“Come on, Chloe,” Jim said. “Let’s go look at the other kitties, shall we?”
“No,” his daughter said simply, straightening and slipping her hand into his. “I don’t want another kitty. I think I just want to go home now.”
“Okay, cookie,” Jim said, drawing her toward the door. “We’ll go look at another shelter tomorrow.”
At this, Chloe stopped sharply, tightly squeezing his hand.
He looked down. “What?”
“No, Daddy!” Chloe said. “Pixie just doesn’t know me yet. As soon as she does, she’ll come home with us. You’ll see.”
Damn. “Chloe—”
“We’ll come tomorrow and the next day and the next until she knows me real well, and then she won’t be scared to leave with us,” Chloe said. “It’s like when we moved here and I was kinda scared, and you said once I got used to it I’d like it. Pixie’s the same. She just has to get used to me. She never met me before, you know,” she finished reasonably.
Helplessly, Jim raised his gaze to Edith. Why he should look to her for help was a mystery, but apparently he’d underestimated her.
“You can come anytime you like,” she said. “It will be interesting to see if your theory can be substantiated.” Her words were uncomplicated, direct. They offered no promises, no assurances. Edith merely gave simple permission for Chloe to try her experiment, one scientist to another.
“Daddy? Can we come back again? Tomorrow?”
“We’re open only in the evenings on weekdays,” Edith said, “and on the weekends from eleven a.m. until four p.m.”
What harm could it do? Jim thought. Chloe was only five. It wouldn’t take too long before she got tired of trying to coax an antique cat through a door. And in the meantime it would give her the opportunity to see and fall in love with a more suitable companion.
And he could explore this new aspect of Global Genetics’ strangely attractive research head.
Melissa was waiting for them in the car when they walked out of the brick storefront, having insisted on driving them in her Saab the marathon one and a half blocks over here. She reached across and unlocked the door, not so subtly reminding Jim that when he’d moved out of Highwood, he’d left behind the safety of the neighborhood where he’d grown up and where his sisters still lived with their families. Not that Parkwood Knolls was exactly the crime capital of world; in fact, it had even fewer police incident reports per week than Highwood. But according to his sisters, if you weren’t on a first-name basis with everyone within a ten-block radius, you couldn’t really feel secure.
Jim opened the door, and Chloe scooted into the backseat and buckled herself in. Then he got in, sliding behind the steering wheel.
“I wish you hadn’t taken off like that,” he said to his sister. “It really wasn’t worth bit—”—he abruptly chose a different word when he caught sight of Chloe, and finished—“stirring up trouble for Edith.”
“A hundred bucks may not be much to you, but to me it’s worth bit—fussing about,” Melissa said sarcastically, and then, shooting an irritated glance at him, added, “Oh, don’t look so pi—angry. Carol—that’s the woman out front—isn’t the director of Cupids Cats. It turns out Dr. Handelman runs the da—darn good place.”
Chapter 2
Edith saw Jim Curran at Global Genetics the following day. He was heading for the elevator bank that would carry him to the corporate offices high above the research floors. She wasn’t surprised he didn’t see her. In her lab coat with her hair once more neatly drawn back, she would be interchangeable with most of the females in the department. For a second, she considered saying hello—she even half lifted her hand—but decided against making such an overture. He might think she was using their chance encounter at Cupid Cats as an excuse to presume a social friendship.
Besides, she was still trying to figure out what she’d said that had made his sister so antagonistic. She hadn’t made any value judgment about Melissa’s inability to process information in a logical manner. She’d simply pointed it out. She sighed. Her interactions with the general population typically were fraught with misunderstandings and tensions she was at a loss to explain. She did better with empirical rather than speculative thinkers. She would do well to remember that.
She began walking briskly in the opposite direction. Objectively, there was no reason for her and Jim to talk at all except on those days he insisted she come along to help “impress” prospective investors. If anyone else had said such a thing to her, she would have been inclined to think they were being sarcastic; she was well aware of her lack of social acumen. But Jim Curran was not like that—although her willingness to make so unsubstantiated a judgment was a little unnerving. Making evaluations based on intuitions went against a lifetime of habit.
Besides, if they were to talk in an extended and purely social manner, what would they say? She was a scientist. He was a professional charmer. Oh, she understood it took more than charm to graduate with honors from the Carlson School of Business, but in the end, he was about sociology whereas she was about hard science. She was a geneticist, a genius, a geek. The combination tended to either intimidate people—especially men—or put them off.
It did neither to Jim Curran; it seemed to challenge him. Over the last year, he appeared to have made it his personal mission to turn her into an asset during his presentations. He did so by insisting she join him in various social milieus to practice her “people skills.”
“A smile now and then, Edith, just to let folks know the fumes in the lab haven’t frozen your face,” he’d advised her. Another recommendation was, “Fewer syllables and more accessibility.” Well, she’d tried using slang yesterday with his daughter. Apparently, one could be too accessible.
Yet he’d made all his suggestions with good humor. She appreciated that. He never treated her as if she were a geek or as if she had Asperger syndrome—there had never been a clinical diagnosis—but rather as if she were simply inexperienced.
She was. She’d never had much of a social life. From the time she could read at age two, she’d been accelerated through every institute of learning she’d encountered, heading at breakneck speed through high school, college and graduate school, fellowships and more graduate schools. Consequently, she’d never spent much time learning those skills others took for granted. Even more debilitating, whenever she was nervous or uneasy, she automatically retreated behind her vocabulary and her IQ, causing her expression to grow immobile with tension. Ultimately she’d spent more and more of her life focusing on her work.
She liked her work. She loved her work. But there hadn’t been much else in her life. No sleepovers, band trips, proms, and not many dates. There had been her ill-considered engagement, but that had been a short-lived situation. She didn’t have any family nearby, and though she had a few friends, they were, to be blunt, just as awkward as she.
Until she’d wandered into Cupid Cats one day.
It had been soon after she’d been hired by Global Genetics four years ago. She’d gone with the idea of adopting a cat to help ease the loneliness of moving to a new city. The shelter had been about to close up, the director moving to another state. She hadn’t intended to take over. She knew nothing about nonprofit organizations, but she did know about cats. She’d had one since she was a little girl, and the thought of all those unwanted cats that day had struck a chord in her she could not ignore. Before she knew it, she’d inherited a small group of volunteers and the lease on the building that housed the shelter. But being director of a cat shelter didn’t exactly promote social adroitness. She understood full well that she was hardly Jim Curran’s “type.”
But if she was being honest—and Edith Handelman was always honest—she would admit she liked the time she spent with Jim Curran. She liked his smiling Irish eyes and his tousled dark hair, the way his smile carved a dimple in one lean cheek, and his ex-all conference swimmer’s physique; however, she understood all of this was simply animal attra
ction based on her genetic predisposition, pheromones, and cultural conditioning. She was objective in this. Such attraction did not ask permission; it just was.
“Edith!”
She turned. Jim Curran was trotting down the corridor toward her. Her shoulders dropped in a swoon of appreciation. He was so gorgeous.
“A minute, Edith?”
He looked troubled. “I didn’t actually call that board member a Neanderthal,” she declared. “I only implied it.”
He stopped beside her, his expression confused. “What?”
He wasn’t chastising her? “Nothing,” Edith said. “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Curran?”
“No. I wanted to thank you for being so nice to Chloe. I know I tend to overindulge, but she really does think that old cat is the same one Steph and I had.”
Steph. That was the dead wife. She hadn’t been above eavesdropping when Jim Curran’s name was brought up around the water cooler, and with a man as handsome and charming as Jim, that was regularly.
“I don’t think it will take too many visits before Chloe gets over the idea that she’s supposed to adopt your cat,” he said.
“She’s not mine,” Edith said automatically. “She just showed up a while ago, over five years now. And she refuses to leave.” His blue shirt made his eyes appear like sapphires, and he’d taken off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves. He had well-muscled forearms and strong-looking hands—very healthy and tanned. She hoped he used a good sunscreen.
He smiled. “That’s rather begging the point, isn’t it, since she lives in a shelter you own and you’ve assumed responsibility for her care?”
She could almost hear a brogue in his voice, which was absolutely ridiculous since his employee file said he’d been born and raised right here in Chicago. She knew because she had peeked into his files. She cleared her throat. “The shelter’s not mine, either. It’s a nonprofit entity. But I understand the point you were trying to make.”
His eyes widened in mock surprise. “What? You’re not going to debate the issue into the ground? Lord, Edith, you keep this up and I’ll think you’re loosening up. Someone might even dare tease you, at this rate.”
He was already teasing her, and he knew she knew it. She blushed, uncomfortable but perversely flattered, and so sounded gruffer than she’d intended when she answered. “You’ve thanked me. Was there something else you wanted?”
He didn’t take offense; his grin just broadened. “Nope. That’s it.”
She was relieved. She hadn’t wanted to offend him. Sometime over the past months she’d developed a full-blown crush on Jim Curran, a crush with all the immature, girly, insipid callowness the term implied. How lowering. How common. How . . . enervating.
Even now, her nerve endings were flooding with chemicals that heightened her tactile responses. She imagined she could actually feel her pupils dilating and—she leaned closer and very discreetly took a sniff—yes, yes. Her sense of smell was definitely more pronounced, and the scent she was gathering from Jim Curran was wholly individual, wholly masculine, and wholly attractive to her.
An appealing scent was not simply a sign of sexual approval; it was far more individualized than that. Unlike the general population’s appreciation of symmetrically proportionate faces and breeding-ready physiques, this attraction was specific to her and Jim. He smelled good to her—not just good, wonderful, thrilling, erotic, yes, but also comforting because his genetic makeup complemented her own.
Research had proven that women could smell subtle differences in the sequences of a system of genes known as the major histocompatibility complex, and women reacted most positively to those men who were immunologically dissimilar, but not too dissimilar, to themselves, thus helping to ensure healthy progeny. Not that Edith was anticipating having a child with Jim Curran. But there were other proven ramifications to scent compatibility, one of which was increased arousal and amplified sexual satisfaction. Immature her crush might be, but solid science was behind it, and that comforted her.
“You look funny, Edith. What’s up?” Jim asked, cocking his head to the side.
As gauche as Jim thought her, she wasn’t about to blurt out, “You smell good,” so she said, “I was thinking of genetic hardwiring.”
“Oh. Interesting.” He didn’t look interested—he looked amused. “What time does the shelter close?”
“Generally at nine p.m.” She didn’t see any point in telling him she often stayed until ten or so just for the company the cats provided. It made her sound pathetic.
“Good. Then I can walk Chloe over before dinner tonight. We live only a half block down and around the corner from the shelter. We moved there a little more than a month ago.”
She didn’t know how to respond. It was a piece of personal information she hadn’t asked for, and she wasn’t sure why he’d offered it or what it meant. Logic said he was trying to make small talk with her because, well, because he was a charmer and charmers made small talk with people. The thought depressed her. “Oh.”
“So I guess I’ll see you tonight? About six thirty?”
“Yes.”
His brow furrowed for a brief second, but all he said was a light, “Have a nice day, Edith.” Then he turned, once more heading for the elevator bank and leaving her discreetly testing the air where he’d been.
Chapter 3
Jim arrived with Chloe at half past six, but as soon as he and his little girl entered the reception area, his iPhone chirruped. He glanced at the screen and scowled, his fingers flicking over the shiny surface. He grimaced and looked up, giving Chloe an apologetic smile. “Sorry, toots, but we’ll have to go. I have to look up some figures on the home computer and send them to this guy. He needs them now.”
“Dad-dy! No!” Chloe protested, her lower lip thrusting out like the prow of a very small ship.
“Can’t be helped. We’ll come tomorrow.” He glanced up at Edith. “If you’re open.”
She nodded.
“But we haven’t even seen Pixie,” she wailed. “Can’t we just see her? You promised.”
“Chloe—”
“Chloe can stay here with me while you attend to business,” Edith offered.
Both Jim and Chloe turned to stare at her, Jim with obvious surprise segueing immediately into doubt, and Chloe with criticism.
“I am perfectly competent to watch over a five-year-old,” Edith said a trifle defensively. True, she’d never actually supervised a child. Babysitting had not been part of her adolescent experience. She’d been studying at Stanford when the rest of her chronological peers had been earning five dollars an hour babysitting their next-door neighbors’ offspring. But she was confident in her ability to oversee Chloe for, what? Half an hour? Besides, she liked children. Their thoughts were like mold, deceptively simple, yet wildly proliferative.
“I don’t doubt that, Edith,” Jim said. “I just don’t have the right to ask you.”
“You didn’t,” Edith replied. “I offered.”
“Please, Daddy. I’ll stay with the lady, er, Miss . . .” Chloe looked askance at Edith.
“Doctor. Dr. Edith Handelman,” Edith supplied. Without missing a beat, Chloe turned her big blue eyes on her father and said, quite solemnly, “Edie said I could stay.”
“Edie?” Edith’s eyes rounded. No one had ever called her Edie.
“It’s a fond dimmytive,” Chloe explained patiently.
Edith felt herself flushing with pleasure even though the child’s words were clearly designed to mollify her father by introducing an emotional connection that did not exist. She noticed Jim watching her with an odd expression and cleared her throat. “Diminutive.”
Chloe ignored her. “Please, Daddy. I’ll be good, I promise.”
Jim studied his daughter doubtfully. “Well,” he said slowly, “if you’re sure she won’t be a problem?”
“I’m not sure of that at all,” Edith replied, “but she demonstrates unexpected sophistication in her manipu
lation of others that suggests she is intelligent enough to take basic directions. And I am sure that should she prove a problem, I am up to the task of keeping her safe from the consequence of her misbehavior.”
Jim eyed her. “Yeah, well, if she’s naughty, give her a time-out.”
“I won’t be naughty,” Chloe promised.
Jim ruffled her hair. “You’d better not be, or Edith—Edie won’t let us back in.”
Edie. Flustered, Edith kept her gaze fixed determinedly on Chloe, saying with mock severity, “That’s right. I will revoke your visitation rights.”
Jim laughed. Edith liked the sound. She liked that she had aroused it. It gave her a weird sense of pride, as though she’d achieved something important, such as sequencing a specific strand of DNA. She always felt disappointed that people outside her immediate milieu always seemed to take her so seriously.
“What’s that mean?” Chloe asked.
“It means you won’t be welcome here,” she explained.
Chloe blew out her cheeks. “You sure use a lot of big words. Couldn’t you use words I understand?”
“I tried that, but your aunt scolded me.”
“That’s ’cause you said a naughty word.”
“Crap isn’t a naughty word. Its etymology is—”
“It’s an inappropriate word for children to use, Edie,” Jim said. “It’s a cultural thing.”
“Ah!” she said, unenlightened but distracted by his casual use of the name his daughter had given her.
He left shortly thereafter, and Edith escorted Chloe back to the vestibule where Ishy generally hung out, but the cat was not there.
“Will you look for her with me?” Chloe asked.
Edith nodded, oddly touched to be included in the search.
“Come on,” Chloe said, inserting her small hand in Edith’s. It was warm and slightly sticky, and after making a mental note to inform Jim that his child’s post-dining hygienics were lacking, Edith allowed the child to tug her along in her small wake as she looked for Ishy.
Cupid Cats Page 12
