For Keeps

by Donna Ball

  "Sheba wouldn't have hurt you, you know. She's been declawed, and she's really just a big pussycat."

  "There was no cougar on your list of pets," Lyn pointed out darkly.

  "That's because she's not officially mine. I only board her when we're working together. And I'd never leave her home with a sitter."

  "Wise decision," Lyn muttered. Then, for the first time something besides her own miserable predicament prickled her interest and she asked, "What do you mean—working together?"

  "That's what I do," he explained, "I train animals— for films and television commercials, mostly. That's where I was today—on a shoot."

  "Oh," Lyn said. That certainly explained a lot...more than enough, as far as Lyn was concerned. That meant he was not only Grizabella's owner, but her trainer as well, and losing the cat was more than just the cost of a calico Persian. It was his livelihood. She felt a little sick.

  There was an accusatory note in her tone as she pointed out, "You were supposed to be gone overnight. Pat's note distinctly said—"

  The shrug of his shoulders against hers was like a caress. "We had to reschedule. If you've ever tried to share a Winnebago with a two-hundred-pound cat who likes to hog the bed, you'll understand why I decided to drive back tonight instead of in the morning."

  Lyn could feel his grin in the dark as he added, "And as it turns out I'm having a much more interesting evening than I would have if I'd stayed over. Sometimes it pays to go with your impulses."

  "You must lead a dull life if you call this an interesting way to spend an evening."

  "You make the most out of what you've got."

  "And what, exactly, have I got—besides a hard floor and a closetful of towels?"

  "A charming, articulate companion who is going out of his way to be pleasant despite the fact that none of this would have happened if it weren't for you."

  Lyn knew she had absolutely no reason to be insulted, but she couldn't help it: the cumulative pressures of the day, the dark guilt over Grizabella, and the close confinement with this sexy-smelling stranger combined into defensiveness and she snapped, "You're the one who pushed me into the closet—and set his attack cat on me."

  "You're the one who was two hours late."

  "You're the one who called a pet sitter in the first place—and came home before you were supposed to! And while we're on the subject you've got a lot of nerve asking Pat to take care of twenty-seven animals for a lousy ten dollars a visit."

  "I couldn't help that—my kennel boy called in sick at the last minute." His voice was mild and perfectly reasonable. "Besides, we have an arrangement. Naturally I pay her more than the usual rate. Did anybody ever mention that you have a sour disposition?"

  She hesitated. "I'm sorry," she said, and meant it. "I'm usually a nice person—really. People like me. I mean, people are always saying how much fun I am— well, maybe not fun, but at least, well, nice. I really don't mean to take it out on you, you've been very understanding all things considered—it's just that I've had a really rotten day. Or afternoon."

  She released a long breath and propped her hands on her chin again. "Besides," she added with more reluctance than she had ever felt in her life. "I have something else to tell you."

  "Oh?"

  "I lost your cat."

  "Which cat?"

  She felt her muscles tense, one by one, from toes to fingers. But there was no point in putting it off any longer. "Grizabella. The Wonder Cat."

  He was silent for a long, long time.

  She blurted out, "I didn't mean to—I had to open the cage to feed her, didn't I? I was just petting her, and all of a sudden she bit me! Then the parrot—and the dog... I've looked everywhere, I swear I have, but the dog door was open and... well, I'm afraid she might have gotten outside."

  Again the silence, long and agonizing. And just when Lyn thought she couldn't stand it for another moment he said, "Let's get back to the part about your being trapped in a closet with a naked man. As far as the conversation goes, that had possibilities."

  She stared at him. "Did you hear what I said? I lost Grizabella."

  The silence was a little briefer, and somewhat less ominous this time. "There's not much either of us can do about it from in here, is there?"

  Lyn swallowed hard. "I guess she was—valuable."

  "Irreplaceable."

  The cold lump of dread that had formed in Lyn's throat settled to her stomach. She buried her face in her knees. "Oh, God. I'm sorry... You'd think that I could manage to feed a few animals without causing a major disaster, wouldn't you? I mean, a ten-year-old could do this job! Maybe you would have been better off hiring a ten-year-old. Here I am, a grown woman, college educated, fairly knowledgeable in the ways of the world— and I can't do even the simplest thing right. I'm sorry," she repeated miserably.

  "There, there." Without warning, his arm slipped around her shoulders in a friendly, reassuring gesture, and if Lyn hadn't known better she would have sworn there was an undertone of humor in his voice. "Try not to let this scar you permanently."

  She lifted her face, half suspicious, half relieved. "You don't seem very upset."

  "I don't see any point in making you feel worse than you already do."

  Lyn swallowed hard. She was acutely aware of his arm around her shoulders, its warmth and firm shape drawing her into an embrace that was more intimate in the dark than it would have been otherwise. She knew she should probably make some effort to shift away, but she did not. The truth was, there was something rather pleasant about the atmosphere between them now, and she did not want to spoil it just yet.

  She said, "Thank you. That's very generous of you. I know how you must feel, losing a famous cat like that."

  "Actually, I never liked her much. She's a biter, and temperamental as hell."

  Lyn stared at him in openmouthed astonishment for a moment, then quickly decided she'd better quit while she was ahead. She said instead, somewhat uncertainly, "You certainly are an even-tempered man."

  "In my line of work, you have to be."

  "I suppose so."

  She was growing uncomfortable now. His nearness, his clean masculine scent, reminded her that her clothes were muddy, her hair was tangled, and she smelled like dogs. Moreover, now that the worst was over and she had confessed about Grizabella, she was becoming more and more aware of how provocative their positions were— how firm the shape of his leg was against hers, how secure the cradle of his arm. When she considered the fact that this was only the beginning of a very long night she felt a flush spread over her throat and down to the tips of her fingers.

  She cleared her throat abruptly and said, "It's getting warm in here, isn't it?"

  "Is it? I was just thinking it's a little chilly."

  "That might have something to do with the way you're dressed."

  He chuckled. "It might, at that."

  She pushed to her feet quickly, finding it necessary to brace her hand briefly against his bare knee but trying to make the movement as casual as possible. "Are you sure there's nothing in here we can use to open the door? There has to be something..." She ran her hands along the shelves, dislodging towels, fumbling over canisters and bottles. As a stack of washcloths scattered off the shelf and onto Casey's head, he very prudently got to his feet.

  "Look, there's nothing in here." He caught both of her searching hands with his. "I know my own closet."

  "You didn't know it didn't have doorknobs." She gave an experimental little tug to retrieve her hands, but not very hard. Her eyes had adjusted to the dimness enough so that she could see his face only a few inches above hers, and his breath was a warm whisper on her cheek when he spoke.

  “But I know there aren't any tools in here."

  She pulled her hands away. "Are you going to sue me for losing Grizabella?''

  "Not if you don't sue me."

  "Sue you?" She blinked. "For what?"

  He shrugged, leaning back so that one hip rested casually agains
t a shelf. "People do. The postman who was scared by a bear, the cleaning lady who stumbled over a python..."

  "Python?" Her voice squeaked.

  "Don't worry," he assured her. "I don't keep snakes anymore. But the point is, you never can tell how people are going to react when they have a bad experience with an exotic animal."

  "I wouldn't know. This is my first experience with exotic animals and I'm too embarrassed to sue."

  She could see his smile filtering faintly through the dark. "That's a relief. Now that we've got the confusion about mistaken identities cleared up and we've promised not to sue each other, do you think we could be friends?"

  Lyn's own smile came more easily than she ever could have imagined a half hour ago. "I don't see why not." She extended her hand to him.

  "Good." He took her hand in a brief, warm clasp, then turned toward the door. "Montana! Open!"

  Outside she heard the scuffling of paws, an eager panting, and the definitive click of a latch. She watched in disbelief as the crack of light widened and the closet door swung slowly open.

  "Good dog."

  Montana sat just outside the door, looking very pleased with himself, and Casey stepped outside to scratch him under the chin. For a moment Lyn simply stared at them both, unmoving, and then she burst out, “How did he— You—you knew, all along you knew— and you—you told him to—"

  Casey looked at her patiently. "No, I didn't command him to close the door. I told you, he does that on his own. But as long as we were in there, it seemed like a good chance to get things cleared up—"

  "You kept me trapped in there!"

  "Well, I couldn't let you go storming off the way you were, could I? There's no telling what you might do."

  She glared at him. "Like sue you?"

  His smile, now that she could see it, was even more disarming than she had imagined it would be. His full lips curved upward, his eyes narrowed with a warm glow, and his entire face took on a mischievous, all but irresistibly endearing look. "You promised," he reminded her.

  Lyn pushed past him toward the stairs—and almost tripped over Grizabella, who came strolling down the hallway with her tail in the air.

  "Well, look at that," Casey declared, and bent to scoop her up. "She's not lost after all."

  Lyn turned on him icily. "I suppose you knew that, too."

  He lifted one shoulder innocently. "She gets out all the time. Usually she ends up hiding in my underwear drawer—she's too big a coward to go outside."

  Lyn didn't know whether to be furious or relieved; whether to count her blessings or kick Casey Carmichael in the shins. What she did know was that if she stayed here one moment longer she would be certain to do something she regretted.

  So she drew back her shoulders, squared her jaw, and said, with all possible dignity, "Thank you, Mr. Carmichael, for a perfectly enchanting evening."

  She turned and stalked down the stairs. There was laughter in his voice as he called back, "Hey, don't go away mad!" Lyn slammed the door behind her.

  ********************

  THREE

  Lyn had not even disappeared down the stairs before Casey was wishing he had never taught Montana to open doors. Why had Pat never told him how attractive her sister was? And not just attractive, the way Pat was, although Casey had always had a weakness for redheads, but...compelling. Yes, that was the word. Interesting in a way that made him want to know more about her. He couldn't help wondering what would have happened if they had stayed in that closet a little while longer.

  But he was always doing things like that. Backing away prematurely, closing—or opening—doors too soon. That way he was never disappointed by what might have been, he was never the one left standing behind while the other person walked away. If he missed a lot in the process ... well, he couldn't regret what he had never lost. And he had found that, when it came to dealing with the human race, a healthy dose of caution was a good policy.

  But this time he didn't see how it could have hurt to get to know Lyn Sanders a little better.

  He took Grizabella back into his bedroom while he quickly dressed and then went about the business of closing down the zoo for the night. Sheba followed him docilely to the garage, where her bed, made of a well-worn mattress and a couple of chewed-up blankets, lay in one corner. The cats howled with hungry demand when they heard his footsteps, the parrot circled the room and squawked excitedly. That was one thing about animals; they were always predictable.

  He could, of course, call Lyn. It wasn't as though they were necessarily ships that passed in the night; he knew her number, he knew where she lived, he even knew her sister. If he wanted to see her again, all he had to do was pick up the phone.

  But almost as soon as the notion crossed his mind he dismissed it. He didn't have time for a social life. He didn't have room in his life for another person. The last thing he needed was to get involved with a woman who, even on such brief acquaintance, he found far too attractive. He wasn't going to call her.

  But, if he had it all to do over again, he decided he would have found a way to make her stay a little longer.

  *********

  All the way to the car Lyn expected the giant cat to appear, teeth bared, or one of the dogs to leap out from behind a bush and knock her to the ground, or the parrot to fly out of an open window and land in her hair. She walked with rapid, though cautious, steps, her eyes darting back and forth between the shadows, and when she reached her car without incident she felt like a prisoner on reprieve. She could hardly believe it had been that easy.

  And as it turned out, of course, it wasn't that easy. Nothing ever was. She lifted the door handle, and nothing happened. The door was locked. She could see her purse on the front seat of the car. Desperately, she patted the pockets of her jeans. No keys. With a sinking feeling, she peered through the window on the driver's side and, sure enough, there were her keys, dangling from the ignition.

  "No," she groaned. "Please, no..."

  She hurried around to the passenger side and tried the door, knowing it was futile. The door locks were automatic; if one was locked, all of them were. How could she have been so stupid?

  But she wasn't that stupid. If that dog hadn't jumped in her car and stolen her notebook, she never would have locked her keys inside. Now she was stuck in the last place in the world she wanted to be; she was tired, she was dirty, she was hungry, and it was all Casey Carmichael's fault.

  Angrily she kicked at a tire, but missed and banged her ankle against the fender. She smothered a yelp of pain and grabbed her ankle, overbalanced, and almost fell. Righting herself, she took a couple of breaths and glared at the car.

  It was clear she had two choices. She could either break a window to get into her own car, or go back to the house, knock meekly on Casey Carmichael's door, and ask for assistance. She seriously considered breaking a window.

  Almost wincing with dread, she looked back at the house. The kitchen window painted a bright square of yellow against the early-winter night, and she caught a glimpse of a shadow moving back and forth in front of it. In the kennel, the dogs who had begun to bark when they heard her approach settled down. She wondered uneasily where Sheba the cougar was.

  Of course, she tried to rationalize, it wasn't really Casey Carmichael’s fault that she'd locked her keys in the car. And he hadn't really ordered the dog to lock them in the closet together. Although there was no getting past the fact that he had certainly taken advantage of the situation, he had for the most part been a perfect gentleman and even rather pleasant. Toward the end, she had almost begun to like him. Perhaps she had overreacted.

  But how was she going to go back to that house and politely knock on the door after slamming out so angrily? Her dramatic exit would be spoiled, at the very least. At the worst, Casey Carmichael would laugh so hard he'd forget to let her in.

  Well, he would just have to laugh. The temperature was dropping and gooseflesh was beginning to rise on her bare arms. And she couldn't fin
d a rock big enough to break the window with.

  She went to the house, knocked timidly on the back door, and when no one answered, she pounded. He took his time responding, and a trace of annoyance returned. However, when she heard the click of a latch and the door slowly swung open, Lyn deliberately smoothed her features and prepared to be polite. She even managed a small smile as she opened her mouth to speak, and then stopped. There was no one there.

  She looked into a yellow kitchen, comfortably cluttered like the rest of his house, but completely devoid of human habitation. She dropped her eyes and found, as she should have expected, Montana sitting before the open door.

  Her mouth dropped wryly. "Is your master home?" she inquired.

  Montana's bark was short and to the point.

  "Hi." Casey Carmichael came around the corner, a bag of cat food under one arm and a Siamese cat under the other. He did not look particularly surprised to see her. "Did you forget something?"

  He had, Lyn was relieved to see, changed his attire since the last time they had met. He was wearing red running shorts that didn't cover much more than the towel had done, and a black-and-white T-shirt. His hair had dried into tousled, sun-bleached waves that were pushed back from his forehead and curled softly against his neck. In the full light of the kitchen, more or less clothed and dry, he was even sexier than Lyn had imagined him to be in the closet.

  She cleared her throat and made a vague gesture behind her, not stepping over the threshold. "Actually, I wondered if I could use your phone. I need to call the auto club."

  The cat yowled, and Casey allowed it to jump to the floor, casting an inquiring look at Lyn. "Car trouble?"

  "In a way." She felt an uncomfortable flush tickle her cheeks. If he laughed...' 'I—seem to have locked my keys in the car."

  The grin that tugged at Casey's lips was not mirth, but something very close to delight. If wishes were horses, he thought. She stood framed by the doorway, her face framed by crinkly tendrils of humidity-laden red hair, her porcelain skin faintly stained with embarrassed color, her eyes stubbornly defiant. He was not sure he had ever met a woman who could look quite so good in faded jeans and a baggy white T-shirt streaked with muddy paw prints, but that was all part of her appeal. She looked as though she had been in the trenches, and here she was, a proud survivor, ready to do battle again.