My Fair Gentleman. Jan Freed
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rich texture and disturbing boldness. His mind stumbled. The artist of this painting was no uptight sterile woman. Even his untrained eye detected passion in the vibrant brush strokes.
Catherine laughed uneasily from somewhere behind him. “I’m sure your father’s more interested in the practical features of the apartment. For example, the sofa folds out to a bed.”
He heard the swish of her long denim skirt. Felt the fabric brush the back of his slacks. Inhaled the scent of lush summer blooms and heated female skin. She smells like the painting looks, he thought, spinning around to confront this unforeseen threat to his plans.
She took half a step back. “It’s…it’s a brand-new mattress. Top of the line.”
Noting Allie had wandered to the kitchen, he gave Catherine a thorough inspection. Mascara smudged her left eyelid. Her nose glowed with sunburn. A tight low ponytail did nothing to flatter her narrow face. Hardly a femme fatale. Hardly a threat.
Relaxing, he slid one hand into his pocket. “Where’s Allie going to sleep?”
“There’s a roll-away bed in the closet. I’m told it’s fairly comfortable.”
“What about this thing?” He measured the sofa with a doubtful eye. “I’m not exactly petite.”
“Oh, that mattress is big enough for two and quite comfortable—” She broke off with a frown and glanced away.
Oh-ho! So that’s how it is! He jiggled his pocket change irritably. “Big enough for two, is it?” he said for her ears alone.
Her cheeks pinkened to match her lifting nose. “Three, if everyone cooperates.” She held his gaze long enough for him to feel like a fool, then walked toward the kitchen. “There’s a trick to unfolding the roll-away bed, Allie. And the pilot light sometimes goes out on the stove. How about taking the ten-cent guided tour?”
Allie’s enthusiastic nod made Joe stare. Whatever happened to “This sucks big-time“?
Ignoring him completely, Catherine glided around the apartment touching features with the grace of Vanna White turning letters of the alphabet. He’d never seen a woman move like that. So erect, yet so fluid a book on her head wouldn’t have wobbled.
They spent a long time in the walk-in closet talking about bed latches, linens and storage space. The bathroom tour drew Allie’s appreciative, “Cool.” After that Joe quit paying attention and sat on the sofa with a sigh.
For a man who supposedly understood women, he couldn’t seem to get a handle on Catherine. Take this apartment, for instance.
In his living-room experience acceptable colors ranged from beige to dark brown. Fabrics matched. Walls were covered with family photographs or framed prints. The only purple in sight was grapejuice stains on the carpet. But this…
He stretched out his legs and gazed around. This place was as foreign to him as a subtitled movie.
Now that the shock had worn off, he could tell there was a weird sort of order to everything. Somehow the green-checked sofa blended with the floralpatterned armchair. The glossy green patio table and chairs looked good against the purple back wall. Even the Mardi Gras masks hanging like pictures didn’t spook him the way they had at first. The black iron doorstop, though, would definitely have to go.
Joe examined the thing with a shudder. He hated cats. All cats. Even fake ones. He leaned forward and squinted. Stood up and moved closer. Bent down and reached out.
The doorstop opened slitted green eyes and hissed. Something gray streaked up close and bit Joe’s outstretched hand.
“Son of a bitch!”
“Romeo!” Catherine rushed forward and scooped the gray cat from the floor.
Clutching his injured hand, Joe glared at the scruffiest, ugliest, meanest-looking excuse for a famous lover he’d ever seen. Satanic yellow eyes glared back from the cradle of Catherine’s arms. At her feet, the black doorstop yowled plaintively.
She looked down, her expression softening. “It’s okay, Juliet, he’s not hurt. See?” Catherine lowered the huge gray tomcat to the floor, where he began grooming himself as if soiled irreparably by the incident.
Joe pointed a wounded finger. “He’s not hurt? I need a rabies shot, for cryin’ out loud.”
Frowning, she reached for Joe’s hand, examined his punctured skin with a small sound of dismay, then twisted toward Allie. “Honey, would you get antiseptic and bandages from the medicine cabinet please?
Crouched on the floor stroking the black cat, Allie looked up and met Joe’s stare. Traitor, he accused silently.
Her golden skin flushed. “Sure thing,” she mumbled, loping off to the bathroom.
“Romeo’s had all his vaccinations. You won’t need a rabies shot,” Catherine assured him.
“Where the hell was he hiding all that time?”
“Under the couch. He probably thought you were going to hurt Juliet. He doesn’t like men.”
“No kidding,” Joe muttered.
Bending her head, Catherine probed his wound. “Does it hurt much?”
Like he’d been stabbed with hot pokers. “Nah.”
“Such a manly man,” she said, amusement lacing her voice. “Is this my cue to swoon?”
“You wouldn’t be the first one, doll.”
Her green gaze lifted. The air hummed between them. Her shift in mood from skeptical to speculative didn’t surprise him. His fierce desire to satisfy her curiosity did.
Allie ran up, breaking their locked gazes. “Here’s the stuff you wanted,” she said breathlessly.
Catherine released his hand and reached for the supplies.
“Does it hurt real bad, Joe?” Allie’s expression offered an apology for not asking him earlier.
“Nah.” He grinned and deepened his voice. “I’m a manly ma—Ow-w-w!’
“It’s only a little iodine,” Catherine said sternly, dabbing his fingers with the stinging liquid. “Quit fussing. Manly men don’t whine.”
He dropped his chin to his chest and thrust out his lower lip in an exaggerated pout. Allie giggled. Catherine glanced up and snorted. Reclaiming his hand with a shake of her head, she set to work.
Absurdly pleased, he nodded toward the two cats now vying for Allie’s attention. “What the bell are they doing here?”
She froze, then continued bandaging his fingers. “They live here.”
His good humor fled. “Excuse me?”
“They live here,” she said louder, as if the problem were his hearing, not the cats.
“Don’t you mean they lived here?”
“No.” She finished wrapping his last puncture wound and offered a bright smile. “There you are. Good as new.”
He caught her wrist as she stepped back. “Cats weren’t part of our deal.”
“Didn’t I mention them?” She shrugged elegantly. “Oh, well, they’re so little trouble it must have slipped my mind.”
“Catherine…” he warned.
Her expression sobered, all flippancy gone. “I can’t keep them at the house, Joe. My father is allergic to cats.”
“So have the house cleaned before he comes back from England.”
“I tried that after his book tour. It nearly put him in the hospital. He’s severely allergic.”
“So keep ‘em outside.