by Donna Ball
"Wow," Lyn said. "Talk about overindulging your pets..."
But as she came closer, she began to understand why a little indulgence might be considered appropriate... and why it was that Grizabella looked so familiar. The food and water dishes on the cage floor were silver plated and inscribed with the name of Saucy Paws cat food. On a shelf parallel to the cage were several trophies, the first of which was the shape of a crown, and was inscribed, "In appreciation to Grizabella the Wonder Cat for three years' service, from Saucy Paws Cat Food."
Grizabella, the Saucy Paws cat. She was a star!
Lyn regarded the cat with new respect, more impressed than she liked to admit. She had read somewhere that animal stars made as much as half a million dollars a year , and she had never been this close to anyone—animal or human—who had that kind of earning power.
"Well, what do you know about that?" Lyn unfastened the latch of the cage and reached inside, stroking the cat softly. "One day I'm a lowly social worker from Philadelphia, the next I'm brushing out the coat of the most famous cat in America. Is this a great country, or what?"
She laughed softly as Grizabella turned to lick her stroking fingers, and she was absolutely unprepared for what happened next. Grizabella suddenly stopped licking and clamped down hard with her sharp pointed teeth. Lyn screeched with pain and jerked her hand away; the parrot squawked and launched itself from its perch to Lyn's hair, digging its talons into her scalp; a dog started to bark, loudly and quite close. And all of this was almost simultaneous. Lyn whirled around with a squeal of alarm and pain, trying to dislodge the parrot, tripped over Montana, who had somehow gotten in through the door Lyn was almost certain she had closed behind her, and she cried out in dismay as Grizabella launched herself from her cage and dashed past her. Lyn threw out her arms to block the cat but missed by a wide margin. She watched helplessly as half a million dollars worth of feline scampered down the hallway and out of sight.
For almost a full minute Lyn stood there, dumbfounded, openmouthed and staring. The parrot squawked again, disengaged its claws from her hair, and fluttered out of the room. Montana gave one last delighted bark and charged down the hall in the direction the cat had gone.
Galvanized into action, Lyn stumbled after the dog and arrived in the kitchen just in time to see Montana wriggle through a dog door, leaving it flapping on its hinges. Lyn stared at the small door in dismay.
"No," she said out loud. "The cat did not go through the dog door. Please, don't let the cat have gone through the dog door...."
She couldn't believe this had happened. The day had started out so well. She had done nothing to deserve this, she hadn't even asked for this job, all she had ever wanted was to be left alone to nap by the pool. She was just doing her sister a favor: feed a few animals, brush a few coats... how hard could it be? But within the past half hour she had been mauled by dogs, attacked by a parrot, and now Grizabella the Wonder Cat, star of television, magazines, and cat food boxes all over the country, had escaped into the night.
No. She took a deep breath, and convinced herself silently again. No. The cat could not have gone outside, she simply couldn't have. It was dark outside, there were dozens of trees to climb and bushes to hide in and Lyn would never find her if she was outside. Therefore, the cat must be hiding somewhere in the house.
Lyn began a hopeful chorus of "Here, Kitty, Kitty" as she circled through the house. She opened cabinets, she looked under tables, she crawled behind draperies and under furniture. She wondered if Casey Carmichael had insurance. She wondered if Pat had insurance.
"Grizabella..." she called in her softest, most inviting voice as she started up the stairs. "Here, kitty, kitty... Where are you, you stupid cat?"
And suddenly she stopped, frozen in place, as a sound reached her that she had been too preoccupied to notice before. It was the sound of water running, coming from behind a closed door at the top of the stairs. Someone was in the house. She was not alone.
Panic slammed through her for a brief instant and the first thing she thought was burglar! She gripped the rail and had taken two running steps down the stairs before common sense reasserted itself and she stopped, taking another deep breath. The back door had been locked, hadn't it? The house hadn't appeared to be ransacked. And what kind of burglar would break in just to take a shower?
Maybe the owner had returned early. Or maybe it was a burglar with fastidious habits. She almost preferred the latter to having Casey Carmichael discover her here, and Grizabella missing.
Her cowardly instincts demanded that she leave the house with all possible speed, but as she glanced back up the stairs something caught her eye. A door was partly open on the left side of the hall, across from what she assumed to be the bathroom. The half-open door would be an irresistible invitation to an errant cat, and if there was a chance, any chance at all, that she could catch Grizabella and return her to her cage before she was discovered here...
On tiptoe, she hurried up the remaining stairs, glancing worriedly over her shoulder where the sound of running water continued from the bathroom, and peeked behind the open door. It was a walk-in closet. The shelves on either side were filled with towels and cleaning supplies, but no cat was to be found.
Sick with disappointment, she turned around. And she screamed.
Directly opposite her was the biggest, most ferocious-looking feline Lyn had ever seen outside a zoo. Ears flattened, muscles tensed in a crouch, it must have outweighed Lyn by a hundred pounds. She couldn't make another sound. She couldn't even draw a breath. And she only had time to take one stumbling step back into the closet before the creature roared, and prepared to spring.
*********************
TWO
"Sheba! Cut!"
It was perhaps five seconds after the strong male voice sliced across her consciousness before Lyn was able to open her eyes. Even then she was not entirely sure she believed what she saw. One moment she had been staring into the jaws of death, and the next into a pair of angry green eyes—accompanied by a water-slick male body that was, as far as Lyn could tell, completely naked.
Somewhat belatedly, all things considered, Lyn's knees buckled beneath her and she slid to the closet floor, expelling the breath from her lungs in a single gasp. She couldn't take her eyes off the man—or more accurately, off the big feline that shielded her view of him from waist to knee. The cat's smooth, tawny coat gleamed, its muscles twitched, its tail swung slowly back and forth. Its eyes regarded Lyn warily, and another low rumble issued from its throat.
"Sheba!" the man said sharply. "I said enough!"
The huge cat gave Lyn one last resentful look, swished its tail haughtily, and sauntered away, moving down the stairs. Lyn's heart started beating again with hammering rush.
The man advanced on her, scowling, and Lyn realized her relief might have been premature. "Who the hell are you," he demanded, "and what are you doing in my house?"
He was not, after all, completely naked, but for the scantiness of the somewhat less-than-standard-size black bath towel he had wrapped around his waist he might as well have been. Bare feet, strong-boned ankles, and lean calves moved into her line of vision. Damp footprints scarred the hardwood floor, and as she watched a bead of water slid from his knee and trailed into the light pattern of smooth brown hair that textured his legs. She forced her eyes upward, over the scrap of towel that clung low on his hips, and picked up the triangle of water-straight hair where it formed a V over his navel and flared upward across his lean, surprisingly taut-muscled chest. His throat showed a flush of anger—or perhaps it was simply the heat from the shower—and a froth of shaving soap still clung to his jaw. His wet hair molded his scalp but showed a resistant little curl just below his ear; its color could have been anything from dark blond to brown. His eyes were very green, and very fiery.
And with all of this to contend with, Lyn was proud of the presence of mind it took to demand, "Who are .you?"
"I live here!" he shot back
. "You've got a lot of explaining to do, lady, and you'd better do it fast before I lose my sense of humor and call Sheba back."
He was standing on the threshold of the closet now, pinning her in. Lyn pushed herself to her feet, galvanized by the mere mention of the giant cat's name. "That animal could have killed me!'' she cried.' 'Are you crazy? What kind of person keeps a—a lion in his house?"
He regarded her coolly. "The kind of person who values the safety of his home. And she's not a lion," he added. "She's a cougar. Are you going to answer my question now, or shall we wait for the police?"
"Police?" she gasped. "Police!" After all she had been through, that was the final straw. "I'm the one who should call the police! For—for fraud and assault and battery and running a zoo without a license! And concealing a deadly weapon! I'm supposed to be here! I was hired to be here! And I still don't know who you are— you say you live here but you could be some crazy person who likes to break into houses with a lion—cougar—and make himself at home while the owner is away. The world is full of perverts." She was babbling now, a sign of severe stress and emotional exhaustion she was sure, compounded by the fact that he had taken a step inside the closet and was completely blocking her exit. "Let me by!"
He made no move. "What do you mean you were hired? Who hired you?"
"The owner did! I'm the pet sitter!"
"Don't give me that. You—" And then he stopped, and looked at her more closely. "You're Pat's sister?"
He was so close that she could smell the steamy scent of his soap, and feel the humid warmth of his body. She tried to push past him. "Get out of my way. Let me by."
"Wait a minute." His face hardened into suspicion again. "You were supposed to be here at five. If you are the sitter, you should have come and gone by now."
"And you're supposed to be out of town! Will you get out of my way?”
“I called and left a message—"
"I didn't get any message!"
Lyn's nerves had been strung to a fine point long before ever venturing up the stairs; the encounter with the cougar had not helped any, and though Casey Carmichael—if that was indeed, who he was—was probably well within his rights, his unexpected appearance and blatant threats had managed to turn a mildly disastrous evening into a full-blown catastrophe. She didn't want to deal with this. No one had told her she would have to deal with this. She just wanted to go home and put this entire debacle behind her.
And, naturally, Montana the mischievous retriever chose that moment to come bounding up the stairs and join them in the closet.
He pushed into the narrow opening with wagging tail and panting tongue, his wriggling body unbalancing them both so that, before she knew it, Lyn was falling against a bare male chest, her feet tangled between a pair of unclothed male legs. She tried to disengage herself, but that was easier said than done, with a man on one side and a dog on the other, both of them appearing to do their best to knock her off her feet.
"Let me go!" she cried, struggling to pull away from his hands on her shoulders. "Call off your crazy dog!" She lurched backward, but he was jostled forward at the same moment, pinning her against the back wall.
He yelped as she stepped on his foot trying to regain her balance. "Watch it!"
"You watch it!" She gasped as his hand brushed her breast. "I'm not kidding! You get away from me right now or I'll—"
“Will you stop—Montana, get out of here! Ow!" he exclaimed as her foot made contact with his bare toe again.
"I'll do worse than that if you don't—"
"Montana, go!" he commanded the dog with an abrupt gesture of his wrist.
Montana looked at him alertly, then turned and left the closet.
"Now." He stepped away from her, cautiously releasing her shoulders. "Before this gets out of hand—"
"It already is out of hand!" Lyn replied haughtily and started to push past him once again.
Before she could stop it, before, in fact, she even realized what was happening, the closet door started to swing toward her. It closed with a snap and plunged them into blackness.
Lyn uttered an inarticulate sound and plunged toward the door, searching for the knob.
"Montana!" he declared with soft venom. And then, somewhat apologetically he added, "He's been taught to close doors behind him."
Lyn bent over, running her hands up and down the smooth wood paneling. "I can't find the doorknob!"
"Move over." He took her place, searching for a moment, and then stepped away. "There's a good reason for that," he informed her. "There isn't one."
Only a thin stream of the hall light penetrated the closet, and he was nothing more than a shadow in the dark. Still, she stared at him as though actually expecting to discern some sign of humor on his face. "You are kidding." Her voice was flat, then began to rise with incredulity and denial. "What do you mean there's no doorknob? What kind of house doesn't have doorknobs?"
“Whoever heard of putting doorknobs on the inside of closets? It's not like I planned on getting locked into one!"
"Well—do something! Take the door off the hinges, jimmy the latch—something!"
His voice was dry. "I seem to have left my tools in my pants, which don't happen to be hanging up in here."
Lyn released a long breath through her teeth. "I don't believe this. So what are we supposed to do? Just stay here until they find our bodies?"
"I doubt it'll come to that." His voice was a little too cheerful for Lyn's liking. "If I don't make my house payment by the first of the month, they'll send out the loan sharks, and they can be counted on to tear this place apart until they find me."
"That's very funny." Lyn braced her back to the wall and slid down to the floor, folding her arms atop her upraised knees. "I don't believe this," she muttered into her arms. "I just don't believe this...."
His silence could have been interpreted as apology, or amusement. Then he said, "This seems like a good time to introduce ourselves."
She raised her eyes to him again in disbelief and amazement, and once again could make out nothing but the shadow of a form.
"I'm Kevin Carmichael," he said. "Most people call me Casey."
His casual, cocktail-party tone left her speechless for a moment. Then she said, "Why?"
"K.C.," he explained patiently. "Casey."
"Oh."
"And your name?"
"Lyn Sanders."
"Pleased to meet you."
He surprised her by sitting on the floor next to her, so close that his knee brushed against her jeaned thigh. Quickly she jerked away. "What are you doing?"
' 'Making myself comfortable.''
She pressed farther against the far wall. "Can't you make yourself comfortable somewhere else?"
' 'Are you always this jumpy?''
"Sorry." She tried to make her voice light, but it came out as strained and tense. "There's something about being trapped in a closet with a naked man in a strange house with no chance of rescue that puts my nerves on edge."
His voice was rich with amusement. "You can relax. I'm not feeling particularly lusty at the moment, and even if I were there's not enough room in here to do anything about it."
He was right about that, at least. Though Lyn had pressed herself so far against the wall that a shelf dug uncomfortably into her ribs, the damp warmth of his lean bicep still brushed against hers and she could feel the shape of his hip—protected only by the scrap of towel— curving against her thigh. The shower-fresh scent of him filled the small enclosure.
He said, "Now, let's see if we can't get this thing straightened out. Do you still think I'm a burglar with a shower fetish, or do you believe I'm who I say I am?"
Lyn doubled her fists atop her knees and rested her chin on them morosely, trying to ignore the flexing of his thigh muscle as he shifted position slightly. "Oh, you're Casey Carmichael all right. According to Murphy's law you couldn't be anyone else."
"Murphy's Law?" There was a hint of puzzlement in his tone. "Whi
ch one?"
“The one that says 'anything that can go wrong, will go wrong,'" she answered, sighing. "Besides, you knew the dog's name."
He seemed to think about that for a minute—or perhaps he was just phrasing his next line of attack. "You don't look much like Pat," he pointed out.
"So I've been told."
"And you are two hours late."
"I overslept."
"Until five o'clock in the afternoon?"
"Five-thirty."
He was silent for a moment. "Do you have the key?"
"What?"
"The key to my house that Pat keeps on file."
Feeling both foolish and irritated that she hadn't thought of so simple a solution to proving her innocence, Lyn dug into her jeans pocket and produced the key.
Casey Carmichael's warm callused fingers fumbled with hers for a moment as he retrieved the key, then held it so that it struck the narrow wedge of light coming from beneath the door, examining the white tag with the familiar Pet Pride logo—a cartoon dog and cat etched in green—that was suspended from the chain. Satisfied, he returned the key to her.
"To tell the truth," he admitted easily, "it was pretty obvious you were the pet sitter from the start. I don't think a burglar could make up a story like that on the spur-of-the-moment.''
Lyn scowled as she returned the key to her pocket. "I appreciate your vote of confidence. So you put me through all this just for the fun of it?"
Again there was that curve of amusement in his tone, making Lyn wonder what his smile looked like, and making her sorry she couldn't see it in the dark. "Do you mean you haven't been having fun?"
"Oh, sure. This is the best time I've had in years. Why go to the amusement park when you can be mauled by a parrot, attacked by a cougar and locked in a dark closet by a dog—and all without crossing the county line."
