"Here we go," Peter said as he held her chin firmly in one hand and stroked the cotton over the cut.
His touch was warm and the wet cotton cold. Eleanor found that she had no place to look except at his face. His hair was light brown with blond highlights; it was thick and a little in need of a cut. Two interesting scars crested the bone of his left cheek.
"I had a run-in with a wounded hawk," he explained, never looking away from her nose or stopping his work. "Maybe I should lie and say that I was injured in some adventure, some worthy cause."
"Not for my benefit," Eleanor said, and she could hear the stiffness that suddenly invaded her tone. "I'm not much impressed by adventurers or other romantic names for people who are incurably selfish."
"I'm glad I'm not Errol Flynn." Peter gave the cut one final dab and smiled. She was certainly not taking the bait he'd thrown to her. "For a lady who denies a yen for adventure, do you mind if I ask why someone attacked you in a parking lot?" He waited.
"That's the question of the week! It was late, and I had a stack of books from the library. I saw Familiar and picked him up, and was just about to get into my car when a guy with his face covered in a stocking grabbed me. I can assure you, I didn't do anything to provoke the attack. I have no secrets, no treasures, no money. Not even a great family recipe worth stealing. It was just a fluke, and my cat jumped on the attacker and drove him away."
Peter walked back to the table where the cat sat, obviously perfectly content, cleaning his back leg. Was she telling the truth? Eleanor Duncan wasn't exactly what he'd been expecting. But then neither was a lab cat with an Arnold Evans trademark.
"I'm impressed with old Familiar here," he said. "I've been doing a little study in animal communication. I've noticed the cat's ease with us, his confident and independent nature."
"He acts like he knows exactly what's going on," Eleanor agreed.
Peter laughed. "That's pretty standard for cats. They have a certain arrogance."
"Meow," Familiar said without looking up.
"His leg should heal without any trouble, Ms. Duncan." He stroked the cat. "If you keep him, we should start vaccinations. There's a growth or foreign object in the skin near his belly that should be removed. And then there's the matter of his reproductive future."
"Meow!" Familiar stood up, stiff-legged.
"Maybe we should spell," Eleanor said, her whole face brightening as she scratched his ears. "Familiar's too smart."
"Bring him back in a week, if you decide to keep him. And by the way, I heard you refer to him as 'my cat."' He waited, expecting her to make another appointment. If she was working with a group, she'd want to return with another member. If she worked for Evans…
"Thanks, Doctor," Eleanor said as she gathered up the cat and went to the receptionist to pay.
* * *
THE WASHINGTON TRAFFIC was heavy at eleven in the morning. Eleanor stopped at the cleaners, her favorite deli, and returned to the campus. A quick stop at campus security yielded her books and glasses. The lenses were intact, but the frame was uncomfortably warped. As she put them on, they tugged painfully at her cut nose.
"At least I can see to drive a little better," she told the cat as she headed toward her apartment. "My luck has changed," she said, pulling into an open parking space directly in front of the door of her building. She much preferred the street to the garage.
Arms loaded and Familiar tucked comfortably inside her coat, she greeted John, the daytime doorman, and took the elevator to the ninth floor. The fear of the night before had worn away, but there was still a nagging concern. What had provoked the attack? She tried hard to remember the harsh questions the man had asked, but the whole incident was still a blur. She remembered the man, his large hands and hideous face. He'd threatened her, then asked something. Her brow furrowed with the effort to remember while she rummaged in her purse for the apartment key. But as she inserted it, the door swung open easily.
She stood in the hallway, mouth open. Slowly the books cascaded around her feet. Apparently startled by the noise, Familiar poked up his head near the collar of her coat.
The apartment was wrecked. Broken dishes were all over the floors. Pillows were slashed. Plants had been thrown against walls, leaving dirt scattered in all directions. Eleanor gasped and stumbled into the room. She slammed the door shut and leaned against it. A white-hot anger as jagged as a bolt of lightning buzzed down her spine.
Familiar eased himself out of her coat and took a quick survey of the scene.
"No!" Eleanor said, softly but with resolution. "No! I won't have this. I won't put up with it. Not ever again!" She leaned against the wooden door, fighting the anger until she felt the comfort of Familiar's insistent brushing against her leg.
The cat's touch brought her back to the moment, and she turned about to face the damage. The apartment was a mess. Whoever had trashed the place had been both malicious and very thorough. Walking resolutely to the telephone, she picked up the receiver, but her hand was shaking so badly that she had to put it back down. It was impossible to call the police. The scene before her was the worst of her nightmares revisited. She could hide out at a ritzy university, pretending that she was a scholar with a cool, impeccable life. She could wear subdued clothing and talk in a carefully modulated voice. She could deceive all of her new acquaintances. But this wasn't the first time Eleanor Duncan had faced a trashed apartment or violence in her life. Not on a bet!
"But that was the past!" she vowed out loud, picking up a pillow and pounding it with her fist. "That was Carter's life, not mine! Those were his gambling debts, not mine! And I won't have this!" She reached for the phone again, but this time her hand stopped halfway.
She'd built a safe, secure haven at the University of Arts and Literature, and there was no room in her life for scandal. She'd lived an immaculate life. She'd never been a day late in paying her utility bills. She'd never been the subject of a whisper. If she called the police, they'd make a report. There'd be inquiries, investigations, maybe even newspaper stories. Her hand fell to her side. It was too much to bear. Her life had been smeared across the scandal sheets once before in connection with gambling, gangsters' schemes and murder. She'd learned one good lesson from it all— trust no one and keep your mouth shut.
She turned and went to the door, carefully securing the lock. She didn't want anyone to see what had happened to her life. Her shoulders ached with tension as she went to the kitchen and got trash bags, a broom, a dustpan and gloves. She could clean it up. She'd done it before. That was the best way to handle it— alone.
With Familiar's presence to comfort her, she started in the kitchen, sweeping up flour, sugar, grits— pounds and pounds of ruined food. She was halfway through when Familiar sprang to the floor, his tail twitching in the air. He took two tentative steps toward the door, then paused.
"Meow," he said, alerting her.
Heart pumping, Eleanor rested the broom against the counter. She heard it, too, a tentative footstep outside her front door. Her hand moved to the kitchen drawer where the largest knife rested. Just as her fingers closed on the handle, she heard the knock.
Chapter Two
Peter Curry bounced the checkbook in his palm. He didn't need the excuse of returning it to see Eleanor Duncan again. He was quite capable of asking her out for dinner and dancing. He was just as certain, though, that a direct approach— such as asking for a date— would send the dark-haired professor scurrying to hide among her stack of books. If it was a game of cat and mouse she wanted, then he intended to turn the tables. She could spy on him while he pursued her!
Since she'd left his office, his thoughts had returned to her several times. He didn't believe in coincidences. When she walked into his office with a lab cat bearing the too recognizable mark of Arnold Evans, every one of his senses had hit red alert. But then she hadn't behaved as he'd expected. She was so open-acting and-looking. She was intelligent, well-spoken and humorous. All good qualities. And
with that dark hair and ivory skin she was sexy as all get-out.
He sighed and knocked louder. If some animal liberators were trying to enlist his sympathetic assistance, they'd certainly used the best method of persuasion. He had to find out if that was what put Eleanor Duncan in his office, or if she was trying to set him up. He'd been unable to discern any trace of ulterior motive in her behavior. Maybe it was just his nerves working on him, or the magazine article on Arnold Evans. He was overly sensitive about the man, but then he had a right to be.
Maybe it's because too much time has passed and Evans is still on the loose, and you feel guilty about it, he thought.
He knocked for the third time and looked at his watch. It was shortly after noon. He always closed his office after half a day on Saturdays. He'd hoped to spend some of the bright December afternoon in Eleanor's company.
"Who is it?"
The voice coming from behind the door was tense, wary. Peter's senses grew alert.
"Eleanor, it's Dr. Curry. I've come to return your checkbook. With your arms full of cat, you left it on the reception counter."
There was a long silence. "Just leave it in the hall," she finally said; there was a trace of anxiety in her tone.
"What's wrong?" he asked. "Are you hurt?"
He remembered the cut and bruises on her face. Maybe it wasn't the attack of a stranger. Maybe it was a boyfriend or spouse. Or worse. Maybe she really had stolen the cat from a laboratory. "Open the door, Eleanor. I'm not leaving until I know you're okay."
He heard the rattle of locks and bolts, and the door finally swung open a crack. She thrust her face at him. "I'm fine, Dr. Curry. I'm just not feeling well. Thanks for bringing the checkbook." Her hand reached for it.
A streak of black shot through the narrow space, ran between Peter's legs and hurried down the hall.
"Familiar!" Eleanor cried, now opening the door wide to chase the cat. Behind her, Peter saw the destruction of her apartment.
"What happened?" he asked.
A short distance away, Familiar stopped and sat down to clean his front paws.
Realizing that Peter had seen the worst, Eleanor left the door open while she retrieved the cat. "Let's go inside," she suggested. "I don't want the whole building to know I've been…trashed."
"Were you robbed?" Peter closed the door behind him, still surveying the damage.
"Nothing I can find missing," Eleanor said. "There's not a lot of value, as I told you earlier. My books, some research. As you can see, the television and stereo are still here. I don't think robbery was the motive."
Peter picked up the cushions from the sofa and put the undamaged ones back. "If not robbery, what?"
Standing by the kitchen door, she stuck her hands into the pockets of her jeans. "I don't have the faintest idea." She shrugged. She'd pulled her hair back into a ponytail, and a curl had escaped to touch her cheek. "Last night that man. Today, this." Her lips tightened into an angry line as she brushed her face with the back of one hand. "I haven't done anything to anyone. I don't understand."
Peter squelched the urge to ask her directly what she was involved in. It wouldn't do a bit of good. If she was part of some illegal scheme, she'd never admit it. Not knowingly. Animal liberators were dedicated to the bone.
"I'm not much of a detective, but I am a darn good listener," he said. "How about I make some hot tea, grab a broom to help out, and you can tell me everything that's happened to you in the last week? Maybe you saw something or bought something in a store or checked out the wrong book at the library. Together there's a chance we can find out what's going on."
Together. The word seemed to echo in Eleanor's head. She'd been alone for the last nine years. Completely on her own. The very idea that someone might share her fears was unique, even a little frightening. But Peter Curry already had her broom, and he was making a successful effort to gather up the feathers that covered the living-room floor.
"My life is as boring as reading a text on insomnia, but I'll try and remember the past week," she agreed. "You and Familiar are the only two unusual things that have happened to me in the last year! Except for the obvious, of course."
"A cat, a vet and sudden suspense," he said, leaning against the broom and giving her two raised eyebrows. "Diagnosis— you need more pets!"
Eleanor's laugh was soft, but heartfelt. The cloud of depression and fear began to lift. She put the water on to boil for tea and began helping Peter with the cleanup.
Two hours later they were sitting on the sofa in a rearranged living room. With the broken dishes, plants and trash cleaned away, the damage wasn't as bad as it had first appeared. In fact, Peter was taken with the muted mauves and aquas, the subtle but rich decor. Though he'd tried every possible approach, he'd been unable to link her directly with the cat's escape or any knowledge of Evans. He was beginning to wonder if he'd been completely off base with his suspicions. But he didn't believe in coincidences like the cat, her attack, and now her apartment.
Slightly uncomfortable with Peter's helpfulness, Eleanor had told of her life in Tennessee, her parents, her friends, the fun she'd had growing up near the Great Smoky Mountains. She'd carefully avoided all mention of her years with Carter Wells— her disastrous marriage to a gambler, gangster, liar and cheat. She'd played down the destruction of her apartment as another coincidence, another loop in a string of bizarre and unrelated experiences. She wasn't certain he believed her, but he was gentleman enough not to show too much doubt.
He was, in fact, a witty conversationalist who made it easy to talk and listen. He'd shared anecdotes from vet school with her and amusing stories about animals he owned and treated.
As he squeezed a lemon into another cup of hot tea, he continued with his easy banter. "While you were studying the fine points of language, I was up to my ears in fur, feathers and flea shampoo." He stood, stretching tall. "When I was a kid, I always thought I'd live a life of adventure. You know, James Bond, solving crucial secrets, that kind of stuff. Haven't you wanted to be involved in some secret mission?" He'd dangled the bait skillfully, he thought.
"Never." Eleanor looked up at him. Physically he could have passed as a superspy or professional athlete. He was lean but powerful, with the deadly grace of a man who knew how to control his body. He oozed charm. But it was tempered with compassion, and a genuine tenderness that extended to every creature he touched. She'd watched him work on Familiar. It had been her experience that men who lived lives of danger seldom had time to concern themselves with the needs or feelings of other creatures. "You probably would have made an excellent 007," she said, "but I'm glad you decided to be a vet. And so is Familiar."
"Meow!" Familiar remarked. He got up from his nap on top of the television set and went to the front door. He waited, tail twitching just at the tip.
"Company's coming," Peter said.
"I never have company," Eleanor pointed out. "Well, hardly ever."
"Familiar hears them," Peter said. "Cats, in fact most animals, have hearing more sensitive than ours. Or at least they employ it better." He gave Eleanor a hand and drew her to her feet. "Want to make a bet?"
The flash of pain that crossed Eleanor's eyes was almost undetectable, but Peter saw it.
"Did I say something wrong?"
"Not at all," she answered smoothly. "What are the stakes?"
"Dinner tonight?"
The tension changed, but never left her face. "Well, that seems pleasant enough. Okay, if someone comes to my door, I cook. If not, I take you out." She forestalled his complaint. "After all of this help I'd like to treat you to dinner."
"Agreed," Peter said, taking her hand for a shake just as the knock vibrated against the wood.
"I'm particularly fond of seafood," Peter whispered into her ear, letting her hand go so that she could answer the door.
"You probably arranged this," she challenged. But when she opened the door, she knew immediately that the woman who stood there was not an acquaintance of Peter Cu
rry.
"I have a report on a cat in this apartment."
Eleanor stared at the short, red-headed woman who was glaring angrily at her. There was no masking the hostility in the green eyes, or the contempt she obviously felt for Eleanor.
"Excuse me," Eleanor said at last, "why are you here?"
"Magdalena Caruso, SPCA-ARSA. I got a report that you've been supplying cats for animal research. I'm here to confiscate any cats you have in your possession. Come, Bowser!"
An ancient white poodle emerged from the folds of the long black coat. "Aarrrf," he said, then ducked back again.
"Bowser, how can we stage a raid if you act like such a ninny!" She stooped and took the dog into her arms. "Well, do you have cats or not?" she demanded.
Eleanor cast a look behind her, but Familiar had vanished. Standing near the sofa, Peter waited with a blank expression.
"You're with the Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals?" Eleanor inquired.
"In a manner of speaking," the short woman answered. She brushed past Eleanor, bumped the door wide open with her hip and sailed into the apartment. "Cat, Bowser!" she commanded, putting the dog onto the floor.
"Hey!" Eleanor protested, but it was too late.
Tottering and snarling, the little poodle shot across the living room, down the hall and into her bedroom. A din of barking followed, then a yowl of pain.
"One way or the other, Bowser always gets his cat," the little woman said, hustling toward the bedroom.
Eleanor and Peter were close on her heels. At the bedroom door, Peter finally snared the woman's arm. "Mrs. Caruso, you can't come barging into someone's apartment and set your dog loose."
"You'd be surprised what I can do if it's necessary." Magdalena Caruso matched his look without flinching. The fire of a revolutionary burned in her eyes. "There's an animal here that's been reported as mistreated. I came to get it, and I mean to stay here until I do."
"Mistreated!" Eleanor felt her temper begin to flare. She turned on the bedroom light. Familiar was sitting on the end of the bed, perfectly poised. Bowser was cowering on the floor, whining. As soon as the cat looked away, the dog jumped and snapped. Familiar, with one graceful move, raked his claws down the dog's nose. Bowser howled and fell back.
Fear Familiar Bundle Page 2
