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so she said, “I’m twenty-five.”
“That’s almost grown-up,” Molly observed.
Brooke stifled laughter. “Sometimes I wonder.”
“Gart is thirty-two,” the child offered.
“Gart?” Brooke glanced at the man beside her. “She calls you Gart?”
He shrugged. “She can’t handle Garrett, for some reason.” Kneeling before the child, he placed his hands on her shoulders. “Can you call Larry off now, Molly? That barking is driving us all nuts.”
“Yes, sir.” Snapping her fingers smartly, if silently, she said in an imperious tone, “Larry! Come, Larry! Come!”
Larry stopped yapping and cocked his head, his ears standing up straight. Then he turned and trotted back to his pint-size mistress.
All Brooke could see was the dog’s vicious white teeth and powerful jaws. Frightened, she edged around Garrett, always keeping him between herself and that creature. When the coast was clear, she darted to the fireplace to snatch Gable to safety.
The cat curled himself around her shoulder and neck, his expression indignant in the extreme. “Gee, Gable,” she murmured, rubbing his chest. “I’m sorry. It’s not my fault, honest.”
Garrett rolled his eyes. “You’re apologizing to a cat?”
The way he said cat sent a warning shiver down her spine. “Why not? I got him into this mess when I let him coax me into coming along today. Of course...” She glanced significantly at the broken glass, which was all that remained of the fire screen. “I’m not entirely to blame. Do you have any idea how much that piece of stained glass was worth?”
“No idea whatsoever.” He looked around the room. “Or anything else in this mausoleum, for that matter. What a tomb!”
“A tomb!” Aghast, she stared at him. “It’s not a tomb. It’s a beautiful Victorian mansion brimming with fabulous old treasures and priceless antiques.”
“I like young stuff myself.” His glance skimmed over her lightly but insolently, head to toe. He had the most intimate way of looking at her, as if he already knew something she didn’t. It made her wish she’d put on something more impressive than jeans and a plaid shirt this morning.
“You inherited very little young stuff,” she said tartly. “We’re old-fashioned around here. We do, however, have telephones.”
“Is that a crack?” If it was, he didn’t appear to be put off by it.
“I wasn’t expecting you until next week,” she reminded him.
“I’ve been trying to call for four days, ever since Molly and I left Chicago.” He ruffled the little girl’s soft curls, but he was watching Brooke.
“You drove?” But of course they drove. How else would they be accompanied by that obnoxious little dog now licking his young owner’s hand?
He nodded. “Had a nice time, too, didn’t we Molly, old girl? The dogs were a bit of trouble but—”
“Dogs, as in plural?” She glanced around with fresh alarm. “You mean, there’s more than one?”
“Had to bring old Baron.” He gave a whimsical shrug. “He’s a German shepherd and not nearly as noisy as Larry.”
Brooke couldn’t stifle her groan. “I suppose he bites first and asks questions later.”
Garrett frowned. “Are you trying to tell me you don’t care for dogs?”
“I’m trying to tell you that I don’t see how anybody could care for dogs. They’re big and mean and they bite people and dig holes and—” she glanced significantly at the shattered glass on the hearth. “—break things.”
“Unlike cats,” he inserted smoothly, “who are little and mean and sneaky, with sharp teeth and claws made for shredding furniture and clothes—”
“Of all the nerve!” She glared at him, instinctively clutching Gable more tightly. That ungrateful wretch responded by jerking away. Leaping from her shoulder onto the cut-velvet sofa, he proceeded to dig his claws into the upholstery even as she defended him from such scurrilous charges.
Garrett’s quick smile was mischievous. “Sorry, I got carried away. I take back the part about the furniture.”
She gave him a sheepish grin. “Apology accepted.” She added, “Stop that, Gable!”
“Can I pet your cat?” inquired an anxious little voice.
Brooke glanced from the child to the father, asking a question with her eyes. Is it all right?
He nodded. “But first let me put Larry out into the hall.”
“Good idea.” Brooke drew Molly forward. “Did you ever have a cat?”
The little girl shook her head. There was something so solemn about her, as if she didn’t laugh nearly enough. “Only dogs,” she said. “I got Larry when he was a little puppy.”
Brooke’s heart sank. Molly’s ownership would give that miserable mutt privileged status. “Cats are nicer,” she said staunchly. “Now, you must remember never to try to grab a cat. They don’t like that. You have to make them think that everything’s their own idea....”
Slowly and smoothly she reached for Gable, who permitted himself to be lifted from the couch and into Brooke’s familiar embrace. “Sit down,” she instructed the little girl, “and I’ll put him on your lap. If you don’t startle him, he may decide to stay. But if he wants to go, don’t try to hang on to him, okay?”
“Okay.” Molly sat down on the sofa, sliding back until her legs were straight out before her on the wide cushion. Carefully she smoothed her blue cotton skirt over her lap, then looked up expectantly.
Brooke leaned close to Gable’s ear. “You be nice now, you hear?” she murmured. Gently she deposited the cat on Molly’s lap.
Gable sank down like a puddle of orange pudding, turning his head to look into Molly’s eyes with a “How’m I doin’?” expression. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he began to purr.
“He’s making noises,” Molly exclaimed, looking up at Brooke anxiously.
“That’s because he likes you,” Brooke interpreted. “You can scratch his ears, if you’re very gentle, or underneath his chin. He likes that.”
“I like him,” Molly declared fiercely. “Oh, Gable!” Unable to restrain her enthusiasm, she leaned forward and gave him a big hug.
Which was way too much for any self-respecting cat. He slipped out of her embrace as quickly and easily as smoke from a clenched fist. Before she could recover, he’d shinnied up the heavy brocade drapes to perch atop a tall bookcase.
Molly looked close to tears. “Make him come back,” she pleaded.
Brooke slipped her arm around the child’s shoulders and gave her a comforting squeeze. “I can’t, honey. Nobody can make cats do anything they don’t want to do. The trick is to make them think you don’t really care, and that what you want them to do is really what they want to do.”
Garrett, leaning against the closed door with his arms crossed over his chest, gave a derisive peal of laughter. “Are we talking about cats here, or women?”
Brooke pursed her lips. “Very funny.”
“So are you, if you think I don’t mean it.”
“Are we talking about women here, or cats?”
“Touché!” His laughter this time sounded delighted. “Although I know as much as I care to know—about cats.” He gave an exaggerated shudder. To Molly, he added, “We don’t have time for cats now anyway. You said