Cattitude (20 page)

The next instant his thoughts flew from his
mind as he gawked at a knockout redhead wearing a tight T-shirt and
jogging pants that showcased a slender figure with the greatest
arms he’d seen on a woman, firm and sleek, with only a faint
definition of her biceps. She blinked then stared. Her lips opened
a space, giving a glimpse into the dark moistness of her mouth, as
if she were about to receive a kiss from a lover.

His testosterone rose, his irritation sank.
He smiled.

She smiled back.

The clouds rolled back from the sun. Rays
beamed down on her like a spotlight from heaven.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hello back,” he said.

They stood like that, staring and smiling. He
didn’t forget why he was here, but he pushed it back, stomped it
into quietude and focused on the pretty girl in front of him, as
fresh and sweet as a strawberry smoothie.

“Who is it?” a man’s voice called behind
her.

The redhead laughed, still looking straight
at him. “Good question. Who are you?”

“Um...um.” What was his cover story? Oh yeah.
His smile sagged. “I’m Phil Hern. I’m looking for Sorcha
Anders.”

“Sorcha? Oh, my God. This is wonderful!
Finally someone who can help fill in her memory gaps. Are you
related to her?”

A man loomed behind her. The redhead’s
husband? Phil’s chest constricted. He glanced at her left hand, and
the vise on his heart eased. No ring. Then he noticed the man’s
eyes, the same color as the woman’s, a blue as bright as the
painted lockers in Joe’s Gym. A brother. Had to be.

His gaze shifted to the redhead who watched
him with those bright eyes. He blinked and plowed ahead. “Sorcha’s
here? She has memory gaps?”

“Yes and yes. It’s amnesia.” The redhead’s
lips turned down. “She has to relearn everything. She even forgot
how to eat and read.”

“Who are you?” the man demanded.

Phil looked over the woman’s red hair into
the man’s blue eyes, sterner and more judgmental than hers. He
swallowed. Caught. The brother identity wouldn’t do. Not now when
he had an example of a real brother and sister in front of him.
Neither would his story of being with the press or the FBI. The
brother would ask for identification and Phil had a sudden fear
that with his sharp eyes he’d realize his badge had been printed by
a two-year-old inkjet that cost less than forty dollars.

Brother and sister waited expectantly as his
underarms prickled with sweat. Seconds passed and the redhead
stopped smiling, a frown forming on her forehead. Quick! He needed
to say something quick.

Only one solution occurred to him.

“I’m Sorcha’s fiancé.”

***

Max marched into the family room, and Belle
wrenched her gaze from the book she was reading. In four years, she
had never seen him look so grim. She was curled in his roomy
recliner, even though the smaller chair fit her human body more
comfortably. But if she sniffed deeply she smelled his scent in the
rich brown leather. Besides, this had always been one of her
favorite resting places, especially stretched out on his lap while
he rubbed her back and ears.

But now she was human. She sighed and lowered
the Harry Potter book onto her knees, leaving her finger on the
page. Reading books almost made up for not being petted. Hermione
was in great trouble, and Belle hoped she wasn’t going to die.

“Someone’s here for you.”

Searching her mind, she found one human word
to fit his announcement. “Huh?”

“Your fiancé.”

She knew all about fiancés. Julene on
The
Love Chronicles
was engaged to Ben, who was married to Shannon,
who had two other fiancés. She shook her head. “No.”

“You don’t remember. You have the ring—”

“I took it off.” She held up her left hand
and wiggled her naked fingers.

“You were wearing a ring. It must’ve meant
something.”

She shook her head, her mouth set.

“You have to see him.”

Her head shook again, hair whipping out. She
didn’t have to do anything she didn’t want to do.

He planted his legs apart, crossed his arms
over his chest, and stared down at her. “I insist.”

“No.”

“I’ll bring him in here.”

“Go ahead.” Wishing she could show her
unconcern by lifting her leg and licking her thigh, she settled for
giving him her I’m-a-cat-and-you’re-not look. “But I won’t leave
with him.”

His arms came down, his expression softening.
“I won’t make you leave. Not until you’re ready.”

She blinked. What was wrong with her eyes?
Why did they burn? Why were tears welling up?

“You’re going away,” she whispered.

“In nine days. By then your memory will have
returned and you’ll be somewhere else.”

Never. Never, never, ever.

“Are you coming with me? Or should I bring
him here?”

She stood and put the book face-down on the
chair, the pages open. “I’ll come. You won’t leave me alone with
him?”

He peered at her face as if she was trying to
see down into her stomach. “Are you frightened?”

“No.” Frightened of a human? Ha! But on
The Love Chronicles
, fiancés hugged and kissed, and she
didn’t want a strange man to kiss her.

Max headed out of the room. She followed him,
looking at his hair the color of the sun going down, the broad
shoulders, the lean hips, the curve of his buttocks and the long,
muscular legs.

He wasn’t a strange man. If he wanted to hug
and kiss her...

Voices came from the great room, Tory’s light
laugh and a man’s deeper tones. Max’s stride lengthened and Belle
skipped to catch up. In the middle of the room, a man was touching
Tory’s upper arm. His dark brown hair was cut short and he was
almost as tall as Max, the muscles on his arms straining against
his shirt.

“Feels good,” he said to Tory. “You’re doing
something right.”

“I’m afraid my muscles will turn to soggy
oatmeal now that I’m away from my club.”

“I can give you a few exercises to—” He broke
off, his gaze settling on Max and Belle. He released Tory and
strode toward Belle, raising his arms to hug her. “Sorcha! I’ve
been worried about you.”

She hopped behind Max, putting her hands on
his back and poking her head out. She didn’t want the stranger to
touch her. She wanted to kick him.

“Slow down,” Max said, his voice like the
first rumbles of thunder. “Slow way down. Sorcha has no memory of
you.”

“I’m Phil.” He put his hand over his left
shirt pocket and took another giant step toward her. “Your fiancé.
You remember.”

“Keep back.” Max’s muscles tensed under
Sorcha’s hands. “I warned you. You’re moving too fast.”

Phil stopped and put his hands together, as
if he were begging. She sniffed. Dogs begged.

“You want your memory back, don’t you? Come
with me and it’ll start coming back to you.”

“No.” Belle lowered her hands, gripping Max’s
ribs. He started, and her fingers tightened. She pressed her
breasts against his back. If Phil tried to drag her, he’d have to
drag Max too.

A muscle in Phil’s cheek twitched, his face
looked pale and he clutched his stomach. Belle wondered if he was
going to throw up on the rug. If he did, Max wouldn’t like it.

He looked at Max. “She doesn’t remember now,
but it’ll come back soon enough. Thanks for all you’ve done. I’ll
just take her off your hands and—”

“She doesn’t want to go,” Max snapped.
“You’re a stranger to her.”

“I can’t believe this.” Phil smacked his fist
into his palm and glared at Max like he was an enemy. Color
returned to his cheeks. “Her memory’s got more holes in it than the
ozone. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. You can’t want to keep
her here.” His eyebrows rose, his voice lowered. “Or do you?”

Max stiffened even more, and Belle wished she
could see his face.

She didn’t breathe. She wanted him to say
yes.

But that was silly. Being human was
temporary. As soon as she found Sorcha and traded bodies, she’d be
a cat again and everything would be the way it was supposed to
be.

“Yes,” Max said.

Belle’s breath whooshed out, her knees
weak.

“I’m not forcing her to do anything she
doesn’t agree to do. When she’s ready, she’ll tell me.”

“And me,” Phil said.

Max jerked his head in a nod.

Belle wondered if anyone else thought it was
odd that Phil looked at Max instead of her. If he wanted to impress
her, shouldn’t he pay attention to her? Instead, he and Max were
glaring at each other as if they were two tomcats ready to
attack.

Tory sniffed. “I smell something,” she said,
looking around.

Belle sniffed. In front of her, she heard Max
sniff, and three feet from him, Phil sniffed too. Belle frowned.
All she smelled was Max.

“What?” Max asked.

“Testosterone.” Tory grinned. “The room reeks
of it.”

Phil whooped with laughter. Looking at him,
Tory giggled, her nose wrinkling.

Phil’s laughter stopped and he swallowed, his
Adam’s apple jerking up and down. He turned toward Max again.
“Okay, she can stay.”

“Her staying here or leaving was never your
decision,” Max said.

Belle raised her chin and stepped around Max
to his side, so close their arms brushed. Why was she hiding behind
him? She didn’t need to hide behind anyone. “That’s right. The
decision is mine.”

“I’m not giving up my claim.” Phil’s jaw
jutted. “I get to visit her.”

Max looked at Belle. “What do you think?”

She shook her head. If she was alone with
Phil, he might try to kiss and hug her. Then she’d scratch out his
eyes and there’d be a big mess. The smart thing to do was not to
see him. Humans didn’t like big messes.

“You should see him,” Max said. “It might jog
your memory.”

She started to clutch at his arm, but pulled
back and put her hands behind her back. She was a strong feline, a
huntress, not a weak human. “I don’t want to be alone with
him.”

Tory ran to her and threw her arms around
her, hugging her. “I’ll stay with you when he comes. You won’t have
to be afraid.”

Belle nodded her head against Tory’s
shoulder. Being hugged by Tory felt good. But she didn’t feel like
rubbing her body against Tory the way she wanted to do with Max.
“Okay.” She wiggled out of Tory’s hold and added, “I’m not
afraid.”

“You remind me of Belle,” Max said.

“Who’s Belle?” Phil demanded.

While Tory explained to him, Belle beamed at
Max. That was the best compliment she’d had since she turned
human.

***

Caroline drove to Max’s house, energy and
confidence humming through her.
She’d needed this
two-day vacation to clear her head and remind herself of the
valuable commodities she possessed in her face and her
body.

Max had to see the difference and realize he
couldn’t leave her behind.

The sun was a red ball sinking into the
horizon, no longer blinding, and she took off her sunglasses. On
the radio, a woman sang about killing her cheating lover, and
Caroline sang along with gusto.

A dark blue Jeep swept around the bend, and
in the middle of a word she snapped her mouth shut.
Max
. Too
dark to make out details, but she recognized his height and the
shape of his head.

He sped past her.

She cried out and hit the steering wheel with
her fist. The car veered toward the edge of the road. Her breath
gasping, she grabbed the wheel with both hands and steered left.
The car straightened and slowed, and so did her agitated thoughts.
She peered into her rear view mirror, but the Jeep was gone, the
road empty.

She shifted her gaze to the road. A driveway
was ahead, and she pulled up to the grassy verge, then backed into
it. May as well go home, pour a glass of wine. Better yet, a liter
of wine.

But she lingered in the driveway. Her hands
shook. Her breath came out in puffs that hurt her chest. Her
fingers clenched the steering wheel. The hunger that had driven her
to the restaurant two nights ago was back, gnawing at the pit of
her belly. She leaned her head onto the steering wheel, sucked in
air and remembered what happened the first time she’d felt the
gnawing.

She’d spilled a bottle of nail polish on the
dress of a competitor.

She was seven years old.

She thought of the last time she’d felt the
gnawing.

She’d pushed her husband to his death.

“Hey, your problems are solved.” Ted slid a
beer across the gleaming bar top to Max.

Max scowled at Ted. The last time he’d been
at the downtown Milwaukee bar where Ted worked, he hadn’t been able
to get a seat, but that was a Saturday night. This was Monday night
and only a half dozen other customers hung around. At the end of
the bar, a blond and a brunette talked in low voices. Three
barstools to Max’s right, a middle-aged man stared into his vodka
and tonic.

“I didn’t like him,” Max said.

“You feel responsible for her.” Ted grinned.
“Like a father. Fathers never like their daughters’
boyfriends.”

Max’s scowl deepened. Any father who felt
like this about his daughter should be shot. That was part of the
problem. Hell, it was the problem. He should be glad Phil wanted to
take responsibility for Sorcha. He was leaving soon, after all.
Someone had to be there for her.

But not Phil. Not with Sorcha’s instant
aversion to him.

“Remember how you acted when Tory went out
with that guy in her senior year—what was his name?” Ted asked.
“Craig, Greg, something like that?”

“The punk with the nose ring and the
tattoos?”

“You judged him on his outside. He was a cool
guy. The nose ring and tats were the outer manifestations of his
inner turbulence.”

“Why don’t you come a little closer?” Max
asked. “I’d like to show you some turbulence.”