The Marrying Man (7 page)

Take the traffic pattern. It had taken him all of thirty seconds to see how bad it was but Cat and company seemed oblivious to the drawbacks. You couldn't get from point A to point B without side trips to X, Y, and Z. Hell, they probably wasted two work days a year just walking around the dog bed parked in the entrance to the living room.

Cat had said you couldn't organize kids but it seemed to Riley you could at least organize their belongings into something resembling order. Give him five minutes and he could draw up a diagram of an efficient way to handle kids' toys, rubber boots, and sleepy cats without so much as breaking a sweat.

And the coat closet. You didn't need a degree in industrial design to know what was going on in there. Some people claimed Jimmy Hoffa was buried beneath the goal post at the old Giants Stadium. Riley wouldn't be surprised to find that the Teamsters boss was buried in Cat's closet somewhere behind the winter coats.

There wasn't much in this world that fazed him, but when she'd opened the closet door and a huge orange tom cat exploded into the foyer, dragging a pair of panty hose and a red-and-white woolen scarf behind him, he'd considered cutting his losses and admitting defeat. The last time he'd seen anything like that closet it had had a sign marked "Bomb Site" posted in front of it.

But what really scared him was the fact that he was the only one who seemed to notice. These people acted as if pandemonium was business as usual. Kittens slept on the steps like scruffy bedroom slippers. A pair of puppies played tug-of-war under the dining room table. And there were more geriatric dogs and cats scattered through the house than you could shake a bag of kibble at. Factor a half-dozen kids and two artsy women into the equation and it was no wonder the house resembled a land-locked Titanic
.

Yet despite everything they all seemed happy. Sure, he'd heard the usual squabbling among the kids but he'd also sensed something deeper, a connection from which they drew strength. Family bonds were a mystery to Riley. He'd lost his parents before his second birthday and his grandmother before his third. Eighteen different foster families in a dozen years had taught him how to adapt to situations. He learned quickly how to control what could be controlled in life and he overcame the rest by sheer will power.

Blood ties were the only unbreakable bonds left in the world. You didn't walk away from your own flesh and blood.
 
Biology wouldn't let you. Cat Zaslow's kids had no idea how lucky they were. They'd lost their father but they still had the woman who'd given birth to them and that was what made the difference.

He'd noticed the way she looked at her children, her blue eyes aglow with love, and he'd wondered if anyone had ever looked at him that way...or if anyone ever would.

He moved through the living room to the family room. Two of Cat's sons were sprawled on the overstuffed brown couch, watching Spiderman. They didn't pay him any mind but that didn't surprise Riley. At their age most adults were pretty much invisible. A litter of popcorn, candy wrappers, and crayons lay scattered on the floor around them. The end table groaned beneath a tower of schoolbooks while the piano near the window played host to three house plants struggling for life.

Hadn't these people ever heard of desks? Bookshelves? Shovels?

He avoided the kitchen for the time being, mainly because Cat and Jenny were in there, and made his way through the hall to her office at the rear of the house. At least this room had shelves and a desk. It also boasted filing cabinets, mountains of paper, and more electronic equipment than you'd find in FBI headquarters.

A boy of seven or eight years of age peered up at Riley from behind a stack of bright red corduroy cushions piled up under the window.

"My mom doesn't like anyone in her office."

Riley crouched down next to him. "You're Jack, aren't you?"

The boy took a good look at him then threw back his head and yelled, "Moo-ooo-ooom!"

Riley winced. The kid made up in volume what he lacked in size. "What's that all about?"

The kid also shared Cat's talent for dirty looks. "This is my mom's office. You can't come in."

"You're in here."

"That's different. I'm allowed."

Cat appeared in the doorway. "What are you doing in here?" she demanded.

To Riley's amazement she was looking directly at him. "What do you think I'm doing?"

"Trespassing."

The little boy looked up at her. "What's trespassing, mom?"

Riley'd never seen her smile like that before, kind of warm and womanly and very appealing. "Trespassing means going where you don't belong, Jack."

"Don't look at me," Riley said. "A hundred dollar bet gives me the right."

"You're pushing your luck, cowboy," she said in a pleasant tone of voice. "This office is off-limits to you."

"I told you," said Jack, looking as smug as his mother. "My mom only lets me sit in here. Sarah's a girl and she can't even come in here."

"That's right," said Cat, ruffling the child's glossy black hair. "Jack's going to be a writer when he grows up. He likes to sit at my desk."

"Not if he can't find it."

The look she shot him would have qualified as a deadly weapon in at least seventeen states.

"Why don't you get ready for bed," she suggested to the child, "and I'll come tuck you in when you're done."

"But, mom, I--"

"Go ahead." She pressed a kiss to the top of his head. "I want to talk to Mr. McKendrick."

"Better scatter breadcrumbs," Riley called after the boy. He'd need them.

***

It was bad enough having the cowboy in her house.

Seeing him in her office was more than she could take.

"Out." She pointed toward the door. "Right now. This is private property."

"This is an office."

"It's my office and I want you out of here."

He bent down and inspected the row of sunbleached Smurfs lined up across the windowsill. "I've got to start somewhere."

"Not here, cowboy. This room is off-limits." She tried her best to ignore the cobwebs dancing inches above his head.

He gestured toward the piles of paper, books, and magazines stacked up on every available surface. "When was the last time you actually saw your desk?"

She refused to answer.

"You need help, Zaslow." He'd said the same words to her before but this time the sound of his voice sent a ripple of pleasure up her spine. Apparently male pulchritude could make a fool of even the most unlikely of women.

"Can't wait to get your hands on my filing system, can you, McKendrick?"

His grin was wondrously wicked. "Among other things."

She opened her mouth to say something but the words didn't come. Quick-witted Cat Zaslow, the woman who made a living with words, was speechless.

Too bad Riley wasn't. "The bedrooms are on the second floor, aren't they?"

"Yes, but--" He turned and strode from the room. "McKendrick!" She started after him. "Just where do you think you're going?"

"Upstairs." He didn't break stride.

"Oh no, you're not." She threw herself in front of him, a perfect imitation of a human roadblock.

"That's where the bedrooms are, isn't it?"

"My bedroom, the kids' bedrooms, Jenny's bedroom, but not--and I repeat,
not
--your bedroom."

"You said stay out of your office. You didn't mention the bedroom. I'm six-four, Zaslow. I haven't slept on a couch since I was seventeen."

"I don't care if you sleep on the floor as long as you don't do it here." Damn the man. Damn the effect he had on her equilibrium. "I'm not running a hotel here, McKendrick. You can find your own accomodations."

He was no more than two feet away from her, so close that she could feel the heat of his body, catch the faint scent of soap on his skin. She wanted to hate him but the emotions blossoming inside her chest were something very different. Something exciting and scary and wonderful. He was pig-headed and exasperating but she liked the way the house felt with him in it. As if she'd been waiting a long time for him to come along and complete the circle.

"There's a Holiday Inn not far from the airport in Hartford," she said. "I'll draw you a roadmap."

"Afraid of something, Zaslow?"

"Maybe you should be afraid, McKendrick. I'm the one who kills people for a living."

"Good place to do it. You could hide a score of corpses in this place and no one would ever find them."

"So why do you want to stay here?"

"Call me crazy," he said. "You don't have to like me, Zaslow, you just have to listen to me."

The truth is I more than like you, cowboy, and it's scaring the daylights out of me.

***

She had one of those incredibly mobile faces that mirrored every thought, every conflicting emotion.

"All right," she said after a long moment. "You can stay in the guest room."

"You have a guest room?"

"Of course I have a guest room."

"You didn't mention it before."

A smile tilted the corners of her mouth. "I wasn't going to let you stay in it before."

"So what changed your mind?" She was a mystery to him, a beautiful, chaotic mystery, and suddenly he needed to understand what made her tick.

"I don't know," she said, then laughed softly. "A hunch, maybe. Maybe I just felt sor--" She stopped. "Why don't you get your stuff out of the car while I find some clean sheets."

Minutes later he climbed the stairs to the second floor. His duffel was tossed over his shoulder and he lugged a briefcase and a notebook computer under his arm. The landing opened onto a long, narrow hallway that was dimly lit by a single brass lamp atop a pine table. He noticed a back staircase that probably led down to the kitchen. The doors to most of the bedrooms were closed. Small pools of light filtered into the hallway and he caught bursts of music and childish laughter. It struck him that this was more than a house. This was Cat's home. Her family's home.

And he didn't belong.

"In here, McKendrick."
 

He followed the sound of her voice to the second room past the staircase. The door was ajar. He was a man who felt at ease in palaces and presidential suites, but at that moment he felt singularly out of place.

Cat was seated on the bed, her long slender legs tucked up beneath her. Her son--Jack, was it?--was propped up against the headboard, his dark hair tousled and spiky. His features were rounder than Cat's, his skin ruddier. Actually he didn't look a hell of a lot like his mother except for the straightforward expression in his dark eyes.
She offered Riley a smile that he felt all the way down to the bootheels. "Come on in, McKendrick. Jack has a question he'd like to ask you, if you don't mind."

Riley crossed the threshold into the boy's room. He caught the faint smell of bubble gum, dog biscuits, and modeling clay in the air. "Hey, Jack," he said, leaning against the chest of drawers to the right of the door. "Ask away."

Jack mumbled something too low for Riley to hear, then buried his face in his pillow.

"He's shy," Cat said, ruffling the boy's dark hair. "Just give him a moment or two."