Mad About You

by Bond, Stephanie

  They watched as the person walked up the hall in semidarkness, becoming larger and a bit clearer as the distance to the camera closed. It appeared to be a woman. James frowned, thinking something about the person seemed familiar to him, then his breath froze at the same time he felt Kat's body stiffen.

  The person's face was hidden by a large, floppy hat, but dark, shoulder-length hair swept over the collar of a belted all-weather coat, identical to the one he'd seen tossed onto a chair earlier this evening. Gloves covered the woman's hands, and she was wearing a skirt that hung lower than the coat, but not long enough to cover slender ankles and clunky high-heeled shoes—just like the ones Kat had been wearing yesterday. The woman badged into the vault room with the confidence of someone familiar with the procedure.

  "Kat?" Andy whispered, lowering horn-rimmed glasses for a better look at the screen.

  "Kat?" Guy sputtered incredulously. "You were in the vault after midnight?"

  "No!" she gasped, concern in her voice. "That's not me."

  They continued to watch the distorted tape in palpable silence, and within a few seconds the figure emerged from the vault with the environmentally controlled box beneath her arm. And even though the woman's face was still shrouded, James caught the glimpse of something shiny beneath the hat as the figure turned. Spectacles? His eyes darted to Kat's wire-rimmed glasses just as she pushed them higher on her nose.

  Guy turned to Kat. "What the hell is going on here?"

  James studied her reactions carefully. Kat was still staring at the video, watching the figure retreat down the hall and disappear off camera. "I have no idea, but that is not me."

  At that moment, two security guards rejoined them. "Here's the log, Mr. Trent."

  Guy snatched it from their hands and ran his finger down the computer printout. He scowled, then pursed his lips. He raised his gaze long enough to glare at Kat, then read, "Enter rear staff entrance, badge number one three five, Katherine McKray, twelve thirty-five a.m. Enter painting vault, badge number one three five, Katherine McKray, twelve thirty- seven a.m." His voice escalated. "Exit painting vault, badge number one three five, Katherine McKray, twelve thirty-nine a.m. Exit rear staff entrance, badge number one three five, Katherine McKray, twelve-forty a.m."

  All eyes were on Kat, who was slowly shaking her head. Andy Wharton stared at her, openmouthed. The two police officers edged closer.

  "Let me see that!" she demanded, grabbing the log. She scanned the sheet, and tossed it on a table. "That's impossible—I wasn't here!"

  Detective Tenner turned toward her. "Then you have an airtight alibi from twelve to one o'clock this morning?"

  James's heart sank at the guilty look on her face. "I-I was asleep," she stuttered.

  Tenner picked at his teeth. "Alone?"

  "Yes," she said through clenched teeth.

  "I see," Detective Tenner said. "In that case, we're going to need you to come down to the station for questioning."

  "This is crazy," she said. "I didn't steal the letter—I wasn't even here."

  Hiding his alarm, James put a calming hand on her arm. "Relax, Kat." He turned to the detective with an ingratiating smile. "Sir, don't you think it odd that the lady would allow herself to be captured on tape?"

  "I told Ms. McKray just yesterday that the cameras were on the blink," Ronald Beaman offered quietly.

  James's heart thudded as his gaze swung back to Kat. Pale and sweaty, hers was not the face of a woman who had nothing to hide. Had she actually burglarized her own gallery? "Detective, can't you take her statement here?"

  Tenner's laugh was dry. "Not if she's the thief, Mr. Donovan. I don't know how you do it in England, but here we make an arrest if we have a video of the person carrying off the goods."

  "This is ridiculous!" Kat exclaimed, spreading her arms wide. She turned to her boss. "Guy, we've had our differences, but you know I'd never do something like this."

  Guy looked her up and down with contempt. "All I have to say, Katherine McKray, is 'like father, like daughter.'"

  She blanched and James wondered what the man was referring to. She'd mentioned her father had worked for the museum—had he been connected to some wrongdoing?

  James stepped in and raised his hands. "Before we clamp on the handcuffs, gentlemen, let's consider another possibility."

  Guy Trent crossed his arms. "Which is?"

  "Perhaps someone dressed up as Ms. McKray to pull off the heist." He turned to Kat. "Where do you keep your security badge?"

  "In my bedroom," she said slowly.

  "Do you remember putting your badge in its usual place last night when you arrived home from work?"

  "Wait a minute," Detective Tenner said, waving his arms. "I'm supposed to be asking the questions here."

  James frowned. "Sorry—you may proceed."

  Tenner harrumphed, turned to Kat and pulled out a small pad of paper, then clicked a cheap ballpoint pen, poised to write. "Now then, do you remember putting your badge in its usual place last night when you arrived home from work?"

  She bit on her lower lip. "I-I think so—yes, but I left so quickly when Mr. Donovan called a few minutes ago, I didn't even think to bring it with me."

  "Kat," James said calmly, "was anything disturbed in your apartment last night when you went inside?"

  Her eyes widened. "I didn't turn on any lights—I went straight to bed."

  "What time was that?" Tenner asked.

  Kat and James answered at the same time. "Around ten-thirty."

  The detective's eyebrows shot up. "You were with her, Mr. Donovan?"

  James bristled at the man's accusatory glance. "We had dinner and I walked her to her door."

  "Was anyone else in your apartment last night?" the man pressed. "Or more specifically, your bedroom?"

  Kat looked cross. "No! Wait—there's my friend Denise. She was at my apartment doing her laundry when I left with James—er, Mr. Donovan."

  "Short hair or long?" Tenner asked.

  "Short and red," Kat said. "But Denise doesn't have anything to do with this."

  "We'll be the judge of that," the detective said, then wrote down Denise's name and address. "What about the getup the thief was wearing?" he asked Kat. "If we searched your apartment, Ms. McKray, would we find a hat and coat?"

  Kat glanced at James, worry in her eyes, then looked back to Tenner. "Yes, I have a coat like that, and lots of hats, but so does nearly every woman in this city."

  "And," James noted, "if someone stole Ms. McKray's badge, it would have been quite simple to steal a few articles of her clothing as well."

  Tenner looked unconvinced. "And grow hair, too, I suppose?"

  "They could have worn a wig," James pointed out.

  The detective sighed dramatically. "Ms. McKray, give me one good reason why I shouldn't place you under arrest right now."

  "Because," she said, crossing her arms, "I didn't do it."

  Tenner pursed his lips and nodded. "Okay, let's see if I've got this straight: We need to be on the lookout for someone who looks like you, dresses like you, has knowledge of this letter, and has the same access to the museum." He popped his gum. "Do I look like a fool, Ms. McKray?"

  James bit his tongue to keep from answering for her.

  Kat rolled her eyes. "Do I look like a thief, Mr. Tenner?"

  "I just call it like I see it, ma'am." He nodded to one of the policemen. "Read her her rights."

  Kat looked at James, fear brimming in her blue eyes.

  James gave her a reassuring smile and murmured, "Don't worry, Pussy-Kat, everything will be all right."

  But worry boiled in his stomach. Either Kat McKray was a very good actress, or someone was out to frame her. Regardless, the fetching woman was in a great deal of trouble.

  Chapter Four

  JAMES FISTED HIS HANDS at his sides as the younger policeman, Officer Raines, withdrew handcuffs. The man's partner and senior by at least two decades, Officer Campbell, began reciting the Miranda warni
ngs in a practiced tone. Kat's blue eyes widened as she heard the charges of unlawful entry and burglary. She backed up a step, touching her hand to her temple, slowly shaking her head in denial.

  "Detective Tenner," James said, trying to keep his voice calm for her sake, "is it really necessary to subdue the lady?" He smirked. "I'm sure your two able officers can tackle her if she attempts to escape."

  "Just following procedure, Mr. Donovan," the detective assured him. "She's under arrest."

  A din erupted in the room. Guy and Andy stepped back to the perimeter, as if Kat were suddenly a dangerous quantity. The security guards talked quietly among themselves.

  "Wait!" Kat said, holding up her hands.

  Everyone stilled. James had the horrible feeling she was about to admit her wrongdoing. Her mouth trembled. "Detective Tanner, g-give me a minute with Mr. Donovan… please."

  Surprise barbed through James’s chest.

  Tenner squinted at her, then nodded curtly. James moved to her side and she grasped his arm as if he were a lifeline, then pulled him out of earshot of the others. "James, here is a key to my apartment." He felt the metal pressing into his forearm beneath her splayed hand. "Please remove my father's humidor. The police will confiscate it for sure if they find his cigars." She choked on the last word, her eyes brimming with tears.

  Incredulity washed over him. She was about to be hauled off to jail for a serious crime, and she was worried about her father's cigars. He searched the depths of her watery blue eyes and didn't like what he saw: guilt, sadness, desperation. "No confession, Pussy-Kat?" he murmured.

  Her throat constricted, but her gaze never left his. Footsteps approached them from behind. "Promise me you'll get the cigars," she whispered fiercely, a single tear spilling down her pale cheek.

  And without warning, something strange and a bit frightening wrapped itself around his heart and cinched tight. He admired loyalty above all things. He studied the contours of her lovely, troubled face. Although he'd always harbored a soft spot for curvy, smoldering brunettes, he'd never been so compelled to invest himself in a woman's cause, and certainly not after extracting a solitary, reluctant kiss.

  "James?" she murmured.

  He jerked his chin down in acquiescence and captured the key beneath his own hand just as the police officer swinging the cuffs walked up.

  "It's time, Ms. McKray," Detective Tenner said loudly from across the room.

  Kat swung her head around and stared blankly at Tenner and Officer Raines, offering no resistance as the young man clasped her hands behind her. She did, however, blink as the handcuffs clinked into place.

  "Kat," Andy said, as she was led past him, "is there someone I can call?" His words were kind enough, but he sent worried glances toward his glaring boss.

  Her eyes darted in scattered thought, then she nodded and said over her shoulder. "Valmer Getty."

  James turned to follow the policemen and Kat to the parking lot, but Detective Tenner called after him when he had almost made it out the door. "We're not finished with you, Mr. Donovan."

  James pasted on an amiable smile and, still walking, turned back to the man with a small salute. "I'll be back, Detective. Just want to make sure the lady gets to the station in one piece."

  Tenner raised an eyebrow suggestively.

  James attempted to snuff the man's suspicion with a stern look. "After allowing the letter to be stolen, it's the least I owe my client, Lady Mercer," he said, exiting before Tenner could respond.

  Outside, he glanced around the parking lot, somehow knowing the beat-up Volkswagen van was Kat's the instant he spotted it After climbing into his rented car, he watched in uncomfortable silence as the officers assisted Kat into the squad car, its lights flashing silently in the pre-dawn hour. Kat turned and looked at him as the car pulled away, her eyes reminding him of his promise. He made as if to follow the police car, then purposely slowed at a stoplight and lost them, heading instead toward her apartment.

  *****

  Kat watched him disappear from view in the side mirror and exhaled a pent-up breath. She shifted sideways to alleviate the immediate discomfort of having her hands cuffed behind her, but nothing could dispel the sickening swell of panic in her stomach. Her heart pounded erratically. She sank against the cold seat and closed her eyes, fighting the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm her. I will not pass out...I will not pass out....

  She opened her eyes to try to focus on something, but the sight of the wall of crisscrossed metal between her and the officers talking quietly in the front seat triggered another wave of nausea. Kat gagged, then leaned forward and vomited on the floor. The sudden braking of the car nearly tumbled her, but she caught herself with a jarring blow to her shoulder as Officer Campbell pulled into a convenience store parking lot.

  "You should have told us you were feeling sick," Officer Raines chided gently as he helped her from the backseat and unlocked her cuffs. The other policeman handed her a wad of tissues, which she gratefully accepted to wipe her mouth.

  The men appeared to be at a loss for a few seconds, then the older officer mumbled something about getting it cleaned up and walked toward the store.

  "Don't worry," Officer Raines said kindly. "We've seen much worse."

  "I didn't steal that letter."

  The young man shifted uncomfortably, obviously unconvinced. "Your lawyer will be able to help you."

  Kat's spirits lifted a fraction as the image of Valmer Getty, her father's friend and attorney, came to her. She yearned for one of Val's bear hugs. He'd convince the police and the district attorney that the charges against her were ridiculous.

  She watched Officer Campbell pour a box of baking soda over the mess she'd made and wished all her problems could be so easily absorbed. To her relief, Campbell waved off the cuffs when Raines reluctantly withdrew them again. They shepherded her into the backseat and were soon under way again.

  "Looks like we lost your friend," Campbell noted with a glance in the rearview mirror.

  Kat nodded, trying to look miserable, then realized it wasn't really a stretch for her at this moment. A strange feeling uncoiled in her chest when she thought of James Donovan. He was a virtual stranger and represented the owner of the document she had been accused of stealing, yet he was the person in the room to whom she'd turned for help. Even if he didn't believe in her innocence, she felt certain he would do as he'd promised.

  The memory of his lips and body pressed against hers seemed especially powerful now, when she felt so alone. She'd been seriously involved with a handful of men in her thirty-one years, but not one of their lovemaking sessions had left her feeling as desirable as James's lone kiss. Without thinking, she brought her shaking fingers to her mouth and brushed them across her bare lips. Then she shook herself, astonished that her mind could be elsewhere in her predicament.

  Under arrest and on her way to the hoosegow, very probably out of a job and, at the very least, bearing a tarnished reputation—and she was daydreaming about a smooth talker who probably collected American women like souvenir figurines.

  She was in big trouble—literally and emotionally—and intuition told her the situation would worsen before it improved. The clawing panic she'd felt earlier settled into a cold stone of terror in her stomach. For the first time since her father's death, she was glad he wasn't around to see her. Or to be mired in yet another scandal surrounding his beloved gallery.

  *****

  Before inserting the key Kat had given him, James inspected the deadbolts for signs of tampering, but found none. If someone had entered her apartment, it was with a key or through another entrance, unless her friend Denise had left it unlocked.

  Wearing latex gloves, James opened the door and eased into her flat. In one glance he noticed the long coat was not where she had tossed it the previous evening, but other than the cushions on her couch being in slight disarray, nothing else seemed amiss. He noted the humidor in the corner, then headed toward her bedroom. The police pro
bably wouldn't arrive for a couple of hours, but he didn't wish to arouse suspicion with his unexplained absence. Besides, he wanted to help guide the questioning of the others at the gallery. Since Tenner was already convinced of Kat's guilt, James suspected the detective would be woefully inept.

  Her bedroom looked comfortably equipped with a large bed and simple, eclectic furnishings. The walls were textured white on white, sparsely adorned with simple framed posters. The pale linens were gender neutral, absent of ruffles and floral prints. The impression of her body was clear in the rumpled comforter.

  James wasn't in such a hurry that he didn't spend a few seconds imagining her lying there sprawled on the covers, her dark hair loose and trailing over the edge of the bed. The woman really was quite delectable, even though she seemed to attract trouble—which, on second thought, could be an exciting quality.

  His mouth worked as he pondered the state of the room. She hadn't even bothered to turn down the spread...as if she were only going to be there for a short time. James pulled at his chin. Had she just returned from burglarizing the gallery? She hadn't exactly denied it when he had pressed her. In fact, he would have bet his gold watch that she was hiding something. But none of it smacked of the Kat he'd become acquainted with the night before.

  Still, he professionally canvassed the room for likely hiding places for either the letter or the case it had been stored in. Nothing. He found her security badge in a jewelry box, but didn't touch it. Next he opened the folding doors to her closet and blinked at the multitude of colored boxes stacked knee-high. Pussy-Kat seemed to have a penchant for shoes, and the ones she'd been wearing yesterday—which appeared to be the same ones on the film—were in a box on the top row. He slipped a pen through an ankle strap and lifted it for a closer look. They were fairly new, the matte leather barely creased at the stress points. The American size ten meant nothing to him, but he could tell it was a large shoe. But then again, Pussy-Kat was a woman of generous proportions—she needed a good foundation to support all that voluptuousness.