, Sara Townley.” He offered his hand and we shook. He really was very charming. I suppose if I had to have a stupid case, it helped to know that the client wasn’t laughing at me; he was laughing with me.

  Yeah, right.

  Chapter Two

  I went home to self-medicate with kung pao chicken. So, my career was going nowhere and hell was five degrees cooler than my apartment. I had a fan and a fortune cookie. Things could be worse. There were probably hundreds, tens, or at least one other thirty-four-year-old cat detective without MSG. Somewhere.

  I reached the heavy glass security door and fumbled for my keys. My peripheral vision caught a flash inside the door just before it opened to reveal my best friend, Russ.

  “Today is your lucky day.” Russ’s melodious tenor was pitched to its seductive best, dripping drama. I refused to ask, knowing it would drive him crazy. At six-one, with a swimmer’s broad shoulders, narrow hips, and the grace of a dancer, Russ wasn’t often ignored. His chocolate eyes and leering grin told me he didn’t expect me to end his streak.

  “If it’s Ed McMahon, I prefer cash.” I flashed him a smile and kissed his cheek.

  “Aren’t you going to ask?” He took my take-out bag and opened it for a better look.

  “I know how you feel about gossip. I wouldn’t want to compromise you. Besides, aren’t your love-struck fans waiting for your radio show to start?” I stopped long enough to wrestle envelopes from my narrow mailbox.

  “I’ve got a couple of minutes before I have to be at work.” Russ followed me into the elevator, rocking back on his heels as I closed the gate and pushed the button for the fourth floor.

  “I can’t stand it. Why can’t you just ask like a normal person?”

  “And spoil your fun?”

  He moved to face me, glaring. “I’m only telling you to save you the embarrassment of walking into your place with that hair.” He rolled his eyes and I smoothed my hair reflexively. “You’ve got company. Tall. Blond. Gorgeous.” He raised one eyebrow suggestively. “Married.”

  The elevator’s grinding gears echoed loudly in the tiny space.

  “You’ve been holding out on me.” He grinned. “You never said anything about emerald eyes. And I definitely would have remembered you mentioning that butt.”

  “He’s here? How do you know?” I croaked. I swayed a little, my mind refusing to process the information. The elevator came to a shuddering stop, but I was frozen in place. Russ peered at me for a moment before reaching past me to open the gate. He pushed me into the hall.

  “I bumped into him in the elevator. We introduced ourselves like civilized people. He’s been here since noon. And you won’t need the moo shu. He’s cooking.”

  “Cooking? Cooking where?” Barely whispering, I stared toward my apartment.

  “Your place, of course.” Russ’s expression clouded. “Sit down. Put your head between your knees. Take deep breaths.” He nudged me toward a heavy armchair opposite the elevator doors.

  “You let him in?” I was appalled, gaping at him before dropping my head down and gasping for air.

  “Of course not. He was already in. I assumed he had a key. He is, after all, your husband. I had been thinking you’d made the whole story up, since I wasn’t invited to the wedding.” He pouted a little. “Then again, he seemed pretty real this afternoon.”

  I lifted my head. “What am I going to do? What am I supposed to say?”

  “Gee, I don’t know. How about, ‘Hi, honey, what’s for dinner?’ Maybe Miss Manners has a chapter on renewing acquaintance with disappearing husbands. I mean, there must be thousands of women who meet a guy in Vegas, spend a week doing God knows what, and then get married, only to have the guy disappear for four months with no explanation.”

  “I’m gonna be sick.” I put my head back between my knees.

  “For someone constitutionally incapable of being disconcerted, you’re doing a pretty good impression of a damsel with the vapors. Unfortunately, there’s no time to do anything about the clothes. My advice is to get naked as soon as possible. Maybe he won’t notice.”

  Russ grabbed my hand and dragged me to my apartment door. I dug my heels in.

  “There isn’t anything you aren’t telling me, right?” Russ asked, suddenly serious.

  “Like?”

  “I don’t know. He’s a wife beater. A loan shark. A Republican. Whatever kept you from telling your best friend all the details.”

  I swallowed hard. What was I going to say? I hadn’t told Russ. I couldn’t even explain why. It was the only thing he didn’t know. My childhood. Foster care. My maybe-dead-but-more-likely-lying-in-wait drunk of a father. Bankruptcy and what I’d done to make ends meet. He’d held my hand and kicked my butt and cried for me. Then there was Connor, and he was beautiful and scary and out of control, and I couldn’t share it with anyone. Russ knew everything about me except my husband, and my husband didn’t know me at all.

  “Nothing like that,” I whispered.

  Russ stared straight into my eyes. He tugged a curl and patted my shoulder. Then he nodded.

  “History favors the brave,” Russ soothed in my ear. He reached past me, turned the knob, and pushed hard. I stumbled forward. Leaning close, he whispered, “I’ll want details,” and left on a wave of egg roll perfume.

  I stood absolutely still. He was moving around. Closing things. Cooking . . . onions. It smelled like onions. In my kitchen. The one he’d never seen. Never even asked to see. A quickie wedding, four months of near silence, and then . . . well, invasion.

  I brought my left hand up, searching for the small scar on my ring finger. I probably should have told him I was allergic to metal before he’d given me the ring. Two hours and a visit to the emergency room later and my finger had been branded for life. The scar was the only tangible proof that I’d been married. Until onions.

  “Are you coming in?”

  I flinched. Running would be stupid. It was my apartment. Attack didn’t seem that great an idea either. His silhouette was bigger than I’d remembered. When in doubt, pretend nothing’s wrong.

  “Hi, honey, what’s for dinner?” A little too Doris Day but not bad, all things considered.

  “Burritos.” He shifted and I could suddenly see him clearly. Asthetically pleasing. Cowboy fit. Emerald eyes. Military haircut. Tight black T-shirt and faded blue jeans. Man, when I went nuts I did it for a good cause. He was beautiful. Sexy. Barefoot. Okay, so he made himself at home.

  “Dinner’s ready. You coming?” He turned and strolled into the kitchen. The jeans were good from this angle, too. It didn’t absolve his sneak-attack tactics, but it wasn’t half-bad.

  I followed him into my tiny kitchen. He moved to the stove while I stared at the narrow wicker bistro table. It held filled juice glasses and navy blue place mats I’d never seen before. A water glass full of colorful flowers sat next to the wall. Maybe the navy was just a cover he used. Maybe he was from one of those commando home-makeover programs. Either way, I’d just keep my cool and act natural.

  “Why are you here, Connor?” I blurted.

  He never looked up. “Because you’re here.”

  He turned with a plate in either hand heaped with the biggest burritos I’d ever seen. After staring me down for a full ten seconds, he
placed the plates on the table and came over to pull my chair out for me. Automatically I sat down.

  “Eat before it gets cold.”

  I pulled the napkin from its place under the silverware and placed it on my lap. The food smelled delicious. No word for four months; then we’re sitting down to dinner like an old married couple. It was totally weird. Why was he here? What did he want? Divorce. He must want a divorce. Dinner was just a way to keep things amicable. The smell of burritos was a sedative to the senses. It was the only thing that made sense. I set my fork down, my appetite vanishing.

  “It’s fine with me,” I told him. “It’s the right thing. The only thing, really. It won’t be a problem.”

  “You’re not eating. Don’t you like it?”

  “No. I mean, yes. Sure. Whatever,” I took a bite. Damn, he could cook, too. That was a shame. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Take care of what?”

  “The divorce.”

  “What divorce?” Connor continued to eat so calmly I wanted to scream. He could at least pretend to be a little sorry we were breaking up.

  “Our divorce.” Belligerence bled into my voice.

  “We’re not getting a divorce.”

  “We’re not?” The squeak in my voice infuriated me.

  “No, we’re not.”

  “I think we should.”

  “No.”

  “It’s not just up to you, Connor. And I think we should get a divorce.”

  “No. Do you want more salsa?”

  I glared at him but he just kept eating, his eyes steady on mine, his face expressionless. He never looked at his plate and he didn’t drop a bite. It wasn’t human. I tried a new tack.

  “Impulsive Vegas marriages don’t last. We need to face facts.”

  “Don’t generalize. Our marriage wasn’t impulsive; it was instinctive. There’s a difference.”

  “Do tell.”

  “An impulse is a spontaneous urge. Instinct is the accumulation of learning, adaptation, and evolution. It’s much more reliable.”

  “No one evolves that much in a week.” I pushed my plate away.

  “Obviously I did.”

  “Connor—”

  “No divorce. Which I believe I mentioned at the time.”

  “You can’t hold me accountable for things you said to me when you weren’t wearing clothes.”

  He laughed and I felt my face heat.

  “I’ll remember that. You see, we’ve already resolved one issue.”

  “So, let me get this straight. We get married. I’m still not too sure how that happened, but let’s forget about that for a second. Four months pass with random, impersonal contact, and I’m on the verge of putting your face on a milk carton when you turn up and we’re suddenly a regular married couple.”

  Connor finally put down his fork, his smile fading.

  “ ‘Regular’ might not be accurate. As for the rest, ‘restricted exercise’ means limited outside contact. When I could, I wrote or called. You could really use a cell phone, by the way. The second I was wheels-down I came here. It’s not a great answer, but it’s what we have. All we need is to spend some time together. And I didn’t hit you over the head with the details the second you got home because you were already thinking about running.” He rested his arms on the table, one hand covering the other above his empty plate.

  “I don’t run.”

  “The Roadrunner has nothing on you. Hell, you spent five minutes trying to convince yourself to leave the entryway.”

  “I was surprised; that’s all.”

  “Shocked is more like it. I told you I’d come.”

  I jumped up from the table, stepping to the sink and pushing my uneaten burrito into the disposal before rinsing the plate.

  “My job will take a little while to get used to, honey. That’s all.” He raised his voice above the gushing spray.

  That’s all. Understatement of the year. I turned the faucet to hot, nearly scalding my hands. Jumping back, I gripped the edge of the sink. Connor reached past me and turned the water off before taking me by the shoulders and turning me toward him. I stared at his hand holding my shoulder. Geez, the guy even had beautiful hands. I swallowed hard, my eyes focusing on the weave of his T-shirt as it strained across his chest. I could see the cotton flex with each breath he took. Slow, deep breaths.

  “Sara?”

  I didn’t dare meet his eyes.

  “Sara?” His hands moved to tangle with mine, interlacing our fingers.

  Our hands looked . . . married. Oh, my God. For the first time it felt real. Really real. Like I hadn’t imagined it. I couldn’t breathe. A husband. My husband.

  I looked up. The rush went all the way to my toes. Wow.

  “Yeah, um, what?” That Marilyn Monroe breathiness couldn’t possibly be me.

  “We’re agreed then.”

  I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t think anything. And I really wished he would just shut up and kiss me. He was leaning down so close. Maybe if I just stood on my tiptoes . . .

  Suddenly we were kissing. Not hello-how’re-you-doing-cousin kind of kissing either. Honest-to-God-I-remember-seeing-you-naked kissing. He broke contact, holding my upper arms and creating an inch of space between our bodies.

  “Connor?”

  “I’m not starting my honeymoon in the damn kitchen.”

  It took a moment for my mind to translate his words into comprehensible English. Honeymoon. Kitchen. We were still in the kitchen. Linoleum had never seemed romantic to me before then. I gulped back a giggle. He might have created physical space between our bodies, but his eyes were moving over me with the touch of a fevered caress. His lips were parted and his breath came in harsh little gasps. Power made me giddy.

  “That’s okay, since, as part of my move-in special, my landlord threw in a bedroom.”

  I took his hand, leading him out of the kitchen and through the living room into the bedroom. I stopped inches from the bed and turned. Connor, backlit from the living room, stripped off his T-shirt and dropped it to the floor. I reached forward and slid my hands from his shoulders to his flat belly, feeling the breath he raked in and held, noting the fine tension in the muscles that flexed beneath his warm skin. I leaned forward and planted an openmouthed kiss just above where his dog tags lay suspended from a chain. His hand cradled my chin and tipped my head up, and then we were kissing. Mouths open and exploring. Hands touching and stroking. His lips were against my cheek, my ear, my neck. His fingers fumbled between us, tugging at my blouse. Connor lifted his head and took a half step backward, peering down at the delicate silk.

  His hands grasped the gaping edges of the blouse and jerked it open, a sharp ripping sound filling the air as the buttons popped off. Direct was good. I could handle direct. Connor proved much more adroit at the removal of my bra. Bare from the waist up, I threw my arms around him and held him close, shuddering at the friction of his chest against mine.

  “You’ve got about five seconds to get naked, Sara.” I lifted one foot, dispatching a shoe while holding on to Connor for balance. By the time I had rid myself of the second shoe, Connor had my trousers unfastened and was sliding them down my legs, taking my panties and my socks with them. I reached for the buttons on his jeans and yanked, but only the top button came free. I pulled a second and then a third time.

  “You know, all things considered, Connor, button-fly jeans might not be the right answer for someone in your, um, situation. For future reference, I mean.”

  He reached down and tore the jeans free, shucking them down his legs and off in one motion. We fell together onto the bed, scooting toward the center.

  “The jeans seemed like a good safety valve.”

  “That Levi Strauss had no sense of brotherhood.”

  “External impulse control. It seemed like a good idea, since my body has known since this morning that I was coming.”

  I couldn’t help myself. I laughed.

  “I meant here. Coming here, S
ara.”

  I laughed harder at his aggrieved tone. Then he kissed me and I didn’t laugh any more.

  We spooned for a long time afterward. A Navy SEAL cuddler. Go figure. Unused to sharing my bed with anyone, I was uncomfortable with his arm beneath me, and I really wanted to switch pillows with him. I always slept on the same pillow. Always. I’d just have to wait until he fell asleep, then take my pillow back.

  “I hadn’t planned it quite like this,” Connor murmured into my ear.

  “You were thinking dominoes?” I lifted onto an elbow, twisting so I could share my disbelief with a look.

  Gold-tipped lashes fluttered over twinkling green eyes. A small, self-deprecating smile touched his lips.

  “Well, I’d meant to talk about things before we ended up in bed.”

  Suddenly wary, I lay back down, turning my back and pulling myself toward the edge of the bed. Leave it to me to hook up with the only macho guy on the planet who wanted to talk about things. He snuggled closer.

  “We did talk. We’re not getting a divorce. Then we went to bed. It’s not exactly world peace we’re negotiating.”

  He sighed against the back of my neck. I could feel him sitting up before he reached across me to turn on the bedside light. I reached for the discarded sheet, keeping my back to him and my eyes closed.

  “Sit up and talk to me, Sara.”

  “Let’s talk in the morning.” Whatever happened to rolling over and going to sleep? Didn’t he read the guy guide?

  “Let’s talk now. We should have talked it out before we made love.”

  His hands touched my shoulders, tugging gently, pulling me toward the center of the bed and into a semi-reclining position. Grudgingly, I abandoned my possum pose, opening my eyes, leaning forward, and propping myself up with the ill-favored pillow, careful to keep the sheet tucked under my arms. Connor exhibited no such modesty. Distracted, I pulled at the sheet, flipping the extra material over his lap. He grabbed my wrist.

  “What?” I asked.

  “What does marriage mean to you, Sara?”

  Curveball. Was he looking for Webster or Dr. Phil? I sat up straighter.