It was a safe theory, anyway.
And yet, after only a few hours under her roof, he’d already become a foster dad to a wild kitten and had spent far more time thinking about said kitten’s savior than he had his own host of problems.
Maybe it was simply easier to think about someone else’s situation. Which would explain why he was wondering about things like whether or not Kirby was making a go of things with her new enterprise here, what with the complete lack of winter weather they were having. And what her story was before opening the inn. Was this place a lifelong dream? For all he knew, she was some New England trust fund baby just playing at running her own place. Except that didn’t jibe with what he’d seen of her so far.
He’d been so lost in his thoughts while enjoying the rejuvenation of the hot shower, that he clearly hadn’t heard his foster child’s entrance into the bathroom. Which was why he almost had a heart attack when he turned around to find the little demon hanging from the outside of the clear shower curtain by its tiny, sharp nails, eyes wide in panic.
After his heart resumed a steady pace, he bent down to look at her, eye-to-wild-eye. “You keep climbing things you shouldn’t and one day there will be no one to rescue you.”
He was sure the responding hiss was meant to be ferocious and intimidating, but given the pink-nosed, tiny, whiskered face it came out of, not so much. She hissed again when he just grinned, and started grappling with the curtain when he outright laughed, mangling it in the process.
He swore under his breath. “So, I’m already down one sweater, a shower curtain, and God knows what else you’ve dragged under the bed. I should just let you hang there all tangled up. At least I know where you are.”
However, given that the tiny thing had already had one pretty big fright that day, he sighed, shut off the hot, life-giving spray, and very carefully reached out for a towel. After a quick rubdown, he wrapped the towel around his hips, eased out from the other end of the shower, and grabbed a hand towel. “We’ll probably be adding this to my tab, as well.” He doubted Kirby’s guests would appreciate a bath towel that had doubled as a kitty straightjacket.
“Come on,” he said, doing pretty much the same thing he’d done when the kitten had been attached to the front of Kirby. “I know you’re not happy about it,” he told the now squalling cat. “I’m not all that amped up, either.” He looked at the shredded curtain once he’d de-pronged the demon from the front of it and shuddered to think of just how much damage it had done to the front of Kirby.
“Question is…what do I do with you now?”
Just then a light tap came on the door. “Mr. Hennessey?”
“Brett,” he called back.
“I…Brett. Right. I called. But there was no answer, so—”
“Oh, shower. Sorry.” He walked over to the door, juggled the kitty bundle, and cracked the door open.
Her gaze fixed on his chest and then scooted down to the squirming towel bundle, right back up to his chest, briefly to his face, then away all together. “I’m—sorry. I just, you said…and dinner is—anyway—” She frowned. “You didn’t take the cat, you know, into—” She nodded toward the room behind him. “Did something happen?”
“What? Oh. I was in the shower. Shredder here decided to climb the curtain because apparently she’s not happy unless she’s trying to find new ways to terrify people.”
He glanced from the kitten to Kirby’s face in time to see her almost laugh and then compose herself. “I’m sorry, really. I shouldn’t have let you keep her in the first place. I mean, not that you can’t, but you obviously didn’t come here to rescue a kitten. I should—we should—just leave you alone.” She reached out to take the squirmy bundle from him.
“Does that mean I don’t get dinner?”
“What?” She looked up, got caught somewhere about chest height, then finally looked at his face. “I mean, no, no, not at all. I just—I hope you didn’t have your heart set on pot roast. There were a few…kitchen issues. Minor, really, but—”
“I’m not picky,” he reassured her. What he was, he realized, was starving. And not just for dinner. If she kept looking at him like that…well, it was making him want to feed an entirely different kind of appetite. In fact…He shut that mental path down. His life, such as it was, didn’t have room for further complications. And she’d be one. Hell, she already was. “I shouldn’t have gotten you to cook anyway. You’ve had quite a day, and given what The Claw here did to your—my—shower curtain—I’ll pay for a new one—I can only imagine that you must need more medical attention than I realized.”
“Don’t worry about that, I’m fine. Here,” she said, reaching out for the wriggling towel bundle. “Why don’t I go ahead and take her off your hands. I can put her out on the back porch for a bit, let you get, uh, dressed.”
Really, she had to stop looking at him like that. Like he was a…a pot roast or something. With gravy. And potatoes. Damn he was really hungry. Voraciously so. Did she have any idea how long he’d been on the road? With only himself and the sound of the wind for company? Actually, it had been far longer than that, but he really didn’t need to acknowledge that right about now.
Then she was reaching for him, and he was right at that point where he was going to say the hell with it and drag her into the room and the hell with dinner, too…only she wasn’t reaching for him. She was reaching for the damn kitten. He sort of shoved it into her hands, then shifted so a little more of the door was between them…and a little less of a view of the front of his towel. Which was in a rather revealing situation at the moment.
“Thanks,” he said. “I appreciate it. I’ll go down—be down—in just a few minutes.” He really needed to shut this door. Before he made her nervous. Or worse. I mean, sure, she was looking at him like he was her last supper, but that didn’t mean she was open to being ogled in return by a paying guest. Especially when he was the only paying guest in residence. Even if that did mean they had the house to themselves. And privacy. Lots and lots of privacy. “Five minutes,” he blurted, and all but slammed the door in her face.
Crap, if Dan could see him at the moment, he’d be laughing his damn ass off. As would most of Vegas. Not only did Brett happen to play high stakes poker pretty well, but the supporters and promoters seemed to think he was also a draw because of his looks. And no, he wasn’t blind, he knew he’d been relatively blessed, genetically speaking, for which he was grateful. No one would choose to be ugly. A least he wouldn’t think so.
But while the looks had come naturally, that whole bad boy, cocky attitude vibe that was supposed to go with it had not. Not that he was shy. Exactly.
He was confident in his abilities, what they were, and what they weren’t. But confidence was one thing. Arrogance another. And just because women threw themselves at him didn’t mean he was comfortable catching them. Mostly due to the fact that he was well aware that women weren’t throwing themselves at him because of who he was. But because of what he was. Some kind of quasi-poker rock star. They were batting eyelashes, thrusting cleavage, and passing phone numbers and room keys because of his fame, his fortune, his ability to score freebies from hotels and sponsors, and somewhere on that list, probably his looks weren’t hurting him, either.
Nowhere on the list, however, did it appear that getting to know the guy behind the deck of cards and the stacks of chips was of any remote interest.
And there lay the irony.
He was a guy surrounded by women. In the city that gave sin a whole new meaning. Complete with diagrams, video clips, soundtracks, and anything else a person might desire when indulging in a very wide range of wants or needs. Even the most casual observer would likely assume that Brett had a different woman in his bed every night. Possibly more than one. Or three. It wasn’t a scenario that he was entirely comfortable with, but the promoters ate it up and pushed for more, so he tolerated the whole thing…for appearances. Because it helped the promoters get a bigger buy-in, which meant a bigger
potential payday for him and everyone else playing the game. But that was just while he was playing.
Appearances aside, he generally went to bed alone. The dealers got more action than he did. Hell, so did the busboys, the bellhops, and every other damn person in the city. But then, the available action simply wasn’t his thing.
Dan said he’d just needed to expand his horizons beyond the casino floor and try to meet women elsewhere. But there wasn’t any elsewhere for him in Vegas. Except on Dan’s job site…and there weren’t many women swinging hammers and hauling lumber.
So, he supposed it made perfect sense that the more often he laid eyes on Ms. Farrell, the more often his thoughts strayed from figuring out what he was going to do with the rest of his life…to fantasizing about what he’d really like to be doing for the next few hours. Or days. Possibly even a week or two. Or three.
It had been a pretty long dry spell, after all.
“It’s just dinner,” he reminded himself as he trotted down the stairs a few minutes later, hair toweled dry, and the still slightly rumpled long-sleeve tee paired with his jeans. And the increasingly delectable innkeeper was not on the dessert menu. Even if she did look at him like he was dipped in chocolate. And she’d been craving a Godiva fix for weeks.
Funny, he thought, how all those women wanting him for nothing more than his looks or body in Vegas had been a major turnoff. But let Kirby run her soft gray eyes over his towel-clad body a few times and he was fully on board with whatever her little heart desired, no further questions asked.
Yep, that was downright hilarious.
He forced his wayward thoughts elsewhere so he didn’t enter the dining room sporting uncomfortably fitting jeans. Which would have worked out just fine, he was sure, except the instant he entered the dining room, he found her bending over the table, all long legs and sweet heart-shaped ass staring him right in the face. She was wearing form-fitting, soft ivory khakis, an even softer looking, thin blue sweater, and had her hair pulled up off her neck—a perfectly beautiful, slender span of creamy skin that he was a lot more anxious to taste than whatever it was she was presently setting on the table…
Yeah, the plans for his immediate future were now solely focused on taking his seat as quickly as possible, and spreading that neatly folded linen napkin sitting on his dinner plate over his lap instead.
He cleared his throat so as not to startle her, which startled her anyway. She clattered the last dish to the table and turned quickly around, her hand on the table for support. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I should have knocked, I guess.”
“No, no. Don’t be silly.”
He took in the high color blooming in her cheeks and wondered if it was from the heat in the kitchen…or the heat he’d swear was cranking pretty damn good right here in the dining room.
Oh, Brett, my man, you are in very big trouble.
“Kitten okay?” he managed to ask.
“She’s fine,” Kirby said, her gaze running the length of him, then abruptly locking on his. “I, um, blocked off an area on the back porch and made a little bed, put some food and water out there. She’s all set.” The end of her sentence was punctuated by a crashing sound, followed by a rather petrified sounding yowl. “Okay, maybe not so fine.” Kirby headed toward the kitchen and Brett followed.
They found demon kitty attached by its claws on the screen door that separated kitchen from porch.
“I should have mentioned,” he said sardonically, “she likes to climb things.”
“Very funny. I thought I had her penned by stacking some old empty moving boxes.” She gingerly pushed the door open, kitty still clinging to the opposite side, and glanced out. “Well, they were stacked. For such a tiny thing, her climbing skills are already legendary.”
Brett slipped out behind Kirby and tried to calm the still-yowling cat by stroking its head and scratching behind the ears. Instead of hissing and getting more frantic, she quieted, and eventually he could feel the tiny body relax, bit by bit. “That’s right,” he said, keeping his voice low, smooth, “it’s going to be okay.” After a few minutes, he was able to coax the kitten off the screen and into his hands, claws in for a change. “See? We’re here to help you.” He turned to find Kirby staring at him, a bemused expression on her face. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Something,” he countered. “Why the look?”
She tried a “who me?” expression, then shook her head and said, “I’m just trying to reconcile the soft-spoken kitty whisperer with the leather clad biker dude who rolled into my driveway earlier today. I’m betting your biker buddies would have a few things to say about your new sidekick there.”
“Possibly. If I had any biker buddies.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “No?”
He just shook his head.
He noticed her gaze shift to his hands for a moment. Then she seemed to look at the rest of him all at once before turning back to the mess on the porch. He wanted to ask what she’d been thinking just then, but she spoke first.
“I guess we have to build a better kitty trap if we want to eat while it’s still warm.”
He could have told her that as long as they were in the same room together, he doubted anything would ever get cold, but it seemed a bit premature for that. He was still working out her apparent conflicted impression of him…and, admittedly, he was feeling a bit the same about her. A shoot-from-the-hip, straight talker in a ballerina body. But then, maybe he did know a little about not living up to the packaging. She couldn’t help her looks any more than he could his.
He moved in front of her and carefully handed her the kitten. She instinctively balked, and he couldn’t exactly blame her given the fact that her wounds had probably not even scabbed over yet. But to her credit, she carefully took the little heartbreaker and did her best to croon something to it while he went about fortifying the kitty corral. He glanced back at her a time or two, then smiled privately to himself. She didn’t hesitate to climb a towering oak to rescue a stranded baby animal, but he wouldn’t exactly call her naturally maternal. And yet, she was an innkeeper, a caretaker by profession, presumably by choice. Interesting.
“I’ll be right back.” Before she could ask, he headed through the house and up the stacked flights of steps, taking them two at a time. He was back a minute later.
“You don’t have to donate the sweater to the cause,” she started to say.
He shook it out to show the destruction. “I already have. And don’t worry about it.” He knelt again and finished setting up shop, smiling.
“What?” she said, noticing the smile apparently, when he finally stood and brushed off his knees.
“Nothing.”
“Something,” she echoed back at him. “You seemed…amused by my kitty-whispering skills. Or lack thereof.”
“No, no, you did fine.” He took the now yawning little ball of fluff and nestled her into his sweater, where she instantly curled up and went to sleep. He straightened and stood next to Kirby. “They look so innocent when they’re sleeping, don’t they?”
He glanced over just in time to catch her rolling her eyes, which, perversely, made him grin all the more widely.
“We’d better eat while the little devil—I mean darling—naps,” she said.
He laughed as he held the door open for her, then paused to check out the damage to the screen before stepping in behind her.
She looked back and sighed. “I’ll have to tackle that tomorrow.”
“If you have some extra screen laying around, I’ll be happy to replace it for you.”
She smiled now, but it was a wry one. He wouldn’t have thought it would suit her aquiline features, but it did somehow. Or maybe he was finally adjusting his expectations. He wasn’t sure which. But he knew he wanted to figure it out. Figure her out.
“I’m not in the habit of asking paying guests to do repair work on their guest quarters. And this was hardly your fault. I put
her out there and constructed the failed playpen.”
“I wasn’t asking to be billed for the damage or offering because I felt guilty. I can do the job and thought it might help. I was just being…friendly.” He smiled in the face of her dubious expression. “Are you always in the habit of not giving your guests the benefit of the doubt?”
“No, of course not.” She immediately smoothed her expression and he almost felt bad for making her feel self-conscious. “I’m sorry. And thank you for the kind offer. But I can—”
“Handle it. Why is it,” he said, as he gestured for her to proceed him into the dining room, “that I think you say that a lot?”
“I don’t know that I say it, but it is true. I’m a pretty capable person, despite the damsel in distress act earlier.”
“I don’t doubt that. And accidents can happen to anyone. That you climbed up there at all either spoke of great confidence or—”
“—gasping idiocy.”
He smiled as he took the seat across from her and spread the linen napkin on his plate across his lap. “I hardly think that would ever describe you.”
“You’d be wrong, but I appreciate the gentlemanly response. Especially given you have actual proof to the contrary.”
“Like I keep saying, accidents happen.”
She took the lid off the serving dish. “Chicken and mushroom over rice. Salad, too. The dressing is there,” she said, motioning to the small tureen. “It’s Italian. I hope that’s okay. Biscuits in the basket there.”
“More than okay. Smells incredible.”
“Sorry about the pot roast.”
“I can’t tell you the last time I had home-cooked anything. I’m more than grateful.”
Her smile was a bit self-deprecating as she served herself salad. “Well, I did use the stove, but it’s hardly cooking. Pour a can of mushroom soup over a few breasts of chicken. Make instant rice. Crack open a tube of biscuits. Not exactly going to give Rachel Ray a run anytime soon.”
He smiled as he filled his plate. “Don’t knock yourself. My specialty is ordering room service or takeout. Left on my own, I’d be surviving on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and Captain Crunch. This is five-star for me.”
Here Comes Trouble Page 5