Elizabeth Stewart - Stray Thoughts (Ellora's Cave)

by Nicole

  STRAY THOUGHTS

  Elizabeth Stewart

  Chapter One

  October

  For Sheridan Phillips, it had been one of those days.

  A night of freezing rain and sleet had screwed up the morning commute, even before it had begun. She’d snagged her brand new pantyhose on the corner of her desk as she’d bent over to put her purse in the bottom drawer. Just then, her boss, The Prince of Darkness, had materialized, hands overflowing with files. “Urgent” files that had resulted in lunch being a cold turkey sandwich at her desk instead of a bowl of steaming, homemade soup at the café on the corner. At five o’clock, just as she was reaching for her computer’s “off” switch, The Prince had reappeared at her desk.

  “You know I wouldn’t ask you to stay late,” he began coldly, “if it weren’t important…”

  “Certainly, Mr. Duncan,” she’d replied, trying with limited success to stifle a resigned sigh.

  Now, having worked an hour and a half of overtime, stood all the way home on an overcrowded bus and carried a pair of wet, slippery plastic bags from the grocery store on the corner, she was finally dragging herself home. Inside the large foyer of her old-fashioned apartment building, she set the bags down and opened her mailbox. With one last effort, she managed to get up the wide flight of stairs to her apartment on the second floor.

  Flipping on lights as she walked, she turned up the thermostat in the front hall, threw the mail on the coffee table, put the bags on the kitchen counter and moved on to her bedroom, peeled off her purse and jacket and slipped off her wet pumps. In the bathroom, she looked in the mirror and frowned. Her short, curly black hair had been reduced to a mass of wet frizz and her “waterproof” mascara had run, forming a little bandit mask around her dark brown eyes. I think it is time to look into different makeup, she thought, as she wiped the black rings from her face.

  “You’re a mess,” she chuckled, and shedding the rest of her wet clothes, tossed them into the hamper. She slipped into a comfortable pair of old gray sweats. Shutting off the light, she returned to the kitchen. By the time she’d finished putting away the few groceries she’d bought, the teakettle was singing its warm, cheery whistle and she’d put her frozen chicken dinner in the microwave.

  Curling up on the sofa, she reached over and picked up her stack of mail. Gas bill. Electric bill. Phone bill. Notice that her car insurance was due. And a long white business envelop from Joanne Layton and Associates, Literary Agents. Immediately, her heart picked up its tempo as she slid her finger under the flap.

  She’d sent her latest novel to them in the hopes of at last snagging representation.

  “Dear Mr. Phillips,” it began.

  Her heart sank a little. Granted, with a first name like Sheridan (it was her mother’s maiden name), she was used to being mistaken for a man. But it was obvious that whoever had written the letter hadn’t paid much attention to her cover letter, synopsis or biography. It didn’t bode well for their attention to the manuscript.

  “We appreciate you taking the time to send your manuscript, Star Crossed. It’s an interesting premise and certainly shows promise. However…”

  She didn’t need to read anymore. It was the standard rejection letter. She had enough of them to carpet her Ivory Tower. She’d been writing long enough not to get her hopes up when she submitted a new manuscript. Funny though, no matter how many rejection letters she got or how nicely they were worded, the pain never seemed to diminish. Miserable, she threw the letter back on the coffee table.

  The bell on the microwave sounded the end of the cooking cycle. Somehow, though, the thought of food had suddenly lost its appeal. Mechanically, she got it out, put it on the small dining table and gathered the rest of her dinner, namely, a large glass of white wine.

  She’d just sat down when she heard it. A soft sort of scratching noise was coming from the living room.

  Curious, she got up and moved across the room. Her one-bedroom apartment was small, but it had a large living room window leading out to the fire escape. It faced another apartment building across the alley. Moving the drapes aside, she looked out.

  At first, she didn’t see anything in the cold, rainy darkness. She was about to chalk it up to her imagination when she saw the movement at the bottom of the window. A small black paw had reached up from the fire escape and was furiously scraping four little claws against the glass.

  Intrigued, she unlatched the window and raised it a few inches. Immediately, the paw disappeared and the animal attached to it slithered through the small opening and plopped onto her carpet, shaking itself vigorously as it landed. A few of the cold, wet drops landed on her feet as she closed the window.

  “Well, well,” she smiled down. “Please come in and make yourself at home.”

  It was a huge black cat, almost like a miniature panther. Twenty pounds at least, twelve inches high and two feet long perhaps, lean and sleek. He looked up at her, not with the yellow, almond eyes she’d expected but with huge, round, sapphire blue ones. They studied her thoughtfully, something intelligent and wild in their depths. Even then she remembered thinking to herself that there was something almost unnerving about those eyes. Finally, with regal aplomb, he sat back on his haunches and curled his tail around his long front paws. He looked for all the world as if he’d been expected.

  “All right,” she told him lightly. “Since you asked so nicely, you can stay until it stops raining. Now if you’ll excuse me, I was just having my dinner.”

  Sitting back down at the table, she picked up the breast piece of fried chicken and ripped into it. Crispy batter and tender meat filled her mouth, a trickle of juice dribbling down her chin. Wiping her mouth with a napkin, Sheridan reflected that it was the best thing that had happened to her all day and she closed her eyes to revel in the deliciousness of it.

  She felt something soft and velvety rub gently on her calf. Looking down, she saw the cat at her feet, slowly moving his right front paw in a little circle, barely touching her skin. Inexplicably, a pleasant tingle flitted down her spine. And those eyes continued to watch her intently.

  “Well, I’ll say one thing,” she said softly. “You certainly know how to ask for what you want. Most hungry strays would be up on the table, yowling at the top of their lungs and trying to stick their heads in the plate.”

  She ripped the crispy, heavily battered skin off the drumstick, laid it on several napkins from the holder and placed it on the floor, away from her leg. “Bon appetit.”

  A quick, cursory sniff and the cat attacked his dinner.

  Well before she was finished, she felt that light touch on her calf again, eliciting the same pleasant tingle. Glancing down, she saw that the drumstick had been denuded of meat, the bone still sitting on the napkin.

  “If this is a request for seconds,” she told him casually, “I’m afraid you’re out of luck. Since I wasn’t expecting company tonight, I didn’t get the extra portion dinner. Sorry.”

  Those enormous blue eyes gazed up at her, the paw never stopping. It was almost as if he were mulling over her words. And then she had a sudden urge, for that was the only way she could describe it, to get up, pour out a bowl of water for her guest and have some ice cream (chocolate chip cookie dough). Two scoops.

  As she cleared the table and cleaned the kitchen, the cat sat quietly by her chair, nonchalantly cleaning his face and paws. He behaved as if it were perfectly normal to wander into a strange woman’s apartment and invite himself to dinner.

  “All right,” she explained, setting a small bowl down on the floor by the refrigerator, “here’s some water to wash down your dinner. You would, n
o doubt, prefer a snifter of brandy and a good cigar but I’m afraid you’ll just have to settle for what you get.”

  Seeming to ignore her, he sauntered casually to the bowl and began lapping quickly. She reached into the freezer, pulled out the carton and got two scoops of ice cream.

  Back in the living room, Sheridan resumed her position on the sofa, feet curled up under her, and began on her ice cream. In a few more moments, the cat strolled out of the kitchen and began a lazy, thoughtful inspection of her apartment, stopping to examine the small oak and glass entertainment center, bookcase, end tables and ladder back rocker.

  To finish his circuit, he hopped gracefully up onto the coffee table, checking out the hand-tatted lace runner and simple crystal candlesticks. Running his nose along the base of both of the tall, cinnamon-scented red candles, he seemed satisfied. Finally, he came to her rejection letter, sniffing it once or twice. His nose twitched, whiskers bristling as if he’d smelled something objectionable. Abruptly, he raised his hind leg and peed on the offending letter, a small puddle forming before she could make any move to stop him.

  Surprise, she knew, should have given way to shock or outrage. After all, she wasn’t accustomed to strange animals relieving themselves on her correspondence. But instead, all she could do was laugh.

  “Oh, that’s beautiful,” she giggled, “just beautiful. I mean, talk about poetic justice. When I think of all the times I’ve been pissed on by various and assorted editors and agents…”

  Without looking back, he crossed the distance between the coffee table and sofa in one leap and sat down on the sofa cushion beside her. Gazing up at her, she was reminded of that old saying, “the cat that ate the canary.” His whole being radiated satisfaction.

  The small yellow puddle remained on the thick, heavy bond paper, not soaking through as she set the bowl down on the end table and gingerly picked up the letter, folding the corners up slightly and retreating to the bathroom.

  After disposing of the paper and its puddle in the toilet and washing her hands, she came back to the couch. In the bowl, one of the scoops of ice cream was gone, bits of dough and chocolate chips pushed to the side, the scoop she’d been eating apparently untouched. The cat had moved to the hearth in front of her small fireplace, just licking the last of something off his paws.

  “How the hell did you manage to eat all that ice cream in the three minutes I was in the john?” she asked incredulously.

  He ignored the question. Instead, he turned his head to the empty fireplace then back to her.

  “It would be a perfect night for a fire,” she commented, the picture of a cheery blaze suddenly crackling in my mind, “but I don’t have any wood. I was going to get some but…well, my life has been a little hectic lately.” She paused and looked into those eyes. “If I’d known you were coming….”

  Good God, she thought abruptly to herself, I’m talking to a cat! A stray cat no less.

  “Oh boy,” she sighed, dropping onto the couch. “I must really be losing my grip. First, you move in uninvited, and now you’ve got me talking to you like you could possibly understand me.”

  Shaking her head in mild disbelief, Sheridan smiled at her visitor. “Tell you what? It’s been a really shitty day, even by the standards of my shitty life. I’m gonna go take a bubble bath. Maybe a little hot water and green apple bubbles’ll help clear my head.”

  A few minutes later, she slid into a tub of hot bubbles, leaned back against her bath pillow, closed her eyes and sighed contentedly. Feeling her body relax, the cares and stress of the day seemed to leach away in the warm, sweet-scented water. Perhaps, she thought idly, if I lay here long enough, I can simply will everything away.

  Lost in her own world, Sheridan didn’t know exactly how long she’d been soaking when she became aware that she was being watched. It was that vague but unmistakable feeling that raises the hair on the back of your neck.

  With a start, she opened her eyes and looked around.

  He was sitting on the wide ledge of the tub, inches from her face. Slowly, he was moving his head from side to side, examining her with the same intense interest that he’d shown in the apartment and its furnishings. A tremor shivered through her. If she’d been standing on the bus or a street corner and seen some stranger staring at her as this cat was now, she knew she’d have gone looking for a cop.

  “I’d invite you in,” she joked weakly, “but I’m told cats don’t like water.”

  Reaching out, he placed a paw softly on her cheek, leaning his head so close she could feel the brush of his whiskers. His eyes had narrowed slightly and were locked on hers. Combined with the feel of him on her skin, it was almost…sensual.

  “This is ridiculous,” she muttered, trying to shake off the feeling. He pulled his paw away but continued to gaze at her steadily, calmly.

  Closing her eyes again, Sheridan tried to recapture the serenity she’d been enjoying but the unsettling presence of the little panther made that impossible. Eventually, she gave up but could feel those eyes on her every moment toweling dry, slipping on her nightie and padding out to close up the apartment for the night.

  In the bedroom, she found him curled up on the bed, waiting patiently it seemed, for lights out and for her to join him. Carefully turning down the bedding, she slid between the sheets.

  “It’s still raining,” she said, turning slightly to the cat, “so you can stay the night. But tomorrow morning, you’re on the road again. Understand?”

  He blinked those huge eyes once and then stretched out to his full length.

  “Good night,” she called, reaching up and snapping off the bedside light. Snuggling down under the warm comforter, she realized how sleepy she really was. Turning on her side, Sheridan closed her eyes.

  Drifting off, the last thing she remembered was the feel of a furry paw laid gently on her arm and a narrow, rough tongue moving quickly across her cheek.

  Chapter Two

  “Okay, Cat,” Sheridan grumbled, “rise and shine.”

  Impulsively laying her fingers on his soft side, she ran them over his silky fur. Instantly, those enormous eyes blinked open, wide awake and alert. Feeling his skin ripple under her hand, she watched as he stretched a little, trying to encourage her, she thought, to stroke more of his body.

  He didn’t purr. He was, she thought, not an animal given to purring. But there was a fleeting look of pleasure in his eyes. And the expression on that narrow, aristocratic face. She could almost imagine it was contentment.

  “You know, I can’t just keep calling you ‘Cat’ or ‘You’. Especially since I have the feeling you’ve already made up your mind to stay. Still, I don’t really feel as if I know you well enough to give you a name.”

  Sheridan grinned as he turned slightly, bringing her hand to his stomach. “And I certainly don’t see myself calling you ‘Max’ or ‘Harry.’ I’m sure you do have a name though. I just wish you could tell me what it is.”

  She continued rubbing his stomach; his eyes partially closed in blissful enjoyment. Unexpectedly, he reached out and put a paw lightly on her arm, moving it again in that gentle, tender movement he’d used last night.

  “Nick,” Sheridan squealed suddenly, the name popping into her head like a bursting balloon. She had no idea where the name had come from, but looking down at him, she realized it was perfect.

  That slender head moved up and down once, as if he were agreeing with her. At the time she remembered thinking the movement was just an odd coincidence.

  “Anyway, Nick,” she told him gently, “I’ve got miles to go and beasts to face. So what say we get this show on the road?” One last vigorous rub of his tummy and she was out of bed and padding for the shower.

  As she stepped into the shower and stood under the hot water, she caught sight of Nick. He’d followed her and was now perched beside the sink, his long black tail hanging over the edge of the vanity, watching her through the clear glass shower doors. His dark blue eyes seemed to be taking in e
very inch of her naked body, every move she made. The look was so intense - and so sensual - she had to turn her head and close her eyes. It was almost as if she could feel firm but gentle hands gliding over her body as she rinsed off the soap.

  Back in her bedroom, Nick leapt up on the dresser as Sheridan opened her underwear drawer. Immediately, an interested paw reached out and began feeling the satin panties.

  Pushing the paw back, she glared at the cat with what she hoped was appropriate severity.

  “Okay, Nick, I’ve shared my food and my bed with you. I’ve let you pat me and even watch me shower. But I absolutely draw the line at having you in my panties. Now if you want to watch me dress, I suggest you keep your paws to yourself.”

  The paw reluctantly returned to the bureau top.

  When she was dressed, she went into the kitchen, Nick trailing behind.

  “I always eat breakfast,” she told him, pulling a bowl from the cupboard over the sink. “Since I was little. Unfortunately, I don’t have time during the week for eggs and bacon, so unless you’re into raisin bran, about the only thing I can offer you is a bowl of milk. Sorry.”

  Reaching into the cabinet for her cereal, Sheridan grabbed the box and was just about to close the door when she spied a small can in the back, almost hidden behind an unopened jar of applesauce. Perplexed, she took it out and examined it.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” she commented, holding the can out for Nick to see. “Salmon.” She looked down at him questioningly. “Now where the hell did that come from? I mean, I don’t remember buying salmon.”

  But if Nick was surprised, he didn’t show it. He’d already settled himself on the floor by the refrigerator where his water bowl had been left. Apparently since dinner’d been provided, he expected breakfast was included too. Obviously he was used to traveling on the American Plan.

  “You may not realize it, but this is definitely your lucky morning.”

  They ate their respective breakfasts in silence. When she’d finished putting the bowls and coffee cup in the dishwasher, put on her makeup and gathered her things for work, Sheridan came out into the living room. Somewhat surprised, she found Nick sitting by the window.