
Praise for USA Today Bestselling Author Barbara Bretton
"A monumental talent." --Affaire de Coeur
"Very few romance writers create characters as well-developed as Bretton's. Her books pull you in and don't let you leave until the last word is read." --Booklist (starred review)
"One of today's best women's fiction authors." --The Romance Reader
"Barbara Bretton is a master at touching readers' hearts." --Romance Reviews Today
A novella
by Barbara Bretton
Copyright 2012 Barbara Bretton
Cover design by Barbara Bretton
Chapter One
Catherine O'Leary Zaslow knew twenty-seven ways to kill a man and on that morning before Thanksgiving she contemplated a twenty-eighth. If looks could kill, her agent would be six feet under.
"I must be crazy," she announced as Max took her coat then handed it to his assistant. "I don't know how I let you convince me to come all the way down to Manhattan for this meeting. This is the day before Thanksgiving, Max. Normal people are home baking pies, not taking meetings."
"This was the only day Riley McKendrick could make it," Max said. "We had to grab him when we could."
Cat took a seat at the long conference table. "So who is this Riley McKendrick, the uncrowned king of England?"
"Better than that," said Max, taking a seat opposite her. "McKendrick's the best time management expert in the country. I know how you feel about organization, Catherine, but the time has come--"
"If you think I'm letting one of those schedule-loving lunatics into my house so he can alphabetize my spices and color-code the toilet tissue, you're crazy."
"Think how successful you'd be if you could actually find your computer in that rat-trap office of yours. I've been to your house, Catherine. I'm surprised you can find your children."
"You mind your business, Max, and I'll mind mine." What difference did it make if she had the organizational abilities of the average fruit fly? Everyone was clean, fed, and happy. If more was required in raising children, she couldn't imagine what it was. Besides, her kids weren't any of Max's business, her books were. And these days her mystery novels were number one on bestseller lists across the country.
"Frank Fairbairn's production has doubled since he hired a time management specialist to whip him into shape." Frank Fairbairn was her closest competition in the murder mystery field. Max looked downright wistful at the thought of double production.
"Frank Fairbairn is a man," Cat pointed out, choosing to ignore Max's statement about a time-management specialist. "His wife keeps his world running smoothly."
"Listen, if a wife'll get you back on track, I'll find you a wife."
"Jenny and I do just fine on our own." Jenny was her housekeeper, confidante, and partner in chaos.
"I know Jenny," Max reminded her. "That's not a very convincing argument. The woman can't make scrambled eggs without consulting the Joy of Cooking."
"I know why you're doing this," she said, tapping her index finger against the table top. "Last year it was a personal trainer, this year it's a time management consultant. You're too trendy for your own good, Max."
"Trends come and trends go," Max intoned, "but an organized life is forever."
She glanced at her watch. "What time was he supposed to be here?"
Max shifted uncomfortably. "Ten o'clock."
"It's ten-fifteen," she observed. "Sounds like the world's best time management consultant needs to have his credentials updated."
"This is Manhattan, Cat. He probably got stuck in traffic."
Cat rose then walked around to the other side of the table and placed a quick kiss atop Max's elegant, perfectly barbered head. "Dinner's at four o'clock tomorrow, Max. We'll pick you up at the train station at three-fifteen."
"Catherine, Catherine, Catherine! See reason, please. An hour with Riley McKendrick will change your life forever."
"Sure, Max," she said. "That and a magic lantern with a genie inside. No nearsighted weenie with an obsession for clocks and calendars is going to get close enough to--" She stopped, a frown creasing her forehead. Max's smile was incandescent. His eyes sparkled. He'd seen reason!
Her heart soared with delight until she realized Max was looking right past her toward the door.
"McKendrick!" Max said in a booming, hail-fellow-well-met voice he reserved for contract negotiations and Elite models. "We were about to send out a search party."
"Sorry," drawled a deep male voice behind her. "Flat tire on East 54th Street."
The number-crunching clockwatcher. She barely suppressed a groan. If she hadn't stopped to kiss Max on the head, she'd be safely in the elevator and on her way home.
No big deal. She'd turn, she'd smile politely at the poor dweeb in the doorway, and then excuse herself with dispatch.
She turned around.
She looked at him.
And her entire life seemed to pass before her eyes.
That was no dweeb. That was the Marlboro Man - in all of his untamed, uncivilized Wild West glory.
Her jaw dropped open and for a moment she wondered if she'd need professional help to get it closed.
The guy wore artfully faded jeans, a cream-colored sweater, and a leather jacket that looked as if it had a few stories to tell. Her gaze slid across his torso, down his long legs, to the boots. And not the kind of boots you'd find on some ersatz urban cowboy. These were the real thing, tough, worn, sexy as hell.
Same as the man who wore them. He was at least six-four and most of that was muscle. Hard, well-developed muscles, some of them in places she'd believed only Greek statues had muscles. Dark hair, green eyes, your basic Adonis. For a moment she considered swooning but thought better of it. This was the 90s, after all, and modern women were supposed to take things like amazing male pulchritude in stride.
He was the kind of guy you saw on the cover of a paperback historical romance, one of those perfect specimens that came complete with a bosomy blond companion clutching at his manly chest.
That couldn't be the clockwatcher. Maybe he really was a cover model and that was why he was looming in Max's doorway. If she could breathe at all, she'd breathe a sigh of relief. Max handled a few big name romance authors and he probably had a say in who posed for the covers. Riley McKendrick must be standing behind the Marlboro Man, hidden behind the cowboy's broad shoulders. You could hide a redwood tree behind those shoulders.
"Cat." Max's voice broke into her reverie. "I want you to meet Riley McKendrick."
She waited for a small, plain man to peer around the cowboy's shoulder but none did. It can't be, she thought, heartbeat accelerating. It's just not possible!
The cowboy smiled down at her. This was the man who watched clocks for a living? Men who looked like this guy did usually spent more time looking in the mirror. His teeth were white, shiny, and symmetrical. Instead of money, the tooth fairy had probably left porcelain veneers under his pillow.
"C. O. Lowe," McKendrick said, as her hand was swallowed up in his. "I know your books."
She nodded, aware that he'd said he knew her books, not that he either read and/or liked them.
"My name's Cat," she managed, wishing she had more experience dealing with cowboy Adonises, "and I'm not interested in getting organized." Blunt but true.
"That's what they all say."
"I'm sure they do," she murmured as reason made a delayed return, "but let me say it again: I don't know what Max promised you, but there's no deal. Not with me."
Max popped up between them, a referee in Armani. "Coffee," he said in an unnaturally cheerful voice. "That's what we need. Coffee." He looked toward McKendrick. "How do you take it?"
Talk about a loaded question. A voluptuous shiver rose up from the soles of her feet and she wondered if anyone would notice if she poured a pitcher of iced water over her head.
"Black," said the cowboy. "No sugar."
"Cat?" Max asked.
"With cream," Cat mumbled. "Two sugars. Decaf."
"Decaf?" asked McKendrick.
"What's wrong with decaf?" she asked.
"Most people drink coffee for the caffeine."
"I drink it for the taste."
"No taste in decaf."
"That's why the cream and sugar."
"That's illogical."
"So sue me."
Max mumbled something then vanished in search of refreshments. Cat considered the wisdom of following hard on his heels but the cowboy barred the way.
"So what exactly do you have against organization?" McKendrick asked, bracing an arm against the doorjamb.
In for a penny, in for a pound. "Organization is anathema to the creative spirit." Anathema, she thought with a grin. Let him chew on that for a while.
He didn't bat an eye. Was it possible, brawn and brains? Dangerous combination. "I've seen your office," he said. "Your creative spirit better come with a road map."
"What do you mean, you've seen my office?"
"Max sent me pictures."
"Max will need a road map of the intensive care ward if he doesn't stop doing things like that."
"Don't blame Max." The guy had a smile that could light up a movie screen. "I asked him for one."
"Someone should have asked me."
"Someone should've sent in a wrecking crew."
Max hustled back in, balancing three mugs of coffee and a plate of bagels. "Now this is what I call synergy. Two people at the top of their respective fields, coming together for mutual benefit."
"Sorry, pal." McKendrick shook his head. "No deal."
Cat glared at him. "What do you mean, there's no deal? That's not for you to say." She turned to Max. "There's no deal."
"Don't be hasty," Max said, looking from Cat to McKendrick. "We can--"
"Forget it, Max," McKendrick broke in. "She doesn't want my help.""
"Hold on just a minute!" Cat's voice rose in annoyance. "I don't need your help." A small but vital difference.
"Yes, you do," said Max, setting the coffee mugs and bagels down on the table. "You need a lot of help, Cat."
She was aware of McKendrick's eyes on her and she had to remind herself it was professional interest on his part, not personal. Not that she wanted it to be personal but there was something thrilling about being the focus of such undivided male attention.
Cat forced a laugh. "You're becoming very melodramatic, Max. Next thing I know you'll tell me this is a planned intervention for the hopelessly disorganized. It just so happens that I thrive on chaos."
"Your last two manuscripts were late."
"Jack had a tonsillectomy when I was finishing The Kindergarten Caper and we found termites right at the climax of Dead Cowboys Never Talk." She smiled sweetly at McKendrick. "No offense."
"None taken." His grin told her he knew otherwise.
She met Max's eyes. "A tonsillectomy is an act of God, right?"
"Only when it's your tonsillectomy."
"It was my son's. That's the same thing, isn't it?"
"Not to Global Publishing."
Max sighed longingly. "I know one author who finished up a book longhand in a storm cellar while a tornado ripped apart his house."
McKendrick helped himself to a mug of coffee. "I know of a writer who broke both arms and still made his deadline."
You would, she thought. "Those people need serious therapy. No one is that disciplined." Or that demented.
"Wrong," said McKendrick. "A hell of a lot of people are that disciplined." He paused for effect. "And that organized."
She shuddered. "What a frightening thought."
"Want to hear a really frightening thought?" Max volunteered, handing her a mug of coffee. "No more extensions on your deadline, Catherine. I know chaos and you're heading straight for it."
"I love you dearly, Max, but you're a bachelor. Your idea of chaos is misplacing your copy of the Sunday Times Book Review." She put down the coffee mug and gathered up her belongings. "Thanksgiving's tomorrow and I have a million things to do. Stuffing, turnips, the pies...."
"Tomorrow's Thanksgiving?" asked McKendrick.
"Didn't those cardboard pilgrims in the lobby tell you something?" Cat turned to Max. Some time management specialist. He didn't even know tomorrow was a national holiday.
Max cleared his throat. "Riley's been in Tokyo the last few months," he said, as if that could explain away McKendrick's appalling lapse of memory.
"Pleasure?" asked Cat.
"Business," said McKendrick.
Max lowered his voice conspiratorially. "The Japanese government," he said. "This guy taught the Japanese something about organization."
"Wow," said Cat, who wasn't the slightest bit impressed.
She could almost see the lightbulb flash on over Max's head as he turned to McKendrick. "You'll be on your own tomorrow, Riley?"
"Looks like," said McKendrick.
Oh no, Cat thought. Don't do this, Max. Not with him....
"How long's it been since you had a homemade Thanksgiving dinner?" Max continued.
Was it her imagination or did a look of sadness flicker across McKendrick's movie star face? "Couldn't tell you, Max."
"That long?" Max asked.
"That long," said McKendrick.
Don't pay any attention to them. McKendrick's a grown man. This is a big city. Somewhere out there is a turkey with his name on it and he's smart enough to find it.
Max was a rat and a traitor. He knew she was a sucker for strays, especially around the holidays, and he was doing his best to manipulate her into issuing an invitation.
She'd choke before she uttered anything that even remotely resembled a dinner invitiation.
"Flannery's on East 47th has a pretty good spread," Max went on, "or you might want to try Stein's Deli near Rock Center. They have a restaurant in the back and the best turkey in the city."
"Thought I might drive on up to Boston," the cowboy drawled. "Celebrate Thanksgiving where it started."
"It started in Plymouth," Max said. "Why don't you--"
"--come to my house." It sounded like her voice but she had the insane urge to look over her shoulder for her Evil Twin.
Max beamed at her. Why not? She'd played right into his hands like the lily-livered, soft-hearted dope she was. Could she take it back? She struggled to find a way to erase her foolhardy words.
She needn't have bothered. McKendrick wasn't interested.
"Thanks for the invitation," he said. He probably practiced that sexy drawl into a tape recorder every night. "I'm not much for family celebrations."
"You'll be alone." He didn't want to come to her house. She didn't want him there. She should be relieved, but no. The words were out before she could stop them. "Nobody should be alone on Thanksgiving."
Max's smile widened. "Cat has this thing about strays during the holidays, Riley. She'll hound you until you say yes."
"Been alone most of my life," said McKendrick. "It's the way I like it."
If Cat had a nickel for every time she'd heard macho statements like that, she could singlehandedly pay off the national debt. But it was different this time. He means it, she thought, and it struck her as a terrible shame. There was something shadowy in his gaze, something bittersweet and lonely, and despite her better judgment Cat felt herself melting.
"Mr. McKendrick?" She sounded cool and collected, amazing when you considered the strange rush of emotion that filled her heart. "You'll come for Thanksgiving dinner, won't you?"
He nodded.
She smiled.
He met her eyes and for a moment she thought she saw them years from now, looking back at this moment as the one that changed their lives. She drew in a deep breath, trying to regain her equilibrium in a world that was shifting more rapidly than she could handle. She'd never understood the concept of love-at-first-sight. Everyone knew love grew slowly, cautiously, built on a foundation of friendship and respect. This was lust. Nothing more than lust. She had to remember that.
"So it's on?" Max asked.
McKendrick held her gaze. "It's on."
Max barely restrained a whoop of excitement. So did Cat. She had to make her escape before she made an absolute fool of herself.
"Three o'clock," she tossed over her shoulder as she raced for the door. "Max will give you directions."
And then she ran for her life.
\*\*\*
Riley McKendrick whistled low. Tall, willowy, with sleek golden brown hair that brushed her shoulders like a caress. He'd been expecting a frumpy writer who spent her life in fantasyland, not a flesh-and-blood woman who looked as if she'd like to take a juicy bite out of life. "Thanks a lot, Max," he muttered after Cat Zaslow disappeared down the hallway. "You might've mentioned she was a knockout."
Max stared at him as if he was speaking Greek. "Cat? A knockout? Never noticed."
"Time to get your glasses checked," Riley said with a laugh. "That is one helluva woman."
"Cat's not a woman," Max said, in what had to be the single dumbest statement of the year. "She's a client." Riley shook his head, trying to banish the memory of the way her hips had swayed beneath her short black wool skirt. "You sure she has five kids?"
"Last time I counted."
"How many husbands?"
"She's a widow." Max seemed puzzled. "You really think she's good-looking?"
"You don't?"
"I never thought about it." Max was quiet for a moment. "Since when do you like skinny women?"
"I don't," Riley said. He liked his women soft, with big breasts and sweet dispositions. Cat Zaslow had a tongue like a double-edged razor blade and her breasts--
Riley stopped, galvanized by the thought of her breasts. High and round, surprisingly full for so slender a woman. He wondered if she'd been wearing a bra or one of those lacy things made to come off. He already knew she had the legs for it, wickedly long with thighs made for welcoming a man between them.
His blood shifted south and he forced the image from his mind.
"I dated her housekeeper for a few weeks," Max said. "Damn near gave me a nervous breakdown." He made to drag a hand through his perfect hair then apparently thought better of it. "Diapers, barking dogs, McDonald's Happy Meals--hell. Cat lives at the edge of disaster. Gimme Lutece any day."
"So what was her husband like?"
"I hear he was a nice guy."
"You never met him?"
"Cat started writing after David died."
Riley started to ask another question then caught himself. She loved him enough to have five kids with him. That was all he needed to know.
Max looked at him with open curiosity. "You're not interested in her as a woman, are you?"
He thought about the long, lovely length of her legs, that beautiful face...then he thought about reality. "Five kids, a housekeeper, the housekeeper's kid, and an in-home zoo?" He threw back his head and laughed out loud. "Not me, Max. Not in this lifetime."
\*\*\*
Cat pushed open the heavy glass doors at 575 Madison and stepped out into the brilliant late autumn sunshine. She stood there, motionless, on the sidewalk and waited for the chilly wind whipping down the street to snap her back to normal. Whatever normal was. She wasn't sure she remembered. It had been a long time since she'd felt this way, a very long time since lust had reared its lovely head and beckoned her toward--
"Hey, lady." One of New York City's finest stopped next to her. "You okay?"
She blinked then managed to nod at the policeman.
"Why don't I hail a cab for you?" the cop offered, raising a burly arm in the air. "You don't look too good to me."
"No," she said, regaining her powers of speech. "I--I have a car." She glanced toward the corner and saw the familiar Chevy waiting for her. "But thank you."
She drew a steadying breath into her lungs then marched off toward the vehicle. The driver saw her coming and leaped out to open the door. Alec Marton owned the one and only car service in her small Connecticut town. The Chevy had served as wedding car, delivery room, and taxi cab for most of the citizens of Danville at one time or another.
"You don't look so good," Alec said as she climbed into the front seat next to him. "Maybe you should lie down in the back."
She shook her head. "I'm fine, Alec." She managed a smile. "You know me. Not only can't I drive in the city, I can't even think."
He looked no more convinced than the policeman had and no wonder. She wasn't fine. The truth was she felt as if the real Cat Zaslow had been taken over by aliens. Sixteen year old aliens, at that. She was aglow with excitement, alive with possibilities, and all for a man she didn't know and was reasonably certain she wouldn't like if she did.
Her knees had gone weak when his eyes met hers and it was a wonder she hadn't swooned at his cowboy-booted feet.
She'd lost her mind, that's what. All Riley McKendrick did was walk into Max's office and Cat's brain cells had decided to go on vacation. How humiliating. She had five wonderful children, a beautiful home, good friends, and a terrific career. She didn't need a man.
Truth was, her infrequent experiments in dating all had been less than successful. Men were either intimidated by her success, her kids, or the fact that she liked her life exactly the way it was and made no bones about it.
"You just haven't met the right man," Jenny liked to say whenever she got the chance.
"Yes, I have," Cat always said. David Zaslow was a tough act to follow. Any man looking to fill his shoes would have a lot to live up to.
He could do it, Cat. Maybe that cowboy is the one.
She shook her head, ignoring Alec's curious glance in the rearview mirror. A clockwatcher. That gorgeous hunk of man was a clockwatcher. What a waste of natural resources.
Alec maneuvered the Chevy into traffic. "Just getting out in time," he said as they headed crosstown. "Gonna be a zoo in another hour, everyone trying to get out early for Thanksgiving."
She met his eyes in the mirror. "Alec, do you think I'm disorganized?"
"Sure," he said, "but I'd never hold it against you. You got a career and five kids. Who wouldn't be behind the eight-ball now and again?"
She sighed loudly.
"Not my business," Alec said, "but you asked."
"You and Sarah have three kids. How do you manage?"
"Sarah's got everyone on a schedule," Alec said not without a touch of pride. "Even put it on computer."
Cat suppressed a shudder. "Really?"
Alec nodded. "You bet. Even Annie's on there."
Her eyes widened. "Annie's four years old, Alec."
"Never too soon to start. That's what Sarah says. How else you gonna keep their lessons and doctor's appointments and everything straight?"
"Isn't that why God made refrigerator magnets?" Was it possible that the rest of the world operated with the efficiency of a Swiss watch while she was a sundial on a cloudy day?
Which, of course, brought her right back to Riley McKendrick, who made a living putting people's lives into order.
Had she lost her mind or just the part of it that governed the libido? It wasn't like there'd been any chemistry between them. Everybody knew one-way chemistry was a physical impossibility. He probably hadn't even realized she was a woman. So what if she'd noticed he was tall, dark, and handsome with a voice that could undress a woman without even trying. He couldn't help the effect he'd had on her, any more than she could help the heated fantasies dancing behind her eyeballs.
She heard Max's voice, crystal clear, inside her head. "An hour with Riley McKendrick will change your life forever." Max couldn't be right. She didn't want her life changed. She liked her life the way it was. She had a home, she had a family, she had memories of a man she'd loved once and would never forget. So what if romance was a thing of the past. She could live without romance.
At least she thought she could until today.
She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the car window. "Oh, Max," she murmured. "What have you done to me?"
Riley McKendrick was everything she didn't want in a man and she was afraid he was exactly what she needed.
Chapter Two
He wasn't going.
That's what Riley told himself the next morning as he strode through the lobby of the Plaza Hotel.
"We brought your car around front, Mr. McKendrick," the doorman said. "The Massachusetts road map is in the glove box as you requested."
Riley nodded his thanks and pressed a ten dollar bill into the man's outstretched palm. They were efficient at the Plaza, efficient and polite. Too bad the place had all the warmth of Versailles after the Revolution.
The doorman tipped his cap. "Have a Happy Thanksgiving, sir."
Riley muttered something suitable in return. Truth was he didn't much give a damn about Thanksgiving or Christmas or Groundhog's Day. As far as he was concerned, holidays were nothing more than unnecessary interruptions in the normal pattern of life. Thanksgiving was a perfect example. At least if you were going to have a day off, make it a Monday or Friday so you reaped maximum benefit with minimum disruption.
He'd spent yesterday bumming around Manhattan, trying to figure out why any sane man would choose to live in the middle of chaos. Millions of people crammed onto an island smaller than half of the ranches he'd worked on growing up, all of them searching for something that was just out of reach.
He still wasn't sure why he'd said yes to Cat Zaslow's dinner invitation. She was hard-headed and outspoken, exactly the kind of woman he went out of his way to avoid. The kind of woman who thought her way was the only way. If he'd been stupid enough to get involved, she would've fought his organizational efforts every damn step of the way and they'd probably end up staring at each other over a pair of loaded rifles.
No, he thought as he headed north toward the Thruway, he didn't need any part of it. Let Max worry about her kids and her deadlines.
As for Riley, he had a whole month stretched out in front of him with nothing to do but enjoy himself. With a little luck he'd reach Boston by dinnertime, where he knew a soft-spoken brunette who understood that some men were meant to be alone.
\*\*\*
Maybe he wouldn't show up.
Cat swiped at a carrot with the vegetable peeler the next morning and considered the notion.
Maybe he'd wake up, realize she hadn't meant to invite him for dinner, and go off to watch the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade.
The idea of Riley McKendrick standing curbside with a score of six year olds made her laugh out loud.
No, the cowboy wasn't the parade type. More than likely he'd spent the night with a buxom blonde whose I.Q. equaled the price of a cup of coffee. One of those flirty types whose sole purpose in life was the make a man feel more...manly.
"Ouch!" She popped her forefinger into her mouth as Jenny poked her head into the kitchen.
"You okay?"
"Fine," Cat said around her finger. "Household utensils should come with warning labels."
"You're out of practice, that's all. Just take your time."
"Easy for you to say." She reached for the band-aids in the jar over the sink. "Are you sure you really want the weekend off, Jenny?"
"Either that or combat pay," said Jenny. "Twenty-four hours from now Dawn and I will be frolicking with Mickey and Minnie." Dawn was Jenny's eighteen month old daughter who had a serious Disney habit.
"Traitor," said Cat.
"Slavedriver," said Jenny cheerfully. They both knew Cat was a pushover when it came to family.
"How are we doing on chairs?" Cat asked, gesturing over her shoulder toward the dining room.
"I borrowed two from next door. That should do it."
"Did I tell you one of Max's business acquaintances might be coming for dinner?"
"Only half a dozen times."
"Not that it matters all that much. I don't really think he's going to show up," Cat said with studied nonchalance. "I can't imagine why he would. It's not like you can't find a perfectly good turkey dinner in Manhattan."
"Uh-oh," said Jenny. "Does this mean what I think it means?"
Cat wound the band-aid around her finger and tossed the wrapper into the trash. "I'm just wondering if we should set a place for Mr. McKendrick or not."
"I suppose we should," said Jenny. "Unless you plan to make him eat on the porch with the cats."
Cat looked up at the bright orange clock. "What time is the Wassersteins' pilgrim party?"
"In ten minutes and don't change the subject."
"Are the kids ready?"
"Clean, dressed, and in the minivan."
"You probably should get going then. They started without us last year and Jack threw a gourd at Becky Morgan. I had to speak at the Danville Women's Club to make up for it."
"This clockwatcher of yours must really be something," said Jenny as she started for the door. "You're actually blushing. Wouldn't it be funny if he was Mr. Right?"
"Mr. Right," Cat muttered as her friend disappeared. Who wouldn't be flushed, standing next to a hot oven? It had nothing to do with the subject matter.
Jenny wouldn't have made that statement about Mr. right if she'd met McKendrick. The man had "loner" tattooed on his forehead in neon letters an inch high. The man might be gorgeous but he had all the warmth of a filing cabinet.
And the saddest green eyes...
She shook her head, trying to dispel the memory. That was just her over-active writer's imagination talking, twisting reality around until it was barely recognizable. Riley McKendrick had probably never known a lonely day in his entire misbegotten life. No doubt women threw themselves at his cowboy boots with mad, passionate abandon ever day of the week.
In fact, Cat had no doubt he was with one of his harem right now, lying back in bed while the tramp pranced around in some flimsy negligee straight out of a Victoria's Secret catalog.
A vision of her own flannel pajamas danced before her eyes and she sighed.
She was glad that she'd seen the last of Riley McKendrick. And with a little luck, sooner or later she'd stop thinking about him as well.
\*\*\*
"Coffee, sir?"
Riley looked up at the waitress. Tall, willowy, glossy golden brown hair that caressed her shoulders. A face so perfect it made your head spin like too much icy vodka on a hot summer's night.
"Sir? Do you want more coffee?"
He blinked and a short woman with curly grey hair came into focus. "Thanks," he said, as she bent close to refill the cup.
"Anything else?"
He shook his head. "Just the check."
Make that a reality check. He'd spent the entire drive up to Danville trying not to think about the yellow flecks in Cat's soft blue eyes. He was determined not to think about the long, shapely legs left bare by her short black skirt. And there was no way in hell he was going to think about the fact that he'd driven all the way up to northern Connecticut to tell her he wasn't staying for dinner.
So why had he said yes in the first place?
It wasn't like he hadn't known exactly where Max was going with the questions about his Thanksgiving Day plans. But there had been something about the look in Cat's eyes that made it impossible. An invitation? A challenge, maybe? He wasn't sure. All he knew was that he felt the pull of something stronger than his misgivings.
It wasn't like him to be a sucker for sentiment, swayed by the look in a woman's eyes. For all he knew she could've been stifling a sneeze or thinking about rush hour traffic or trying to figure out if he was really a cowboy or just dressed like one.
Damn. Riley knew trouble when he saw it and Cat Zaslow had trouble written across her pretty forehead in capital letters.
He gulped down some coffee then glanced at the clock hanging over the cash register near the door. Three minutes to noon. According to the map Max had given him, he was 8.7 miles away from her house. He'd stop by, offer his apologies, then by twelve-fifteen be'd be back on the road to Boston where he'd spend the night with a woman who had as little interest in holidays and family celebrations as he had.
A woman who wasn't Cat.
He knew all about high maintenance types like Catherine O'Leary Zaslow. The kind who came with lots of expectations, not to mention children, pets, and a house with a white picket fence. Everything he'd gone out of his way to avoid since he packed and left Nevada behind a lifetime ago.
It wasn't that he didn't believe in all of those things. He did. At least he did for other people. He'd learned early on that the things the rest of the world took for granted weren't in the cards for him and he'd made his peace with it. You learned how to stand on your own real fast when you grew up bouncing from foster home to foster home.
He'd been on the wrong line when life handed out lucky breaks. All he'd had going for him was his size and he'd managed to parlay athletic ability into scholarships that had funded his education. Too bad there'd been nobody around to celebrate when his dreams began to come true.
People talked about family. They talked about sacrifice and love. But Riley knew that love was the first thing to disappear when the sacrifices became too much to bear. He'd been five years old when he found out.
And he wasn't about to forget it.
\*\*\*
Cat leaped from the bathtub, sending a spray of Mr. Bubbles across the room.
"Jenny!" She wrapped a bright yellow bath sheet around her body as she she raced downstairs, then through the hallway toward the kitchen. "Please be home, Jenny! We forgot the cranberries!"
No such luck. Jenny was still at the Wassersteins' pilgrim party over at Danville Park.
The smell of turkey wafted from the oven while assorted pots and casseroles were lined up on the countertops, awaiting their turn. Too bad cranberry sauce wasn't hiding in one of them.
Scooter, her ten year old golden retriever, bounded into the room, followed by three of their multitude of cats. "We've got trouble, guys," she said, scratching the dog behind the ear. Jenny was out with the minivan. Cat's station wagon was in the shop. And only a monster would call Alec Marton for a cab on Thanksgiving afternoon.
She glanced up at the clock over the sink. Not quite ten after twelve. If Jenny would just hurry home, there might still be time to jump into the car and head for the mini-mart before the guests started arriving.
She wrapped the towel more tightly around her torso and started back toward the staircase. Anyone could forget cranberry sauce, she reasoned as she left a trail of Mr. Bubbles behind her. It's not as if it was a crime against the nation, even if certain people like Riley McKendrick would probably take it as a sign of her total lack of character.
She was halfway up the stairs when the rumble of a car engine caught her attention. Turning she raced back down the stairs, darted around two of the newest litter of kittens, and barely avoided a collision with Kevin's skateboard.
She swung open the front door. "Jenny! Don't turn off the engine, I--"
It wasn't Jenny.
It was Riley McKendrick and he was striding up the path and heading straight for her. He wore grey flannel slacks that hugged his form, a cream-colored sweater, and that sexy-as-hell leather jacket.
Cat hadn't been raised in New York City for nothing. She knew exactly what to do in a situation like this. She slammed the door in his face.
He rang the doorbell. She looked down at the bright yellow bath towel and the amount of skin it left uncovered and felt her cheeks redden.
"Go away!" she called out. "You're three hours early." She admired punctuality as much as the next woman but this was an affront to human decency.
He banged on the door. Scooter started to bark, which woke up Bingo and Fred, two of Scooter's offspring. Bingo and Fred started to bark as well, followed by Mitzi the beagle's preternatural howling.
She opened the door a crack and glared at McKendrick. "I thought you clockwatchers knew how to tell time." He was every bit as gorgeous as she remembered. Why couldn't he look the way he was supposed to look? Pale, wan, and not the slightest bit interested in seeing her in a bath towel. She hesitated. The thought that he might not be interested bothered her even more.
"I'm on my way to Boston. I stopped by to tell you I won't be coming to dinner after all."
His green-eyed gaze swept over her from head to toe, lingering nowhere. Missing nothing. Her heartbeat lurched wildly. She wasn't certain if she should slap his face or fling herself into his arms. Both ideas had merit.
"A bit out of your way, wouldn't you say?" She opted for a more neutral approach. "You could've called."
"Don't have your number."
"You could have asked Max."
"Yeah," he said, "I could've but Max wasn't home."
There it was again, that look of sadness, of loneliness. Don't look at me that way, cowboy. I'm not going to beg you to stay for dinner.
\*\*\*
Riley found himself vaguely irritated when Cat didn't try to convince him to stay for dinner.
"Enjoy your turkey," he said. Not a great exit line, but serviceable. Turning, he started down the porch steps.
"Cranberries!"
He stopped. "What?"
She made a funny little clutching motion with the towel, one that made the shadowy valley between her breasts look even more intriguing. He wondered if she had any idea what effect she was having on his libido. Probably not. If she did, he had no doubt she'd bolt the door and bar the windows.
She looked up at him and offered him a very female smile. He'd already realized she wasn't flirtatious by nature, so the smile carried considerable punch. "Are you in a hurry to get to Boston?"
"Why?"
"I--uh, Jenny forgot her wallet."
"You said something about cranberries."
"Cranberries?" Her eyes went wide and innocent. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm worried about Jenny."
"Jenny?"
"My housekeeper. What if the police stop her and she doesn't have her driver's license? She'll end up in jail."
"Last I heard they don't put you in jail for forgetting your license."
"I don't need a lecture, Mr. McKendrick. I need a lift to the mini-mart. If it's too much trouble, just tell me."
"Your housekeeper's at the mini-mart?"
"Well, actually she's at the Wassersteins' pilgrim party but--"
"So why not call the Wassermans?"
"Wassersteins and that's impossible. Dianne always takes them to the park over by the lake and--"
"Don't explain," he said. "Whatever you do, don't explain."
"You'll drive me?"
"Let's go," he said.
"I can't go like this."
"I don't mind if you don't."
"Believe it or not, I don't usually go to the store in my bath towel."
He leaned against the porch railing and crossed his arms over his chest. "Make it fast."
She swung open the door the rest of the way. "You don't have to wait out there."
Don't do it, McKendrick. Step through that door and it's all over. Every instinct he had for self-preservation was screaming for him to put as much distance between himself and Cat Zaslow as he possibly could. But damn it, she was naked under that bright yellow bath towel and there were only so many things a red-blooded man could resist.
The way her skin took the light. The way she'd taste sweet and fresh. For a moment they stood close enough that he could smell the scent of soap on her smooth skin and he imagined having her on the floor...right next to the scruffy Barney doll with the grinning purple face.
"Get dressed." He sounded like he was growling. "I want to get back on the road." Or take a cold shower.
"There's coffee in the kitchen," she said over her shoulder as she started up the stairs, her long legs sleek and bare and inviting. "Help yourself."
Tempting, he thought as she disappeared from view. Very tempting.
\*\*\*
He drove a sleek black sportscar, the kind of car married men dreamed about. Low, powerful, terminally sexy. No wife worth her salt would let her man drive around in a lethal weapon like this.
It put Cat in a bad mood the moment she fastened her seat belt.
"What's the matter?" he asked as they roared off toward the Danville Mini Mart. "Forget the turkey?"
"Very funny." He didn't know how close he was to the truth. "I was just thinking that this is the kind of car my son Kevin would call a babe magnet."
"I'll let you know," he said. "I just picked it up yesterday."
"New car?"
"It's rented."
"What kind of car do you own?"
"I don't." He shot her a sidelong glance. Wouldn't you know harsh sunlight would be kind to him. Was there no justice in this world?
She swiveled around in her chair to face him. "You don't own a car?"
"Nope."
"Why? Is it some kind of efficiency thing?"
"You could say that."
"I'm curious," she persisted. "The only people I know who don't own cars live in Manhattan and you don't live in Manhattan, do you?"
"Max was right," McKendrick said. "You do ask a hell of a lot of questions."
"Then you won't take this personally. Where do you live?"
He rolled to a stop and turned to look at her. "Nowhere."
"You must live somewhere."
"Nowhere in particular," he repeated.
"Where do you get your mail?" Don't play coy with me, cowboy. I can badger a witness with the best of them.
"A service in Kansas City forwards it to me."
"So then you live in Kansas City."
"I didn't say that."
"But that's where you said you get your mail."
"Because it's convenient," he said. "Kansas City's in the middle of the country. It's a good place to begin."
"You have one of those mailbox services?"
"Bingo."
"And I suppose you think that's more efficient?"
He grinned. "Now you're getting it, Zaslow."
The whole idea gave her the creeps. "Where do you keep your clothes? As far as I know they haven't invented a rent-a-closet yet."
He gestured toward the back of the car. "In the trunk."
"I'm being serious, McKendrick. Your clothes, your books, your papers -- you have to stow them some place."
"I don't own any more than I can carry."
She leaned back against the seat and stared at him. "I've heard of people like you but I never thought I'd actually meet one."
"Life doesn't have to be complicated," he said, meeting her eyes. "I travel light."
She glanced at the huge leather tote bag on her lap. "I can't even travel light to the mini-mart."
"It's not for everyone."
She nodded, thinking of her kids, her house, her pets, and of how empty her life would be without them. The last things on earth she ever thought she'd have and they meant everything to her. "Of course you really do have a home," she said, trying to make sense of the whole thing, "even if you don't live there now. Your family...where you grew up--"
"No."
"No?"
The sportscar surged forward. McKendrick's attention was focused on the road. He'd made it perfectly obvious the conversation had come to an end but Cat couldn't let it alone.
She was certain he was exaggerating. There had to be someone out there. An ex-wife. Children. A second cousin twice removed who sent him a Christmas card every year and birthday presents that made him wince. It was bad enough that he lived out of his suitcase, but at least that was his choice. Nobody chose to be alone in the world, to be without people who loved you. People you loved in return. Not even men as tough as Riley McKendrick.
David hadn't been tough at all. When she met her late husband he'd been a widower with four small kids, a regular kind of guy you wouldn't look at twice on the street. She'd been sitting at a crowded lunch counter, nursing a diet soda and a tuna sandwich, when David walked in and sat down next to her. He'd asked her to pass the salt. She'd asked him for the pepper. They'd talked, then laughed, and made a date for dinner later that night.
She'd been a reporter at Newsweek, committed to her career, determined to rise to the top. Marriage wasn't on her horizon. Children were creatures who belonged to other people. She knew what she wanted and how to get it and all of her plans went flying out the window when she fell in love with a man who only had a year to live. There'd been something about him, some indefinable quality that had touched Cat's heart, and changed her life forever. And it had nothing to do with pity and everything to do with love.
It still hurt to think that David hadn't lived to meet Sarah, the daughter who was born six months after his death.
It seemed like yesterday. "You don't have to do this," the attorney had said after the reading of the will. "You're having your own baby. We'll find foster homes for the rest of them."
"We're a family," she'd stated in no uncertain terms, even though she was scared to death. "We're going to stay a family." She hadn't fallen in love only with David; she'd fallen in love with his children, as well.
And she'd never once regretted her decision. Raising those kids was the toughest thing she'd ever done--and the most rewarding--and every night she offered up a prayer of thanks that unexpected blessings often turned out to be the finest blessings of all.
Something she knew in her heart Riley McKendrick could never understand.
Chapter Three
Get out, a voice warned him again as he watched Cat sprint toward the door of the mini-mart. Get out while you still can.
He knew how to handle sexual chemistry. You acted on attraction or you didn't, but either way it wasn't a life-altering force that moved through your world like a tornado across the plains.
This was different. All she had to do was turn those big blue eyes on him and he was lost. Done for. No wonder she wrote murder mysteries for a living. The woman must have left a trail of dead men behind her a mile long.
He watched as she disappeared inside the store. Max didn't think she was beautiful and he supposed that technically Max was right. Her mouth was too wide and mobile for classic beauty, her jawline too strong and stubborn. Still in combination with her fierce intelligence, the effect was stunning.
He had known women who were more beautiful. He'd also known women who knew how to flatter a man, how to make him feel like he was better than he was. Cat Zaslow didn't flatter, she didn't fawn, she sure as hell didn't flirt but he was drawn to her by a force more powerful than anything he'd ever encountered.
"Five kids," he muttered, tapping his finger against the steering wheel. A score of dogs and cats underfoot. Hell, the woman had a housekeeper and between the two of them they couldn't remember the cranberries for Thanksgiving dinner. Not that she'd admitted forgetting them but he wasn't born yesterday.
She didn't look happy when she climbed back into the car. There was a furrow between her brows and a murderous glint in her blue eyes. And as far as he could tell, she didn't have cranberries.
"So did you leave the wallet for your housekeeper?" he asked, all mock innocence.
She favored him with a fierce look. "Don't say a word," she said through gritted teeth. "Not one single word."
"We could check out the supermarket," he said, shifting into first. "Maybe your housekeeper's there."
"I'm warning you, McKendrick--"
"There's always a farm stand."
"Why would I look for Jenny at a farm stand?"
"Admit it, Zaslow. You forgot the cranberries."
"I did not."
"We'll go to a supermarket and get the cranberries."
"The supermarkets are closed," she muttered.
"What was that?" He couldn't wipe the smile off his face.
"Damn it! So I forgot the cranberries. Is it a crime against the nation?" She stared, grim-faced, out the window at the passing scenery. "Besides, what's it to you? You'll be in Boston where I'm sure there'll be a surfeit of cranberries and you can stuff your fat face to your heart's content."
You're sunk, McKendrick. It's too late now...
"About Boston," he said, "there's been a change of plans..."
\*\*\*
"There's nothing sadder than a ravaged turkey." Cat shook her head hours later as she surveyed the remains of the feast. "Thirty pounds and I don't think we'll get two sandwiches out of those leftovers."
"And that's if we're lucky," said Jenny, housekeeper and friend. "That's what you get for asking twenty-one people to Thanksgiving dinner."
"What can I tell you? Everyone in town knows I'm a sucker for the holidays." She gestured toward the front of the house. "Did the kids clear the small tables in the foyer?"
"Done," said Jenny. "Kevin griped that it was girl's work but he did it."
"Kevin and I are going to have another talk about division of labor tonight. He's becoming a twelve year old sexist."
"Hormones," said Jenny sagely. "He'll get over it."
"He's male," Cat said. "He'll never get over it. It's only going to get worse. Before you know it, he'll be shaving and channel-surfing with the remote control." With three other sons and a little daughter marching inexorably toward puberty, Cat sometimes wondered if she'd make it to thirty-five with her sanity. "Where are they now?"
"Where else? Tossing around a football in the front yard."
Cat opened the freezer door and removed a gallon of vanilla ice cream. "I think we pulled it off. Nobody seemed to notice we forgot the cranberry sauce."
"They were too busy arguing politics with your new cowboy friend."
She'd wondered how long it would take Jenny to zero in on him. "He's not my friend."
Jenny leaned against the sink and shot Cat a quizzical look. "Why'd you invite him to dinner?"
Cat hacked at the rock-solid ice cream with a plastic scoop. "He looked lonely."
"You could see lonely through all of that gorgeousness?"
"I don't know what I saw. As soon as I heard he had nowhere to go today, I found myself asking him to dinner."
"Way to go, girl. He's the best stray you've brought home in ages."
"Don't let those outdoorsy looks of his fool you, Jenny. McKendrick's one of those clockwatching pencil-pushing types who lives to organize." She shuddered. "Max wants to hire him to put me on the straight and narrow."
"The cowboy could put me on the straight and narrow any time."
Cat took a vicious swipe at the ice cream. "I thought you went for the intellectual type." She looked up at Jenny. "Like Max."
Jenny's cheeks reddened. "Max Bernstein is a jerk. He hasn't an ounce of romance in his soul." Jenny and Max had dated a few times last summer but their attraction of opposites hadn't made for an easy alliance. "Besides, after meeting the Marlboro Man out there, I've decided to go for brawn instead of brain."
"Enjoy," said Cat, scooping ice cream onto a slice of pumpkin pie. "If you ask me, muscles are highly overrated."
"I'll let you know when I've had a chance to investigate."
Cat tossed a wadded up paper napkin at her friend. "You're incorrigible."
"No," said Jenny. "I'm hopeful. You never know when good fortune is going to smile down on you."
Apparently Jenny had a peculiar notion of what constitutes good fortune. Sharing the dinner table with Riley McKendrick had been about as relaxing as sharing a bathtub with a rattlesnake. Every time she'd looked up, he'd been watching her with that damnable twinkle that made his green eyes sparkle.
The cranberries! That was why he'd decided to stay for dinner after all. He was biding his time, waiting for the right moment to pounce. He hadn't said anything outright but it was just a matter of time. Sooner or later the right moment would arrive and he could announce her idiocy to the world. She knew the wait must be driving his clockwatching little cowboy heart crazy.
"Cowboy," she muttered, opening the container of ice cream. "A likely story." He had the looks and the drawl and the boots but she refused to believe he had the attitude that went with them.
She could just imagine McKendrick trying to foist his time-management nonsense on an unsuspecting bunch of real cowboys. They'd have him riding his calculator out of town before he knew what hit him.
The idea tickled her fancy and she grinned as she topped three pieces of apple pie with three scoops of vanilla ice cream. Cranberries notwithstanding, parts of the afternoon had been surprisingly pleasant.
Jenny and the kids were home when she and McKendrick returned and the cowboy had joined in a makeshift basketball game that had left her sons open-mouthed with admiration. Sometimes she felt sorry for them that they had no male role model to look up to, someone who understood the mystery of sports and testosterone, but short of teaching them how to shave, she felt she was doing a good job.
Still there was something oddly poignant about watching them in the yard, her precious sons and the cowboy, and that warm feeling had lingered right up until McKendrick came back into the house and started criticizing the traffic pattern.
But she'd got her own back. She'd seated McKendrick at the far end of the main table between Mary McGregor, who never shut up, and Cindy Hughes, who'd never met a man she didn't like.
If the cowboy had been entertaining any schemes to get his grubby hands on her house, Mary and Cindy had seen to it that he never had the chance. In fact, Cindy had been making it crystal clear all afternoon that she wouldn't have minded skipping the pumpkin pie and having McKendrick a la mode for dessert.
Cat placed everything on a huge tray then headed for the dining room.
Cindy was leaning as close to McKendrick as the law would allow and Cat found herself wondering if breast implants were tax deductible. Not that it was any of her concern. She certainly didn't have any designs on him herself, even if he was easily the most beautiful hunk of man she'd ever seen in her entire life.
Cindy could have him. Granted he was beautiful but he would probably end up alphabetizing her bras by cup size.
Max made room for the tray on the sideboard. He was grinning like the proverbial cat that ate the canary.
"What's up?" she asked, noting that all eyes were on her.
Max's grin widened. "There's big bucks riding on this, Cat: did you actually forget the cranberry sauce or were you making a neo-classicist culinary statement?"
"Come on, Cat!" Her next-door neighbor John chimed in. "I've got five dollars riding on it."
"Five dollars?" Kate Lawson, town librarian, laughed. "This is a sure thing. I'll up the ante to ten."
"Not even Cat could forget cranberry sauce on Thanksgiving Day," said Cindy in her sweetest voice. "Cat, I wouldn't insult you by making a bet."
She glanced toward McKendrick who watched her with wide, innocent eyes. If he'd said one word to Cindy about the cranberries, then murder by drumstick would be too good for him.
"How much are you in for?" she challenged him. "Ten dollars? Fifty? Don't be shy, Mr. McKendrick. Speak right up. Everyone else is."
McKendrick aimed those green eyes right at her but said nothing.
"Your reputation precedes you, Cat," called out another of the guests. "Most of us were here last year when you showed up dressed as Princess Jasmine for the town's centennial bash."
"It was late October," Cat protested. "I thought it was a Halloween party."
"Come on, Riley," said Mary McGregor. "Are you on Cat's side or the side of the missing cranberries?"
Jenny picked that moment to stroll into the room. "I can't believe you told them about the cranberries," she said to Cat. "I figured once we made it to dessert, we'd be safe."
Everyone present broke into laughter and Cat watched, infuriated, as McKendrick and Max exchanged high fives.
"Very funny, all of you. I hope you had a good laugh at my expense."
"Admit it," said Max, getting that look in his eye that she knew too well. "You and Jenny are hanging on by a thread."
"Don't drag me into this, Maxwell Bernstein!" Jenny's tone was the same one she used on the kids when they wouldn't turn out the lights. "I'm just an employee here."
"Jenny!" Cat was appalled by her friend's treachery.
"You know what I'm talking about," Jenny said, meeting Cat's eyes. "It's your house, Cat. I just follow orders."
"Jenny's right." Riley McKendrick's voice cut through the laughter and bickering. "You own the house. You set the rules. The buck stops with you."
"I don't know what's happening here," Cat said. "We're talking cranberries, not war crimes."
"The cranberries are just a symptom," Max said solemnly.
"Oh for God's sake," Jenny muttered. "Why don't you stick a sock in it, Max?"
"My thoughts exactly. Why is it the people with the least experience are the ones most eager to offer advice?" Cat glanced toward McKendrick who was watching her with undisguised interest. "Are you married, Mr. McKendrick?"
His thick dark brows slid toward the bridge of his nose in a scowl. "No."
"Do you have any kids?"
"No, but--"
"I rest my case." She folded her arms across her chest and smiled. "How would you know what it takes to run a home? This isn't a corporation. Real people live here, or haven't you noticed?"
Scooter chose that moment to bound through the dining room with Sara's favorite Barbie doll clamped between his slobbery jaws and Sara in close pursuit.
"I noticed," said McKendrick as everyone in the room once again erupted into laughter.
"Six kids, Mr. McKendrick. Six cats, four kittens, three dogs, and a litter of puppies. We have enough variables to throw IBM's finest computer into a terminal tailspin. Who has the time to work out a new routine? We barely have time to breathe."
McKendrick leaned back in his chair, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "You creative types--all you do is complain about how busy you are. If you'd apply some sound business techniques to the house, you'd"
"I'll tell you what you can do with your sound business techniques." Her son Jack appeared in the doorway and she took a deep breath and struggled to rein in her temper. "We both know you'd rather be anywhere than here. Why did you accept my invitation?
"Why did you invite me when you didn't want to?" he countered.
"Max said you were going to be alone for Thanksgiving."
"And you have this thing about taking in strays."
She glanced down at the kittens nipping at her ankles. "You could say that."
"I'm not big on family celebrations." The glint in his eyes turned to ice. "And I don't put a lot of store in holidays."
"Which is probably why you were going to be by yourself on Thanksgiving." There it was again, that look of loneliness she'd noticed yesterday, the same look that had tugged at her heartstrings. She wasn't going to fall for that a second time. He could look lonelier than the Maytag repairman for all she cared. She wasn't buying it. "If you think dinner was a prelude to a business contract, you're dead wrong. You have nothing I need. Absolutely nothing."
He shoved back his chair and stood up, all six feet plus of rippling, ticked-off male pulchritude towering over the assembled group. "You're a coward, Zaslow. You don't have the guts to change your ways."
"And you're a blowhard, McKendrick. All talk and no action."
"You want action?" He strode off with Cat right behind him. "You need a demolition crew in here, not a housekeeper."
"The foyer?" she said, skidding to a stop behind him. "What's wrong with the foyer?" She'd never paid much attention to the foyer before except to race through it on her way out the door.
Okay, so it wasn't House Beautiful. Two card tables were pushed together with folding chairs arranged around them. Chunks of turkey and stuffing littered the floor. Big deal. It was Thanksgiving. You had to expect chaos on family holidays.
"It was the only place we could put the kids," she said by way of explanation not apology. "What should I do, have them eat outside?" Then she noticed the pile of galoshes stacked near the front door, right beside a tangle of tube socks and a pink ballet slipper. A basketball was balanced on the bottom step and enough Disney figurines to populate a condo were strewn across the desk. Red and yellow plastic blocks, a skateboard, and a vintage bright purple Barney doll were scattered like breadcrumbs across the tile floor that had been shiny and pristine just hours before.
As if that wasn't bad enough, she watched in horror as he reached for the door to the coat closet. Adrenaline flooded her body as he closed his hand around the knob.
"Open that door," Cat warned, "and it'll be the last thing you ever do." She wondered what would happen if she leaped for his throat and tried to wrestle him to the ground.
"What the hell do you have in there, dead bodies?"
"Dead time management experts and there's room for one more."
"I'll bet there isn't room for a dead gnat in this closet, Zaslow."
"I suppose you think I should be thankful you'd even consider whipping my humble abode into shape. I can just imagine the sob story Max laid on you." She brushed her hair off her face with a quick, angry gesture. "Frazzled widow with five kids, living on the ragged edge of disaster, waiting for Mr. Wonderful to ride in on a white horse and save them all."
"Sorry to disappoint you, Zaslow, but the only reason I said yes was because Max called in a marker. I usually don't waste my time on small domestic jobs."
"Small domestic jobs?" She almost crowed with delight. "There are no small domestic jobs, McKendrick. Only small experts who can't stand the heat."
"I whipped the White House staff into shape in two weeks, Zaslow. There's nothing you can throw at me that could be any worse."
You haven't seen the inside of that closet yet, cowboy. "You're a typical man, McKendrick. Real life sends you running for cover."
"I'm not running."
"You want to," she said. "You know you've met your match and it's scaring you to death."
He moved toward her, all menace and male indignation. "Forty-eight hours," he said, his voice as close to a growl as a human being's could be. "That's all I need."
"You'd never last that long."
"Try me."
The breath left her body in a loud whoosh as a vivid series of erotic vignettes danced before her eyes, all of which featured McKendrick in various stages of undress. She must be losing her mind. Good grief, she didn't even like him.
Did she?
"Max told me what you charge," she said, struggling to regain her composure. "If you ask me, you're overpaid."
"No charge," he shot back. "All I want is forty-eight hours."
"What's in it for you?"
"Satisfaction." He grinned. "I want to see you eat your words."
"Then you're going to have a long wait, because I'd rather eat ground worms." She poked him in the stomach with her forefinger. Or tried to. The man had abs like steel beams. "You can have your forty-eight hours, McKendrick, but when they're over I expect an apology."
He glanced at his watch. "The forty-eight hours begin now?"
"They begin now." Smiling, she reached for the closet doorknob. Victory would be swift.
And very, very sweet.
Chapter Four
Around eight o'clock the guests began to say goodnight. Riley shook hands with a lot of friendly people who laughed even as they wished him luck.
"Fortitude, old man," said one of Cat's neighbors by way of goodbye. "It's always darkest before the dawn."
"What the hell does that mean?" Riley turned toward Max as the man hurried out the front door. "Isn't that what they say before you go off to war?"
At eight o'clock he didn't know what that meant, but by nine-thirty he understood.
Riley might have whipped the White House staff into shape but he'd never been faced with six kids all under the age of twelve, a housekeeper whose idea of organization involved empty cereal boxes and lots of new Tupperware, and a woman who made her living murdering people for fun and profit.
It was enough to make a man yearn for political egos and governmental interference.
"Problems?" Cat asked sweetly as she passed through the living room en route to the kitchen with a tray of dirty glasses.
He gave her his best you've-got-to-be-kidding look. "Everything's under control. I'm surveying the scene."
"Sure you are," she said, then laughed her way into the kitchen.
She didn't know how funny it was. When it came to home and family, Riley hadn't a clue. He understood productivity and the bottom line; he understood efficiency and economy of motion, two concepts that hadn't found their way to Cat Zaslow's Connecticut farmhouse. What was it about some people that made them buck like an unbroken mare at the thought of organization?
Take the traffic pattern. It had taken him all of thirty seconds to see how bad it was but Cat and company seemed oblivious to the drawbacks. You couldn't get from point A to point B without side trips to X, Y, and Z. Hell, they probably wasted two work days a year just walking around the dog bed parked in the entrance to the living room.
Cat had said you couldn't organize kids but it seemed to Riley you could at least organize their belongings into something resembling order. Give him five minutes and he could draw up a diagram of an efficient way to handle kids' toys, rubber boots, and sleepy cats without so much as breaking a sweat.
And the coat closet. You didn't need a degree in industrial design to know what was going on in there. Some people claimed Jimmy Hoffa was buried beneath the goal post at the old Giants Stadium. Riley wouldn't be surprised to find that the Teamsters boss was buried in Cat's closet somewhere behind the winter coats.
There wasn't much in this world that fazed him, but when she'd opened the closet door and a huge orange tom cat exploded into the foyer, dragging a pair of panty hose and a red-and-white woolen scarf behind him, he'd considered cutting his losses and admitting defeat. The last time he'd seen anything like that closet it had had a sign marked "Bomb Site" posted in front of it.
But what really scared him was the fact that he was the only one who seemed to notice. These people acted as if pandemonium was business as usual. Kittens slept on the steps like scruffy bedroom slippers. A pair of puppies played tug-of-war under the dining room table. And there were more geriatric dogs and cats scattered through the house than you could shake a bag of kibble at. Factor a half-dozen kids and two artsy women into the equation and it was no wonder the house resembled a land-locked Titanic.
Yet despite everything they all seemed happy. Sure, he'd heard the usual squabbling among the kids but he'd also sensed something deeper, a connection from which they drew strength. Family bonds were a mystery to Riley. He'd lost his parents before his second birthday and his grandmother before his third. Eighteen different foster families in a dozen years had taught him how to adapt to situations. He learned quickly how to control what could be controlled in life and he overcame the rest by sheer will power.
Blood ties were the only unbreakable bonds left in the world. You didn't walk away from your own flesh and blood. Biology wouldn't let you. Cat Zaslow's kids had no idea how lucky they were. They'd lost their father but they still had the woman who'd given birth to them and that was what made the difference.
He'd noticed the way she looked at her children, her blue eyes aglow with love, and he'd wondered if anyone had ever looked at him that way...or if anyone ever would.
He moved through the living room to the family room. Two of Cat's sons were sprawled on the overstuffed brown couch, watching Spiderman. They didn't pay him any mind but that didn't surprise Riley. At their age most adults were pretty much invisible. A litter of popcorn, candy wrappers, and crayons lay scattered on the floor around them. The end table groaned beneath a tower of schoolbooks while the piano near the window played host to three house plants struggling for life.
Hadn't these people ever heard of desks? Bookshelves? Shovels?
He avoided the kitchen for the time being, mainly because Cat and Jenny were in there, and made his way through the hall to her office at the rear of the house. At least this room had shelves and a desk. It also boasted filing cabinets, mountains of paper, and more electronic equipment than you'd find in FBI headquarters.
A boy of seven or eight years of age peered up at Riley from behind a stack of bright red corduroy cushions piled up under the window.
"My mom doesn't like anyone in her office."
Riley crouched down next to him. "You're Jack, aren't you?"
The boy took a good look at him then threw back his head and yelled, "Moo-ooo-ooom!"
Riley winced. The kid made up in volume what he lacked in size. "What's that all about?"
The kid also shared Cat's talent for dirty looks. "This is my mom's office. You can't come in."
"You're in here."
"That's different. I'm allowed."
Cat appeared in the doorway. "What are you doing in here?" she demanded.
To Riley's amazement she was looking directly at him. "What do you think I'm doing?"
"Trespassing."
The little boy looked up at her. "What's trespassing, mom?"
Riley'd never seen her smile like that before, kind of warm and womanly and very appealing. "Trespassing means going where you don't belong, Jack."
"Don't look at me," Riley said. "A hundred dollar bet gives me the right."
"You're pushing your luck, cowboy," she said in a pleasant tone of voice. "This office is off-limits to you."
"I told you," said Jack, looking as smug as his mother. "My mom only lets me sit in here. Sarah's a girl and she can't even come in here."
"That's right," said Cat, ruffling the child's glossy black hair. "Jack's going to be a writer when he grows up. He likes to sit at my desk."
"Not if he can't find it."
The look she shot him would have qualified as a deadly weapon in at least seventeen states.
"Why don't you get ready for bed," she suggested to the child, "and I'll come tuck you in when you're done."
"But, mom, I--"
"Go ahead." She pressed a kiss to the top of his head. "I want to talk to Mr. McKendrick."
"Better scatter breadcrumbs," Riley called after the boy. He'd need them.
\*\*\*
It was bad enough having the cowboy in her house.
Seeing him in her office was more than she could take.
"Out." She pointed toward the door. "Right now. This is private property."
"This is an office."
"It's my office and I want you out of here."
He bent down and inspected the row of sunbleached Smurfs lined up across the windowsill. "I've got to start somewhere."
"Not here, cowboy. This room is off-limits." She tried her best to ignore the cobwebs dancing inches above his head.
He gestured toward the piles of paper, books, and magazines stacked up on every available surface. "When was the last time you actually saw your desk?"
She refused to answer.
"You need help, Zaslow." He'd said the same words to her before but this time the sound of his voice sent a ripple of pleasure up her spine. Apparently male pulchritude could make a fool of even the most unlikely of women.
"Can't wait to get your hands on my filing system, can you, McKendrick?"
His grin was wondrously wicked. "Among other things."
She opened her mouth to say something but the words didn't come. Quick-witted Cat Zaslow, the woman who made a living with words, was speechless.
Too bad Riley wasn't. "The bedrooms are on the second floor, aren't they?"
"Yes, but--" He turned and strode from the room. "McKendrick!" She started after him. "Just where do you think you're going?"
"Upstairs." He didn't break stride.
"Oh no, you're not." She threw herself in front of him, a perfect imitation of a human roadblock.
"That's where the bedrooms are, isn't it?"
"My bedroom, the kids' bedrooms, Jenny's bedroom, but not--and I repeat, not--your bedroom."
"You said stay out of your office. You didn't mention the bedroom. I'm six-four, Zaslow. I haven't slept on a couch since I was seventeen."
"I don't care if you sleep on the floor as long as you don't do it here." Damn the man. Damn the effect he had on her equilibrium. "I'm not running a hotel here, McKendrick. You can find your own accomodations."
He was no more than two feet away from her, so close that she could feel the heat of his body, catch the faint scent of soap on his skin. She wanted to hate him but the emotions blossoming inside her chest were something very different. Something exciting and scary and wonderful. He was pig-headed and exasperating but she liked the way the house felt with him in it. As if she'd been waiting a long time for him to come along and complete the circle.
"There's a Holiday Inn not far from the airport in Hartford," she said. "I'll draw you a roadmap."
"Afraid of something, Zaslow?"
"Maybe you should be afraid, McKendrick. I'm the one who kills people for a living."
"Good place to do it. You could hide a score of corpses in this place and no one would ever find them."
"So why do you want to stay here?"
"Call me crazy," he said. "You don't have to like me, Zaslow, you just have to listen to me."
The truth is I more than like you, cowboy, and it's scaring the daylights out of me.
\*\*\*
She had one of those incredibly mobile faces that mirrored every thought, every conflicting emotion.
"All right," she said after a long moment. "You can stay in the guest room."
"You have a guest room?"
"Of course I have a guest room."
"You didn't mention it before."
A smile tilted the corners of her mouth. "I wasn't going to let you stay in it before."
"So what changed your mind?" She was a mystery to him, a beautiful, chaotic mystery, and suddenly he needed to understand what made her tick.
"I don't know," she said, then laughed softly. "A hunch, maybe. Maybe I just felt sor--" She stopped. "Why don't you get your stuff out of the car while I find some clean sheets."
Minutes later he climbed the stairs to the second floor. His duffel was tossed over his shoulder and he lugged a briefcase and a notebook computer under his arm. The landing opened onto a long, narrow hallway that was dimly lit by a single brass lamp atop a pine table. He noticed a back staircase that probably led down to the kitchen. The doors to most of the bedrooms were closed. Small pools of light filtered into the hallway and he caught bursts of music and childish laughter. It struck him that this was more than a house. This was Cat's home. Her family's home.
And he didn't belong.
"In here, McKendrick."
He followed the sound of her voice to the second room past the staircase. The door was ajar. He was a man who felt at ease in palaces and presidential suites, but at that moment he felt singularly out of place.
Cat was seated on the bed, her long slender legs tucked up beneath her. Her son--Jack, was it?--was propped up against the headboard, his dark hair tousled and spiky. His features were rounder than Cat's, his skin ruddier. Actually he didn't look a hell of a lot like his mother except for the straightforward expression in his dark eyes. She offered Riley a smile that he felt all the way down to the bootheels. "Come on in, McKendrick. Jack has a question he'd like to ask you, if you don't mind."
Riley crossed the threshold into the boy's room. He caught the faint smell of bubble gum, dog biscuits, and modeling clay in the air. "Hey, Jack," he said, leaning against the chest of drawers to the right of the door. "Ask away."
Jack mumbled something too low for Riley to hear, then buried his face in his pillow.
"He's shy," Cat said, ruffling the boy's dark hair. "Just give him a moment or two."
Jack peeked up at him. Riley winked. The boy giggled, then buried his face back in the pillow.
"Progress," Riley said to Cat.
"Come on, Jack," she said, laying her hand on her son's shoulder. "It's time for lights out. Do you want to ask Mr.McKendrick your question tonight or can it wait until breakfast?"
"Tonight!" The boy sat up straight and met Riley's eyes. "Are you really a cowboy?"
"Sure am," Riley said, hiking up his pants leg so Jack could see his well-worn leather boots. "Born and raised in western Nevada."
The boy's dark eyes shone with wonder. "Did you have your own horse?"
Riley met Cat's eyes and grinned. "I had lots of horses but I guess my favorite was a mare named Fred."
"A mare named Fred?" Cat asked.
Jack frowned. "What's a mare?"
"A mare is a female horse," Riley said.
"You can't name a girl Fred," Jack told him sternly. "Girls have girl names."
"That's what Fred said too but nobody listened to her."
Jack had a score of questions but his mother had other ideas. "Those questions can wait until tomorrow, sweetie. It's time you got some sleep."
Jack ignored his mother. "You'll be here tomorrow?" he asked Riley.
"I'll be here."
Cat brushed a lock of hair from the boy's forehead with a tender gesture then frowned. "Oh, Jack..." Her voice trailed off and she placed the palm of her hand flat against his forehead. "I think you're coming down with something."
"He looks fine to me," said Riley.
She shook her head. "I know the signs. There's a twenty-four hour bug going around town. Jenny had it last week. I was wondering when it would hit someone else."
"You can tell all that by touching his forehead?"
"I'm his mother," she said by way of explanation. "Of course I can."
Another example of all Riley would never understand about the mysteries of family life.
"You're good with kids," Cat said a few minutes later after she'd settled the boy down for the night.
"All I did was answer his question."
"You'd be surprised how few adults pay attention."
"He seems like a good kid."
"They all are. I've been lucky."
There wasn't much he could say to that. The woman lived in the middle of insanity and she felt lucky. And what scared him the most was that he understood why. All evening he'd been trying to quantify the way he was feeling, to find a name for it, some way to identify and catalog the odd rush of sensation he experienced every time he looked at her, but the words were just beyond reach.
He hoped they stayed there.
"This isn't the most masculine room in town," Cat said, as she showed him to a room at the opposite end of the hallway, "but we weren't expecting a cowboy."
"Long as it's got a bed," Riley said with confidence. "Flowered wallpaper doesn't bother me."
"Well," said Cat , cautiously, "it's a bit more than flowers on the wallpaper."
She flung open the door and switched on the light.
"Hell, no!" Riley stepped back. "No way."
"I decorated this during my retro Laura Ashley phase," she said. "I admit I might have gone a tad overboard."
"Overboard?" He stared at the profusion of deep pink roses on the bedspread, the walls, at the windows, strewn across the chaise longue, and massed in pots on every available flat surface. "Lady, this is one for Ripley's Believe It or Not."
She lifted her chin and he admired the stubborn set of her jaw. "I never claimed to have good taste. When I like something, I like it all the way."
He peered cautiously into the room. "You like roses."
"Very perceptive," she said, that stubborn jaw softening. "I love roses."
He stepped into the room and tossed his bags down on the bed. "Good thing I don't have allergies. The power of suggestion could put you in the hospital."
"You'll find both the closet and the bathroom through that door," she said, pointing.
"More roses?" he asked, hoping against hope.
"More roses." A wicked smile played at the corners of her mouth. "Don't worry, McKendrick. I don't think Laura Ashley wallpaper has a negative effect on a man's testosterone level."
"Feel like putting that in writing?"
Their eyes met and to Riley's surprise they both started to laugh. She had a great laugh, not one of those polite exhalations of breath, but a full-bodied, lusty laugh that made him wonder if she laughed like that in bed.
"It's this or the family room sofa," she said. "Your choice."
He unzipped his duffel. "I'll manage."
She backed toward the door. "I'll get you an extra blanket."
"Don't bother."
"It's no bother. This is an old house and it gets very cold at night."
"I'm hot-blooded," he said. "The cold doesn't bother me."
"Lucky you," she said after a moment. "If you need anything, I'm next door."
"I'll remember that." His blood shifted. He wouldn't be able to forget that if he tried.
She made to leave then turned back toward him. "We get up early around here. I hope the noise doesn't--"
"It won't. I get up at five."
Her eyes widened. "Every day?"
"I run."
"You really are organized, aren't you?"
"You've got to practice what you preach."
"You might have met your match in the Zaslow household."
"I don't think so."
"You're outnumbered," she pointed out.
"By this time tomorrow that won't matter."
"You think a lot of yourself, don't you, cowboy?"
"I know what I can do."
"We're a rowdy bunch."
"I've seen worse."
She grinned. "By this time tomorrow that won't matter."
"You'll thank me, Zaslow. In two days I'll have your life on the right track and you'll wonder how you ever managed without me."
She knew a challenge when she heard one. Her eyes flashed fire but the fire was tempered by a sense of humor that was obviously as much a part of her as her long legs and high cheekbones. "Cowboy, I'll--"
"Mommy!"
They both started at the sound of the little girl's voice from the hallway behind Cat.
Cat swung the Sarah up into her arms. "What's the matter, honey? Bad dream?"
The child shook her head. Her eyes, as blue as Cat's, were fixed on Riley. "Go home," she said, then buried her face in Cat's shoulder.
"That isn't nice, Sarah." Cat's voice was firm. "Mr. McKendrick is our guest. What did I tell you about we're supposed to treat guests?"
The little girl mumbled something but Riley couldn't understand a word of it.
"She said, 'Be polite,'" Cat explained, reading his mind.
Riley wanted to tell the child not to worry about it but he knew he was out of his depth. This was definitely Cat Zaslow's territory.
Cat kissed her daughter's chubby hand. "Don't you have something to say to Mr. McKendrick?"
The child burrowed her face deeper into Cat's shoulder.
"Sarah." Cat's voice was firm but still loving. He wondered how she managed to do that. It was a sound he'd longed for as a child. It must come with childbirth or something.
Sarah turned her head slightly until he could just make out her delicate features. "I'm sorry. You don't have to go home."
"Thank you," he managed. The lump in his throat made it hard to say much more.
Cat smiled at him and for the first time in his life he wanted the one thing he knew he could never have.
A home.
A family.
A woman like Catherine O'Leary Zaslow.
Chapter Five
"Jenny!" Cat stepped in front of her friend and folded her arms across her chest. "Please, I'm begging you. You're not going to leave me alone with him, are you? I thought we were in this together."
"I don't know about you, my friend, but Dawn and I are off to Disney World." Jenny balanced her eighteen month old daughter against her right hip and rummaged through the diaper bag. "I know those plane tickets are in here some place."
"You don't keep your plane tickets in there, do you?" Cat was sloppy but even she had her limits.
"Of course I do." Jenny withdrew the ticket envelope from the zippered compartment. "Except for Dawn, the diaper bag is the one thing I know I won't forget."
Cat couldn't argue with logic like that. No mother could. "Please tell me you got your dates wrong. You leave next Friday, right?"
Jenny met her eyes. "Today, Cat." She waved the tickets at her friend.
"I could've sworn it was next weekend."
"Why would I go next weekend? The crowds are there this weekend."
"Jenny, people don't usually want to go to Disney World when it's crowded."
"It's Dawn's first time. I want her to have the whole Disney experience."
"I'll give you a raise," Cat pleaded, her level of desperation rising. "I'll double your vacation days."
"Throw in Alec Baldwin and you might have yourself a deal."
"Doesn't our friendship count for anything? How can you abandon me in my hour of need?"
Jenny--the wretch--laughed at her pain. "We both know what you need, Cat, and he's waiting for you in the living room even as we speak."
Violent heat flooded Cat's body. "Jenny! What kind of thing is that to say?"
"It's the truth. If I could've captured the sparks flying between the two of you I'd put the electric company out of business."
"I take it back," Cat said. "Go to Disney World. It's obvious you need the rest."
"Opportunities like our cowboy friend don't show up every day, Cat. If you don't rope him in, someone else will."
"Someone else is welcome to him," Cat declared in no uncertain terms. "The only reason he's here is because I intend to prove a point."
Jenny--the wretch--threw back her head and laughed loud and long. "And if you believe that, honey, you're even better at fiction than I thought."
\*\*\*
Riley ducked back into the hallway.
"Damn," he muttered under his breath. He'd always wondered what women said about men when they were together but he never thought he'd find out quite this way.
They'd been talking about him.
And you didn't have to have a degree in psychology to know Cat didn't think much of him. The woman had flat out begged her housekeeper to postpone her vacation just so Cat wouldn't be left alone with him.
Last night he'd entertained a few convoluted and highly erotic fantasies about Cat and him and a hot tub. Now he felt as if he'd been pushed under a cold shower and left there to think about where he'd gone wrong.
Tough luck, McKendrick. That's what you get for forgetting why you're here.
\*\*\*
Cat watched in dismay as her own children signed on with the enemy. The only one who hadn't fallen under the cowboy's spell was Jack and that was only because he was sick in bed with the twenty-four hour flu that had been making the rounds.
"It's not going to last," she said as the little turncoats marched off to their respective rooms to make a day list of responsibilities.
"It'll last," said Riley, sifting through a huge mound of orange index cards.
"They're having fun now," she predicted, "but just you wait until the novelty wears off. Then you'll find out what running a household is all about."
"Sit down."
She blinked. "What?"
"Sit down," he repeated.
She sat down at the kitchen table. "Better make it fast, McKendrick. I have galleys to do on my latest book."
"Your book can wait."
"No," she said carefully, "my book can't wait. That's how I pay my bills."
He plucked a stack of unopened envelopes from the wicker basket in the middle of the table. "That's the problem, Zaslow. You don't pay your bills."
She felt her cheeks redden. "Of course I pay my bills." She glanced at the postmark on one of the envelopes. "Maybe I don't always pay them on time, but I do pay them."
"Do you know what you're doing to your credit rating?"
She glared at him. "Do you know what my bank balance is?" Writing murder mysteries had proved to be extremely lucrative. "I doubt if my credit rating is in any trouble."
"Guess again, Zaslow. You have enough red flags after your name to start your own communist country."
"Very funny, cowboy, but you're not scaring me."
"Somebody should. I found three unanswered letters behind the television in the family room."
"Wonderful," she snapped. "You've proved your point. I'm a mess. Does that make you happy?"
"Happy?" He gestured broadly toward himself. "Look at me! Do I look happy?"
"Yes," she lied. "You look ecstatic. You look like you've waited all your life to find someone like me." Her words resonated in the air between them. She wished she could reach out and grab them, erase them from his memory bank, but it was too late. Her words were out there and even if her intent hadn't been provocative, the effect definitely was.
\*\*\*
The last time Riley had been at a loss for words was the time he shared a hotel employees' elevator with a topless Las Vegas showgirl named Bambi.
This was worse.
Her expression didn't waver. She didn't blush. There was no indication that her words were anything more than a flip wisecrack meant to knock him down a peg or two. But he felt those words in the center of his chest and they seemed to be growing bigger, more important, with every second that passed.
He cleared his throat. "Make a list," he said. "Write down everything you do on an average day."
"I'm the mother of five," she said. "I have no average days."
"Humor me," he said. "Write down every damn thing you do from the time you open your eyes in the morning until you close 'em again at night."
Her expression grew darker. "Not everything."
"Yes," he said grimly. "Everything."
She pushed the paper and pen away from her. "Not in this lifetime."
"All right," he relented. "Forget the personal stuff." Women got a little touchy when it came to bathrooms.
"Thank you." She pulled the paper and pen back toward her and began to write.
And write.
And write.
He paced the kitchen. He poured himself a cup of black coffee, drank it, then paced some more. Finally he couldn't restrain himself. "What in hell are you doing?" he bellowed. "The Secretary of State doesn't have a day like that."
He watched, fascinated, as she looked up at him, then looked through him as if he weren't standing there in front of her. She gave her head a quick shake as if to clear away the cobwebs.
"Sorry," she said. "A great plot idea occurred to me and I didn't want to let it slip by."
"I thought you were writing up your daily schedule."
"I was but as soon as I wrote 'load the dishwasher,' I flashed on a brilliant idea where the perp stashes the bloody murder weapon in the dishwasher with the Thanksgiving dinner dishes and washes away the evidence."
He wasn't entirely sure he liked the way her mind worked.
"You're awfully quiet," she said with a grin. "Do I make you nervous?"
"I went to Harvard, Zaslow. I know the difference between fact and fiction."
The grin widened. "Are you sure you do?"
Truth was, she unnerved the hell out of him, sitting there all innocent and beautiful, bathed in the morning sunshine that spilled through the kitchen windows. "How'd you get started writing murder mysteries anyway?"
"I found a dead body near my rosebushes."
"Right," he said, not believing her for a minute, "and a six foot rabbit on the porch."
"You asked, McKendrick."
Maybe she was telling the truth. "So what were you, a homicide detective?"
"I answered phones and typed envelopes by day and wrote freelance by night."
"Before you got married?"
"No." A shadow flickered across her face. "After David died. I'd been working as a staff reporter at Newsweek when we met but there was no way I could juggle that and full-time motherhood."
"From Newsweek to typing envelopes?"
"Money was tight and I'm not afraid of hard work."
"So where does the body come in?"
"We were still living on the lower East Side of Manhattan in David's old apartment. I was pushing Sarah in her stroller and I saw something funny behind Mrs. Mazzelli's rosebushes."
"Mr. Mazzelli?"
"Bingo, cowboy. And he was clutching the little woman's cat's eye glasses in his hand."
"You look downright nostalgic."
"I am," she said. "It was serendipity."
A beautiful woman who waxed poetic over a corpse. "So what happened after you found the body?"
"I called the police, I hung around, I asked questions. Nobody paid much attention to the little housewife with the new baby and the four rowdy little boys. Eight weeks later I sent Roses Are For Killing on to Max who managed to sell it for more money than I'd ever seen in one place in my life. And the rest, as they say, is history."
"Have you found any more corpses in the rosebushes?"
"No, but I believe we make our own luck."
His eyebrow lifted. "Meaning what?"
"Meaning I'd sleep with my light on if I were you."
He wasn't sure whether to laugh or check his insurance policy. "Admit it, Zaslow, you're not your average mother of five."
"And you're not exactly my idea of the quintessential time management expert." She made a big production out of looking him over, head to toe. She also made it obvious that her inspection was meant to get on his nerves. It didn't. He liked it. "You should have a sunken chest, a high-pitched voice, and a pocket protector."
He struck a Schwarzenegger pose. "I don't."
She swallowed. "I've noticed."
There it was again. That indefinable tug in the center of his gut. That voice in his ear that kept saying, This is the one.
Her gaze was steady as she looked up at him. His grasp on reality was anything but. Her blue eyes seemed smoky, darker than they had a moment ago. He moved closer. His blood pounded in his ears. Her lips parted a fraction. His hunger was a living, breathing force. Kiss her. That's what this is all about. Kiss her and get on with it.
\*\*\*
He was going to kiss her.
Cat knew it in her head, in her heart, in the way her blood moved through her body like a river seeking its source.
And the amazing this was, she was going to let him.
She was under an enchantment, that's what it was, some kind of erotic magical spell that made normally sane women do things their mothers had warned them against years ago. Like kissing a stranger.
And he was a stranger. Just because Max had thrown them together was no reason to think otherwise. She didn't know much of anything about Riley McKendrick. Oh, she knew the basics -- Nevada born, Harvard educated -- but she didn't know one single thing of importance about the man who was preparing to take her in his arms.
Does it matter, Cat? You know everything you'll ever need to know about him.
He held out his hand to her and she placed her own hand in his. A shock of recognition sizzled through her body, the certainty that something much more powerful than she could ever understand had brought her to this moment in time.
She stood up. He drew her into his arms. She'd wondered if she would ever know this feeling again, this powerful surge of light and heat that made everything else fade to nothingness.
Now she knew. It had been waiting deep inside her, waiting for the right man and the right moment to bring it back to painful, glorious life.
He cupped her face with his massive hands and her eyes fluttered closed. She was a strong and successful woman who prided herself on her independence but as he brought his mouth down to hers, she wondered if she'd ever truly known about the wonders the world had to offer.
Wonders as simple as a man's mouth open and hot against yours, wonders as wild and intoxicating as the touch of his tongue against your lips, seeking, demanding, urging you to open for him, forcing you to acknowledge that what was happening between you was as fierce and demanding as a force of nature--and even more untamed.
Her hands came up between them and she placed her palms against his chest. It wasn't enough. She wanted to rip past the layers of clothing until it was skin to skin, heat to heat, hunger to hunger. She wanted--
The kids! The footsteps thundering through the hall were coming closer.
She pushed Riley away, feeling guilty as sin but alive. Alive to the moment and the man and the wonder of it all and she wished she could feel that way for the rest of her life.
\*\*\*
Being a man had its drawbacks, one of which was making itself obvious as Riley struggled back to a mere mortal plane of existence. He quickly crossed the kitchen to the refrigerator and occupied himself with checking for orange juice or some other damn thing while he waited.
"We got the lists, Mr. McKendrick," said Kevin, bounding into the room with his siblings close behind, "but my sister can't write."
"Great," said Riley with as much enthusiasm as he could muster under the circumstances.
Sarah appeared at his side. "I can so write," she said. "Mommy taught me to write my name."
"You'll have to show me," he said, pretending great interest in the contents of Cat's refrigerator.
"What are you doing in there?" Ben popped up on his other side. "You're not supposed to keep the door open that long."
"You're right," he said, straightening up. "Bad example."
Like being caught making out with the kid's mother right there in broad daylight in the middle of the kitchen. If a man was looking for trouble, that was one damn good way to find it.
Cat was seated at the table. Looking at her, you'd never know she'd been anything but domestic in that kitchen. Sarah climbed up on her lap and pushed a sheet of bright yellow paper into her mother's hands. "Read my list, mommy," she demanded. She was Cat all over again and he had to smile as he looked at her.
Cat hugged her daughter as she read the list aloud. "'Feed the fish. Put away my toys. Watch television..'" She gave Sarah a kiss atop her head. "This is a great list, honey. You did a good job."
The little girl beamed with excitement. "I wrote it myself, mommy. I thought up all the words and Kevin just put them on the paper."
The boys snickered but quickly stopped beneath their mother's sharp-eyed glance. "Your sister put a lot of thought into her list, boys. I hope you did the same."
"So now what?" Kevin asked, staring up at Riley. "What'll we do next?"
He looked at Cat and their eyes locked. A look from her was worth a night in another woman's arms.
But it wasn't enough.
Chapter Six
Maybe if he hadn't kissed her she might have had a chance but the moment his lips met hers, Cat knew she was lost.
He'd kissed her the way women dreamed of being kissed, an erotic blend of tenderness and heat, of fierce need and sweet surrender that had toppled her defenses. She'd felt that kiss deep in her soul, in her heart, in every cell and fiber of her body. And she still felt it now, hours later, as she sat at her desk and stared at the mountain of unanswered correspondence waiting for her to organize it.
She'd wanted him more in that moment than she'd ever wanted anything or anybody in her entire life. Nothing else had mattered, not reason, not sanity, not the fact that they were quite probably the most mismatched couple in the United States and destined to remain so.
She sat there in her office, oblivious to the steady hum of her computer, and considered the situation. The man had ice water in his veins. The kiss had been his idea, but if it had meant one blasted thing to him, you'd never know it by the way he'd been acting ever since. A split second before the kids burst into the kitchen, they'd broken apart, and instantly it was as if the kiss had never happened. Cat had looked deeply into his green eyes, searching for a clue, a sign, anything that would indicate he'd felt a fraction of the wonder she'd found in his arms but there was nothing.
The rat.
Missy and Taj, two of her housecats, leaped up onto the desk, sending letters and magazines flying every which way. Scooter, who'd been sleeping at her feet on a bed of manuscript pages, grumbled loudly then lumbered off to find another place to nap. She hoped it was on top of the cowboy's pillow. Scooter drooled. It would serve him right.
The louse.
She ripped open a few sweepstakes offers from Publishers Clearing House and managed to waste a good half hour affixing gold seals and labels to various locations on the entry forms, all in the name of efficiency. It occurred to her that she could be putting her time to better use but she pushed that thought from her mind. Somebody had to win these things, a fact even the anal-retentive, clockwatching Riley McKendrick should understand.
The monster.
Even her own children were turning against her. The only one who was still normal was poor Jack, and that was only because he was in bed with the flu. By tomorrow Riley would have the kid asking for a horizontal file for his birthday. She'd seen the way the other little traitors hopped to it when the cowboy barked out an order. Wasn't this how fascism got its start?
The whole thing was disgusting. With McKendrick's help they'd color-coded clothes and toys and schoolbooks, and even followed him down to the basement to tackle the dozens of unmarked boxes that had followed them from their old house, and the house before that. The same boxes Cat had assumed would follow her one day to the old age home.
Well, not if Riley McKendrick had anything to do with it. Wasn't it enough the cowboy was turning her present inside out--did he have to stick his nose into her future as well? She'd grown attached to the idea of having those mystery boxes with her to warm her in her old age.
She pushed back her desk chair and rose to her feet. She couldn't just sit there while he turned her children into little robots with calculators tucked into their lunchboxes. Her nerves were on edge, she felt like she was coming down with something, and the fact that he was pretending that kiss never happened was suddenly more than she could take. If you were going to kiss someone the way he'd kissed her, the least you could do was own up to it.
With righteous fury in her breast, she marched through the hallway and downstairs to the basement where the situation was even worse than she'd thought. Kevin, Michael, Ben, and even Sarah were sorting through boxes of old comic books, doll clothes, and toys. They even looked like they were enjoying themselves. The radio in the corner was on full blast, the puppies were playing with a pair of old baby blankets and two of Taj's kittens practiced their pouncing on shadows cast against the floor.
The pile of discards was astonishing. Board games, toy trucks, G.I. Joe, even one of Cat's old Barbie dolls. She made a mental note to retrieve Barbie later that night under cover of darkness. Some things, after all, were sacred. She watched, amazed, as Ben tossed his Spiderman Halloween costume atop the pile, followed quickly by Kevin's outgrown hockey skates. Were these the same kids who swore that even used chewing gum might be a collector's item some day?
"Hi, mom," said Kevin, looking up from his task. "Gonna have a lot for recycling next week."
She nodded. Tomorrow she'd care about recycling. Right now she only cared about justice. "Where's Riley?"
"I dunno," her son said. "I thought he was with you."
She turned on her heel and marched back upstairs, aware of her children's curious whispers.
"Where are you, McKendrick?" she muttered, peering into the living room, the kitchen, the dining room. A wonderfully delicious thought occurred to her. Maybe he was sprawled across the bed in the guest room, reading Playboy and drinking beer, while the rest of them sorted, color-coded, and alphabetized.
She took the stairs two at a time, heart pounding with anticipation. She'd catch him in the act, that's what she'd do, and she'd throw all of his annoying platitudes about schedules and discipline right back in his smug and gorgeous kisser. The thought filled her with glee as she tore down the hallway toward his room.
She flung open the door to the guest room, ready, willing, and able to face down her adversary but her adversary was nowhere in sight. She stepped inside and tilted her head, listening for the sound of running water from the bathroom but heard only silence.
Okay, so he wasn't holed up in the guest room with a can of Coors and the latest Playboy. Maybe he was in one of the kids' rooms, sticking those idiotic colored dots on their toys, the organizing tool that was supposed to make it easy to answer the eternal question, "Which one of you left the roller skate on the staircase?"
She peeked into Kevin and Michael's room. No sign of McKendrick. Same with the room Jack and Ben shared. Jack was sleeping beneath his favorite T Rex bedspread and she pressed her lips to his forehead then smiled. His skin was cool and dry to the touch and she knew it was only a matter of hours until the little boy was back on his feet. Murmuring a relieved prayer, she glanced quickly into Sarah's tiny room then was about to head downstairs when she heard a sound from the one place she hadn't thought to check.
Her room.
Righteous fury turned quickly into shock. McKendrick was not only in her room, he was in her lingerie drawer and she'd caught him with the evidence in his hands.
\*\*\*
Riley supposed it looked pretty bad, what with him standing there with Cat's underwear drawer wide open and her lacy black bra in his but the evidence was purely circumstantial.
"It's not what you think."
"Put my underwear down!" Her tone was lethal. "Now!"
"You don't understand. I--"
"I understand, all right. I understand you're a filthy skunk with a big problem."
"The dog did it."
"You can do better than that, cowboy."
"Damn right," he shot back, "but I'm telling you the truth. I caught one of your dogs playing with it in the kitchen."
"You did not."
"Remember the hall closet," Riley said. "Does it really seem that impossible to you?"
Her eyes flashed fire. "I don't care how where you found that but stop doing what you're doing right now!"
"Stop doing what?"
"That." She pointed toward his hands. "Do you have to hold it that way?"
The bra cups rested in the palm of his hand. "What's wrong with the way I'm holding it?"
Her cheeks reddened and she reached for the undergarment. "Just hand it over and be quiet."
He glanced down at the profusion of lace, silk, and cotton jumbled together in the drawer. "You'd be able to stuff more junk in there if you folded things."
"Mind your own business."
"This is my business, Zaslow, or have you forgotten the bet?"
"Touch one thing in that drawer and you're a dead man."
He kneed the drawer shut. "So what're you doing in here? Checking up on me? Afraid I'm a crossdresser and I've got my eye on your Jockeys?"
"I--" She stopped abruptly, bra dangling from her fingers like a lacy flag of surrender.
"Don't get shy on me now, Zaslow. Tell me what's on your mind."
"You." She swallowed. "I want to talk about--I mean, we need to talk about what happened in the kitchen."
"The kiss?"
She nodded. "Yes. I want to know why you did it."
"Pretty obvious, wouldn't you say?"
She gestured toward the lingerie drawer. "Pretty obvious, too, wouldn't you say? I still want an answer."
"Why do men climb mountains?" he countered.
"I don't know," she snapped. "Why do they?"
"Because the mountain is there for the taking."
"I suppose you make a habit of seducing women by the Cuisinart every day of the week."
"Trust me, lady. You'd know it if I was seducing you."
"Think a lot of yourself, don't you, cowboy?"
"When it comes to seduction I do."
"Seduction's politically incorrect."
"Not when it's done right."
\*\*\*
Cat's knees began to tremble. The man was lethal. Good thing he wasn't trying to seduce her. She didn't think her nerves could stand the real thing. "Seduction is an outdated notion, another example of male domination."
"The hell it is." He moved closer. "Mutual seduction is about as good as life gets."
"Well, there you have it, cowboy," she said with false bravado. "You weren't trying to seduce me and I wasn't looking to be seduced. Case closed."
He took another step closer. Her skin registered his heat. "There's one way to prove this, Zaslow."
Her heart caught in her throat and she met his eyes. It was there again, that look of sadness, of vulnerability, that had touched her so the first time she saw him. And once again it threatened to be her undoing.
"I can't do this." She moved away.
Moving away from him was the hardest thing she'd ever done.
His expression darkened and she stood still, scarcely breathing, while she waited for him to say something--anything--to ease the tension.
"You're right," he said at last. "You can't do this."
You weren't supposed to just give up, cowboy. He should have swept her into his arms, kissed away her fears, promised her a future together that neither believed could ever be. "It's not that I don't want to--" Her eyes stung with sudden tears.
"You don't have to explain anything to me, Cat."
"I'm not a casual woman when it comes to things like this," she said, struggling to find the words to define something she didn't understand herself. "I have a family now...the kids and--"
"And I'm not a marrying man."
"That's right," she whispered. "And you're not a marrying man." Whatever connection there was between them, it was too intense, too fiery, to be satisfied by a kiss. Or even by an affair. She wanted the whole package, the forever package, and anything less would only break her heart.
\*\*\*
He should have seen it coming. She had a great career, a family she obviously loved more than anything, and she wasn't about to throw any of it aside for a quick roll in the hay with a man who'd be long gone by the time the sun came up the morning after.
He knew he could overcome her resistance, turn up the charm, call on the old weapons of seduction and take her to bed.
And he also knew it would be the biggest mistake of his life.
Somewhere deep inside, in a place he didn't want to admit even existed, he sensed that she was the one, the woman fate intended for him.
And the hell of it was he could only break her heart.
She needed a man who could be there for the long haul. A man who would love her children the way she loved them, the way ties of blood alone made it possible to love. Family life was a mystery to him, something he could only view from the outside the warm circle of love that seemed to surround Cat O'Leary Zaslow and her children.
"The bet is cancelled," he said, his voice husky. She swallowed. "I think that's for the best."
"Give me five minutes and I'll be out of your way."
\*\*\*
"So soon?" Let him go, Cat. You know this is best for both of you. "I mean, you might as well stay for supper." She forced a smile. "Leftover turkey. How can you refuse?"
"If I leave now, I can be in Boston in time for dinner."
He turned to leave the room as a wave of dizziness swept over her with surprising force. She hadn't eaten much today. Maybe she should grab a sandwich and--
On second thought, food wasn't such a great idea. Her stomach did a backflip and she grasped the edge of the dresser.
"Zaslow?" She heard McKendrick's voice in the doorway as if through a fog of sound. "You okay?"
"F-fine," she managed, keeping her face averted. "Go get your dinner in Boston."
He placed his hands on her shoulders and forced her to turn around. "You look like hell."
There were three of him, all staring down at her with puzzled expressions on their faces. "B-bet you say that to all the girls."
"You're sick."
"...not." The room was spinning madly around the McKendrick triplets, big wide loops like an amusement park ride designed to turn adult stomachs into blenders.
"It's the flu."
"...never get sick...I'm the mother around here..."
And then she did what she'd been wanting to do from the first moment she saw him in Max's office the day before Thanksgiving.
She swooned at his feet.
Chapter Seven
"Where's Mommy?" Sarah asked for the tenth time in as many minutes.
"She's sick, stupid," Kevin said, tossing a comic book at his little sister.
"Jack did it," said Ben.
"Did not," said Jack, who was well enough to come downstairs for dinner.
"You're all a bunch of babies," said Michael. "I didn't have to go to bed when I got sick."
"Am not a baby," Jack cried. "You're a baby."
"You are."
"No! You are!"
Michael opened his mouth to speak but Riley's roar stopped him cold. "One more word and the lot of you are going to bed without dinner."
"You can't do that," said Kevin. "You're not our boss."
"Yeah?" asked Riley. "Your mother put me in charge while she's sick and I'm not taking any guff from any one of you." He put a plate of leftovers down in front of the kid. "Now eat."
You're lucky, Zaslow, he thought, taking his seat at the head of the table. The flu was a walk in the park compared with the hell he'd been through since Cat took to her bed a few hours ago. He didn't have the energy to tuck into his turkey sandwich. How did women manage this day after day? He glanced around the table at her offspring. He only counted five of them but he was pretty damn sure they had clones hiding in the closets, waiting to leap out and wreak havoc on the household.
Rock music screeched from the CD changer in the living room. The tv blared in the family room. Something round and white flew across the table.
"What was that?" he asked the guiltiest-looking kid.
"What was what?" asked Kevin, squirming in his seat.
Sarah's little lips pursed. "Mashed potatoes," she said, pointing at Ben. "He did it!"
"You little squealer." Ben lobbed another round of mashed potatoes at his sister who broke into a wail loud enough to wake the dead.
Before Riley could act, Sarah scooped up a glob of cranberry sauce and flung it in Ben's general direction.
Too bad her aim wasn't very good.
The cranberry sauce landed on his denim work shirt with a splat.
The silence in the kitchen was deafening. The five little hellraisers stared at him as if they expected him to breathe fire. Breathing fire would be one way to get these kids in line but the truth was he felt like yelling, "Food fight!" and grabbing for the cranberry sauce himself.
Instead he turned to the oldest kid. "Do you know how to work the washing machine?" Kevin nodded. Riley ripped off his shirt and tossed it to him. "See what you can do with this."
The kid dashed off to the laundry room.
"Are you gonna yell at us?" Michael asked.
Riley met his eyes. "Should I?"
The four of them looked at each other and then Ben swallowed hard. "We're not supposed to throw food at the table."
"I figured as much."
"You gonna tell our mom?"
"What do you think I should do?"
"I don't think you should tell her," Jack piped up. "Mommy's sick."
Which was all Sarah needed to hear. She burst into big noisy sobs that made Riley wish he could vanquish flu bugs with his bare hands.
"She's crying because our father's dead," said Michael in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. "She's afraid something's gonna happen to our mom."
Riley held out his hand to the little girl and she raced over to be cuddled in his arms. A crushing pain gripped his chest and squeezed hard as she buried her head against his shoulder and held on for dear life. She was so small, so much like Cat yet different and he realized the difference was a glimpse of the man Cat had loved enough to marry.
"She's a real crybaby," Kevin observed as he came back into the room. "We didn't cry that much when our first mom died."
"Your first mom?" Was it possible to hallucinate on turkey and stuffing?
"Our mom died when we were really little," said Jack, who still looked damned little to Riley's thirty-five year old eyes, "but then our dad married Cat and we were a family again."
Sarah snuffled and he handed her a paper napkin to blow her nose. "I never had a daddy."
Michael sighed loudly. "Everybody has a daddy, Sarah."
She shook her head. "Unh-uh."
"He died before she was born," Jack whispered in Riley's ear.
Riley wanted to run. He wanted to put the little girl down, grab up his car keys and duffel bag, then climb into his rented car and head for parts unknown. This was cutting too close to the bone, too close to the young boy who'd lost his parents and forgotten how to dream.
But he had a crying child in his arms and four boys who needed someone to keep them from killing each other while their mother fought the flu and so his fate was sealed.
\*\*\*
The picture albums weren't hard to find. After the kids went to bed Riley let himself into Cat's office, scanned the bookshelves, and soon hit paydirt. A woman like Cat Zaslow was bound to have enough photo albums to fill a library and she didn't disappoint.
Neither did the photos. There was the wedding album with Cat, in love and happy, and David Zaslow, beaming with pride and a sense of wonder. And of course there was a group portrait of the bride and groom with four little boys, wide-eyed and hanging on Cat's skirts as if they were afraid she'd disappear if they let go for even a second.
His eyes blurred as he opened a second album and saw Cat beaming up at him from the page, hands placed on her barely-there stomach as she posed next to a pink-and-white cradle. And there was a photo of a very pregnant Cat standing next to a thin and tired-looking David at a first communion for one of the boys. Riley didn't want to see that picture. It made the whole thing too real, too sad, but he couldn't look away. Her smile was wide and happy but he sensed her sadness, could see it in the way her hand rested protectively on her husband's shoulder, in the shadowed expression in her eyes.
He turned the page and found a death certificate in the name of David Zaslow.
And a hospital photo of a newborn baby.
You didn't have to do it, he thought. People took the easy way out every day of the week, shedding responsibilities the way trees shed autumn leaves. There were foster homes out there waiting to take abandoned children and if the kids had to be split up--well, they were young. They'd get over it.
But Riley knew better. And apparently so had Cat. Kids didn't get over it. It was there deep inside your gut, every day of your life, reminding you that you weren't like other kids. That no matter what else you did with your life, you'd never be good enough to belong to something as simple--and mysterious--as a family.
\*\*\*
By the middle of the next afternoon, Cat was back on her feet, a little wobbly but basically none the worse for the wear. She had a dim memory of Riley McKendrick carrying her upstairs...of large and gentle hands fumbling with the buttons of her shirt...and then nothing.
She took a shower, tried to make some sense of her hair, then went downstairs. She supposed it didn't much matter what she looked like or how much of her he'd seen. No doubt he'd be out the door the moment he saw she'd recovered.
She found him in the kitchen, staring out the window as he nursed a cup of coffee. Damn you, Riley McKendrick, she thought. Why couldn't he be a marrying man? She felt as if she'd been looking at him standing there in her kitchen, for as long as she could remember. As if he belonged there.
She knew it didn't make sense, that you couldn't possibly feel this way about someone you barely knew, but there it was anyway. This wild, irrational feeling that the best thing that ever happened to you was about to slip through your fingers and there wasn't one single thing she could do about it.
Not that she wanted to, she reminded herself. The last thing she needed was an alpha male in residence, poking his head where it didn't belong, trying to make her see the error of her ways.
He turned as she walked into the room. "An eighteen hour virus?" His voice sounded oddly husky and his eyes glittered with a glassy sheen. Somehow she knew tears of joy weren't responsible. "Didn't think I'd see you down here so soon."
"A special deal for mothers," she said, trying to keep her tone light. "Who has time for the entire twenty-four?" His skin looked a touch green. Temporary parenthood, she wondered, or the Danville flu. "Did the kids behave?"
"Once we established the groundrules, everything went great."
A suspicious blob on the kitchen floor caught her eye. "Mashed potatoes?"
"We had an accident."
She took a closer look. "And cranberries. Are you sure there wasn't a food fight?"
He ignored the question and posed one of his own. "When is Jenny coming home?"
"Tonight."
"And you're feeling okay?"
"If you're trying to find out if you can leave, McKendrick, the answer is yes. You can--" She peered at him closely. "Did you just wheeze?"
"Get real, Zaslow. I don't wheeze."
"You did it again."
"You're hearing things."
This time he didn't wheeze. He sneezed.
"I knew it," she said. "You're sick."
"The hell I am."
"The hell you're not." She reached up and pressed her palm to his forehead. "You're burning up."
"I'll grab some aspirin in Boston."
"You won't make it to Boston with a fever like that."
"I'll take my chances."
"What about the other people on the road? Think they feel like taking chances too?"
He swayed on his feet but was too stubborn to fall down. "Don't try and stop me, Zaslow. I'm out of here."
She leaped in front of him. "Believe me, cowboy, I want you out of here as much as you do but you're sick and I'm the reason why and if you think I'm going to be responsible for the highway patrol finding you in a ditch somewhere, you've got another think coming."
He sneezed again and she thought she heard him groan. "I outweigh you by a good sixty pounds--"
"Seventy."
"Whatever. You don't really think you can stop me, do you?"
"Yeah," she said, feeling her jaw tighten with resolve. "Actually I do."
\*\*\*
Riley was reasonably sure he was dying. His head hurt, his eyes watered, his throat felt like a golfball was lodged inside it. He wanted to crawl into a dark cave and stay there until he either died or recovered and at the moment the former seemed a hell of a lot more likely than the latter. Somewhere in the recesses of his fevered brain was the memory of Cat's slender body as he'd stripped her of her clothes and bundled her into a nightgown but he was too damn sick to savor it.
The last time he'd found himself in bed at three o'clock in the afternoon he'd been in Sweden with a long-legged blond who didn't believe in forever-after any more than he did.
Told you so, McKendrick. You should've made a break for it while you still had the chance.
Soon as he'd heard Cat puttering around upstairs, he should've grabbed his duffel and car keys and left temptation in the dust.
Because this was the ultimate temptation.
Real life. A real family.
A woman who could make him believe in happy endings.
It's the fever talking, McKendrick. You're dreaming...you came into this world alone and that's how it was meant to be.
But he'd had a glimpse of something else, of possibilities, and those possibilities scared him more than skydiving without a parachute.
He sensed someone standing by the bed and he opened one eye.
Sarah stood near his head, carrying a half-filled glass of orange juice. "Mommy says you should drink this."
He leaned up on one elbow and squinted at the little girl. "You carried that all the way up here by yourself?"
She nodded, obviously proud of her accomplishment. "I poured the juice but it was too full so I had to drink some of it."
"That's real nice of you, Sarah." She handed him the glass and he drained it in one gulp. "Thank you."
He leaned back against the pillow, wondering if you could be sick as a dog and macho at the same time, then decided he felt too lousy to care. The little girl wouldn't care if he looked pathetic. Sarah didn't move a muscle. He closed his eyes, counted to twenty, then cautiously lifted one lid a fraction of an inch.
"I see you," said Sarah. "I knew you weren't sleeping."
"No," he said, "I wasn't sleeping but I'm real tired."
"When I'm tired Mommy reads me a story and I fall asleep. I could read you a story."
Bedtime stories, he thought with a lump in his throat that had nothing to do with the flu. Who did Cat Zaslow think she was, Ma Walton or something? Nobody read bedtime stories to their kids any more. They sat them down in front of the television or shoved a Nintendo control in their hot little hands. This whole thing was getting more dangerous by the second.
Before he had a chance to say thanks but no thanks, the little girl sat herself down on the foot of the bed. "I can't read yet," she said primly, "but I 'member what I hear. Do you have a best story?"
He shook his head. He didn't trust his voice.
"Okay," she said with a smile just like her mother's, "then I'll tell you my best story. Once upon a time there was a man that lived all by himself in the woods. The man didn't have anybody to love him, not even a dog." Her big blue eyes widened. "That's a sad story, isn't it?"
"Yeah," he managed. "Very sad."
"Anyway, the man was all by himself until one day he heard a lady singing in the woods and he--"
\*\*\*
The onslaught went on all day. First it was Sarah and her happily-ever-after stories. Then it was Ben with updates on local football games. Jack found his way upstairs with a bowl of chicken soup and crackers. Kevin brought a dish of vanilla ice cream and the Hartford Courant and Michael set up a radio and cd player on the nightstand so Riley could listen to one of those "...old peoples' stations..." that played ancient music from the 70s and 80s.
To Riley's surprise he found he liked the kids' visits, liked them almost as much as he liked the kids themselves. They were smart and funny but more important than that they seemed to care about each other and the people around them. And Riley had a feeling he knew exactly where they'd learned it.
From Cat.
The one person who never so much as popped her head inside the door to see how he was doing.
Big deal, McKendrick. By this time next week you'll have forgotten she even existed.
He wasn't about roots or settling down or getting mixed up with a widow with five kids, all of whom had somehow managed to worm their way into his heart.
But hell. He'd get over it. He'd never met a person he couldn't walk away from.
He dozed a little in the early evening then awoke to the sound of voices and laughter downstairs. He lay still, listening. Apparently Jenny and Dawn had returned from Disney World, bearing gifts and stories and hugs for everyone. And an unexpected traveling companion. A familiar male voice rose above the din.
Max?
He sat up straight. No doubt about it. He'd know Max's voice anywhere.
Maxwell Bernstein, confirmed bachelor and lover of freedom, was down there talking about Disney World as if he'd done a power breakfast with Mickey. Unbelievable. The Max he knew would rather be staked to an anthill.
Was the whole damn world going crazy on him?
\*\*\*
"You're engaged!" Cat burst into tears as she hugged Jenny then Max. "I can't believe this!" The clues had been right there in front of her eyes all the time and even then she hadn't seen it coming.
Jenny's eyes glowed with that radiance reserved for lovers and madwomen. "He rented a Lear jet and flew down to Disney World to propose," she said. "Can you imagine? There I was, standing on line for Pirates of the Caribbean and this wonderful man swooped down on me with three dozen red roses and this." Jenny extended her left hand where a brand new diamond ring glittered.
"Wow!" Cat shot Max a look. "Now I know what you do with all you the money you've made off me."
Max looked sheepish, proud, and disbelieving. "I saw Riley's car in the driveway. Go get him. We'll call in for pizza and celebrate."
"I'm not getting him," said Cat.
"I knew that stupid bet would backfire," said Max.
"The bet didn't backfire. It's just over."
"You should've just let me hire him to help you out. That would've solved everything."
She thought of how right it had felt to be in his arms and heat flooded her cheeks.
"That wouldn't solve anything, Maxie. Look at her!" Jenny beamed at Cat, eager to believe in hearts and flowers and all things romantic. "I knew you two were soulmates when you had that fight about the hall closet. Riley was the first man I've ever seen who could stand up to you, Cat."
"Stand up to me? I'm very easy to get along with." She glared at her friends. "I saw that look."
"You're a formidable woman," Max said with an amazing display of diplomacy. Love apparently did work wonders. "But the one thing you're not is easy to get along with."
"That's why Riley McKendrick is so perfect for her," Jenny said as if Cat weren't standing right there. "He can put her in her place."
"Sorry to disappoint you," Cat said, unable to control her temper, "but he didn't put me in my place. I put him in his place."
Max glowered at her. "You didn't poison him or anything, did you?"
"For heaven's sake, Max! I write about murders, I don't commit them. He's upstairs with the flu."
"Oh, the poor man," Jenny cooed. "How terrible for him."
"The kids have been catering to him like he was a deposed king," Cat said in a surly tone of voice. She heard the back door swing open then slam shut. "He's probably sent one of them out for champagne."
"I'm going up there to talk to him," Max said, starting toward the staircase. "All you two need is a push in the right direction."
"Max!" Cat grabbed him by the back of his Armani jacket. "Talk to McKendrick and you die."
"Don't pay any attention to her, Maxie," Jenny said. "One day they'll thank us."
Max broke free and bounded up the stairs with Cat and Jenny and baby Dawn in hot pursuit.
"Mom!" Jack yelled from downstairs.
"Not now, Jack!"
"Mo-o-m! It's important."
"In a minute," she hollered back, wondering if she could make a running leap and stop Max before he reached the guest room door.
Who would've figured her intellectual agent was a closet sprinter?
"Wake up, McKendrick!" Max roared as he raced down the hallway, just beyond Cat's reach. "I'm here to show you the error of your ways."
"I'm going to kill you, Max," Cat muttered. "So help me, I'm--"
"Mommy!" Sarah burst from her room and threw herself in Cat's arms. "Riley's gone and he didn't even say goodbye!"
Chapter Eight
"Are you sure you don't want to come with us?" Jenny asked Cat the next afternoon. "We're driving out to the Christmas tree farm."
Cat made a Scrooge-like face. "Not this time."
"You should come with us," Jenny urged. "You can't sit around moping all day."
"I'm not moping."
"You miss him, don't you?"
"Absolutely not!"
"You can tell me the truth, honey. Love is nothing to be ashamed of."
"Go chop down a Christmas tree, Jenny, and leave me alone." She intended to take a long hot bubble bath and try to forget the world existed.
"Riley will come back," Jenny said, ignoring her warning scowl. "He's crazy about you." She spread her arms wide. "He's crazy about all of us."
The minivan's horn bleated.
"Your future husband is waiting," Cat said, glancing around at the three huge bouquets Max had had delivered to Jenny that morning. "Maybe he needs to rob another florist."
"Oh, Cat..."
"Don't mind me," Cat said. "I'm not feeling terribly romantic today. You and Max go and have a good time. If he can survive an afternoon with six kids in tow, marriage should be a piece of cake."
"It's good practice." Jenny dimpled. "We intend to have five brothers and sisters for Dawn as fast as we can."
Cat thought of double the chaos and shuddered. "Please tell me you'll find your own house to live in."
"Call Riley," Jenny said, edging toward the door. "What can it hurt?"
"I can't call him," Cat said as the door closed behind her friend. The man had no office, no home, nothing but a series of e-mail addresses and cellular phone numbers. Besides which she'd rather die than let the rotten coward know her heart was breaking.
She watched from the window as the minivan backed down the driveway. Normally she loved the rare times when she had the house to herself--probably because it happened so rarely. Today she felt as if the silence was mocking her, reminding her of how empty the house was without the people she loved in it.
You wouldn't think a weekend could change a person's life. A handful of days and your whole world was turned upside down and there was nothing you could do to make it right again.
Whatever had happened between her and Riley McKendrick had been an aberration, some strange chemical reaction that defied reason. And it had ended as abruptly as it had begun, without even the chance to say goodbye.
To her dismay the kids felt it too. They'd moped around all day, acting like they actually wanted to clean their rooms and fold their underwear. She'd blessed Jenny and Max into eternity when they suggested driving out to visit the Christmas tree farm.
It wasn't love, she thought as she turned away from the window. Just the sound of the word was laughable. She refused to believe an entire family could fall in love with someone just like that. Maybe Riley was some kind of cowboy wizard who'd cast a spell on the lot of them, making them believe they couldn't be happy again unless he was part of their family.
What a fool she'd been to be swayed by the loneliness she'd seen in his eyes. What an idiot to think for one second that a man like McKendrick could ever be happy in the middle of her big, boisterous family. He was a loner. He traveled through life with as little baggage as possible. Men like Riley usually ran at the first sign of big-time commitment.
Which, all things considered, was exactly what he did when he disappeared down the back stairs and vanished without a trace.
The thing to do was stop thinking about him. Hadn't he said it himself, that he wasn't a marrying man and never would be? Only a madwoman would willingly give her heart to a man like that. And no mother worth her salt would risk her children's hearts.
Better to drown her sorrows in Mr. Bubbles than spend another second thinking about what might have been.
\*\*\*
"Are you sure, sir?" The florist looked askance at the tally. "You've bought every rose in the store."
"And all of the daisies, gardenias, and tulips," Riley said, handing over his credit card. "Do you have any orchids or some of those big fluffy yellow things?"
"No orchids, sir, and we're out of mums." The florist ran the card through the cash register. "Now where shall we send these?"
"Nowhere," said Riley. "I'm taking them."
"Sir, you can't possibly take all of these flowers. You'd need a van."
"I have a van," said Riley. And it was already half-filled with flowers for the woman he loved.
\*\*\*
Cat had just settled down beneath the bubbles when she heard a car crunching up the driveway. Actually it sounded bigger than a car, more like a van or delivery truck. Jenny and company should have been happily chopping down Christmas trees by now, doing their utmost to wreak havoc on the environment.
Fed Ex, she wondered. Maybe UPS. Well, whatever they were delivering, it could wait. Her bubble bath couldn't. Some things in this world were sacred and, for Cat, Mr.Bubbles was one of them.
Besides, was there a better place to brood about the fact that Riley McKendrick was an arrogant, obnoxious stinker of a man who didn't even have the guts to admit he didn't want to spend the rest of his life alone.
"Wimp," she said out loud. Bathroom acoustics were wonderful for singing old Beach Boys songs and talking to yourself. "Coward."
"What was that?"
She jumped at the sound of the cowboy's voice. The acoustics were great but they weren't that great. They couldn't make you hear things that weren't there. She slid back down into the bubbles as a red rose whizzed through the door and landed on the edge of the tub.
Cat stared at it the way she stared at spiders that had the nerve to invade her domain.
"Jenny?" she called out. "I don't think this is very funny. If you--"
Another rose flew through the door followed by a lush white gardenia, two cherry red tulips, and a trio of daisies that landed on top of her head.
"I'm trying to take a bath in here! You can just take your boyfriend's flowers and--"
"And what?"
She couldn't see him for the masses of flowers that filled the doorway. American Beauty red, pale pink, Texas yellow roses. And masses of daisies. How could he have known daisies were her favorite flower? Gardenias with their beautiful, haunting scent. Tulips out of season--
Good grief. She was naked.
"Go away!" The bubbles were bursting, the towels were out of reach, and he showed no sign of paying one bit of attention to her demand.
"Not this time," said the cowboy, peering around the huge armful of blossoms. "I did that once and it was the biggest mistake of my life."
"I'm in the bathtub, you fool!"
He didn't hesitate. He didn't bat an eye. He just kept on walking right toward the tub. "Don't I have the right to privacy in my own house?" You don't want privacy, Zaslow, you know you don't want anything but him...
"We'll talk privacy later," he said in the sexy drawl that inched her body temperature up a degree. "Right now I want to talk marriage."
She gasped then started to laugh as he tossed yellow tulips and red roses, daisies and gardenias into the tub. And then she stopped breathing when he plucked a white gardenia from the bubbles and placed it in the cleavage between her breasts. "Have you lost your mind?"
"No," he said. "I just found it."
"You can't walk out on a person one day then walk back into her life the next."
"I didn't walk out, Zaslow, I ran. I've never been in love before and it scared the hell out of me."
"Oh, cowboy..."
And that's when Riley knew he'd finally come home.
It was all there in that one word, everything he wanted to know, everything he needed to hear. The power and the wonder of love, the miracle of family life, right there for the asking.
He dropped to one knee next to the tub and took her wet hand in his. "Damn it, Zaslow, It all comes down to this: I don't want to live my life without you in it."
She met his eyes. He did his best not to peer beneath the vanishing bubbles. "You said you traveled light, cowboy, and I'm the mother of five."
"I know," he said, grinning as she rearranged rose petals around some very interesting terrain. "I got lucky."
"Family life isn't for cowards. I love you, Riley McKendrick, but I want forever from you or I don't want anything at all."
Flowers and pretty words didn't mean a damn in the scheme of things. He couldn't play it safe, he couldn't hold back. He had to love her the way she needed to be loved, the way she deserved to be loved, or he didn't really love her at all.
Her beautiful blue eyes were wet with tears. "Five kids, fourteen pets, and a lifetime commitment. Most men would run for their lives."
"No more running," he said. "No more traveling light. I want it all, Zaslow, everything you are, everything you ever will be. Kids, pets, housekeeper, Max, that damn guest room, the way you keep your filing in a laundry basket and your laundry in the filing cabinet--"
"Yes."
It took a second for the word to register. "Yes?"
"Yes!"
He stripped off his leather jacket and tossed it to the floor.
"Riley," Cat said with a soft laugh, "what are you doing?"
He started to undo the buttons on his shirt.
"You aren't...I mean, you can't..."
"Sure I can."
"What if the kids come home?"
"They won't. They'll be out for hours."
"You can't be sure of that."
"I spoke to Jenny. I'm sure."
"Of all the sneaky--"
He kissed her.
She sighed. "Of all the wonderful--"
He kissed her again.
"Oh, cowboy," she breathed as he climbed into the tub with her, clothes and all. "What took you so long?"
Author's Note
Readers are everything.
Seeing your name in print is terrific. Good reviews put a smile on an author's face.
Royalties help keep the wolf from the door. But the absolute best thing about being a writer is being read.
Knowing that your words are making someone you're not even related to happy. Knowing that your story is helping to make a bad day better for a stranger who needed to escape for a few hours. Knowing that the imaginary friends you've spent the last few months with are out there in the world becoming just as real to a reader you'll never meet but know and love just the same.
See what I mean?
Readers are everything.
So this one is for the wonderful readers (and knitters) who have taken time over the last few years to let me know how much they enjoy my books.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
And if you're new to my work, welcome. I hope you'll check out the other titles and let me know what you think.
Happy reading!
Barbara Bretton
Other books by Barbara Bretton that you might like
Historical Romances
Jesse Reardon was the king of Silver Spur, a rough Nevada boomtown where he called all the shots. But then one hot and dusty afternoon, beautiful Boston socialite Caroline Bennett stepped off the stagecoach determined to avenge her father's death and claim what's rightfully hers: the Crazy Arrow saloon and Jesse Reardon's untamed heart.
Find a sample here.
FIRE'S LADY
Beautiful, young Alexandra Glenn has been sent across the ocean to East Hampton to help restore the early paintings of renowned American Impressionist Andrew Lowell. Her excitement at the prospect of working with the aging master is quickly dimmed when she is confronted by Matthew McKenna, Lowell's mysterious houseguest and protector, who seems determined to drive her away.Danger lurks everywhere in the cottage by the sea, fueled by dark secrets and a need for revenge that reaches from beyond the grave and threatens Alexandra's very life. Is Matthew McKenna her sworn enemy or the only person she can trust?But on a starry night on a desert beach in her enemy's arms, Alexandra's suspicion turns into a fiery passion that not even danger can extinguish.From the golden meadows of Provence to the moonswept beach of East Hampton to the glittering mansions of San Francisco, Alexandra follows her heart to claim her destiny in the arms of the man she loves.See the video teaser at eBook Discovery or find a sample here:
\*\*\*
The Sugar Maple Chronicles
Paranormal romance with mystery . . . and knitting!
USA Today bestselling author Barbara Bretton has always enchanted readers. But this time, she really casts a spell in a new series of magic and murder weaving its way into the lives of New England's most unusual town--and most unique knitting store . . .
Sugar Maple looks like any bucolic Vermont town, but when the tourists go home it's a different story--inhabited as it is with warlocks, sprites, vampires, witches, and an ancient secret. And I know all about secrets. I'm Chloe Hobbs, owner of Sticks & String, a popular knit shop where your yarn never tangles, you always get gauge . . . and the knitter sitting next to you comes out only after dark.
I'm also the sorcerer's daughter--a single sorcerer's daughter with Sugar Maple's future in her hands which means the whole town is casting spells meant to help me find Mr. Right. Who'd have guessed I'd find him in Luke MacKenzie, a cop investigating Sugar Maple's very first murder? Bad news is he's 100% human which could spell disaster for a normal future with a paranormal woman like me--in love, in danger, and in way over my head.
Click here to read Chapter One.
From "a master storyteller" (Booklist (starred review) comes more magic, knitting, and love in the delightful follow-up to Casting Spells.
Knit shop owner and sorcerer's daughter Chloe Hobbs felt the Fates finally got it right when she met Luke MacKenzie. And no one could have convinced her otherwise---including the trolls, selkies, or spirits who also call Sugar Maple, Vermont, home. But then out of nowhere Luke's ex-wife suddenly shows up, claiming to see the spirit of their daughter, Steffie---a daughter Chloe knows nothing about.
Steffie's spirit is being held hostage by a certain Fae leader. And if Chloe weaves a spell to free her spirit, her nemesis will also be free---free to destroy her yarn shop and all of Sugar Maple. But if she doesn't, Steffie won't be the only one spending eternity in hell. Chloe'll be joining her, cursed with a broken heart.
Click here to read Chapter One.
Readers love to visit USA Today bestselling author Barbara Bretton's Sugar Maple. There's just one problem-it's fallen off the map!
Chloe is always losing things-but an entire town? Just when she was about to settle down in Sugar Maple with her soulmate Luke MacKenzie, her Fae enemy Isadora strikes, and her new hometown is gone. Even the Book of Spells, her lifeline to magick, can't help her now. Just in the nick of time, her friend Janice roars up in Chloe's ancient Buick with Penny the cat and her yarn stash in tow. If she is going to save her home she has to go back to Salem, where family secrets and centuries-old feuds pull her into the fight of her life.
Click here to read Chapter One.
SPELLS & STITCHES
In the latest novel from the USA Today bestselling author, raising a baby is hard, but raising one with magical powers is even harder...
Sugar Maple, Vermont, knitting store owner Chloe Hobbs couldn't be happier about her pregnancy. But with the arrival of the town's newest resident, things are about to get a lot more magical.
Baby Laria is six pounds, eleven ounces of perfect, and Chloe and Luke are over the moon. But when they learn that Laria takes after her mom in the sorcery department, it becomes clear that their baby might have more power than even a pro like Chloe can handle...
Click here to read Chapter One.
CHARMED - a Sugar Maple e-book short story
Can you keep a secret?
Growing up in Sugar Maple, Vermont, knit shop owner and sorceress-in-training Chloe Hobbs learned to keep a secret before she learned to tie her shoes. When your town is home to werewolves, vampires, trolls, sprites, and everything else the real world claims doesn't exist, you learn quickly how to hide in plain sight.
And now she's keeping the happiest secret of her life: she and 100% human chief of police Luke MacKenzie are going to have a baby.
But when a quiet young knitter at an afternoon workshop blurts out a warning about Chloe's unborn baby girl, Chloe and her magickal friends quickly discover just how hard it is to keep the biggest secret of all.
Click here to read a sample
BARBARA BRETTON is the USA Today bestselling, award-winning author of more than 50 books. She currently has over ten million copies in print around the world. Her works have been translated into twelve languages in over twenty countries and she has received starred reviews from both PUBLISHERS WEEKLY and BOOKLIST.
Barbara has been featured in articles in The New York Times, USA Today, Wall Street Journal, Romantic Times, Cleveland Plain Dealer, Herald News, Home News, Somerset Gazette,,among others, and has been interviewed by Independent Network News Television, appeared on the Susan Stamberg Show on NPR, and been featured in an interview with Charles Osgood of WCBS, among others.
Her awards include both Reviewer's Choice and Career Achievement Awards from Romantic Times; a RITA nomination from RWA, Gold and Silver certificates from Affaire de Coeur; the RWA Region 1 Golden Leaf; and several sales awards from Bookrak. Ms. Bretton was included in a recent edition of Contemporary Authors.
Barbara cooks, knits, and writes in New Jersey.
How to contact Barbara:
Ravelry -- Wickedsplitty

