How Cat Got a Life

  How Cat Got a Life

  By Tatiana March

  Resplendence Publishing, LLC

  http://www.resplendencepublishing.com

  Resplendence Publishing, LLC

  2665 N Atlantic Ave #349

  Daytona Beach, FL 32118

  How Cat Got a Life

  Copyright © 2011, Tatiana March

  Edited by Darlena Cunha and Liza Green

  Cover art by Kendra Egert, www.creationsbykendra.com

  Electronic format ISBN: 978-1-60735-345-4

  Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Electronic release: June 2011

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places or occurrences, is purely coincidental.

  Chapter One

  There had to be some mistake.

  Sheriff Brock Leonetti stared at the woman standing in the middle of his office. He guessed she might be around thirty. Her chestnut hair made an elegant knot. The beige pencil skirt and cream silk blouse reeked of Old Money. A pair of tortoise shell glasses perched on her patrician nose.

  She looked like a cross between a debutante and an accountant.

  A young man hovered behind her, but Brock barely noticed.

  “Excuse me. I’ll be back in a moment.” He jerked to his feet and strode across the floor to the open area that housed his two deputies and an empty desk where the secretary used to sit.

  He closed the door to keep their voices from carrying through.

  “What the hell is going on?” He turned to Karen.

  Walter, the older deputy, had his strong points but giving succinct answers wasn’t one of them.

  Karen lowered her coffee mug with “Mothers do it with Love” in big red letters on the side and raised her brows. “What’s the problem?”

  “You’re supposed to send the kids to my office and not notify the parents.”

  Walter pretended to be reading the morning paper, but his weather-beaten face creased into a grin that stretched his bushy moustache.

  Karen raised the mug again and took a sip. “We didn’t notify anyone. Walter picked them up at six, just when it started getting light. It didn’t seem worth dragging you out of bed. They swore they’d come in to see you at nine, and they have.”

  “Are you telling me…?” Brock’s words trailed away. His gaze drew back to the half-glazed door. The woman stood still, facing his empty desk. The fact that she hadn’t turned around to stare after him sent an odd prickle of irritation down his skin.

  “Yup.” Karen contemplated him over the rim of her cup. “That’s the two of them. They were almost at the top when Walter got to the Town Hall. The alarm had gone off, but they hadn’t caused any damage. Just some chalk on the brickwork and that’ll wash off when it rains.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Brock shook his head, barely able to take in the facts. “She was doing the Clock Tower Challenge?”

  “Yup.” Karen nodded. “Seemed real anxious about her son getting into trouble, so I told her the charges will be dropped after they’ve done forty hours of community service each.”

  “Her son?” Brock’s eyes darted back to the woman. “They’re mother and son?”

  “Yup.” The son’s sixteen, a freshman at LaSalle. A nerdy kid who skipped a couple of years at school. The mother’s visiting for the weekend.”

  With a grunt of exasperation, Brock spun on his heels. What the hell was the world coming to when a grown woman was caught in a clandestine climb up thirty feet on the outside of a public building? Parents were supposed to condemn dangerous pranks, not take part in them. He stormed back into his office. She looked so fragile, so…feminine. The image of her tumbling through the air and smashing into the sidewalk flickered across his mind. Rage soared inside him, more potent than he would have expected.

  As Brock settled behind the scuffed pine desk, he fisted his hands to control the urge to shake some sense into her. “Of all the idiots I’ve had in this office, you must take the prize. Not only do you jeopardize your own life, but you let your son risk his.”

  “I—”

  “You can damn well be quiet until I’ve finished.”

  “I—”

  “Quiet,” he thundered, then spoke to the pale young man who’d stepped out of her shadow. “Whose idea was it?”

  The son glanced at the mother. “Mine.”

  Brock took a deep breath in an effort to calm down. “And what gave you the harebrained notion to let your mother try a stunt like that? Last year, two boys fell and one of them broke his leg.”

  “Those guys weren’t climbers. They didn’t know their elbow from their ass.”

  Brock gave an angry snort to dismiss the suggestion that experience made the feat any less dangerous. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Dalton. Dalton Bridgewater.”

  “Dalton, you’ll be in this town for three years until you graduate. From now on, I’ll hold you responsible for your mother. Don’t let her get into trouble again.”

  “Excuse me.” The woman edged between them. “I resent the assumption that I’m under the supervision of a sixteen year old.”

  Her shoulders had grown rigid beneath the cream silk. Her chest rose and fell with angry breaths and a pink flush covered her cheeks. Something tightened in Brock’s abdomen. He did his best to ignore the sensation.

  “If you refuse to behave like a mature adult, you can’t expect to be treated as one.” He scowled at her. “Or can you offer a rational explanation to your little jaunt?”

  The rosy blush on her cheeks deepened to scarlet.

  “No,” she said, but her tone was quiet, evasive.

  Brock raised a brow at her son. “You’d better come clean.”

  The young man shifted his weight from foot to foot and stole a look at his mother. “It was a bet.”

  “Dalton.” Her voice rang with a warning.

  “She thinks I’m not going to eat properly. I promised that if she got to the top first, I’d have a healthy breakfast at least three times a week.”

  Brock exhaled a sigh. “And what was her end of the bet?”

  The young man flustered. He slanted a glance back to his mother, whose exquisite face had darkened into a thundercloud. Head lowered, the son mumbled, “She hasn’t been out since Dad died over a year ago. She’s put herself in mothballs. If I got to the top first, she had to start going out on dates.”

  Every muscle in Brock’s body snapped taut. Damn, if his mind didn’t zoom into all kinds of impossible directions. He saw her across a candlelit dinner table, in a slinky dress that hugged the contours of her body…in his arms, her head tipped back, offering her lips for a goodnight kiss…in his lonely bedroom, trembling beneath his hands as he slowly undressed her.

  Heat surged up along his chest. Blood pooled in his groin. Since his wife passed away a few years ago, Brock had exerted a steely control over his body. Sex belonged in marriage. That’s what he’d been brought up to believe, and as another marriage was the last thing on his mind, he’d learned to suppress his needs. He’d had so many cold showers the heating bills had gone down.

  “I understand there’s a requirement for us to do community service.” The woman lifted her chin. Her eyes widened when they met his, and Brock turned away to hide the hunger that he suspected she’d already seen lurking beneath his half-closed lids.

  “Dalton will take care of that,” he muttered. “There’s a c
hildren’s home near the campus. He can go over a couple of hours each evening and organize games for the kids.”

  “Sheriff Leonetti, let me assure you that I accept responsibility for my own actions. I broke the law. I’ll serve the punishment.” She bit her lip. “But perhaps something else…I’m not very good with children.”

  Brock’s brows shot up, and his gaze shuttled between mother and son.

  “Dalton is my late husband’s son,” she said quietly. “We were married for less than a year. I have no experience with babies or toddlers.”

  The young man reached out to touch her arm. “But you’re doing brilliantly with teenagers.”

  The smile that lit up her face brightened the entire room. Her joy hadn’t quite faded when she turned back to Brock. “That nice deputy who arrested us said your secretary resigned unexpectedly, and you haven’t been able to replace her. I used to work in an office. I could help out. If you let me work full days, I could get it done in a week and fly home next weekend.”

  Brock swallowed to ease the pressure that constricted his throat.

  No, his mind screamed.

  “Yes,” he heard himself say. “We could use someone who can type and knows how to operate a computer.”

  As he filled in the paperwork for their misdemeanor, Brock struggled to keep his hands steady. What he hell was wrong with him? He’d committed no crime, but he’d just sentenced himself to forty hours of torture.

  ****

  Catherine Bridgewater struggled with the clasp of her seatbelt. The tension from the confrontation with the sheriff made her clumsy. Swearing under her breath, she jerked upright in the seat and slipped the injured finger into her mouth.

  “You okay, Cat?” Dalton studied her with the sharp eyes of an exceptionally intelligent teenager.

  “I’m fine. I snagged my skin on the stupid clasp. The thing’s broken. Serves me right for using the cheapest car rental company I could find.”

  “Cat.” He laid a hand on her arm. She’d noticed it was his habit when he wanted her to pay close attention to his words. “I told you, I can drop out of school if we can’t afford the fees.”

  She started the car and pulled out of the parking lot. “You’ll do no such thing. We’ll manage. Your father will come back and haunt me if you don’t graduate.”

  Dalton glanced in her direction but didn’t comment. They drove along in silence. Cat drew deep breaths, trying to calm the frantic beating of her heart. She could still feel the sheriff’s furious eyes on her. Pale brown eyes, like those of an eagle that soared up into the sky before swooping down on its prey. The rest of him had been equally impressive. Heavy shoulders, forearms corded with muscle, rock solid thighs inside the fawn uniform. The surprising aspect of his physique had been the lean hips and the graceful way in which he moved.

  He was probably a good dancer.

  The thought flushed her body with heat. Her wayward imagination transported her into a dimly lit ballroom, gently swaying in his arms. Two years ago, before she was tricked into marrying Dalton’s father and lost all trust in men, the sheriff would definitely have been her type. His dark brown hair had a slight curl to it that invited a woman to slide her fingers along the back of his neck. Not classically handsome, his masculine features hinted at an uncompromising nature. Strong, steady, reliable. The sort of man who was married, adored his wife, and had several sons just like him, and on his days off they all romped together around the back yard.

  Cat sighed as she turned into the main road. What business was it of hers? Some people had a happy family life, and one day she’d learn to curb her envy. At least she had Dalton. For that, she would be forever grateful to Tim. Her marriage might have been founded on a lie, but the bond that had grown between her and her stepson was true and real.

  “I’m sorry, Cat.” Dalton stared at the red traffic light ahead. “I shouldn’t have told you about the stupid freshman challenge to climb the clock tower. It’s just that I wanted you to have some fun.”

  “And I did.” Cat threw her head back and laughed, the tension of the arrest finally flooding out of her. “God, that was brilliant. I can still feel the adrenaline pumping, the world narrowing to nothing but the next handhold and the next move up toward the top.”

  She was still chuckling when the traffic light turned green. She’d never felt as alive as she did right now. The colors seemed brighter and the sultry southern air carried lush scents of ripe summer vegetation that made her think of idle afternoons in the sun. Cat shook her head in amazement. It was just a dare, a little reminder of the carefree days of college and rock climbing, but for whatever reason, it appeared as if she had just emerged from years of hibernation. Excitement tingled along her skin and life suddenly seemed full of promise.

  ****

  Cat took the stairs carefully, making sure she didn’t scuff her heels. She’d bought a briefcase on Sunday at an outlet store, a traditional one in tan cowhide with a flap at the top. She didn’t quite know how a secretary in a county sheriff’s office in North Carolina should dress, so she dressed the way she always had, conservative New Hampshire.

  The two deputies turned to look at her when she entered. Their gazes traveled up and down her clothing. Embarrassment made her hold her breath as she realized how formal she must appear in comparison to their slacks and short-sleeved shirts.

  “I’m reporting for duty,” she said, dangling the briefcase in front of her, both hands clasped around the handle to keep them steady.

  “I’m Karen.” The female deputy rose and gestured in the direction of the man with a lined face and a droopy moustache. “That’s Walter.”

  “I’m Catherine Bridgewater. Friends call me Cat.” Friends. Cat flinched at the word. She had none to speak of. In recent years, all her time and energy had been consumed by taking care of the dying, or the money problems they’d left behind.

  “Cat? Suits you,” Karen said and whirled about, sending her dark bobbed hair swaying. Despite the heavy hips and a full bust that strained the buttons on her uniform shirt, the young woman looked fit, with a healthy glow to her pale complexion.

  Cat nodded to acknowledge the comment but couldn’t think of a reply.

  Karen steered her toward the empty desk. “Can you use a scanner?”

  “Depends on the make and model. I’ve used one before,” Cat said, leaning down to prop her briefcase on the floor.

  “Easy. Line the sheets against the glass, then press the green button.” Karen shoved a stack of documents at her. “When you’re done with these, I have some typing for you. Then you can vacuum the floor and clean the bathroom.”

  “Clean the bathroom?” Cat asked, puzzled.

  “Yup.” Karen settled back behind her desk. “A week’s not long enough to get security clearance for you to handle confidential information. We’ll have to make any use of you that we can.”

  Cat glanced across the room at the closed door.

  “Brock’s out for the day.” Karen’s brows lifted with a hint of sarcasm. “He came in early and seemed in a hurry to leave.”

  “I see.” Somehow, the sunshine dimmed outside. Cat held her breath, then released it in a long sigh and flipped the lid on the scanner. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Karen and Walter exchanging a smirk. Humiliation stained her cheeks as she guessed what their grins were all about. Married or not, Sheriff Brock Leonetti probably had women flocking like locusts after him, and the deputies assumed she had joined the crowd.

  Her mouth tightened.

  She was through worrying what people thought about her. For years, she’d done the right thing, had given up her life to nurture others. Cat lined a document on the glass and punched her finger on the button. Determination shot like a thunderbolt down her spine. From now on, she would only please herself and Dalton, and the rest of the world could go to hell.

  ****

  Brock parked his Ford Explorer in the station lot and sauntered up the stairs. At four o’clock it should be safe
to return. The society type would no doubt roll in late and sneak out early, and with any luck she’d slope off before the week was out, trusting that no one was counting to make sure she completed her forty hours.

  A tan briefcase stood on the secretary’s desk, but no other sign remained of Mrs. Bridgewater. Walter had already gone. Brock waved a greeting to Karen and strode down the corridor toward the toilets.

  “Later,” he called out when Karen jumped out of her seat and raced after him. It had been a slow morning, and his bladder could only take so much coffee. He pushed the door open with one hand, yanking his zipper down with the other.

  “What the hell?”

  He froze in the middle of the floor, his hand on his crotch. A rounded bottom covered in nothing but a flimsy pair of old running shorts stuck out from beneath the basin. The bottom wiggled as the rest of the crouched body backed out from the confined space. In front of him, Mrs. Bridgewater straightened to her knees.

  His mouth went dry. His heart slammed into his ribs. His hand tightened in warning over his shaft that stirred in delight.

  “What are you doing here?” Brock choked out the words.

  “I’m cleaning the bathroom.”

  The chestnut hair had collapsed into a messy tangle that spilled over one eye. Her skin gleamed with perspiration, and the T-shirt, one of his old ones judging by the size, clung to her breasts where the fabric had soaked through. She stared at him, her eyes level with his swelling groin.

  “Out,” Brock roared. “Get out of here right now.”

  He would have turned and fled, but coffee was a powerful diuretic, and he had no choice but to stay.

  He could see her chest rise with a harshly indrawn breath. Scampering to her feet, she slapped the wet rag she’d been clutching in her hand across the tiles. She squared her shoulders and jutted up her chin, trying to look at him down her nose despite the fact that he towered over her.

  “There’s no need to panic,” she told him. “I’ve seen exposed men before and I’m sure you look no different from the rest.” She whirled about and marched out, her bare feet making a soft tap over the damp floor.