and emotional sense, anyway. The platonic friendship she’d formed with Molly’s husband was okay. And for support services, they were allowed. But those were her ground rules.
“Sure,” she murmured to Molly, pretty sure she’d covered her bases, and watched her clearly curious friend head back across the cul-de-sac.
“If this isn’t a good time, I can come by later. I was just on my way to the clinic—”
“It’s fine,” she said quickly. The man was there to check on the cat. That fell squarely into the service category. The least she could do was be gracious to him. “I put on another pot of coffee a while ago. It should be ready if you want some.”
Another pot? Joe thought. “That would be great.”
Joe watched the beautiful brunette in the black turtleneck sweater, slim black slacks and high black heels give him a cautious smile before she led him up the walkway of the rather large, two-story colonial-style house that looked pretty much like all the nicely tended homes in the upper-middle-class cul-de-sac—except for the mansionlike structure taking up two lots next door, anyway. But his attention wasn’t on the house or the neighborhood so much as it was on this particular resident.
He honestly did want to know how the cat was doing. He knew he could have one of his assistants make the usual follow-up call to make sure everything was going all right. But he wanted to know how she was coping, too. There had been no mistaking her uneasiness with the little guy yesterday. Between what he suspected was a fear in general of animals and her total lack of knowledge about the care of an injured one, stopping by to check on both seemed like the most practical thing to do.
Rebecca opened the storm screen and the front door, only to immediately bend in a graceful stoop and hold her hand low as if to intercept a potential escapee. Apparently, finding no cat waiting to run out, she straightened to hold the door for him and closed it when he’d stepped inside.
“The Turners have unique taste,” she said, to explain the eclectic collection of Asian and Mediterranean objets d’art mixed among the chintz prints and colonial Williamsburg furnishings. She preferred a sleeker, more urban style herself. Less clutter, cleaner lines. “They travel a lot.
“Columbus has been hiding out in one of the guest rooms,” she continued, leading him past the entry wall of Turner family photos and into a short hallway. Turning into the last door, she knelt beside the high four-poster bed and lifted the edge of the frilly rosebud print bed skirt. “I don’t know how he jams himself under there with that collar, but he’s still under here if you want to try to get him.”
Joe’s glance moved over her slender, incredibly appealing shape. She had the lithe body of a dancer, all gentle, feminine curves and long, long legs. She was also dressed like a cat burglar. Even the wide and intricate black belt snugged low on her hips was the color of coal.
“Has he been there since yesterday?”
“Only since about midnight. That’s when the tranquilizer or whatever it was you gave him wore off and he jumped down. Before that, I had him on the sofa with me.”
It sounded as if she’d slept on the sofa to keep an eye on the cat. Or, maybe, he thought, to keep the cat company. Either way, it seemed she wasn’t as uncomfortable with the animal as he’d thought she was. Or, maybe, he thought, dead certain he hadn’t misread her fear, her sympathy for its injuries had outweighed that unease.
The other gray cat wandered in. Striped silver and black like its sibling, Magellan held up his tail in a high, slow wave and did a lazy figure eight around Joe’s legs before poking his nose under the skirt to see what had his keeper’s attention.
Noting the other cat beside her, Rebecca eased back as if she didn’t trust what it might do and rose to her feet.
“You’re welcome to get him out if you can,” she said, leaving behind the subtle scent of coconut shampoo as she passed him at the door. “He’ll just run off if I try.”
Ignoring the faint tightening low in his gut, he nodded toward the bed. “Has he been eating or drinking?”
“Both. He turned up his nose at the cat food, but polished off half a can of tuna. I’ll get your coffee. How do you take it?”
“Black.”
“I’ll be in the kitchen, then. When you’re through, just turn left at the end of the hall.”
Rebecca watched him acknowledge her with a nod before she closed the door in case the cat decided to make a run for it. Despite Molly’s insistence that vets didn’t make house calls, she was truly relieved that this particular one had decided to make an exception. The cats hid from her all the time, and seemed to take particular delight in pouncing out and scaring her witless. Yet, regardless of the way they terrorized her, she needed to know the injured one was okay.
Two minutes later, coffee poured and waiting on the counter that divided the big colonial kitchen from the sunny breakfast nook, Joe walked in with both cats bouncing at his heels.
Her first thought was of the Pied Piper. The animals never followed her around that way. But, then, the man filling the room with his reassuring presence had a definite knack with the four-legged set. Yesterday, she’d actually seen Columbus visibly calm at his touch.
He seemed to have that gift with two-legged species, too. When he had touched her, she’d felt that calming gentleness herself.
Preferring not to think about that odd phenomenon, she focused on his patient. “How is he?”
“He’s doing fine. How about you? How are you doing with him?”
“He’s really doing okay?”
“He really is,” he assured, echoing her phrasing.
“Then, I’ll be better now.” She had checked on the cat every half an hour since she’d awakened at five to make sure he was still breathing. Apparently, she wouldn’t need to do that anymore. “Thanks.
“Tell me,” she hurried on, watching Columbus paw at the cone collar he clearly hated. “When I brought him in, how did you know which one he was?”
“We have a picture of each patient in their file,” he explained. “Tracy pulled the Turners’ files right after you called. I knew this one because the two darker gray marks above his eyes remind me of horns. The marks on Magellan look more like exclamation points.” He glanced toward the piles of papers on the table in the breakfast bay, then to the coffee cooling on the counter. “Mind if I have that?”
She was still dwelling on the markings. “Of course, Dr. Hudson,” she murmured, handing the mug to him. Horns. How appropriate, she thought, now eyeing the cat. The little devil probably was the one who’d ruined her shoe.
“It’s Joe.”
Her glance jerked from the cat who’d just curled up near the other in a sunbeam.
“My name,” he said, since she looked so preoccupied. “Call me Joe.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned his attention to the table with its stacks of photographs, envelopes and papers. “You were already working.”
“I was just getting ready to.”
“You said you’re freelancing?”
“For the magazine I used to work for,” she explained. “I have proposals out to a couple of others, too. I wrote for accessories and American fashion. Still do. But I like doing research pieces.”
Mug in hand, looking curious, he nodded his dark head toward the stacks. “May I?”
She lifted her hand toward the table, told him to go ahead. Even as she did, her glance darted from the blue chambray shirt visible beneath the open brown leather jacket that looked more comfortably worn than fashionably distressed, down the length of his neat khakis and landed on his brown, tasseled boaters.
Her mental wheels spinning, she watched him sip his coffee as he frowned