Mad About You (3 page)

As she undressed and rehung her suit, she felt twinges of regret for turning down James Donovan's dinner invitation. There were worse ways to spend an evening than eating on an expense account with an attractive man and his sexy accent. But she knew a womanizer when she saw one, and Mr. Donovan was much too irresistible to get tangled up with, even for a few hours.

She pulled on a faded T-shirt that barely covered her cotton undies and released her dark shoulder-length hair from its chignon, frowning when she remembered
his
comment about her hairstyle. But she smirked when she surveyed her legs, still and always her best physical attribute. After further, more critical perusal in the full-length mirror, Kat sprawled on the wood floor in her bedroom and did fifty sit-ups.

Out of breath, she dug her ratty, pink house shoes from the bottom of her closet and hopped to the living room as she put them on. After phoning in the pizza order, she picked up the thriller she'd half read. At exactly seven, the doorbell rang, and Kat rose from the couch, still reading the book she carried.

She absently unlocked the two deadbolts on the door, then swung it open to greet her friend.

James Donovan stood in the doorway, dressed in casual attire and unabashedly studying her legs. Kat's tongue felt wooden, her limbs paralyzed. He glanced up and grinned lazily.

"Hallo, Pussy-Kat."

Chapter Two

JAMES KNEW HE WOULD forever remember the look on Katherine McKray's face as she stood in the doorway of her flat. Her fetching mouth was relaxed in a most becoming way, and behind those schoolmarm's glasses, the dark blue irises of her eyes were generously framed in white.

"You're a truthful woman, Ms. McKray, your legs are indeed beautiful."

Her mouth snapped shut and she drew back her shoulders, inadvertently exposing a few more inches of thigh for his enjoyment. "How did you know where I live?"

He smiled. "I can assure you I've tackled more challenging tasks in my career."

"You have ten seconds to explain why you're here."

"You're not wearing a watch."

"One Mississippi, two Mississippi—"

"It's simple." James shrugged. "I was hoping to persuade you to change your mind about sharing a meal." He reached forward and plucked the novel from her hand. After studying its cover, he made a clicking sound
with his cheek. "You prefer a paperback to my company? I'm wounded, Ms. McKray."

Kat snatched the book out of his hand. "For your information, Mr. Donovan—"

"Please call me James, all my friends do."

Her eyes blazed. "For your information,
Mr. Donovan,
I'm expecting company."

He studied her carefully, inch by inch, from the top of her mussed hair to the curled toes of her horrid slippers. "And this is someone you wish to impress?"

"Good night." She slammed the door in his face.

The sound vibrated throughout the worn hallway, followed by the purposeful
thwack
,
thwack
, of both deadbolts turning. He shifted from foot to foot, waiting for inspiration to strike him. Damn, she was a spirited woman!

"Hello," came a voice down the hall.

He turned to see a skinny redhead with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder approaching him warily.

"Are you here to see Kat?" she asked, her head angled skeptically.

"Yes," he said quickly. "I was just about to knock." He gave her his most charming grin. "The name is James Donovan." She stuck a limp hand into the one he extended.

"Denise Womack," she said brightly, dropping her guard.

Gesturing to the door, he said, "I wasn't sure this was the right place. I met Kat at the museum today."

"You're British, aren't you?" she asked, as if he were a rare specimen.

He bit back a smile. "I suppose my accent would make it difficult to convince you otherwise."

Her eyes widened. "Oh! Are you connected with the King's letter?"

"Indirectly."

"Is that why you're here?"

"Actually I came to see if Ms. McKray would join me for supper."

The woman grinned. "Really?"

A true-blue, matchmaking friend, he noted with delight. Conjuring up a worried frown, he said, "I hope I'm not imposing on plans the two of you made."

"Heavens, no," she said with a wave. "Kat was only going to watch me do laundry."

"Ah, splendid," he said, reaching for her laundry bag. "I'll let you knock since it's you she's expecting."

"Sure," she said agreeably, then pounded on the door.

After a pause, he heard a movement inside the apartment. "Who is it?" Kat demanded.

"It's me, Kat," Denise said, winking at James conspiratorially. He winked back.

Kat opened the door, and Denise chirped, "Look who I found in the hall."

"Hallo, Pussy-Kat," he said cheerfully.

Kat stared at James with pursed lips. "Don't call me that. And why are you still here?"

Denise frowned. "Kat, Mr. Donovan wants to take you to dinner." She leaned forward and added through clenched teeth, "And I assured him you are
not
busy tonight."

"But I've already ordered the pizza."

Her friend glared. "I can eat the whole thing by myself anyway."

"Liar," Kat said, then held up her novel. "And I was just getting to the good part."

Denise scoffed. "The college professor did it because the guy was boinking his wife."

Kat's mouth dropped open, and she stamped her foot. "I can't
believe
you told me the end!
You
know
I hate that!"

Denise snatched the book out of Kat’s hand. "Go out and have some fun."

Hands on hips, Kat glared past her friend to focus on him.

He smiled innocently and shrugged. "Can you blame me for wanting to dine with a beautiful woman instead of by myself?"

Her friend moaned. "Kat," she hissed out the side of her mouth, "if you don't go with him, I
will."

Kat rolled her eyes. He laughed and deposited the bag of laundry inside the door. "We'll go somewhere nearby, Ms. McKray—anywhere you like."

She was nibbling on that delicious looking lower lip, wavering.

"I'll have you back in an hour," he added, crossing his heart with his index finger.

Denise grabbed his arm and pulled him inside, then kicked the door shut. "Have a seat and give her ten minutes," she said, then turned a protesting Kat around and herded her toward the bedroom.

After the door closed with a resounding boom, James stood and looked around Ms. Katherine McKray's flat, hoping to glean something about this fiery woman's background. He was surprised at the character of the rooms: the rich wood floors, the ornate mantels of two corner fireplaces, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Her furniture was an eclectic collection of denim-covered loveseats, velvet footstools, and impressionist-colored cushions. As he would have expected, tasteful and interesting artwork dotted the walls, the tables, and even the floor in the form of hand-painted rugs.

He stepped closer to her bookshelves to scan the titles there. Lots of art history books, and several museum catalogs. A few movies:
Gone With the Wind, Casablanca,
and
An Affair to Remember.
He grinned. Pussy-Kat was a bit sappy, it seemed.

Out of all the bric-a-brac lining the bookshelves, only two framed photos were displayed. One older photo of a youngish couple, presumably her parents, judging from the woman's resemblance to Kat. And a recent one of Kat and a middle-aged man, whom he determined to also be her father. James frowned. Her mother must have died some years ago.

Through swinging doors to the right, he could see a neat white kitchenette with bright Mexican tile accents. To the left, a tiny hallway that led to an outside balcony with no view apparently doubled as her work area. A shelf of various refinishing solvents testified to a serious hobby. A set of tall wood shutters were being stripped of several layers of paint. The woman obviously didn't mind getting her hands dirty.

When he turned back to the sitting room, an object in the comer caught his eye and he stepped over to inspect it more closely. Thoroughly impressed, he caressed the knobby surface of a brass-inlaid mahogany humidor the size of a breadbox, then carefully turned the tiny tasseled key and lifted the lid. "Bloody hell," he breathed as the rich scent of fresh tobacco filled his nostrils. He lifted one of the cigars lovingly.

"They're Cuban," came Kat's voice from the other side of the room.

James turned to find her leaning against the wall, arms crossed over a demure white cardigan sweater atop wide-leg black pants. Her rich dark hair had been twisted into a somewhat looser knot—Denise's touch, he presumed. She was not smiling.

"I know," he said, looking back to the cigar he held. "Hoyo De Monterrey Double Coronas—the best." And according to the long-running U.S. Cuban embargo, quite illegal, he noted. "Are these yours?"

"They were my father's," she said, pushing away from the wall and walking toward him slowly.

"Were?"

"He died last year. I saved his cigars—the smell reminds me of him."

Her voice sounded steady, but the total lack of emotion betrayed the effort she expended to sound casual. He could tell she'd been devastated by her father's death, and he felt a pang of sympathy. Although relatively sure she juniored his thirty-seven years only by a half dozen or so, at this moment she looked as vulnerable as a child.

"You've taken exceptional care of them." He replaced the cigar carefully among the two dozen or so identical ones remaining, then lowered the lid.

"Replenishing the water in his humidor is a small thing to do to preserve something he loved," she said softy.

"I'm sure he would be pleased," James said, stifling the urge to fold her into his arms. He shook himself mentally. Lust was a comfortable, familiar emotion—sometimes he conquered it, sometimes he surrendered to it. But this sudden...
affection
...was unsettling. "Are you ready?"

She lifted one eyebrow. "Are you finished snooping?"

He grinned sheepishly. "Forgive me, I was quite intrigued."

She simply inclined her head, and James felt as if they'd reached some kind of understanding.

"Where's your friend?" he asked.

"She's using her phone in my room—I guess it's her way of giving us some privacy."

"I'm indebted to her for her efforts."

"Don't feel so special," she warned. "This week alone she tried to set me up with the pest control sprayer, the meter reader, and the guy who delivers for the Chinese restaurant down the street."

Holding the door open, James acknowledged her outfit with a wry smile. "Very nice, but do you always dress so, um, warmly?"

Kat was donning a long all-weather coat, but stopped mid-motion, tossed it on a chair, and stuck her tongue out at him. He rather liked it.

Stepping into the hall, he asked, "Where are we going?"

"To Torbett's, about six blocks over. The food is good, the utensils are clean, and there's usually a little jazz band playing."

"Hmmm, sounds romantic," he murmured, settling an arm around her waist.

She stopped and carefully removed his hand, then continued walking out of the building.

It was a balmy August evening, but a salty wind from the bay nipped at his cheeks. Suddenly, James understood Kat's penchant for sweaters. "Brilliant weather," he offered.

"The rainy season will begin soon," she lamented.

"Good for attendance at the museum," he said with a smile.

"True," she said, smiling back.

She had a very pretty face, he decided. Not model perfect, but striking, to be sure. Animated and fresh, Kat looked vibrant and interesting, and James found himself
already planning ways to extend their time past the hour he'd promised her. He could always catch a flight to New York tomorrow.

After they descended the stairs to the sidewalk, she asked, "Shall we walk or take a taxi?"

"Neither," he said, pointing. "I was able to rent a passable car for the duration of my short stay."

Kat followed his finger and blinked. "The black Jaguar?"

"It'll do in a pinch."

*****

Okay, Kat acknowledged begrudgingly, not only did the man have good taste in clothes and cigars, but he scored high in the automobile category, too. James unlocked the door with a keyless remote and held open the passenger door for her. "Remind me never to show you the heap I drive," she said as she lowered herself into the squeaky leather seat.

Panic rose in her throat after he slid into his seat and the slight vacuum seal of the door isolated them in the intimate interior of the car. Everything about this man screamed danger to her emotional well-being. Not that her instincts had always led her down the right road, she admitted ruefully.

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. His dark hair was slicked back and he smelled faintly of strong soap. He'd traded his Italian suit for dark brown slacks, a thin long-sleeved jersey, and a tan leather vest. Kat winced. Denise was right, the man was gorgeous.

When he shifted gears, she saw a flash of metal at his waist. Incredulous, she asked, "Are you carrying a gun to dinner?"

His smile was tight-lipped. "Madam, I carry a gun to
the
shower."

Kat perused his profile carefully. She didn't really know this man at all. "Am I in danger?"

His dimple made an appearance. "Most definitely," he said huskily, then settled his dark gaze on her. "And I feel obligated to tell you I have more than one weapon on my person."