Authors: Barbara Bretton
"Hold on just a minute!" Cat's voice rose in annoyance. "I don't need your help." A small but vital difference.
"Yes, you do," said Max, setting the coffee mugs and bagels down on the table. "You need a lot of help, Cat."
She was aware of McKendrick's eyes on her and she had to remind herself it was professional interest on his part, not personal. Not that she wanted it to be personal but there was something thrilling about being the focus of such undivided male attention.
Cat forced a laugh. "You're becoming very melodramatic, Max. Next thing I know you'll tell me this is a planned intervention for the hopelessly disorganized. It just so happens that I thrive on chaos."
"Your last two manuscripts were late."
"Jack had a tonsillectomy when I was finishing
The Kindergarten Caper
and we found termites right at the climax of
Dead Cowboys Never Talk
.
" She smiled sweetly at McKendrick. "No offense."
"None taken." His grin told her he knew otherwise.
She met Max's eyes. "A tonsillectomy is an act of God, right?"
"Only when it's
your
tonsillectomy."
"It was my son's. That's the same thing, isn't it?"
"Not to Global Publishing."
Max sighed longingly. "I know one author who finished up a book longhand in a storm cellar while a tornado ripped apart his house."
McKendrick helped himself to a mug of coffee. "I know of a writer who broke both arms and still made his deadline."
You would
,
she thought. "Those people need serious therapy. No one is that disciplined."
Or that demented
.
"Wrong," said McKendrick. "A hell of a lot of people are that disciplined." He paused for effect. "And that organized."
She shuddered. "What a frightening thought."
"Want to hear a really frightening thought?" Max volunteered, handing her a mug of coffee. "No more extensions on your deadline, Catherine. I know chaos and you're heading straight for it."
"I love you dearly, Max, but you're a bachelor. Your idea of chaos is misplacing your copy of the Sunday Times Book Review." She put down the coffee mug and gathered up her belongings. "Thanksgiving's tomorrow and I have a million things to do. Stuffing, turnips, the pies...."
"Tomorrow's Thanksgiving?" asked McKendrick.
"Didn't those cardboard pilgrims in the lobby tell you something?" Cat turned to Max. Some time management specialist
.
He didn't even know tomorrow was a national holiday.
Max cleared his throat. "Riley's been in Tokyo the last few months," he said, as if that could explain away McKendrick's appalling lapse of memory.
"Pleasure?" asked Cat.
"Business," said McKendrick.
Max lowered his voice conspiratorially. "The Japanese government," he said. "This guy taught the Japanese something about organization."
"Wow," said Cat, who wasn't the slightest bit impressed.
She could almost see the lightbulb flash on over Max's head as he turned to McKendrick. "You'll be on your own tomorrow, Riley?"
"Looks like," said McKendrick.
Oh no
,
Cat thought.
Don't do this, Max. Not with him....
"How long's it been since you had a homemade Thanksgiving dinner?" Max continued.
Was it her imagination or did a look of sadness flicker across McKendrick's movie star face? "Couldn't tell you, Max."
"That long?" Max asked.
"That long," said McKendrick.
Don't pay any attention to them. McKendrick's a grown man. This is a big city. Somewhere out there is a turkey with his name on it and he's smart enough to find it.
Max was a rat and a traitor. He knew she was a sucker for strays, especially around the holidays, and he was doing his best to manipulate her into issuing an invitation.
She'd choke before she uttered anything that even remotely resembled a dinner invitiation.
"Flannery's on East 47th has a pretty good spread," Max went on, "or you might want to try Stein's Deli near Rock Center. They have a restaurant in the back and the best turkey in the city."
"Thought I might drive on up to Boston," the cowboy drawled. "Celebrate Thanksgiving where it started."
"It started in Plymouth," Max said. "Why don't you--"
"--come to my house."
It sounded like her voice but she had the insane urge to look over her shoulder for her Evil Twin.
Max beamed at her. Why not? She'd played right into his hands like the lily-livered, soft-hearted dope she was. Could she take it back? She struggled to find a way to erase her foolhardy words.
She needn't have bothered. McKendrick wasn't interested.
"Thanks for the invitation," he said. He probably practiced that sexy drawl into a tape recorder every night. "I'm not much for family celebrations."
"You'll be alone." He didn't want to come to her house. She didn't want him there. She should be relieved, but no. The words were out before she could stop them. "Nobody should be alone on Thanksgiving."
Max's smile widened. "Cat has this thing about strays during the holidays, Riley. She'll hound you until you say yes."
"Been alone most of my life," said McKendrick. "It's the way I like it."
If Cat had a nickel for every time she'd heard macho statements like that, she could singlehandedly pay off the national debt. But it was different this time.
He means it,
she thought, and it struck her as a terrible shame. There was something shadowy in his gaze, something bittersweet and lonely, and despite her better judgment Cat felt herself melting.
"Mr. McKendrick?" She sounded cool and collected, amazing when you considered the strange rush of emotion that filled her heart. "You'll come for Thanksgiving dinner, won't you?"
He nodded.
She smiled.
He met her eyes and for a moment she thought she saw them years from now, looking back at this moment as the one that changed their lives. She drew in a deep breath, trying to regain her equilibrium in a world that was shifting more rapidly than she could handle. She'd never understood the concept of love-at-first-sight. Everyone knew love grew slowly, cautiously, built on a foundation of friendship and respect. This was lust. Nothing more than lust. She had to remember that.
"So it's on?" Max asked.
McKendrick held her gaze. "It's on."
Max barely restrained a whoop of excitement. So did Cat. She had to make her escape before she made an absolute fool of herself.
"Three o'clock," she tossed over her shoulder as she raced for the door. "Max will give you directions."
And then she ran for her life.
***
Riley McKendrick whistled low.
Tall, willowy, with sleek golden brown hair that brushed her shoulders like a caress. He'd been expecting a frumpy writer who spent her life in fantasyland, not a flesh-and-blood woman who looked as if she'd like to take a juicy bite out of life. "Thanks a lot, Max," he muttered after Cat Zaslow disappeared down the hallway. "You might've mentioned she was a knockout."
Max stared at him as if he was speaking Greek. "Cat? A knockout? Never noticed."
"Time to get your glasses checked," Riley said with a laugh. "That is one helluva woman."
"Cat's not a woman," Max said, in what had to be the single dumbest statement of the year. "She's a client."
Riley shook his head, trying to banish the memory of the way her hips had swayed beneath her short black wool skirt. "You sure she has five kids?"
"Last time I counted."
"How many husbands?"
"She's a widow." Max seemed puzzled. "You really think she's good-looking?"
"You don't?"
"I never thought about it." Max was quiet for a moment. "Since when do you like skinny women?"
"I don't," Riley said. He liked his women soft, with big breasts and sweet dispositions. Cat Zaslow had a tongue like a double-edged razor blade and her breasts--
Riley stopped, galvanized by the thought of her breasts. High and round, surprisingly full for so slender a woman. He wondered if she'd been wearing a bra or one of those lacy things made to come off. He already knew she had the legs for it, wickedly long with thighs made for welcoming a man between them.
His blood shifted south and he forced the image from his mind.
"I dated her housekeeper for a few weeks," Max said. "Damn near gave me a nervous breakdown." He made to drag a hand through his perfect hair then apparently thought better of it. "Diapers, barking dogs, McDonald's Happy Meals--hell. Cat lives at the edge of disaster. Gimme Lutece any day."
"So what was her husband like?"
"I hear he was a nice guy."
"You never met him?"
"Cat started writing after David died."
Riley started to ask another question then caught himself. She loved him enough to have five kids with him. That was all he needed to know.
Max looked at him with open curiosity. "You're not interested in her as a woman, are you?"
He thought about the long, lovely length of her legs, that beautiful face...then he thought about reality. "Five kids, a housekeeper, the housekeeper's kid, and an in-home zoo?" He threw back his head and laughed out loud. "Not me, Max. Not in this lifetime."
***
Cat pushed open the heavy glass doors at 575 Madison and stepped out into the brilliant late autumn sunshine. She stood there, motionless, on the sidewalk and waited for the chilly wind whipping down the street to snap her back to normal. Whatever normal was. She wasn't sure she remembered. It had been a long time since she'd felt this way, a very long time since lust had reared its lovely head and beckoned her toward--
"Hey, lady." One of New York City's finest stopped next to her. "You okay?"
She blinked then managed to nod at the policeman.
"Why don't I hail a cab for you?" the cop offered, raising a burly arm in the air. "You don't look too good to me."
"No," she said, regaining her powers of speech. "I--I have a car." She glanced toward the corner and saw the familiar Chevy waiting for her. "But thank you."
She drew a steadying breath into her lungs then marched off toward the vehicle. The driver saw her coming and leaped out to open the door. Alec Marton owned the one and only car service in her small Connecticut town. The Chevy had served as wedding car, delivery room, and taxi cab for most of the citizens of Danville at one time or another.
"You don't look so good," Alec said as she climbed into the front seat next to him. "Maybe you should lie down in the back."
She shook her head. "I'm fine, Alec." She managed a smile. "You know me. Not only can't I drive in the city, I can't even think."
He looked no more convinced than the policeman had and no wonder. She wasn't fine. The truth was she felt as if the real Cat Zaslow had been taken over by aliens. Sixteen year old aliens, at that. She was aglow with excitement, alive with possibilities, and all for a man she didn't know and was reasonably certain she wouldn't like if she did.