A soft rumbling filled her throat. Her body tightened rhythmically, nerves and muscles pulsing with the tiny, exquisite vibrato. Yessss. Her eyelids drooped as his hand cupped to fit her narrow back, and he palmed slowly upward. Yessss, you can do that forever.
“You feelin’ okay?” His voice was husky, close to her ear.
About a hundred times better than okay.
“You haven’t done that weird head thing once tonight.”
Her purr broke in half and, slitting her eyes, she considered. Right, I haven’t. And didn’t dare to. Tomorrow she must try to find a pencil, see if somehow she could hold it in her mouth? But right now, she couldn’t think, didn’t want to. Her purr deepened as his hand stroked again. Yessss.
His fingers stroked down her side to cup her belly. Warmth exploded within her, shot out to the pads of each paw. Her toes flexed, then relaxed, flexed…“You’re pretty chub for a stray.”
“Am not!“ Jessica’s eyes snapped open. “I’m just right for a healthy female. Maybe even down a pound after the last few days.”
“Wonder if you wandered off from somewhere?” He smoothed a finger between her ears, down her spine. “Is somebody missing you?”
“Nobody.” The truth of that snagged the purr in her throat.
“Maybe we should run an ad. Lost cat?”
Suddenly she had no taste for his petting. She planted her back feet and, rearing out of his hold, turned away. She stalked down the length of the couch to stand by his feet, her tail cutting slow, angry swathes. “So go ahead if you’re that keen to be rid of me. I’ll go it alone.” But she couldn’t and she knew it.
“You know…” Sam pulled himself up on his elbows to slouch against the couch’s arm. “Now that I think of it, aren’t you missing something there?”
She tilted her ears back, but didn’t turn. “What?”
“I mean, what I know about cat anatomy you could fit in a thimble and still have room for your finger, but shouldn’t some of your essentials be showin’?”
“My—” she swung to stare at him over her shoulder “—my essentials? Essential to what? I mean, for what? Half the human race does very nicely without them, in case you haven’t noticed!” She spun and stalked toward him, ears angled back. “If that isn’t the most flagrant example of guy-think I ever heard…You win the prize, Texan!”
He sat up and reached for her. “C’mere.”
“No. And the magic word is—” But he’d already scooped her up. The world spun wildly, then she was lying in the crook of his arm, scowling up at the cleft in his chin. “I may never forgive you for this, you know!”
He didn’t. He hoisted her rear end a bit higher and had a good look. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“No doubt.“ She wriggled, but he held her easily.
“You’re a girl. A lady cat.” He stroked his knuckles across her belly fur, ruffling it backward. “Well, that explains a lot.”
“Oh?” She fixed him with her haughtiest owl-eyed glare.
“I thought you were kind of swish for a guy, but then I decided maybe that was just the tail.”
Her tail hauled back, then whacked him a good one on the arm.
“Exactly so.” Laughter shimmered in his voice. He brushed his fingers through her belly fur again.
“Watch it!” She twisted in his hold. This time he took the hint and set her on her feet. She turned to take two hurried swipes at her flank. She felt half outraged, half aroused, ruffled all over. She leapt to the coffee table and turned to glare back at him.
“Mussed your hair, did I? Yep. You’re a female, all right.” He swung his legs to the floor, then reached for his mug. “No wonder we haven’t exactly been having a meeting of minds here.”
Maybe his misconception had been getting in the way? Settling into a crouch, Jessica gazed up at him. Yes, I’m a female. Now take it one step further, Sam. I’m not only a female, I’m a female you know…
Eyes locked on hers, he sipped his tea. “Are all cats this weird? Or is it just you?”
“It’s me. Because you know me. You know me better than anybody else in the world knows me.” She beamed her thoughts between his eyes, putting heart and soul into them. “You know me, Sam.”
He sipped, frowned. “You know, you don’t answer very well to ‘Hey, you.’ We might as well call you something.”
“Yes, yes, you’re getting it! You know my name.” She stood, hopped across to the couch, landing beside his leg. “I’m Jessica—Jess!” She laid one paw on his thigh.
He narrowed his eyes, but didn’t protest.
She placed her other paw beside the first, then stood, elbows braced, staring earnestly up into his face. “It’s me, Sam. Jessica.”
“You’re a forward one, that’s for sure.”
“Only with you. And I’ll be as forward as I have to be to get this through your stubborn skull. C’mon, Sam, you can wrap your mind around this one! I’m Jess.” She stepped delicately up onto his leg, took a wobbling step, another, then reached to press one paw against his chest. “Your Jess.” She could feel his heart beating against her pads. She flattened her other paw against his shirt, lifting her face to his.
He blinked. His eyes were golden brown, that dot of green still there on the outer edge of his left pupil. The smell of his skin deliciously the same. “I’m Jess, Sam. Jess.” Slowly she brought her nose to his—nose touch.
He laughed softly, shook his head, leaned back out of reach. “You little hussy! Get off me.”
“I’m not a hussy, I’m your ex-wife. Jessica Alexandra Myles. Jess.”
“Jezebel,” he mused. “Now there’s a name for a hussy.”
“No, not Jezebel. Jessica!” Her tail stuck straight up and quivered with suppressed emotion.
“Jezebel, the cat with the green eyes,” he drawled dreamily. “Only other girl I knew with—” He stopped, his face going very still.
“Yes! Yes! The only other girl—woman—you knew with eyes like this was me! Jessica!” She strained upward on tiptoe, trying to touch noses again with him, as if her thought could be transmitted nose to nose, then straight to his brain.
His brows jerked together. “Okay, you hussy, enough already. Down, Jezebel.”
“Jessica!” she yelled, hooking her claws into his chest.
“Hey!” He jumped—spilling tea all over her, himself and the couch. “Ouch, dammit, now look what you’ve…” He elbowed her out of his lap, then smacked the mug down on the table. “Son of a—”
“If you’d just listen to—”
“Down!”
She leapt instinctively over the couch’s arm, then skittered around the coffee table to glare at him from beyond its refuge, her tail enormous. “Don’t yell,” she said finally in a tiny, aggrieved voice. “You know I hate that.”
He glared, held it, then burst out laughing. “Jez my girl, you’re something else.” He stood, brushed his clothes off and headed for the kitchen. “Darned cat!”
JESSICA WATCHED HIM cook his supper in frustrated silence. Doubly frustrated, since the smell of the hamburger he was frying was driving her crazy.
She considered hopping up on the counter to take a closer look at the proceedings, but decided that would be pushing it tonight. Instead, she settled for one of the chairs at the table.
“No,” Sam said from where he stood chopping onions at the counter.
Want to bet? She assumed the loaf-of-bread position and returned his glare.
“Don’t give me that evil eye. I said no cats on the furniture, Jez’bel.”
Jessica. She held her ground.
Sam chopped harder. “That’s what I love about cats. They mind so well.”
“I’m not a cat.”
He glanced at her again, his frown more puzzled than disapproving. “You look like a broody hen sittin’ there.”
“I give up! You’d believe I’m a chicken, but not a woman.” What am I going to do, Sam? Be a cat for the rest of my life? And how long would that
be? Eighteen years, if she was lucky?
On the other hand, if all she got to eat for the next eighteen years was liver, eighteen years might seem like a very long time. “What are you making?”
He’d always had a flair for cooking. They’d had many a squabble over his refusal to follow a recipe. She herself followed recipes to the letter with invariably passable results. But Sam cooked by instinct, taste and wild surmise. His meals were either superb, or they qualified for national-disaster funds.
He opened an overhead cabinet to study its contents. “Gotta go shopping tomorrow. Doc Neuman didn’t leave much behind.” He pulled out a can of pineapple bits and a jar of black olives. “Tomorrow…they’re moving Jess to a private room.” He reached for a can opener. “That’s one thing her ol’ man did for her, anyway. And tomorrow they’ll let me start visiting for more than ten minutes every hour.” He sighed heavily, glanced over at her. “Why don’t you stop staring and eat something?”
“Give me something edible. And if you throw that in the pot, I’m not sure that meal’s going to qualify,” she added when he took a can of pork and beans from the cupboard. “Don’t you have any rice?”
He studied the can, shrugged, put it back—then pulled out a pack of prefolded taco shells.
“Yuck! Maybe I’m better off with Lovely Liver.”
But by the time Sam had finished, a delectable fragrance of curry, cinnamon and pepper sauce filled the air. He shoveled the meat mixture into a couple of heated taco shells, then sat across from her.
Jessica sat up and rested her chin on the table. “Smells good.”
“Forget it.” He crunched down on a taco.
“Fine. No problem. I’ll just starve.” She hopped off the chair, turned her back on him and sat.
“You don’t like spicy food, remember? I had to throw out your chili.”
“And you can throw this out while you’re at it.” Jessica stalked over to her saucer of ground liver.
“Now you’re wising up. Good cat.”
Unacceptable, Cattoo agreed after one sniff. A statement was clearly in order here.
Jessica found herself stepping halfway over the dish. She stopped and, at Cattoo’s urging, made slow, deliberate, burying motions with her right paw, raking backward, as if to scrape sand over the saucer.
“Why you little—” Sam put down his taco. “It smells that bad?”
“Worse.” With the liver symbolically buried, Jessica returned to her chair. “Now how about something to eat?”
“Nope. Pets don’t eat table scrap, where I come from. Makes ’em uppity.”
“I’m not your pet! I’m your ex-wife, sitting here starving to death. Think how many meals I cooked for you.”
Sam gagged, swallowed with an effort, thumped himself on the chest, then coughed again.
Jessica reared up to rest one paw on the table. “Sam, don’t you dare choke! I couldn’t Heimlich you to save my life!”
Grabbing his glass of water, he gulped half its contents, then smacked it down with a splash. “All right, that’s enough. How’m I s’posed to eat with you sitting there, drooling all over the tablecloth?” He rose, went to the stove, slapped half a spoonful of curry onto a plate. He thumped it down beside her other bowls. “Here. This’ll
ream the purr right out of your fuzzy throat, but don’t take my word. See for yourself.”
She would’ve preferred her meal served on the table, but Cattoo was teaching her patience. One battle per night was the way to win a war.
Moving over to the plate, she sniffed—then sneezed and retreated.
“Liver looking better and better?” Sam inquired sweetly.
“Ha.” This time she approached cautiously, breathing through her mouth. “Are you still Mr. Heavy Hand with the peppers?”
She took a tiny bite—and her tail stood straight out, then quivered agitatedly. He was—more so than ever, or maybe it was just the feline taste buds. Eyes watering, she sneezed again.
On his way to the stove, Sam laughed. “How ’bout some more, Jez’bel?” He filled another taco shell.
“I believe this will do me.” And she’d have to finish every bite, or this was the last taste of human food he’d give her. Crouching, she ate it bit by scorching bit, with frequent interludes to cool her tongue at the water bowl.
She was still working at it while Sam loaded the dishwasher. He made himself a cup of decaf coffee—she flattened her ears when he used the grinder. Then he wandered off with his mug.
Who says I have to finish this now? Jessica realized, backing away from the plate. Cattoo generally snacked by the mouthful, running in and out of the kitchen at whim.
She found Sam in the living room. His valise was open on the coffee table. Next to it he’d plugged in—
“A computer!” Jessica leapt to the table. It was one of the laptop type, the latest Mac model, probably more highpowered than all the mini-computers they used at Diagnostics combined.
“Watch it!” Sam splayed a hand protectively over the keyboard. “Keep off, cat.”
“Let me see.” She nosed past his fingers. “That’s it, Sam! I can type you a message! What word-processing software do you—”
His hands hooked under her middle. Jessica found herself taking a giant frog leap backward, then she was deposited on the sofa. Sam’s finger descended to touch her nose. “Now this we don’t joke about.” He pressed her nose—once, twice, three times for emphasis. “I love my Powerbook like my life. There’s stuff inside this baby that’ll make the whole human race sit up and take notice. Or they would if they had half the sense God gave a goose. And I won’t have you messin’ with it.”
“What are you working on?” Sam’s field was pure genetic research. She remembered him explaining to her once that the role he hoped to play in microbiology—the one he’d played in that first ground-breaking paper—was that of the wagon-train scout. Or better yet, the mountain man, who came even before the scout. Sam went wandering through the trackless wilderness of the tiniest bits of the human genome, tracing this river to its source, venturing down that canyon, climbing this mountain, which might or might not lead to a pass over the range.
And like the mountain man, he did it more for the reckless joy and the pure wonder of it than for any hope of gain.
It was the diligent men in the wagon trains following in Sam’s footsteps who’d apply his explorations to something useful. Sam could find the field, but they’d stop and plow it. Sam would chart the river, the ones who came after would dam or divert it.
Sam would never find the cure for cancer, but he and explorers like him were the ones who would make a cure possible. That he’d taken humanity a little way down that vital path was why he’d been awarded his Nobel last year.
Sam prodded her nose again. “Do we understand each other, green eyes? Even for a cat, it’s a very simple concept. You touch this computer and I’ll skin you.”
“But—” All she needed was some quality time with that keyboard and he’d understand everything. There was no way he’d be able to deny the evidence of her written word. “But—”
“No ifs, ands, buts or exceptions. I’ll drop you out the window and see if cats bounce. Somebody told me once that they do.”
Patience. She would have to practice patience. With a sigh, Jessica sat back and stared wistfully at the means of her deliverance. So close and yet so far.
Meanwhile, Cattoo pointed out, they’d just eaten. It was time for a thorough face wash and whisker combing. Jessica sighed again, absently licked her wrist, brushed it through her whiskers.
Washing, she kept one eye on Sam’s computer screen. He was checking his e-mail.
No focii yet, said the first message. Pressing on regardless. Nigel.
“Good man,” Sam murmured. He hit a button, erasing that message, then another to summon the next.
Sam, what about your talk at Cold Springs next week? If you’re not going, Petterson needs time to arrange a replacement. George says to
tell you he got the grant. Antonia and Joaquim are feuding again, this time over the centrifuge. We missed you Friday. Liza. P.S. Your mom called, and your sister Gina. Call them. P.P.S. How is she?
“Liza’s your secretary? At the lab?”
Ignoring her, Sam hunched forward and started typing. Liza, give Petterson my regrets. I’m here for the duration. Hooray for George. I owe him a beer or three. Tell Antonia to cut the petty He paused and muttered, “Not if I want peace on Earth, goodwill to—” He hit the delete key and erased that line. Tell Antonia I depend on her superb tact and innate intelligence to triumph over Latin machismo without undue bloodshed. Emphasis on undue. Tell her also that no way will I take Joaquim off this project—for better or worse, he’s her bouncing baby boy. I missed you guys Friday, too. Tell all I want a one-paragraph summary, per project, Friday mornings to keep me up to date. Sam. P.S. What does your cat eat?
“How am I?” Jessica said, moving to sit alongside his leg. “You forgot to tell her that.”
P.P.S. Sam typed obediently. She’s His hands froze over the keys. “Damn, damn, damn, damn,” he swore under his breath. He glanced down and met her gaze. “And damn your owl eyes, too—stop eyeballin’ me like that. Didn’t your mama teach you manners?” His finger jabbed the delete button. The cursor gobbled up the letters from right to left till the last addendum was gone.
“So I’m not good?”
But Sam wasn’t saying. P.P.S. he typed. I mean to catch up on my reading. You know that tallest stack of mags in my office—the technical pile left of the window? Send me the bottom three feet or so, and bill me for hazard pay. Address is as follows:
“You really mean to stay.” Jessica rubbed her cheek against his thigh. “Sam, I don’t know how to—”
“No mushy stuff,” he growled, fending her off.
She clicked her teeth in frustration and backed away. Okay, be a grouch. But he was a loyal grouch, she mused, as he finished with e-mail and launched himself out on the Internet. Through half-closed eyes, she watched his flying fingers. What are you after now, Sam? She blinked as a familar icon appeared on the screen. He was accessing a medical data base. One she’d tapped into herself often enough.
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