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‘I did, but you never answer your door,’ she said, righteous indignation building. If he’d answered his damn door in the last two weeks she wouldn’t be in this predicament. In fact, now she thought about it, this was all his fault.
‘I’ve been out of the country this past week,’ he shot back at her.
‘Mr Pootles has been missing for two. And anyway I left messages with your housekeeper—and brownies,’ she added.
His eyebrows shot up. Why had she mentioned the brownies? It made her sound like a stalker.
‘Look, it doesn’t matter.’ She stood up, forcing what she hoped was a contrite look onto her face. ‘I’m sorry I disturbed you. I didn’t think you were in and I was worried about the cat. It could have been starving to death in your backyard.’
His eyes swept her figure again, making her pulse go haywire. ‘Which doesn’t explain why you dressed up like a burglar to come look for it,’ he said wryly.
‘Well, I…’ How did she explain that, without sounding as if she were indeed a lunatic? ‘I really should be going.’
Please let me get out of here with at least a small shred of my dignity intact.
‘The cat obviously isn’t here and I need to get back…’ She stumbled to a halt, edging her way round the chair.
‘Not yet, you don’t,’ he said, but to her astonishment his lips quirked.
She blinked, not believing her eyes. Was that a smile?
‘I got the brownies, by the way. They were tasty.’ He rubbed his belly, his lips lifting some more.
The smile became a definite smirk.
‘Why didn’t you answer my messages, then?’ And what was so damn funny all of a sudden?
‘They probably got lost in translation,’ he said easily. ‘My cleaner doesn’t speak much English.’
He straightened, swayed violently and grabbed hold of the work surface.
‘What’s wrong?’ Daisy stepped towards him. His face had drained of colour and looked worn and sallow in the harsh light.
He put a hand up, warding her off. ‘Nothing,’ he growled, all traces of amusement gone.
She could see he was lying. But decided not to call him on it. After the way she’d been treated he could be at death’s door for all she cared.
He let go of the counter top, but didn’t look all that steady. ‘I know what happened to your cat.’
It was the last thing she’d expected him to say. ‘You do?’
‘Uh-huh, follow me.’
Gripping the edge of the centre aisle, he made his way across the kitchen. He moved with the fragile precision of someone in their eighties, his bare feet padding on the floor.
Daisy tramped down on her instinctive concern as she followed him. She hated to see people suffering, and for all his severe personality problems this guy was obviously suffering. But he’d made it clear he didn’t want her sympathy, or her help.
He shuffled to a small door in the far wall and opened it. Leaning heavily on it, he beckoned her over with one finger.
As she stepped forward he pulled the door wide. She heard the soft mewing sound and glanced down. Gasping, she dropped to her knees. Nestled in an old blanket beneath a state-of-the-art immersion heater was Mr Pootles—and his four nursing kittens.
Make that Mrs Pootles.
‘The cat showed up after I moved in.’ She glanced up at the husky voice, saw the hooded blue eyes watching her. ‘She had no collar and didn’t want to be petted so I took her for a stray.’
Daisy studied the cat and her kittens. A saucer of milk had been placed next to the blanket. She reached out a finger and stroked one of the miniature bodies. The warm bundle of fluff wiggled. Daisy sat back on her haunches.
Maybe the Big Bad Wolf wasn’t as bad as he seemed.
