Million Dollar Dilemma. Judy Baer
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I opened my hand, and the sack dropped to the floor. The cage inhabitant howled loudly, but the gorgeous Mr. Mystery Man didn’t even flinch.
His unsettling eyes were the color of espresso, and the look he gave me was as disquieting as if he’d pumped pure caffeine into my nervous system. But if he meant to scare me off, he’d met his match. I’d come too far into my folly to turn back without attempting to save face. Besides, I’d traveled in far more hostile environs than these. Anyone who has spent months calling on parishioners who haven’t darkened the door of a church since Nixon was president would understand. If my neighbor meant to intimidate me, he’d have to try harder than this.
“No problem.” I looked around, trying to think of something friendly to say before I made my departure on my own terms. The walls of books and heavy leather furniture were masculine and inviting. Ernest Hemingway would have felt right at home.
“It’s very cozy in here. Much more comfy than my place. Lots larger, too. I haven’t seen you before. You must travel a lot.”
My mouth overfloweth. James 1:26, Cassia, James 1:26!
If you claim to be religious but don’t control your tongue, you are just fooling yourself, and your religion is worthless.
“Let’s just say I have enough frequent flyer miles to take free vacations until I’m a hundred and five.” He seemed amused. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to let Pepto out of his cage, and it might be a good idea if he didn’t see any strangers until he’s reacquainted with the apartment.”
“Pepto?”
He actually smiled. “After the Pepto-Bismol case in which I found him hiding. He was the king of unwanted strays, fighting, romancing the ladies and living off food from the garbage can outside my bedroom window. I brought him in and fed him in order to shut him up so I could get a decent night’s sleep. Somehow, in the process he adopted me.”
I had one of those Awwww… moments. “How sweet!”
He eyed me as if I were as loony as Pepto. “Right. Sweet. A regular Lion King. I’m going to let him out now, so you might want to step behind a piece of furniture just in case. Or, safer yet, close the front door behind you.”
At first I thought he was kidding—about the danger, at least. I knew he was dead serious about my stepping out the door. But before I could get to the entrance of the apartment, he lifted the pin on the travel crate and Pepto was rereleased onto the world.
A shriek that could have frozen molten lava and a brown-and-black blur of fur, teeth and claws shot out of the carrier and ricocheted off several pieces of furniture and two walls. When a floor lamp landed on its side in a clatter, the cat howled as if he’d been disemboweled and plunged himself deep beneath the couch.
I instinctively hit the floor like a ton of bricks, covered my head with my arms and curled into a fetal position to avoid the thrashing animal. When I came up for air, Pepto’s owner was staring at me with alarm. He was as cool and nonchalant as if he risked having his eyes clawed out on a daily basis.
“Are you all right?”
“I’ll let you know for sure when my legs stop shaking.” I felt my knee buckle, the one I’d hit on the floor as I dropped. “But I wouldn’t mind sitting down for a moment, Mr.…”
“Adam. Adam Cavanaugh. Please, sit.” He gestured to an antique chair that looked something like a cat itself with animal-like jaws carved into the wooden armrests and paws with claws for feet. It was upholstered in something that looked disquietingly like fur.
But beggars can’t be choosers and I was beginning to feel a little queasy. If that thing even saw Winslow… Eyeing the base of the couch, half expecting to see a claw-studded fur ball soar from beneath, I dropped onto it. Dust flew into my nostrils. How long had these two been gone, anyway?
“Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself.” I pointed my finger to the ceiling over our heads.
Something warm and melty flickered in his eyes. “I suspected as much.” The room was quiet except for the juicy licking sounds of Pepto bathing under the couch.
His reticence triggered my inner blabbermouth, and suddenly I wanted nothing more than to fill the silences with which he seemed so comfortable.
“I’m Cassia Carr. Most people haven’t heard the name Cassia. My mother told me it was Grandpa’s idea.”
Well, that was profound.
He, at least, was polite enough to acknowledge my chatter. “An interesting name.”
“Cassia means ‘spicy cinnamon.’ I suppose my red hair inspired him. I should actually consider myself lucky. Apparently I had an amazingly loud cry for a little thing, and my grandfather first suggested naming me Calliope. That means ‘beautiful voice.’”
That quirky little smile touched his lips again as I plowed on, making an even bigger fool of myself. “With Grandpa being a country preacher and all, I suppose I’m fortunate I didn’t end up as Arabelle.”
He looked at me questioningly, as if now that this thing on his couch had started to talk, he had no idea how to turn it off. Neither did I. At last, something we had in common.
“Arabelle?” Nonplussed, he folded into the faded tapestry wing chair across from me, definitely the finest example of the male species I’d ever studied, exuding comfort, rugged elegance and simplicity. A no-frills man who looked like a million bucks.
A million bucks. I’ve never really liked that term. A million bucks is a pile of ugly, lumpy money. There’s nothing ugly about this guy.
His eyes fixed on me and I inexplicably felt as though I were the most important person in the world to him, that he wanted—no, yearned—to hear every single thought in my head.
“Arabelle. ‘Calling to prayer,’” I yammered. “My grandfather did that a lot—call people to prayer, that is. My sister and I lived with him and my grandmother while my parents were overseas in the mission field.”
“And your sister’s name is…?”
“Jane.”
Much to my surprise, he burst out laughing. “Grandpa didn’t have many ideas the day she was born, I take it.”
“Apparently not.” I felt a rush of blood explode in my cheeks.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into me,” I apologized. “I normally don’t follow people around trying to find out what’s in their luggage.” I eyed the crate. “When I saw that and heard the sounds coming out of it, the first thing I thought about was Winslow, my dog. He’s big but gentle, like a stuffed toy almost. Except, of course, for his appetite. His favorite thing in the world is eating. And me, of course. And—” I couldn’t help glancing at the base of the leather couch “—cats.”
Adam lifted one eyebrow dubiously.
“Do you think that’s going to be a problem?”
“Winslow,” he echoed, as if unprepared for this onslaught of information.
“He’s named after Winslow Homer, the painter, but I considered naming him Mozart,” I yammered. “As a puppy, he loved Mozart’s Piano Concerto no. 20 in D Minor. As long as I played it, he was quiet. In fact—and I really hate admitting this to anyone because my sister already thinks I’m besotted about my dog—I leave classical CDs playing for him while I’m at work. Mostly Mozart…” My voice trailed away. “I don’t know much about music, but I do know my dog is crazy about it.”
CHAPTER 3
“Or just plain crazy,” Adam muttered as his new neighbor babbled her way to his front door.
Turning away from the sight, he opened the cupboard to see what he and Pepto would be having for supper. There were two cans of sardines, a can of tomato