Fear Familiar Bundle (119 page)

"Nor I," William said.

"I will." Darren grinned, too. "It's about time someone other than my mother accused me of doing something wrong."

"Who knows?" Kevin remarked slyly. "Chancey may decide she likes a man who exerts a little authority over her."

"She'd be a match for Mother," Darren agreed.

"That's out of the frying pan into the fire," Mary warned.

"I think I'm ready for a different kind of roasting," Darren said as he helped Kevin lift Erick to his feet. "Watching you and William tonight made me decide that I'm going to move to the city. I'm going to start my own life, before it's too late. But we'll discuss all of this later. We'd better take care of Erick."

With a nod from Kevin, they started toward the house.

William's hand restrained Mary. "Wait a minute. The ring! Where did you find the MacEachern wedding ring? It's been missing for decades."

Mary watched Kevin and Darren lead Erick toward the bright lights of Mayfair. The mystery was solved, or almost. "I didn't find the ring. Someone left it for me on the door of my room. On the chain. At first I thought it was you. But it wasn't, was it?"

"No." William caressed her cheek with his fingertips.

"Do you think it was Erick?"

He shook his head. "No, love, I don't. I think that once, a long time ago, a MacEachern fell in love with a woman with all of his heart. Slaytor was willing to risk everything to have Lisette. I think our love, as strong as the bond between my kinsman and his wife, made Slaytor return the ring."

"You think Slaytor left the ring for me?" Mary snuggled into William's arms. She couldn't be certain if he was teasing her or not. She didn't care. All that mattered was that they were together, and the future stretched before them.

"That's one thing we'll never know," William answered. He turned her to face him. "But now that we have the ring, we should return to our guests and set out the plans for a real Mayfair wedding. Then I have other matters to…discuss with you."

"Meow." Familiar closed the subject, twining about their legs.

S
O
E
LEANOR
and Peter are late. I'm all packed, got my best black suit on, and I'm ready to travel. I've avoided Mary all day. William was bad enough, but if Mary lets those crystal tears leak out of those big green eyes, I'm undone. I'd rather just walk into the sunset like John Wayne. You know, cast a big shadow and get out of town.

Damn! Here she comes, and her eyes are already red. They want to adopt me, but I'm a traveling kind of cat. Besides, I can't keep my mind off my Clotilde. It's been a long time since I've seen her, and I have this nagging kind of feeling that she needs me at home.

Ah, here comes the car. And Eleanor is as beautiful as ever. I've known some classy broads in my day, but none will ever compare to the Dame. Even Dr. Doolittle looks good to me. I must be suffering from some Scottish fever to think that.

Too bad we can't stay for the wedding. Mary's going to make a beautiful bride. And reports of Erick are that he's improving with some new type of mineral therapy. He was more than a little unbalanced, but they think they may be able to put him back on line. And Kevin and Sophie can't keep their hands off each other. It may be a double wedding here at Mayfair.

Okay, Mary, don't rumple the fur, and God knows, salt water might spot my coat, so don't drip on me. Just put me down and answer the door. That's a good girl.

"F
AMILIAR
!" Eleanor dropped her purse and knelt on the cold stone floor as the black cat darted across the room and jumped into her arms. "Let's go home."

I never really knew my father. That's a sad fact of life for plenty of youngsters in this day and age. It's not that I actually feel sorry for myself, but hiding here, on the White House lawn, I can't help but wonder if maybe I could have been the First Cat if I'd had a dad. Well, there aren't any easy answers to that one. As it is, I haven't done so bad for myself. I am sitting on the White House lawn, even if it is to spy on a young chef. Well, spy is an exaggeration. Watch might be more accurate.

I have only Clotilde, my calico queen, to blame for this predicament. That and my own tender heart, and more than a smidgen of patriotic fever. After all, how many detectives get invited to help the First Cat?

That's right. I'm here by special request of Socks himself. One of his friends is being accused of a dastardly deed, and because of his prominent profile, he can't do much to help her.

Clotilde, who visits the White House regularly with her two humans, somehow convinced Socks that I was the feline he needed for this particular job. Clotilde is such a complete charmer, and she absolutely idolizes me, if I do say so myself. At any rate, Socks sent word that he would be more than grateful for a little help with this special problem. Naturally, I agreed to help. Who could refuse the First Cat?

I had only one request. An official title. Agent 009— for my nine lives, of course. Socks was very agreeable to the idea, though like all political creatures he wanted to argue whether I actually had nine whole lives left. I suppose I might be Agent 007
1
/
2
. Jeez.

Okay, there's my signal. Socks has moved to the second floor window. He's taking a seat. His tail is twitching twice! Yes! The game plan is on. The door to the kitchen has been left open so I can enter and snoop around. Imagine, looking into the president's refrigerator. I wonder if Socks gets his daily cream in a bowl bearing the presidential seal?

I see a bright future ahead of me on the talk shows. Oprah, you'd better practice up on your kitty talk.

Time to hustle these old bones across the lawn and slip in the door. It's midnight and I have to get home before the dame wakes up and finds me missing. Eleanor gets a little overprotective sometimes. Foolish woman. She forgets that I'm the superior being.

Well, at least the security system doesn't include those horrid, slobbering dogs. At least, not yet.

Wait a minute, buster! That big black limo almost ran me down. Nobody is supposed to be arriving here tonight. Socks gave the all clear. I'd better hide right here in this old bush and watch for a minute.

The limo's car tags are covered by red mud. Red mud? This is Washington, not the Deep South. And look, someone is coming along the walkway. A very slender someone wearing a long cloak and hood. I can't make out the features, but the way she walks and moves tells me it's a woman, and some kind of woman. Unconsciously sensual. A glimpse of blond hair, chef suit under the cloak. Yep, this is my quarry. No wonder Socks is fond of her. He's a cat with refined taste.

Sarah Covington, caterer to the White House.

Uh-oh, Socks, this don't look good for your girl. She arrives, and they blast out of here like they're on the shuttle schedule to Mars. And now she's preparing to enter the premises. Did she give them some sort of signal? If so, my Trained Observer eyes certainly didn't see it.

No time for further ruminations. I'd better get in that door before it swings shut on me.

White House, here I come!

S
ARAH
C
OVINGTON
put one weary foot in front of the other as she walked the short distance from her parking space to the front door of her catering business, A Taste of the South.

She glanced down at the confectionery cake that adorned the window and felt a sudden lurch in her midsection. The idea of anything sweet made her gag. She'd eaten enough chocolate and sugar during an afternoon of making ten dozen éclairs that if she didn't see chocolate or sugar again— for at least twenty-four hours— she wouldn't care.

Pulling her keys from her pocket, she opened the door of the catering shop and hurried inside. She groaned aloud, remembering the piles of pots and pans she'd left dirty in the sink when she'd gotten the summons for some emergency assistance to the White House's head chef. Instead of cleaning her own mess, she'd gone to make cream puffs with André. She owed a lot to Chef André. A whole lot.

Trudging up the stairs, she decided to skip the dirty pans and head straight for the bath. A hot soak and some classical guitar would be the perfect capper for a long day.

Her apartment above the shop was filled with dark greens and wicker. No matter where Sarah lived, she couldn't leave the color scheme of her Mississippi upbringing very far behind. She put the plug in the old-fashioned bathtub and turned the tap on full-blast. Every day she thanked her lucky stars that Uncle Vince had found her this quaint old building to lease.

Steam rose from the water as she watched it fill the big tub. Pinning her straight blond hair in a loose bun, she sank into the water up to her chin. Eyes closed, she listened to the music.

At the sound of a knock she thought she must be mistaken. It was midnight, or later. Who would be knocking at her business door? The pounding grew louder— and more demanding. Sarah sat up in the tub and listened harder. Who could it be? Had something happened to her mother? Or Uncle Vince?

She dried quickly and slipped into a ratty, gold terry-cloth robe that had been her father's more than twenty years before. It was reprehensible, worn and faded. But she loved it. Barefoot, she ran down the stairs to the front door.

Through the glass she could see that the man who stood waiting so impatiently was dressed in a suit. He was a very handsome man, and she felt her body tense. Men were trouble, especially good-looking ones. If she never allowed herself to get involved, she'd never have to suffer the consequences. She'd spent years perfecting her defenses, but she couldn't help the jolt of attraction she felt for this stranger. When he finally saw her, he flashed a gold badge up to the window.

Sarah opened the door the length of the chain. "What do you want?" At the sight of his badge, all thoughts of his good looks had vanished.

"Are you Sarah Covington?"

"What do you want?" she repeated. For no reason her heart started pounding. There was something about the man's tone of voice, as if he were accusing her of something. She'd had enough false accusations in the last day or two.

"I'm Daniel Dubonet, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I have some questions for you."

"Do you realize what time it is?" Sarah felt her temper ignite. What was an FBI agent doing knocking on her door at midnight?

"I realize the time, Ms. Covington. I would have questioned you at four, or five, or even six or seven. But you haven't been home. Now you are. I only have a few questions, and I've been ordered to get some answers."

"I'm not answering any questions. I'm going to bed." Sarah pushed the door to close it, but his hand suddenly blocked her.

"Three people were hospitalized yesterday because they ate something you cooked. Three people out of seventy-five. Three people who were all from the same state, the same city, and the same business. The defense business. Odds like that put it beyond mere coincidence. Would you like to explain that? You can do it now, or you can do it tomorrow when I have a warrant for your arrest."

"My arrest?" Sarah's bravado and anger fell flat. "But I didn't do anything."

"Then I suggest you let me in."

Unlocking the chain, Sarah moved back from the door. As Daniel Dubonet stepped inside the shop, she was acutely aware of his height and immaculate dress. The state of her bathrobe was painful. There were holes in the elbows and the collar was so badly frayed it could hardly be called a collar.

Dubonet was giving her the once-over with a professional eye that lingered a moment too long on the exposed flesh of her neck. "If you'll excuse me, I'll put on some clothes." Face flushed a becoming pink, she hurried up the stairs before he could approve or disapprove.

Daniel Dubonet pushed an unruly strand of hair out of his eyes. Damn, but she was a lovely woman. So becomingly disheveled in that old bathrobe. He was only a little ashamed of his strong-arm tactics in forcing his way into the shop. He'd been waiting for more than seven hours to talk with Sarah Covington. As an FBI agent, this wasn't even his turf. It was because of some kind of special favor to the Secret Service that he'd been sent to question Chef Covington. A special favor he'd drawn because he was in the doghouse with his superiors for his smart mouth. He wanted this interview over and done, even if he had to do it at midnight.

He could see the wet footprints Sarah had left on the floor. High instep, he noted automatically. She'd looked so frightened when he'd said arrest. And he'd exaggerated the charges a little. Well, a lot.

He heard her return and was caught by her lack of pretense as she came downstairs in deck shoes, jeans and a sweatshirt. She hadn't bothered to unpin her hair, but a lot of it was falling down her back. She had the bluest eyes he'd seen in a long while. The distant memory of his grandmother and a song she often sang about a girl with cornflower eyes made him smile. One day, when he got ready to settle down, he'd like to know a woman who looked like Sarah. Her voice interrupted his thoughts.