by Zaires, Anna
“What are you doing?” she asks, coming up next to me as I take out three raggedy sweaters, two pairs of jeans, and a few of her better-looking tops. I’d give my left thumb to be allowed to buy her nicer clothes, but that’s not part of the deal we made.
Not yet, at least.
“I’m helping you pack,” I say, returning to the suitcase. Going down on one knee, I place the clothes on the suitcase top and begin to fold them. “You might want to grab some underwear, socks, pajamas, and anything else along those lines.”
There’s dead silence in response, and when I look up, I find Emma watching me with a narrowed stare. “That’s more than one night’s worth of clothes.” Her tone is dangerously even. “And I don’t need instructions on what to bring.”
Sensing a new battle, I rise to my feet. “I didn’t say you needed instructions. As to the quantity of clothes, why not bring more than you need? Just in case.”
“Because.” She crosses her arms over her chest, her pretty face set in stubborn lines.
I raise my eyebrows, waiting for an elaboration, but none comes my way. What does come my way is her cat. Specifically, the big one, Mr. Puffs.
Green eyes narrowed in perfect imitation of his owner’s expression, he stalks toward me, fluffy tail raised high.
“Puffs!” Emma grabs for him, but he deftly avoids her, determined to reach his goal—which is not me but the suitcase.
Jumping in, he stretches out on top of the partially folded clothes and looks up at me smugly. “That’s right,” his flat, furry face tells me. “You might fuck her, but I just marked my territory with white cat hair—and I have lots of it. Way more than you.”
“Ugh, Puffs, what have you done? Now your hair’s all over the place,” Emma groans, reaching into the suitcase to get the cat out. “Here, let’s get you into your carrier before you cause more trouble.”
She carries the beast away, and I swiftly fold the rest of the clothes, brushing off the cat hair as much as I can—which is very little. The white strands must have suckers on them, or superglue, because they cling to Emma’s clothes as tightly as if they’d been painted on.
By the time I’m done, Mr. Puffs is safely ensconced in a stiff, square bag with mesh sides that looks barely large enough to accommodate his furry body. Glaring at me through the front mesh, he attempts to swish his tail, but there’s no room and he meows threateningly instead.
“It’s okay, baby,” Emma coos, patting the side of the bag as she carries it toward the door. “We’re just going on a little overnight adventure. I’m not taking you to the vet, I promise.”
“Here, let me.” I take the carrier from her, since it looks heavy. But it’s lighter than I expected. I guess part of the cat’s size is all that fluffy fur. Ignoring his outraged yowling at the transfer, I ask, “Do you want me to take him out to the car?”
“Not yet. He’ll worry if he’s all alone there. Just set him down here.” She indicates a spot by the door. “If you’d like to help, maybe you can scoop the litter boxes and then take them to the car?”
I stare at her warily. “Scoop the litter boxes?” Does she mean pick them up or…?
“You know, if there are any clumps or anything…” At my horrified look, she rolls her eyes and says, “Never mind. You can finish packing my things, since you seem to know what I need. I’ll get the cats and their stuff ready to go.”
Blowing out a relieved breath, I set down Mr. Puffs and walk over to the dresser to grab Emma’s underwear and socks. As much as I want her at my place, I’m not sure I can handle picking up cat poop or whatever “scooping” entails. I’m not a neat freak—at least I don’t consider myself one—but I definitely like things to be clean and sanitary.
Thanks to my mother’s love affair with alcohol, I mopped up enough vomit and piss in my early years to last a lifetime.
Emma disappears into the bathroom, and I quickly pack whatever I think she might need over the next week. We can fight the one-night-or-longer battle later. Then I call Wilson, my driver, to come in and get the suitcase.
He’s already at the door when Emma emerges from the bathroom, carrying a plastic box filled with rocky sand—which is thankfully free of clumps.
“Here, give it to me.” I take the litter box from her—the thing is surprisingly heavy—and hand it to Wilson, then grab the suitcase myself and follow my driver out to the car, which is waiting by the curb. We load everything into the trunk, and I return to pick up whatever’s left. That turns out to be two more litter boxes (apparently, each cat requires its own) and two cat carriers, one with Mr. Puffs and the other—a bigger, plastic one—with the two smaller cats together.
“I haven’t taken the three of them out together since they were kittens,” Emma explains as I take both carriers from her after dealing with the litter boxes. “Usually, I only need to bring one or two to the vet at the same time. Luckily, Queen Elizabeth and Cottonball still fit into that one.” She nods toward the plastic carrier. “Normally, I use it to carry Mr. Puffs, since he’s so big.”
“Right.” I take the cats to the car while she locks up, and Wilson gets them situated in the back seat.
“Thank you,” I tell him when he straightens, and his normally expressionless face breaks into a smile.
“My pleasure, sir. Beautiful cats, if I may say so. I have a Persian of my own, but he’s gray, not white.”
I blink. I had no idea my reserved, seemingly emotionless driver had pets of any kind. “That’s nice. How long have you had him?”
“Oh, almost fifteen years. He’s getting up there in age, my cat. Sleeps most of the day, you know.”
I don’t know, having never been around cats, but I nod as if I can relate.
After all, I’m about to become a pet owner myself.
“All done,” Emma says, approaching the car. In her hands is a clear plastic bag with a few cans of cat food and toys. “We can go.”
“Good. Let’s go then.” And with one last look at Wilson, who’s beaming at us with uncharacteristic warmth, I usher Emma into the car.
20
Emma
I have no idea what I’m doing. None. By all rights, I should be home, settling back into my regular life and recovering from my intense Thanksgiving weekend with Marcus. Instead, I let him convince me to spend the night at his ridiculously fancy penthouse, and now I’m freaking out because I’m about to let my cats out of their carriers.
My cats, who haven’t been anywhere other than my apartment and the vet’s office in years.
What on earth was I thinking?
This is going to be a disaster.
“They can’t get into the pool, right?” I confirm for the second time, eyeing the thick glass wall behind the tall plants shielding the forty-foot-long rectangular pool from the rest of the apartment. “Because I don’t think they can swim and—”
“Geoffrey made sure the pool enclosure door is locked,” Marcus says, his eyes gleaming with amusement as he comes to stand in front of me. “I called him when we were on the way, remember?”
“Right, of course.” I take a deep breath. “What about pricey breakable things? Because they will knock stuff over, and—”
“So be it. I’ll replace them with less breakable things.”
“But—”
He kisses me. Just like that, with no warning, he slides one big hand into my hair, tilts my face up, and dips his head to slant his mouth across mine.
His lips are soft and warm, his breath faintly minty from the hard candy we both sucked on during our descent into JFK. The kiss is sweet and leisurely at first, pleasantly unhurried. Laying a gentle hand on my lower back, he strokes his tongue over the seam of my lips, teasing and caressing until my arms wrap around his neck and my lips part on a breathless exhale to let him in. Immediately, he deepens the kiss, his hand moving down to my bottom, kneading it through my jeans as he presses me against his powerful body. Shortly before landing, we had a quickie on the plane—because bedroom—bu
t he’s already as hard as if that interlude never happened. The thick bulge of his erection presses into my belly, igniting a familiar burn under my skin, and I find myself rising on tiptoes, the lazy sweetness fading as my tongue tangles with his and my body tightens on a surge of need.
I want him. Badly. I want his muscular ass flexing as he drives into me, his hands gripping my wrists and his eyes filled with that dark, intense—
A loud meow cuts through the sex fog in my brain, and I freeze in place, realizing we’re again making out where someone—in this case, Marcus’s butler—can walk in on us at any moment. Panting, I push Marcus away, and he lets me, though his chest is rising and falling in the same rapid rhythm as mine, and his lightly bronzed face is darkened with a flush of arousal.
“The cats. I have to…” I gulp in a breath and force myself to take a step back, away from temptation. “Have to let them out.”
His gaze tracks me with predatory intensity, his fingers twitching at his sides, as if he’s fighting the urge to grab me. “Of course. Go ahead.” His voice is hoarse as I prudently take another step back. “Geoffrey’s got their litter boxes all set up and ready.”
Right. Litter boxes. That’s not sexy at all. So why am I still thinking about how his lips felt on mine, and how hard and thick—
Stop it, Emma. Cats, litter boxes. Think of your fur babies and focus.
With effort, I wrench my gaze away from the blazing heat in Marcus’s eyes and kneel in front of the two carriers. Inside the bigger one, Queen Elizabeth and Cottonball are sitting together calmly, regarding me with mildly curious expressions. Mr. Puffs, however, is all worked up inside his smaller bag, alternately meowing and hissing, his pretty fur all ruffled from rubbing against the mesh sides.
He doesn’t know where he is, and he doesn’t like it—which doesn’t bode well for Marcus’s ritzy place.
“Please, behave,” I implore the cat as I unzip the carrier to let him out. “Pretty please.”
He jumps out with a hissing yowl before I get the zipper halfway open. As soon as his paws touch the smooth hardwood floor, he leaps five feet into the air and lands with his back arched and his fur standing on end. Then, hissing, he darts underneath Marcus’s ultra-modern gray leather couch.
I eye the smooth leather mournfully. Once Mr. Puffs gets his bearings, that couch is toast.
Sighing, I turn my attention to his siblings. Their plastic carrier opens in the front, and as soon as I unlock the door, Cottonball pushes it open with a paw and strolls out, his whiskers twitching with curiosity as he surveys his surroundings. Queen Elizabeth, however, stays in the carrier, feeling insecure in an unfamiliar place.
“See? So far, so good,” Marcus says, crouching next to me. Cottonball stares at him, then decides to mark his territory by rubbing his furry body against Marcus’s leg.
To my surprise, Marcus cautiously reaches out and scratches Cottonball behind his ear. “This is okay, right?” he asks me, and I nod, my insides melting at the awed expression on his hard features as my friendliest cat starts an audible purr at his touch.
Maybe I was wrong.
Maybe this won’t be a total disaster.
Reaching into the carrier, I get Queen Elizabeth out and cuddle her against my chest, stroking her soft fur to reassure her. Marcus looks at me, then at the purring cat he’s petting, and I watch, amazed, as he carefully picks up Cottonball and cradles him against his chest, same as I’m doing with Queen Elizabeth.
The cat looks ridiculously tiny in Marcus’s powerful arms, and ridiculously pleased to be there. Eyes closed in kitty bliss, he starts purring so loudly his entire body vibrates with it. And best of all, Marcus has a big grin on his face, his lean cheeks creased with those sexy grooves as he rises to his feet.
“He really likes me, doesn’t he?” he says, gazing down at the cat he’s holding, and I laugh at the undisguised pride in his voice.
“He does. Cottonball is cuddly by nature, but you two seem to have a special bond. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so blissed out.”
And it’s true. My cat is really enjoying being petted by those big, strong hands. Then again, who wouldn’t? I know anytime he touches me, I turn into boneless goo. Like that morning the other weekend, when he massaged me all over before using his tongue to—
“Excuse me, Mr. Carelli, Ms. Walsh? Dinner is ready.”
The British-accented voice startles me out of my dirty daydream, and as I stand up to face Marcus’s butler, with Queen Elizabeth clutched against my chest, I curse my Irish heritage for giving me such a blush-prone complexion.
My cheeks are burning so hot they must be strawberry red.
“Thank you, Geoffrey,” Marcus says without putting down Cottonball. “We’ll be right there.”
If Marcus’s butler is startled to see his employer with a fluffy white cat in his arms and a blushing redhead at his side, he doesn’t show it, his expression as neutral as ever. Still, I drape Queen Elizabeth over my shoulder to hide some of the telltale color in my neck as I smile at him and say, “Yes, thank you, Geoffrey. And thank you so much for setting up my cats’ things.”
The butler’s expression warms a fraction. “It’s my pleasure, Ms. Walsh. Please let me know if you or your pets”—he glances at the cats we’re holding—“need anything during your stay with us.”
“Oh, we’ll be fine, thank you. It’s just for one night,” I say, my smile widening. For all his stiff posture and formal manners, the thin British man seems to be genuinely kind.
“Or longer,” Marcus says, coming up to stand at my side. “Geoffrey, if you get a chance, please unpack Emma’s suitcase while we’re eating. I left it by the entrance. Also, please make sure the cats can find their litter boxes, food, and toys.”
“Yes, Mr. Carelli,” Geoffrey says and hurries away before I can protest that I’m not staying longer and don’t need my suitcase unpacked.
Turning, I glare at Marcus, but he’s not looking at me. He’s gazing down at purring Cottonball, who’s made himself comfortable in the crook of his arm, and the quiet fascination on his strong-featured face makes me swallow back the fighting words.
I don’t know what it is about seeing this indomitable man so undone by a ball of fluff, but my heart feels like it’s both glowing and melting.
“How about I show them the location of the litter boxes?” I suggest softly. “Just in case they need it while we eat.”
Marcus meets my gaze with a smile. “Sure. I’ll come with you.”
And with Cottonball in his arms and Queen Elizabeth in mine, we walk side by side toward the bathroom he allocated to my cats.
21
Emma
“You know, you’ve never mentioned your father,” Marcus says as we sit down to eat, finally sans cats. Cottonball has adjusted to being in a new place like a champ, but convincing Queen Elizabeth to climb down from my shoulder took almost twenty minutes, as did getting Mr. Puffs out from under the couch and to his litter box. Now, though, all three cats are relatively calm and roaming around the penthouse, with Geoffrey doing his best to keep them from getting into trouble.
I told him it was futile, but he’s determined to try.
Spearing a piece of asparagus, I consider Marcus’s words. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. I don’t know who my father is, so I never think about him.”
“Your mother never told you?”
“She didn’t know herself. I was conceived during one of the less discriminating periods in her dating history.” Which is putting it mildly. My grandparents never said it outright, but from what I’ve gleaned, my mother may have been either an escort or a full-on prostitute at the time.
Sympathy warms the cool blue of Marcus’s gaze. “I see.”
I smile at him. “It’s okay. I don’t mind. I doubt he was an upstanding citizen, so it’s really for the best.”
“You may be right.” Marcus cuts a perfectly seasoned scallop in two and forks one half into his mouth. “It might be better to imagin
e him however you want,” he says after he chews and swallows.
“Yes, exactly. When I was a little girl, I fantasized that he was a prince or a diplomat from some faraway land. Later, when I grew up, I decided it would be enough if he was a regular guy, nothing fancy but kind. I started imagining a truck driver with a pot belly who just happened to be passing through the city the night he hooked up with my mother. Some solid Midwestern dude who likes to have a couple of beers on the weekends and owns a big dog. And maybe a cat or two. Because you know, it’s got to be genetic.”
Marcus grins. “Right. Then why not a veterinarian? Or a zookeeper?”
“Oh, that would be amazing.” I sigh with exaggerated longing and dip my scallop into the delicious gravy on top of the tastefully arranged mound of sweet potato mash. Geoffrey’s cooking is high-end-restaurant good—not that I’ve been to many high-end restaurants. For the next minute, my mouth is too full to talk, but finally, I manage to ask, “What about you? Have you ever imagined anything along those lines?”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I want to kick myself. Marcus’s face tightens, his smile disappearing without a trace. “No,” he says evenly. “I’ve always known where I come from, so there was no point in fantasizing.”
Dammit. I’m so stupid. He told me about his father, how he’d been killed in prison where he was serving time for armed robbery and assault. I remembered that, of course, but it somehow didn’t register fully. In my mind, Marcus’s upbringing had been pretty much a carbon copy of mine, with a shitty mother and a nonexistent father. But his father had been worse than nonexistent; he’d been a criminal.
Or at least, a guy who was convicted of armed robbery and assault.
“Do you think your father could’ve been innocent?” I ask cautiously. “Because that happens all the time, right? Wrongful convictions?”