shapely.
When her tongue darted out to moisten them, an unexpected throb tightened his belly. He yanked his gaze to her eyes, which were riveted on him with cloudy confusion.
Since he hadn’t heard the doorbell, he presumed she’d used the key Marta had reluctantly provided.
Royce cleared his throat again, clasped his hands behind his back. “The, er, animals… They are doing well?”
“Yes, thank you.” She shifted the child in her arms, used her free hand to twist a honey-colored strand of hair behind her ear. The nervous gesture was one of habit, he suspected, as was the manner in which she scraped her lower lip with her teeth.
Assessing body language was a handy talent in Royce’s business. Quirks, expressions, the smallest facial tics provided a wealth of information. The lovely Ms. Michaels was still dressed in the casual tank top and denim shorts she’d been wearing this morning when she’d first appeared on his porch searching for her wayward cat. She’d worn no makeup then, nor had she applied any for her late-afternoon visit. Clearly she’d made no attempt to attract his attention.
Not that additional effort would have been necessary. This was a naturally beautiful woman, one who needed no complement of cosmetics for enhancement. That wouldn’t have been particularly telling, except that most women in Royce’s world wouldn’t have ventured from their boudoirs until they’d been properly painted, coiffed and bedecked in the finest designer fashions.
Caution was always prudent for a man in Royce’s position. It wasn’t arrogance that kept him on guard, merely the discretion born of unpleasant experience. He’d learned the hard way that it wasn’t unusual for unmarried men of substantial means to be approached by females longing for a rich prince to whisk them away from laborious lives into a Cinderella castle gleaming with luxurious opulence.
There were usually clues, of course. A too-bright smile, eyes that were both hungry and hopeful, a sensual sway of a body too close to be appropriate, the constant touch of fingers brushing his wrist, his arm, his hand, probing for a response, for a hint of encouragement.
Laura Michaels revealed none of these traits. After retrieving her son, she’d stepped back, widening the space between them.
Her gaze was now guarded, her shoulders stiff and wary. She avoided eye contact, preferring a nervous sideways glance, after which her pale complexion tinted a delightful rosy pink at the cheekbones, and that funny dimple jittered like a bug on hot concrete.
This was not a woman trying to attract attention to herself. On the one hand, Royce was relieved by that. On the other, he was oddly deflated.
“I left the cats’ food and water bowl behind some crates, where they’ll hopefully be out of your way. I, ah—” she paused to skim a wary glance at Dave Henderson, who was grinning at her as if a gift bow had sprouted atop her head “—can’t tell you how much Maggie and I appreciate your generosity.”
Henderson’s eyebrows shot toward his hairline. “Maggie? How many women do you have stuffed in the basement, anyway?”
The pink tint along Laura’s cheekbones brightened to a vivid fuchsia.
“Maggie is my c-cat,” she whispered with an embarrassed stutter. “She stubbornly transformed Mr. Burton’s basement into a maternity ward, and he has been kind enough to allow me to tend the litter there until the kittens are old enough to leave their mother.”
More annoyed by the unintended insult to Ms. Michaels than by his friend’s thin attempt at humor, Royce cut him with a look that would have frozen most men to the bone.
Unmoved, Henderson merely smiled and thrust a beefy hand at the startled woman. “Dave Henderson, vice president and chief financial officer of Burton Technologies, Ms….?”
The woman licked her lips again, her gaze darting as if seeking escape. “Michaels,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. Juggling the baby to the crook of her left arm, she accepted Henderson’s handshake. “Laura Michaels.”
“Pleased to meet you. I hope you’re finding the hospitality around this gleaming mausoleum to be adequate.”
Clearly uncomfortable, she edged a longing look toward the open basement door. “Mr. Burton has been very kind.”
“Has he now?” Grinning broadly, Henderson angled a smug glance, the meaning of which did not escape Royce’s notice. “Tell me about yourself, Ms. Michaels. Have you lived in Mill Creek long? What is your profession? How old is your son? Is your husband the jealous type?”
Her jaw dropped in shock. “I beg your pardon?”
“Excuse us, Mr. Henderson was just leaving.” Furious, Royce grabbed Henderson’s elbow and hauled him toward the front door.
“She’s perfect,” Henderson whispered a moment before Royce shoved him onto the front porch. “I’ll do some checking into her family’s background, and see what kind of financial arrangements—”
Royce closed the door in his face.
Hovering at the massive carved entry for several seconds, he took a deep breath and tried to formulate an apology that he never had the opportunity to issue.
When he turned around, the foyer was empty. Laura Michaels was gone.
“Feel how soft he is,” she murmured, palming the warm ball of white fluff. “Look, she’s trying to open her little eyes.”
Jamie widened his eyes, curled his small mouth into an O as he reached a flat, stiff baby hand out to pat the kitten’s fluffy head. “Tickles,” he announced, snatching his hand back. He giggled, then thrust out both hands. “Me hold.”
“Let Mama hold the kitten until he gets bigger, sweetie. He’s very fragile right now.”
Thwarted, Jamie scowled and turned his attention toward the wriggling, mewing mass of adorable kittenhood in the straw nest Maggie had chosen for her brood.
“Me want him,” the baby announced, pointing to a mottled orange-and-white tabby whose coloring most resembled his mother’s. “Him Sam.”
“Sam, is it? A fine name.” She laid the white kitten with the soft, angoralike fur back into the nest. “What about this one, sweetie? What shall we name her?”
Laura had no idea if the tiny animal was male or female, since pronouncing the gender of such tiny kittens was difficult even for experts. Still, there was a definitive feminine aura about the precious ball of fluff. “She feels like a fuzzy little bunny rabbit, doesn’t she?”
Jamie nodded so hard he nearly fell over. “Bunny,” he chirped. “Bunny-Cat.”
“All right then, Bunny-Cat it is.” Smiling, she felt a nudge under her elbow. She absently stroked Maggie, who had finished her supper and wandered over to purr proudly. “Yes, you’ve done a wonderful job,” Laura told the blinking mama cat. “A lovely family indeed.”
Maggie licked her paw and proceeded to wash her face while Laura and Jamie continued to admire the kittens.
Along with Sam and Bunny-Cat there was a particularly vocal gray-and-white kitten that Laura dubbed Rascal, a black kitten with a white, tuxedolike bib that she called Cary Grant, and the runt of the litter, a diminutive calico with a quiltlike coat that begged the name Patches.
Jamie was enthralled with each and every one of them. “Bunny-Cat,” he murmured, snatching the white kitten before Laura could stop him. The kitten squeaked a protest as Jamie smacked a juicy kiss on its little head.
“Careful, sweetheart. They are too tiny to be handled much right now.”
The baby giggled happily, issuing no protest as she retrieved the squirming kitten from his grasp, and returned it to the nest. Despite her caution about handling them, she couldn’t keep herself from stroking each of the adorable animals, brushing a tiny ear with her knuckle, lifting a miniature paw with her fingertip.
Laura