Mad About You (boxed set of beloved romances)

by Stephanie Bond

  "New York by way of San Francisco sounds a little inconvenient to me, especially for such a short meeting."

  He winked. "I could be persuaded to stay a fortnight or two."

  Kat bristled and opened her mouth, but Guy cut in, addressing Mr. Muldoon loudly. "Well, I can't tell you how delighted we are to be showing the letter."

  "So nice your curator could accommodate us on such short notice," the courier returned.

  Guy beamed and Kat forced a smile—her boss knew she was less than enthusiastic about showing the document. She kept her voice cordial. "I try to remain flexible, Mr. Muldoon."

  "Which, if I may say so, is a most desirable quality," James Donovan offered.

  Kat jerked her head toward him, but his eyes were wide and innocent.

  "We're expecting large crowds," Guy continued, glazing over the moment.

  James Donovan sighed. "Mr. Trent, my companion and I are a bit whacked from the trip. Can we, as you Americans say, get the show on the road?"

  Guy started to nod, but Kat stepped in. "Not until we've spoken to Lady Mercer."

  On cue, a buzz and click sounded, and Andy reentered. "She said Mr. Donovan is a close friend of hers who agreed to accompany the courier."

  "Very well," Kat said, avoiding the eyes of the man they were discussing. "Then let's open the box and see what all the fuss is about, shall we?"

  Mr. Muldoon broke the outer seal of the container. Andy passed out latex gloves, and everyone watched as the lid was lifted and the special packing paper moved aside to reveal three small sheets of yellowed parchment. Kat lifted the plastic-encased sheets and placed them side by side on a table. Since the letter was written in nearly illegible German, a translation sheet had also been provided, along with a disclaimer, noting contemporary interpretations and conjecture concerning the indiscernible passages.

  "Read the translation," Andy urged, craning for a view.

  Kat squinted at the sheet. "It's undated. 'Dear Madam, I am penning you this note since I must once again break our regular engagement. It seems the goings-on in the world are determined to encroach on our private time, yet another reason to detest the trappings of my title. But if I could feed at' "—she cleared her throat and forged ahead—" 'But if I could feed at thy youthful breast as a commoner, I would be a satisfied man. Instead I must deal with those who are bent on sending me to an early grave with their infighting. The bawdy Americans are a thorn in my side, but I admire their audacity and envy their freedom in that virgin frontier. I tire of the wars and wish I would discover a dignified end. Until I can lie beside thee again, keep me in thy heart.'"

  "What do you think, Kat?" Andy asked, his eyes wide.

  Still peering at the sheets, Kat shook her head. "This isn't my area of expertise, but the King had serious bouts with insanity." She glanced up at Mr. Muldoon. "Do you have the conditioning sheet?"

  He nodded and withdrew the documents from an inside jacket pocket. With the aid of a magnifying glass, he and Kat went over the documents inch by inch and recorded all imperfections, as was required with each incoming piece. By the time they were finished, her back and neck hurt from bending over the letter, and her watch read four o'clock.

  She stepped back and massaged her aching shoulders, stiffening when she felt someone watching her. James Donovan had been so quiet while they had studied the letter, she'd hoped he'd fallen asleep. Instead he was suddenly right behind her.

  "May I lend a hand?" he asked, his mouth near her ear.

  She stiffened. "No, thank you."

  "Watching you work I couldn't help but wonder if under that nun's skirt is a beautiful pair of legs to match those exquisite ankles."

  Anger, coupled with the hum of desire, struck low in her stomach. Kat closed her eyes and cursed under her breath. Denise had been right—sixteen months without a man was obviously getting to her if such a pathetically blatant come-on had the ability to stir her. But she was not about to give this man, who was apparently used to women falling at his expensively clad feet, the satisfaction of a swooning response.

  She turned to him with her brightest smile, but faltered when the impact of his handsome, angular face struck her anew. His nose and brow were prominent, his eyes shone like black glass. Inhaling deeply, she was careful to keep her tone out of hearing range for the other men in the room. "For your information, Mr. Donovan, my legs are beautiful. Such a pity you'll never see them."

  A small frown creased his brow. "I see—you prefer women."

  Kat blinked. "Excuse me?"

  He sighed. "Which some men find intriguing, but not I, I'm afraid."

  Pursing her lips in frustration, Kat said, "I don't prefer women, Mr. Donovan, I just don't prefer you."

  "I'm an acquired taste," he assured her, displaying one dimple, "but addictive. Would you join me for supper? My flight doesn't leave until midnight."

  She had to admit, it sounded more appealing than sharing a pizza with Denise while her friend did laundry. But this man's arrogance alarmed her because, well, frankly, his arrogance might be warranted. "I already have plans."

  "To curl up with a cozy book?" he asked, his voice teasing.

  "No," she retorted, irritated he'd come so close to the boring truth.

  "Careful with that temper," he warned, raising a finger. "Your bun might pop loose."

  "Kat," Guy said from across the room. "We're ready to catalog the letter."

  Grateful for the interruption, Kat swept past James Donovan and turned her attention to the letter. Once the document had been placed in another environment-controlled container, it was inserted into one of the cages, then slid back into the wall among the other cages, where it would stay until the scientists trickled in tomorrow.

  "Mr. Trent gave me a tour of your laboratory," Mr. Muldoon said to Kat as they left the vault. "I'm most impressed."

  She smiled, genuinely pleased. "Thank you—we're very proud of our new restoration facility." The project had been her father's brainchild over a decade ago, before she'd come to work at Jellico's under his tutelage. He'd died in a car accident only a few weeks before the lab was operational. His face rose in her mind and tears pricked her eyelids, but she quickly blinked them away.

  After they signed out, Kat extended her hand to Mr. Muldoon. "Good-bye," she said warmly, and while the others were exchanging small talk, Kat turned to James Donovan. "I hope you enjoy your stay in the States, Mr. Donovan."

  "I would like to meet your head of security to discuss a few issues before I leave."

  Kat's laugh was short and dry. "Mr. Donovan, certainly you don't expect me to give you the run of my museum."

  "No," he said pleasantly. "Just standard precautions, I assure you."

  She pursed her lips. "Sir, our painting vault contains many valuable works—some worth much more than a letter which has yet to be authenticated. We typically don't give security demonstrations."

  "I'm wounded you don't trust me, Ms. McKray. I can arrange for associates from the FBI and the CIA to contact you within the hour to vouch for my good character."

  Kat frowned. "From what organization did you retire, Mr. Donovan?"

  "I was an intelligence agent for the British government."

  "Agent double-oh-seven?" she asked lightly.

  "No," he said in a grave tone, then leaned forward and whispered, "Agent sixty-nine." His mouth bent in a lopsided smile that left her wondering if he was struggling not to laugh at her.

  That smile of his still mocked her when she unlocked the door to her apartment after work. She glanced at her watch. Six-thirty. Denise would be here soon, and they would settle in for several hours of female bonding over beer and pepperoni pizza. Kat yawned widely at the prospect.

  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 w
as 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 othe
r 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."