Fear Familiar Bundle (2 page)

"Oh," she said, laughing softly. "I get the message. I should get up and wash my face, right?"

"Meow," he replied, walking out of the bathroom, his tail straight in the air.

She shook her head and got to her feet. One thing about her new roommate, he didn't have a shy bone in his body. He came in, ate, took over, and began issuing orders. It would only be for a short time, she reminded herself, but she couldn't help but notice that her comfortable apartment was even a little more comfortable with the cat around.

D
R
. P
ETER
C
URRY
stroked the black cat on the examining table, but his attention was focused upon the striking woman who stood across from him. He could see a small, fresh gash on her nose and an obvious handprint on the side of her face. Someone had manhandled her, and in the not too distant past. He examined the cat's leg again. Was it just coincidence that a battered woman would show up at his clinic with a lab animal? He wasn't a great believer in coincidence, but he had a very healthy respect for frame-ups.

"How did you select my clinic?" he asked.

"You were the closest one," Eleanor answered. "I hope that doesn't offend you, but I haven't had a pet in years. I don't know a lot about the vets in Washington, so I got your address out of the phone book. The ad said small animals. Is there a problem?"

"And you found this cat?" He watched her eyes, looking for a trace of guilt or deception. The brown eyes shot with amber highlights gazed steadily back at him, completely unperturbed.

"Yes, I found him on the campus last night," Eleanor said. "He saved…" She stumbled on her explanation, not wanting to sound ridiculous. "The cat intervened and sort of saved my life," she finished lamely.

Dr. Curry bent to examine the animal, but looked up again surreptitiously at the woman. She was poised, controlled, not a likely victim for abuse from a spouse or boyfriend. Or for criminal theft. But it took all kinds. He'd learned that lesson well enough. It really wasn't his business where she got the cat. Unless…His gaze drifted back to her bruises. Hell, she was a grown woman. If she wanted to risk her neck, that was her affair. He tried to shrug it off, but still didn't like the idea of anyone slapping that ivory skin.

His practiced hands moved down the cat, ignoring the obvious injury to the leg. He checked out ribs, internal organs, eyes, teeth, everything. A tiny nodule, hard and self-contained, stopped him at the cat's belly. Without X rays there was no way to be certain what it was, but his best guess was a BB pellet. He saw far too many animals with lead implanted in their hides. In the loose skin of the belly it wasn't a critical issue. Lucky it wasn't near the eye, he thought before he turned back to the leg. With one expert movement that barely caused the animal to twitch, he removed the catheter. He held it in his palm.

It was a common device, but something made him look at it more closely. Blood surged to his brain, and for a moment he felt a cold fury he thought he'd left behind long ago. There was a tiny nick on the tubing, a mark. It was like a brand or an initial.

"Are there scientific research laboratories at your university?" He thought for certain she'd hear the cold anger in his voice, but she didn't seem to notice.

"None," Eleanor said. "We're arts only. No medicine. Why?"

"I believe this animal has somehow escaped from a research facility," Peter said. "This is a tube used to feed drugs, or whatever they're testing, directly into the bloodstream."

Arnold Evans.

The name shot through his brain, leaving behind a fiery trail of anger. If the woman was a plant, then she might well prove to be exactly the person he wanted to cultivate. He'd waited years for such an opportunity, and he couldn't afford to lose his temper now.

Arnold Evans! His hands tingled at the thought of putting them around the man's neck.

"The life of a research animal doesn't sound very pleasant," Eleanor said. Though she had always intended to return Familiar to his home, if she could find it, suddenly she changed her mind.

"Thousands of cats are used in all types of research." Peter Curry pretended to look at the cat as he spoke, but his attention was still focused on the woman. He'd seen it, that flash of subdued anger! Maybe Eleanor Duncan
was
more than the good Samaritan she pretended to be. He'd been expecting someone like her since Arnold Evans had resurfaced in Africa. The question was, which side of the line did she fall on?

"Can you tell what type of research he might have been used for?" Eleanor felt uncomfortable. The veterinarian was giving her what amounted to an in-depth visual examination, even though he was being very subtle about it.

"Impossible to tell," Peter said. "He's healthy in every way. My guess is that he was just started as a research animal. Are you having second thoughts about taking him in?" His generous mouth formed a thin line.

"I'm not giving him back." Eleanor surprised herself with the vehemence of her own words. The vet could like it or not. "This cat saved me from an attacker last night in the parking lot, and I owe him."

Peter was surprised by her outburst. She seemed to wear her emotions as plainly as the marks on her face. He walked around the table and stopped in front of her. His hand gently touched the cut on her nose. "I was wondering what happened to you. Looks like you could use a little antiseptic on that."

"I washed it well with soap and water, but I'm afraid my pantry was bare of medicines. Since I spend most of my time reading, I don't often need first-aid supplies." Eleanor couldn't help the huskiness in her voice. The last thing she'd expected was to find herself standing toe-to-toe with a veterinarian. With Peter Curry so close, she could see the thick fringe of lashes and the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. His touch was gentle, confident.

Self-conscious, she dropped her gaze to the sea-blue flannel of his shirt. His chest was at eye level, and where the buttons began, she caught a glimpse of dark curls.

"I'm not a doctor, but I can clean that up for you," he offered. She was either ingeniously well rehearsed or really shy.

"What's good enough for Familiar is good enough for me," she said, glad for anything sensible to say. "I'd really appreciate it."

As Peter found clean cotton and a bottle of antiseptic, she glanced at her cat. Familiar sat on the examining table, watching both of them. He was more composed than she was.

"Here we go," Peter said as he held her chin firmly in one hand and stroked the cotton over the cut.

His touch was warm and the wet cotton cold. Eleanor found that she had no place to look except at his face. His hair was light brown with blond highlights; it was thick and a little in need of a cut. Two interesting scars crested the bone of his left cheek.

"I had a run-in with a wounded hawk," he explained, never looking away from her nose or stopping his work. "Maybe I should lie and say that I was injured in some adventure, some worthy cause."

"Not for my benefit," Eleanor said, and she could hear the stiffness that suddenly invaded her tone. "I'm not much impressed by adventurers or other romantic names for people who are incurably selfish."

"I'm glad I'm not Errol Flynn." Peter gave the cut one final dab and smiled. She was certainly not taking the bait he'd thrown to her. "For a lady who denies a yen for adventure, do you mind if I ask why someone attacked you in a parking lot?" He waited.

"That's the question of the week! It was late, and I had a stack of books from the library. I saw Familiar and picked him up, and was just about to get into my car when a guy with his face covered in a stocking grabbed me. I can assure you, I didn't do anything to provoke the attack. I have no secrets, no treasures, no money. Not even a great family recipe worth stealing. It was just a fluke, and my cat jumped on the attacker and drove him away."

Peter walked back to the table where the cat sat, obviously perfectly content, cleaning his back leg. Was she telling the truth? Eleanor Duncan wasn't exactly what he'd been expecting. But then neither was a lab cat with an Arnold Evans trademark.

"I'm impressed with old Familiar here," he said. "I've been doing a little study in animal communication. I've noticed the cat's ease with us, his confident and independent nature."

"He acts like he knows exactly what's going on," Eleanor agreed.

Peter laughed. "That's pretty standard for cats. They have a certain arrogance."

"Meow," Familiar said without looking up.

"His leg should heal without any trouble, Ms. Duncan." He stroked the cat. "If you keep him, we should start vaccinations. There's a growth or foreign object in the skin near his belly that should be removed. And then there's the matter of his reproductive future."

"Meow!" Familiar stood up, stiff-legged.

"Maybe we should spell," Eleanor said, her whole face brightening as she scratched his ears. "Familiar's too smart."

"Bring him back in a week, if you decide to keep him. And by the way, I heard you refer to him as 'my cat."' He waited, expecting her to make another appointment. If she was working with a group, she'd want to return with another member. If she worked for Evans…

"Thanks, Doctor," Eleanor said as she gathered up the cat and went to the receptionist to pay.

T
HE
W
ASHINGTON TRAFFIC
was heavy at eleven in the morning. Eleanor stopped at the cleaners, her favorite deli, and returned to the campus. A quick stop at campus security yielded her books and glasses. The lenses were intact, but the frame was uncomfortably warped. As she put them on, they tugged painfully at her cut nose.

"At least I can see to drive a little better," she told the cat as she headed toward her apartment. "My luck has changed," she said, pulling into an open parking space directly in front of the door of her building. She much preferred the street to the garage.

Arms loaded and Familiar tucked comfortably inside her coat, she greeted John, the daytime doorman, and took the elevator to the ninth floor. The fear of the night before had worn away, but there was still a nagging concern. What had provoked the attack? She tried hard to remember the harsh questions the man had asked, but the whole incident was still a blur. She remembered the man, his large hands and hideous face. He'd threatened her, then asked something. Her brow furrowed with the effort to remember while she rummaged in her purse for the apartment key. But as she inserted it, the door swung open easily.

She stood in the hallway, mouth open. Slowly the books cascaded around her feet. Apparently startled by the noise, Familiar poked up his head near the collar of her coat.

The apartment was wrecked. Broken dishes were all over the floors. Pillows were slashed. Plants had been thrown against walls, leaving dirt scattered in all directions. Eleanor gasped and stumbled into the room. She slammed the door shut and leaned against it. A white-hot anger as jagged as a bolt of lightning buzzed down her spine.

Familiar eased himself out of her coat and took a quick survey of the scene.

"No!" Eleanor said, softly but with resolution. "No! I won't have this. I won't put up with it. Not ever again!" She leaned against the wooden door, fighting the anger until she felt the comfort of Familiar's insistent brushing against her leg.

The cat's touch brought her back to the moment, and she turned about to face the damage. The apartment was a mess. Whoever had trashed the place had been both malicious and very thorough. Walking resolutely to the telephone, she picked up the receiver, but her hand was shaking so badly that she had to put it back down. It was impossible to call the police. The scene before her was the worst of her nightmares revisited. She could hide out at a ritzy university, pretending that she was a scholar with a cool, impeccable life. She could wear subdued clothing and talk in a carefully modulated voice. She could deceive all of her new acquaintances. But this wasn't the first time Eleanor Duncan had faced a trashed apartment or violence in her life. Not on a bet!

"But that was the past!" she vowed out loud, picking up a pillow and pounding it with her fist. "That was Carter's life, not mine! Those were
his
gambling debts, not mine! And I won't have this!" She reached for the phone again, but this time her hand stopped halfway.

She'd built a safe, secure haven at the University of Arts and Literature, and there was no room in her life for scandal. She'd lived an immaculate life. She'd never been a day late in paying her utility bills. She'd never been the subject of a whisper. If she called the police, they'd make a report. There'd be inquiries, investigations, maybe even newspaper stories. Her hand fell to her side. It was too much to bear. Her life had been smeared across the scandal sheets once before in connection with gambling, gangsters' schemes and murder. She'd learned one good lesson from it all—
trust no one and keep your mouth shut
.

She turned and went to the door, carefully securing the lock. She didn't want anyone to see what had happened to her life. Her shoulders ached with tension as she went to the kitchen and got trash bags, a broom, a dustpan and gloves. She could clean it up. She'd done it before. That was the best way to handle it— alone.

With Familiar's presence to comfort her, she started in the kitchen, sweeping up flour, sugar, grits— pounds and pounds of ruined food. She was halfway through when Familiar sprang to the floor, his tail twitching in the air. He took two tentative steps toward the door, then paused.

"Meow," he said, alerting her.

Heart pumping, Eleanor rested the broom against the counter. She heard it, too, a tentative footstep outside her front door. Her hand moved to the kitchen drawer where the largest knife rested. Just as her fingers closed on the handle, she heard the knock.

Peter Curry bounced the checkbook in his palm. He didn't need the excuse of returning it to see Eleanor Duncan again. He was quite capable of asking her out for dinner and dancing. He was just as certain, though, that a direct approach— such as asking for a date— would send the dark-haired professor scurrying to hide among her stack of books. If it was a game of cat and mouse she wanted, then he intended to turn the tables. She could spy on him while he pursued her!