An Unexpected Partnership (HQR Special Edition)

by Teresa Southwick

  He watched Emma speak with a volunteer, who was caring for the cats behind the plexiglass window. That woman asked Pippa, Penny and Paris if they wanted to come in and pet a few. They did. He watched them curiously as he waited for Emma. Paris obviously had a caring streak, too. He hadn’t seen that side of her since Lydia had left.

  Emma returned from the office down the hall with papers that were attached to a clipboard in hand. She said, “Why don’t we sit in the lobby while you fill these out. If you have any questions, I’ll be here to answer them.”

  Daniel gently rapped on the window and Paris looked his way. He pointed to the clipboard and to the lobby, and she gave him a thumbs-up sign to indicate that she understood.

  As they walked toward the lobby, Emma said to Daniel, “The feline you brought in was not microchipped. She will have to have an FIV and a feline leukemia test. I didn’t want to say anything around your girls.”

  “What do you mean? What if one of the tests is positive?”

  Emma gave him a sad look and he knew what that meant.

  “Why?” he asked, surprised that he cared.

  “There’s research being done to determine if an FIV-positive cat can be included in a multi-cat family, but for now FIV and feline leukemia are both considered highly contagious.” She gently touched his arm.

  He couldn’t believe the heat that simple touch generated. When he glanced at her, he saw an almost surprised look on her face. Was she affected, too?

  They’d reached the lobby and Emma cleared her throat and motioned to two chairs. After they sat, she handed him the clipboard and pen. They were sitting side by side, his knee practically touching hers. He didn’t move it away because that would be too obvious. Obvious that he was attracted? Or obvious that he wanted to remove himself?

  He rested the clipboard on his thigh. The realization brought on by Emma’s words struck hard. “If you can’t save that cat and her kittens, my daughters are going to be heartbroken.”

  “I do understand,” Emma empathized. “And you shouldn’t lose hope—the tests might come back negative. As soon as the vet tech is free, she’ll draw blood. The test will take about twenty minutes. I suggest you take your daughters home and I’ll call you later with the results.”

  He made a quick decision. “Let me give you my cell number, then you can reach me no matter where I am. Do you have your phone on you?”

  She did. She plucked her phone from her belt and tapped Daniel’s cell number into her contacts.

  Thinking he should be filling out the forms, not watching Emma tap in his contact information, he felt startled when she raised her gaze to his and didn’t quickly turn away.

  He did look away. The forms had become more important than Emma Alvarez.

  * * *

  Daniel sat in his study that evening listening to his girls play a video game in the family room across the hall. The floor plan of this house was one of the reasons he and his ex-wife had bought it after Penny was born. The house had been on the market for over a year without a buyer. The owners, a couple whose family had grown and left, had wanted to move closer to their children. He’d gotten a great deal, and he knew that. Lydia had been over-the-moon pleased.

  Pippa’s laughter rang out from the family room. He glanced around his man cave at the bookshelves, at the massive desk, at the computer-and-printer setup. Neither his house nor his law degree would mean anything to him without his daughters.

  He returned to looking for summer-camp selections for his girls at the community college. He hoped it wasn’t too late to enroll. As he began reading the selections, his cell phone buzzed. Picking it up, he saw on the screen that the caller was E. Alvarez. His heart began beating just a little faster.

  “Mr. Sutton?” she asked.

  “Call me Daniel,” he suggested. That wasn’t too informal, right? He always told his clients that, didn’t he?

  Emma hesitated and then said, “All right, Daniel. The calico tested negative, and we’re taking care of her. I named her Fiesta because of all of her colors. She needs good nutrition for her babies.”

  “I’m so glad she has a place where she’ll be safe,” Daniel responded.

  “She’ll be safe for a time. Momma cats with babies aren’t very adoptable. The kittens will be, though, once they’re born.”

  “I don’t think I’m going to tell Pippa, Penny and Paris that.”

  “We can’t give Fiesta a whole lot of attention at the shelter because of all of our animals. I’ll do my best to keep an eye on her. It really would be better if she could go home with you and your girls, though.”

  “No.” The word popped out of Daniel’s mouth before he even thought about the idea.

  “Can I ask why?” she inquired gently.

  After a moment, he told her the truth. “I’m a divorced single dad with three girls who are active, smart and sometimes needy. I really can’t see adding a pet to that mix.”

  She paused, then said quietly, “I see. If you can’t adopt Fiesta, why don’t you bring your daughters back to the shelter for a visit. I’m sure they’d enjoy it and so would she. I’m certain she’ll want all the attention she can get. She’s a very friendly feline.”

  “I’ll consider a visit,” he assured her, maybe because he wanted to see Emma Alvarez again and not the cat.

  “Whenever you have time. Do you know our hours?”

  “I do. I looked them up before we came to the shelter. Are you always on the same shift?”

  “My schedule varies depending on when the shelter needs me to be here.”

  He hadn’t thought about that.

  “We hope to see you soon at Furever Paws,” she said politely. “You have a good night and say hello to your girls for me.”

  “I will.”

  After Daniel ended the call, he wished it had gone on a little longer. Should he visit again with her at Furever Paws when he was attracted to her?

  His better judgment told him no.

  Copyright © 2019 by Harlequin Books S.A.

  Keep reading for an excerpt from The Austen Playbook by Lucy Parker.

  Coming soon from Carina Press and Lucy Parker,

  Lucy Parker presents opposites attract, as she brings the West End to the English countryside via a Jane Austen–themed whodunit.

  Read on for a sneak preview of

  The Austen Playbook,

  the next book in Lucy Parker’s

  London Celebrities Series.

  The Austen Playbook

  by Lucy Parker

  Chapter One

  A year ago

  After twelve years of performing in the West End, Freddy Carlton had racked up her fair share of unfortunate experiences. Bitchy co-stars. Costume malfunctions. Having to stage-snog people with whom she’d had bad dates and even worse sex.

  She’d never forgotten her lines during a public performance.

  “Peanut, it wasn’t that bad.” Crossing her long legs, her older sister Sabrina pushed the basket of hot chips across the table. She’d been trying to stuff food down Freddy’s throat for the past half hour. The conviction that most ills could be assuaged with carbs ran deep in their family. “You covered really well. Barely a pause.”

  Freddy put down her sangria and rubbed her eyes. “Yes. It really saved the day when I quoted a Bruce Springsteen song in the middle of a play set in 1945.”

  In the instant under the lights when her mind had just...blanked, and her stomach had dropped to her shoes, some safety valve in her brain had stepped in and supplied a line. Unfortunately, it had fixed on the last song she’d been listening to in her dressing room to wind down before curtain.

  She supposed she should be thankful she hadn’t trotted out a line from the second-to-last song the radio had infiltrated into her subconscious. She might have responded to her soldier lover’s
romantic declaration with an obscene rap.

  “Oh my God.” She pushed aside her glass and briefly dropped her forehead to the table. “Press night. I quoted Springsteen in front of a thousand people on press night.”

  She’d never really screwed up on stage before. Certainly never so bizarrely. She usually confined any major hiccups to rehearsal. She had a reputation for reliability. Affability. Just tell Freddy where to go, what to do, who to be, and she’ll do it. She’d even throw in a smile.

  Generally, the smile was genuine. She loved the stage, she loved her family, and she loved life. With the glaring exception of tonight’s debacle, her career was on the up. She ought to be skipping through the streets.

  Not lying awake at night, not partying too much in the extremely brief gaps between productions, and not feeling physically sick before auditions.

  “People may not even have noticed.” Sabrina pushed back a strand of wildly curling hair. They’d both inherited their father’s ringlets, but where Freddy was dark brown, like every Carlton in recent memory, Sabs had popped out a bright redhead. An early beginning on her lifelong tendency to stand out in the crowd. “And given how shite the actual dialogue was, I thought your improvisation was a massive improvement.”

  “Sabrina,” Akiko protested from the other side of the booth, her heavy silver jewellery glinting in the light as she shifted. Her makeup was equally sparkly, the smooth bob that curved under her chin was currently dyed cobalt blue, and she looked more like a rock star than an academic. She’d been Sabrina’s best mate for over two decades, and Freddy literally couldn’t remember life before her comforting presence. “I thought the script was very good.” Akiko ran her fingers over the tines of her fork. She always fiddled when she was blatantly lying.

  “Akiko, I love that you’re a nicer person than I am, but there’s politeness and there’s absolute bollocks.” Sabrina patted Freddy’s arm. “I’m assuming that—Jesus, I can’t even remember the name of tonight’s play, and it was only an hour ago. Seriously, kiddo, stop beating yourself up. A forgotten line is the least of that script’s worries.”

  “You’re not being very respectful about your late grandmother’s work,” Akiko said, and Sabrina wrinkled her nose.

  “I think enough people fawn over our infamous granny, don’t you? Dad’s one step away from erecting a ten-foot solid-gold statue of her on his balcony. And based on the script tonight, I’m baffled by the accolades. The ‘greatest British playwright of the twentieth century’? What, were the only other plays between 1900 and 1999 written by the typewriting monkey at the zoo?”

  “The play I stuttered my way through tonight is Masquerade.” Freddy took a chip from the bowl Sabrina was waving in front of her again and bit it in half. They were venturing into territory that made boulders appear in her stomach, so she might as well pile some greasy spuds on top. “It’s one of the earliest Henrietta Carlton scripts.”

  Their grandmother had written Masquerade at the age of twenty, several years before she’d hit the big time as both a playwright and an actor.

  “Her writing inexperience shows in Masquerade. Hugely. It’s nothing like The Velvet Room.” The script that had catapulted Henrietta into the history books. “Which I assume you’ve still never read.” Freddy swallowed down another chip with a mouthful of sangria. The director of Masquerade wanted his cast to follow a healthy diet during the run. Nailing it.

  “You should read it.” Akiko swirled the melting ice in her own drink. “I’m not that keen on just paging through a script like it’s a novel, but The Velvet Room is so poignant you forget you’re reading stage directions. Your grandmother grew into a cracker of a writer.”

  Sabrina lifted finely threaded brows. “All that, and a brilliant actress, too. Almost seems too much talent for one person, doesn’t it?” She tweaked one of Freddy’s fluffing curls. “Thank God our little Frederica came along to keep the end up for this generation. Four centuries of thespians in the family, with X-factor spilling out of their Shakespearean ruffs, and it almost ended with—”

  “A very talented journalist,” Akiko said loyally.

  “Some drunk ginger floozy from the telly?” Freddy suggested at the same time, in a tongue-in-cheek attempt to divert the stream of the conversation.

  Sabrina lifted her nose. “Excuse me, baby sister. I am perfectly sober. I can hold a cocktail.”

  “You can hold about six in each hand at the TV Awards every year.”

  “Entirely different situation.” Sabrina grinned. “Despite that piece of cheek, you wee shite, and even with a spot of Springsteen thrown in, I’m incredibly proud of what you can do. And I’ll even bone up on The Velvet Room, so I’m all set for your star turn in the West End revival next year.”

  Freddy felt her smile fade from the inside out. Her heart gave a hard thump of trepidation and shrivelled, and the shadow probably spread to her face. “There’s no guarantee I’ll get a role in it.”

  “Of course you will,” Sabrina said, and added with sisterly affection and zero tact, “Talent aside, you’re Henrietta’s granddaughter. Think of the marketing opportunities. Dad’s always got his eye on his investments, and this’ll be a triple coup. A performance royalty from the theatre, commission from your salary, and all the media appearances he’ll be able to milk out of you appearing in Grandma’s tour de force.” Her vivacious features slipped into that barbed wall of sarcasm that usually emerged when they were discussing their father. “Thanks to the offspring who isn’t a massive disappointment, Scrooge McDuck can pour another bucket of gold coins into that vault of millions he’s hoarding.”

  Freddy felt a tinge of colour rush into her cheeks, and that knot in her chest twisted. She put down the rest of the chip in her hand.

  Akiko folded her hands on the tabletop, studying Freddy with uncomfortably shrewd dark eyes. “You do want a role in The Velvet Room, Freddy?”

  “What, Henrietta’s masterpiece? The Carltons’ biggest claim to fame?” Sabrina waved at someone who’d just come into the pub. “Freddy’s always banged on about what a good script it is. She’s almost as bad as Dad on that subject. Although at least she likes it for its artistic merit, not the rewards it generates.”

  Akiko was still looking at Freddy.

  She weighed her words. “It’s an excellent play. It really does deserve all the accolades.” She hadn’t actually answered Akiko’s question, and from her expression, it hadn’t gone unnoticed. Freddy appreciated the genius of The Velvet Room—but did she really, honestly, want to act in it?

  No. She could say it silently, privately, in her own mind, but so far she hadn’t had the balls to say it aloud, even just to Sabrina.

  After a moment, she lifted a shoulder. “The most likely director for the new season of The Velvet Room was in the audience tonight. This performance wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement, was it?”

  “You were probably just nervous,” Sabrina said, in a tone that suggested Freddy was eleven years old again and had just embarked on her first debut.

  Incidentally, when she had debuted at eleven, she’d remembered every one of her lines.

  “I’m sure press night is always terrifying,” Akiko said.

  Yes, it was, even after all this time. Doubly so when her family were in the front rows, as well as the dozens of critics, including the dude who’d called her “duller than a pair of safety scissors” in the Westminster Post.

  And the scrutiny would have been high tonight, because of the family connection. By choice, Freddy wouldn’t audition for any adaptations of her grandmother’s works. For several reasons, one being that enough of her career had been founded on nepotism. She hadn’t minded exploiting the connection in her teens, but unearned glory wore thin very quickly. With Carltons populating the theatres of London since the days of quills, bustles, and bubonic plague, she didn’t need to provide extra fodder for the critics to discuss th
e many and varied ways she had built a career on other people’s achievements.

  However, her father was her manager, he did think it was good business sense to capitalise on the link, and when the casting call had gone out for Masquerade this season, he’d been dead set on having her in it. And she’d caved, to avoid the argument. As usual.

  Akiko cleared her throat. “I’m not sure that unrelenting angst is really your thing, Freddy. I could see the natural glass-half-full sass itching to come out at every woe-laden moment.”

  As usual, she’d hit the nail on the head. No, weepy philosophical introspection was not Freddy’s cup of tea, it had become increasingly apparent, and the admittedly mediocre script for Masquerade was so wreathed in despair and gloom that she’d had to listen to P. G. Wodehouse audiobooks in rehearsal downtime to keep up her spirits.

  In that respect, The Velvet Room would be just as bad. It was beautifully written, but not exactly abundant with laughs.

  It would, however, very likely sweep the National Theatre Awards and look bloody great on a CV.

  Which, not so long ago, she’d have jotted down as item one on the priority list. Living up to the family legacy, reaching the highest salary bracket, winning countless Leading Actress awards, crossing over into film, meriting an incredibly long and detailed entry on Wikipedia—who wouldn’t want that?

  Who wouldn’t find happiness in all of that?

  She smooshed another chip into a greasy pillow between her finger and thumb.

  “So, how was the show?” The question came from the next booth. The Prop & Cue was always packed to the rafters, as the closest pub to four of the major theatres, and the noise level was usually a continuous loud buzz, but every so often there was an unexpected lull. She could hear the man clearly, speaking in an attractive, melodious voice. “Where does tonight’s review fall on the scale of ‘could do better’ to ‘Jesus God, pass me the brain bleach’? Which poor sod’s career is in the crapper this time?”