If You Loved Me (30 page)

"Kitty, kitty," he called quietly, but he heard no responding meow. He knew it was probably futile, but Sara would be expecting the absent Jamila Ferguson to produce the missing cat.

After Alex had finished checking the nearby cars, he worked his way around into the alley behind Sara's building. The girl's father should be doing this, but the man seemed too focused on the grief of losing his wife six months ago to attend to his daughter's needs.

Alex sympathized with Miller's grief, but he intended to make sure Sara's father understood his daughter's needs must come first from now on. The love was there, obvious in Wayne Miller's worried eyes, but Alex suspected Miller wasn't keeping a careful enough eye on Sara's baby-sitting situation. Mrs. Davis from downstairs sounded more convenient than competent.

Alex prowled along the alley, shining his light under anything he thought might be a likely hiding place, wondering how long it would be before one of the residents called the cops on the prowler and Alex ended up having to explain himself to a patrol cop.

"Kitty," he called, as much to reassure anyone looking out a darkened window as to entice the cat. Obviously, the cat didn't want to be found.

He lifted his wrist and pushed the light on his watch. He could forget getting back to the charity benefit tonight. Just as well, he decided. If he'd taken Diana home tonight, she might have invited him in. Of course he wanted that as much as she did, but not tonight when he was on call and might be beeped at any moment. Better when she returned to Seattle after her trip.

He saw the corner of a porch at the back of the next building, angled his umbrella against a wind-driven blast of rain whipping through the space between the buildings, and stepped right into an ankle-deep puddle.

The jolt knocked the flashlight from his grasp. As he reached down in the dark to grasp for its familiar shape, water seeped into his shoe.

Ahead, something moved.

The flashlight was dead, useless, probably an electrical short from its mud bath. Alex dropped it into his pocket and reached for the shadow. When his fingers touched something wet and soft, they closed instinctively.

When he pulled, she came into his arms, wet and gasping. Then she spoke and he recognized her husky voice.

"What are you—"

"It's me," he growled.

Her elbow dug into his shoulder and his hand locked onto her wrist before her fist could find its mark. Her bones felt lean and fragile in his grasp, her flesh cool and wet. He recognized her scent, something subtle, the kind of perfume that cost a fortune because it was designed to go straight to a man's gut.

"Jamila, it's me. Dr. Kent."

She froze.

Someone turned on a second-story light in the building beside him, illuminating the shape of the woman he'd grasped.

"Dr. Kent," he repeated. "Sara's doctor." He was amazed that his voice sounded calm despite the way his heart was pounding.

"You—" Her
breathing sounded ragged. "
You're
looking for Squiggles?"

He hadn't expected her to come, couldn't seem to let go of her. "You're soaking. Get under my umbrella."

"I don't care about the rain." She pulled free of his grasp. "I've been calling for the cat. He must be here somewhere. You made me drop the tuna."

"The what?"

"The tuna."

Alex grabbed his flashlight and gave it another sharp shake. This time, the light came on and illuminated the woman crouching at his feet.

"Here it is." Her red curls were dark with rain, sprung into ringlets. Her lashes seemed excessively long in the beam of the flashlight. The floating red and green shirt she'd worn earlier was now clinging damply to her breasts.

In one hand, she held an open can of tuna.

"I talked the man at the convenience store into opening it," she explained. "I don't carry a can opener in my car."

"Or an umbrella."

"I like rain." She turned away from him and started walking along the back of Sara's house, calling, "Squiggles? Here, kitty," in that husky voice that seemed tuned to something inside Alex.

When he moved to follow her, she said, "We should split up. We'll cover more area and Squiggles will be less frightened of one person than two."

He didn't know if that made sense or not, but he knew it was a bad sign when it bothered him this much to stand near a woman he didn't like.

"You'd better take my umbrella."

"No. Too many things to carry."

If he offered his flashlight, she'd make the same objection.

"You search the front of the building then," he said. "There's more light. I'll search back here."

"I'll be able to see once your light is gone. My eyes will acclimatize to the dark."

His light showed a bead of water running down her face. As he watched, her tongue slipped out and caught the drop before it could reach her upper lip.

He clenched his fingers around the flashlight. He'd been working too hard, not playing enough. He hadn't made love to a woman in too damned long, or this wouldn't be happening to him.

"Right," he said. "I'll go this way. You stay here and search."

Ten minutes later, he'd worked his way around to the front of Sara's building again when he thought he heard something, perhaps Jamila calling out. He hurried back into the alley and found her crouched, the can of tuna held out in front of her, a bedraggled kitten hovering uneasily a foot away.

"Stay back," she warned in a low, soft voice. "You'll frighten him. Come on, kitty. It's real tuna. You like tuna, don't you, Squiggles?"

The cat stepped closer warily, and Alex wondered if Jamila's voice had the same effect on Sara's cat as it did on him.

Whether it was the voice or the tuna, Squiggles stepped close enough that Jamila was able to sweep him into her arms. As she stood, Alex saw her do something to her shirt to wrap a loose fold around the cat.

So she wasn't hard-hearted, but she wasn't exactly a responsible adult either. Stumbling around in a back alley in the rain, looking for a kitten with a can of tuna because a child was worried about it. Alex figured she was somewhere in her mid-twenties, but she hadn't the sense to carry an umbrella in the rain, or to pack a flashlight in her car.

She was soaking wet. Cold, too—she must be.

"Come on," he said, reaching for her. "We've got to get you out of this rain."

When she laughed, the cat must have been as startled as Alex was, because it twisted in her arms and leapt for freedom. Alex dropped the umbrella and grabbed, caught a paw, and felt claws dig into the back of his hand. Then his arms got tangled with Jamila's and he felt the softness of a woman's breast as he reached for the cat again and missed.

He heard Jamila gasp, felt her begin to fall, and grabbed hard, his flashlight tumbling to the ground where its beam shone an ineffectual streak along the gravel.

"Are you all right? Jamila?"

She was tall, lean and soft all at once, encased in wet, clinging clothes. He felt the damp, the woman, and unbelievably, a squirming cat caught between them.

"I—Yes." Her voice was breathless. "We'd better get—the cat
will..."

"Into the car. Have you got a solid hold on him?"

"I think—there, yes. I've got him."

He released her, stepping back, realized with a shock that he didn't want to let her go. "My car," he said, deliberately busying himself with picking up the flashlight, retrieving his umbrella. He sheltered her with the umbrella, though she was so wet now he didn't suppose it could make any difference. "We'll take my car."

He grasped her elbow and shone the light ahead for her. He felt her head twist as she looked at him, forced himself not to turn
his
head. How the hell could her provocative scent rise to his nostrils with rain pelting down all around them?

"I think my sister can take the cat," he said, although it must have been four in the morning by now, a hell of a time to go pounding on anyone's door.

"I'll take him," she said. "It's my responsibility. I'll look after him."

As they rounded the corner of the building, the streetlights took over the job of Alex's flashlight and he switched it off. "Have you got litter? Cat food?"

"I'll stop at a convenience store." She gestured toward an elderly hatchback. "Here's my car."

He wondered about the brakes, the battery, the tires. Any woman who didn't think to bring an umbrella out onto the street wasn't likely to worry about maintenance schedules, although perhaps she had a husband who did that for her, or a lover.

"You can't drive that."

"Of course I can." She shifted the cat, reaching into a pocket he hadn't realized was concealed in the soaking folds of her shirt. He couldn't see colors under these lights, but knew the red of her lips must be almost purple. He was certain he could see her body trembling with cold.

"You can't hold the cat and drive at the same time. Some cats panic in a moving car. It's not safe to drive with an uncontrolled cat freaking out all over your car. My car's down here. I'll take you to my place, get you dry—"

"My place. I live just across the Ballard Bridge."

"You're wet. You need to get dry, get some hot liquid inside you, or you'll—"

"I'm not a child." She sounded tense, or perhaps tired, but she followed him to his car. "You're obviously used to managing people, Dr. Kent, but I'm not accustomed to being managed anymore."

Anymore.
He wondered about that as he unlocked the passenger door of his BMW. Then he searched through his trunk, hoping for a forgotten blanket to put over her shoulders. He couldn't find one, and knew it probably wouldn't help much anyway. She needed to get those wet clothes off. He stowed the umbrella in the backseat, slid into the driver's seat, and started the car.

"We'll have heat in a minute," he said.

The cat in her arms began to meow plaintively. "Easy, Squiggles," she murmured. "I'll have you home in five minutes, then I'll wrap you in a big towel and get you dry."

She was the one who needed a big towel, thought Alex as he pulled out of the parking space. Unfortunately, his imagination immediately provided a vivid visual and tactile image of wrapping a naked Jamila in a giant, absorbent towel, then gently rubbing and stroking her soft flesh through the towel until she was completely dry. Until she breathed his name with desire as he—

"Darn," she muttered. "I left the tuna in the alley. Can you drive around?"

"What?" Bloody hell! He had to stop this. She was soaking wet, her passionate hair hanging in dripping ringlets around her face, her green eyes a dark mystery in the muted light from his dash, and for once he couldn't seem to smell the scent that had stirred him so easily earlier. So why the hell couldn't he stop thinking about touching her?

"It'll take only a minute," she said. "Just around the corner."

The car was a mistake. Alone in the car with her, it was worse, far worse. He pulled a U-turn in the empty intersection and headed for the Ballard Bridge, telling himself grimly that he should have used his cell phone to call a taxi for her. He should have—

"You missed the turn! The tuna. I don't want to litter the alley. We'll have to drive over to Twenty-eighth Avenue now and loop back."

"You're going home."

"We can't leave it there. I don't want to litter the—"

"We're not stopping." He heard the fury in his voice and deliberately calmed himself. What was it about this woman that seemed to erode his sanity? "You're cold. You're wet. You need to get dry." He needed to get her out of his car, into her own home and behind a locked door.

"But I—"

"For—Let's try this conversation without the argument. Who used to manage you, Jamila?"

"Jamie. Everyone calls me Jamie."

For some incomprehensible reason, Alex felt an insane urge to stop his car and shake her. It must be chemistry, basic incompatibility. She certainly wasn't his type, but some sadistic trick of nature made her stir his hormones although she was everything he didn't want in his life—impulsive, careless, undependable.

Alex made certain he always knew what he wanted, and exactly how he intended to get it. When it came to women, he preferred his relationships slow and calm, giving him plenty of time to evaluate. But tonight, with this woman—

"Dr. Kent?"

He swallowed hard and fought off the image of his name,
Alex,
breathed from her lips in passion.

"What?" His voice came out as a growl where he'd meant it to be neutral, detached. This had to stop.
He
had to stop it. He was a mature man, not a randy teenager. He had years of discipline and control, and he could damned well manage one temporary, insane reaction to one inappropriate woman.

Think of Diana, he ordered himself but her image wouldn't come. He softened his voice, offering, "I'll go back and pick up the empty tin later."

"Thanks." She shifted, somehow snuggling deeper into the seat.

He should have offered her his jacket for warmth, hadn't thought of it. Too busy imagining her naked, he thought grimly. That made him the sort of man the nurses complained about over coffee in the hospital cafeteria, and it made less than no sense. He'd been seeing Diana for weeks, was drifting toward an intimate relationship.

He needed more than a rest. A vacation, maybe a month in the sun, somewhere he'd never been before. Tahiti, or Paris.

Jamila said, "The officer who took my statement said you planned to talk to the social worker about Sara."

"If that were so, it would be confidential information."

Just ahead on the right, he saw an all-night convenience store. If he didn't stop to get litter and cat food now, he'd end up getting it afterward, then bringing it back to her. She'd be wet from her shower, or perhaps from a hot bath. She would open the door wearing something colorful around her nude body, a thin robe with splashes of color, tied with its lapels crossed to leave the beginning of her cleavage visible to stir his imagination.

Christ! His imagination was doing fine without help! He swung the wheel and stopped his BMW outside the front door of Harry's 24-Hour Mini-Mart.