How Cat Got a Life Read online

  Brock tore open the door to a cubicle. It took a moment for his semi-erect member to settle down enough to handle the business, and he swore again—at her, at his bad luck for returning early, and most of all, at his appalling judgment for allowing her to invade his world in the first place.

  “Fuck,” he said, and savored the word. He tried to avoid bad language, and thanks to his discipline, the expressions retained their potency for when he needed to vent his fury.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He shook himself dry and wondered how long he could stay in the bathroom without appearing a coward.

  ****

  “Oh my God,” Cat muttered under her breath as she hurtled down the corridor. She’d kill Karen. They had started the day skirting around each other, like two wary animals. When she performed without complaint every task Karen handed her, from loading the photocopier to emptying the shredder, gradually the young woman’s stiff manner had eased. By lunchtime, they were on good enough terms to sit down together over a sandwich. Cat had discovered that Karen had recently had her first baby. Her husband, a PhD student, brought the baby to the station four times a day for breastfeeding.

  Cat rushed through the open doorway and found Karen waiting in the office, both hands clamped over her mouth. The expression of shocked horror on Karen’s face assured Cat that the deputy hadn’t set her up on purpose.

  “I tried to tell him.” Karen lowered her hands and gasped out the words. “He must have been bursting. He just brushed me to one side and took off down the hall. Did he…?” Her eyes snapped wider.

  Slowly, Cat nodded.

  “Was he…?”

  Her head kept nodding. She sucked in a breath and almost choked.

  “Dear Lord,” Karen said. “He’ll kill us both.”

  They stared at each other. The suffocating sensation in Cat’s chest expanded, and then she could no longer hold it inside. Laughter exploded from her throat, rocking her shoulders. Karen spluttered for a second, and then her deep hoots mingled with Cat’s lighter tones.

  Tears streamed down their faces as they laughed. Cat fought for air and managed to give an account of the details. “He just stood there, his fly open, one hand blocking my view, his face in the fiercest scowl I’ve ever seen.”

  “This is priceless,” Karen said. “Priceless. He’s such a starched shirt. I hope this unbends him a bit. Makes him more human.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that.” Brock’s deep voice came from the entrance.

  Cat snapped around. They’d been so loud in their mirth, he’d sneaked up on them. She glanced down at her clothing. Damn. She’d behaved like a giggling teenager, instead of taking the opportunity to change out of the outfit Karen had dredged up for her to wear while she cleaned the nooks and crannies of the two-cubicle men’s restroom.

  Brock hovered on the edge of the open office, his face a stony mask of restraint. “In case you’re planning to sue me for sexual harassment, the cleaners are supposed to hang a notice on the door while they’re inside.”

  Cat looked at Karen, who rolled her eyes. They started again, howling with laughter, doubled over, struggling not to collapse on the floor. Cat was only vaguely aware of the savage curse that echoed around the room, and then the slam of the door as Brock opted for a retreat.

  Chapter Two

  “Do I look all right in these?” Cat twisted around to stare at her backside in the small mirror propped on a chair in Dalton’s dorm room.

  “You look more than all right.” Her stepson lounged on the bed. “Guys keep asking me who you are. It’s okay with me if you want to do a Mrs. Robinson thing and seduce some of my friends.”

  “Dalton!”

  He shrugged his shoulders while lying down in an insolent pose only a teenager could achieve. “What’s the big deal?”

  “You’re my stepson. You’re not supposed to talk about my sex life, or the lack of it.”

  “How am I going to learn about sex if we don’t talk?”

  Cat’s hands stilled on the side pockets of the chinos she’d borrowed from Dalton. As she studied him in the idle sprawl, she saw the power rippling along his arms and took in the changes in his face that were tiny, but lent an unmistakable stamp of masculinity to his features.

  Dear God. Right before her eyes, he’d been turning from a boy into a man, and she’d failed to notice. It overwhelmed her at times, the responsibility of caring for an adolescent, and the need to navigate between discipline and trust. Cat walked up to the bed and gestured at Dalton to scoot over and make space. Anxiety fluttered in her stomach, but she’d do her best to act in place of the mother and father her stepson lacked.

  “What do you want to know?” she asked.

  Dalton huddled up on the bed, dangling his arms over his knees and lowering his head to hide his expression. “What do girls want? What attracts them to a guy?”

  Cat chose her words carefully. “I don’t know if you can generalize. Maybe different girls want different things. I can only speak for the type of person I am.”

  “So?” Dalton peered at her from beneath floppy hair.

  “I like a man who is confident, but not arrogant or overbearing. Gentle, but not a pushover or a doormat. He doesn’t have to be handsome, but I’d like him to take care of his appearance. It is more important to have a curious mind than to be highly educated. More than anything, I need a man to be honest and reliable.”

  “I’m sorry.” The words came in a whisper.

  “Sorry for what?” Cat wanted to mollycoddle him, but she’d always avoided using endearments on Dalton. At thirty-three she was almost old enough to be his mother, but they’d only known each other for two years. She didn’t want to force an adult-child relationship on the boy who was growing up fast.

  “I know that Dad conned you into marrying him, and then he died and lumbered you with me. Now that I’ve left home, you don’t have to look after me any more. You’re free to get a life.”

  Cat froze. Her hands clutched the bedspread so tight it hurt. Dalton had never spoken about her relationship with Tim, but she’d always suspected the boy knew his father had pretended to love her in order to find someone to nurse him through the final stages of cancer and take care of his son after he was gone.

  She turned to Dalton. “Let’s get this thing clear. Whatever happened between your father and me, you’re the most precious thing in my life. I’d marry him again a million times over to have you as my son.”

  “It’s just that…”

  “Yes, darling?” Cat said the word hesitantly.

  He sent her a small smile that made her exhale with relief. Then he returned to examining the frayed knees of his jeans. “I don’t want to be the single egg in your basket. You spent a year nursing Dad, and then you spent another year sorting out his debts and fretting about how to be a mother to me. What are you going to do now? When you go home next weekend, I won’t be there. What’s going to fill your days?”

  A cold trickle of fear slid down her spine. “Are you…are you worried that I’ll crowd you? Cling to you when you need to go off and find your own way?”

  She could only see the back of Dalton’s head, but it was clear that he was nodding.

  “I need to get a job as soon as possible,” Cat said, as if she’d given the idea a great deal of consideration, instead of improvising. “The week at the sheriff’s office will be a start, and then I’ll get together a resume and start looking for something permanent.”

  “That’s great.” Dalton snapped his head upright. “Brilliant idea.”

  “Okay.” Cat jumped onto her feet and adjusted the chinos around her waist. “It’s agreed then. I’ll get a job.”

  “About that other thing…”

  “What other thing?”

  “The kind of man a girl wants.”

  She smiled. “Don’t worry. I think you’ll do just fine.”

  “I was thinking more about you…I was thinking that if you expect everything you said, you’ll never find any
one. Just pick a guy and give him a chance, okay?”

  Her eyes widened as she stared down at him. Dalton didn’t flinch.

  Dear God. Cat let out a groan of despair. Her sixteen-year-old stepson wanted to hoist her off on a man, any man, so she wouldn’t smother him.

  “I’ll think about it,” she promised. “Maybe I’ll even go out on a date.”

  “Good,” Dalton said. “That’s a start.”

  ****

  Brock drove down Main Street for the sixteenth time. He’d toured the campus twice. He could have gotten out of the car and sat down somewhere, but he’d lost his appetite for coffee, and he suspected that the latest gossip might be about him anyway.

  Karen had patched through a few calls, but nothing that gave him an excuse to stay away from the office. With a resigned sigh, he turned the steering wheel and headed for the station.

  Be a man. Get it over with.

  Karen stifled a grin when he walked in. Walter didn’t react beyond his usual gruff greeting. Mrs. Bridgewater was nowhere to be seen. The tension in Brock's muscles eased. She must have used the opportunity to wriggle out of her sentence, and Karen had kept her mouth shut about the restroom incident. He breathed more freely than he had all night.

  Brock pulled open the door of his private office and found her standing on a stepladder, polishing a framed diploma on the wall. A pair of baggy chinos and white tennis shoes had replaced the slim skirt and high heels. She turned to him, her mouth open in surprise. Just like it had been yesterday. All night, the image of her kneeling before him, her lips ajar in front of his open fly had plagued him.

  Now, his groin stiffened with a fury he hadn’t felt since his teens.

  “You were supposed to do typing, not cleaning,” Brock said when he found his voice.

  “I’m sorry.” Mrs. Bridgewater shifted on her feet. The stepladder rocked over the floor. A little shriek escaped her lips and her arms flailed for balance.

  Without thinking, Brock rushed up and caught her in his arms as she toppled down. She slammed into him with a force that knocked their bodies together. He could feel her breasts flattening against his chest and her mound pressing into his abdomen. The erection he’d tried to control hardened into steel.

  She tipped her head back to look into his face. Her eyes widened, and then narrowed as comprehension struck. She shifted her hips, just a little, as if to make certain.

  Brock almost groaned with pleasure at the tiny friction against his straining shaft. His arms didn’t obey. They refused to release her, instead sliding further around her to hold her tight. She made no effort to struggle, didn’t try to pull away. A little catch hitched in her breath. He lowered his head, until his lips were only inches from hers. Her hands crept up and curled around his biceps, her fingers digging into his flesh so hard it stung.

  All sanity fled. His head came down to nuzzle the side of her neck. He breathed in the faint fragrance of flowers, too subtle to be perfume, more like shampoo or soap. Just when the last vestiges of resistance crumbled and Brock dragged his lips along her cheek to cover her mouth with his, a knock sounded at the door.

  “Is everything okay?” Karen shouted. “There was a crash.”

  Brock closed his eyes and heaved out a frustrated sigh. “It’s okay,” he shouted back. “She fell, but I caught her. She isn’t hurt.”

  He eased their bodies apart. “Mrs. Bridgewater?”

  She kept staring up at him. Her eyes were pale grey-green, the color of aspen leaves.

  “Cat,” she whispered, so low he had to lean down to hear her voice.

  His brain finally kicked in and started broadcasting danger signals for being so close to her. Brock straightened his shoulders and told her to speak up.

  “Call me Cat,” she said. “It’s short for Catherine.”

  “Cat.” A shiver raced over him at the thought of her cat-like eyes, and the feline grace she must posses in order to climb unharmed to the top of the clock tower with nothing but her hands and feet, and a pouch of chalk tied around her waist.

  “Cat, you need to let go of my arms, and I need to let go of you.”

  “Yes,” she said, but didn’t move. Her gaze skimmed over his features in a way that felt like a caress.

  The pull of attraction was as inevitable as the tide. Resisting the urge to gather her close, Brock merely tipped his head and took her mouth in a soft searching kiss. She stepped into him. Her hands reached up to his neck, and her fingers slid into his hair. With a growl of impatience, he gave in, hauled her close, and deepened the kiss. She sagged against him and opened her mouth, allowing his tongue to probe inside.

  In a perfect fit, her body arched into his. The throbbing in his groin grew into an ache. He feasted on her, explored her taste and texture with his mouth. One of his hands crept around to cup her breast.

  “No,” she whispered on an indrawn breath, weak and without conviction.

  Brock stilled. Slowly, he straightened. “No?”

  She shook her head, suddenly frantic. “I can’t. Not with a married man.”

  Baffled, he frowned at her. “You think I’m married?”

  “Aren’t you?” She gestured toward the wedding band he still wore.

  Brock released her and raked one hand through his hair, unsure of how to approach the topic. Elation glimmered in the back of his mind. If she didn’t know, at least he could be sure that her willingness to kiss him hadn’t been driven by pity or an odd sense of curiosity.

  “What on earth do you talk about with Karen if my personal life hasn’t come up in the conversation?” he asked.

  Her brows knotted in irritation, and Brock cursed himself for his poor choice of words. He’d sounded like an arrogant male who took it for granted that women flocked after him, wanted to know about his marital status.

  A heavy sigh rocked his shoulders. “Ask Karen. It’s easier that way. For both of us.”

  Cat shook her head. In her eyes, confusion replaced the languid aftermath of the kiss. “You want me to ask Karen if you’re married?”

  Brock nodded. Suddenly, he couldn’t take it any more, the constant fight to ignore the demands of his body, the guilt, and the burden of the memories. He lifted one hand to dismiss her. “If you don’t mind, I’ve got work to get on with.”

  When she reached the door, he called out, “Cat?”

  “Yes?”

  “If you’d rather not come back, consider your forty hours completed.”

  She gave a silent nod and disappeared through the door.

  * * * *

  “Is Brock married?” Cat slipped out the question, her tone casual as she leaned over Karen’s desk, plucking dead leaves from a wilting azalea on the windowsill.

  “Not you too.” A frown of disgust flickered across Karen’s features.

  The anger that surged inside her seemed out of all proportion, but Cat gave in to it. Everything needled her today. The photocopier kept jamming. The roar of traffic outside screeched in her ears, and when she filed fishing permits, even the alphabet seemed to jump out of order. Worst of all, Brock skulked in his office, behind closed doors, as if nothing unusual had taken place.

  As if he hadn’t given her a kiss that scrambled her brain.

  “Why do people assume that every woman who crosses his path is swept off her feet by his masculine charm?” she fumed.

  “Because most of them are.”

  “Well, I’m not, for one. I think he is arrogant, overbearing—”

  Karen sniggered.

  Cat clamped a hand over her mouth and stared in horror. “Oh my God. I sound as if I’m…”

  “Well and truly stirred,” Karen finished for her. “I’m not blind. You emerged from his office with a flushed face and rubbery legs. His eyes followed you like the Big Bad Wolf stares after the Little Red Riding Hood. And don’t try to tell me nothing happened. Save your lies for someone else.”

  “I wasn’t going to lie.” Cat snatched her trembling fingers from the plant to sto
p the pot rattling on the saucer. “I fell off the stepladder, and he caught me. Our bodies seemed rather more interested in the intimate contact than our minds.”

  Karen’s eyes rounded with surprise. “That’s a first. It’s true that he has to fight women off, and he does. Literally, shoves them away when nothing else works. Cat, do you realize that you’ve gotten under his skin just as bad as he’s gotten under yours?”

  Cat froze as she accepted the truth. Every emotion she’d felt since Friday had been a warning sign she’d missed. The exhilaration had nothing to do with the clandestine climb up the clock tower. Anxiety about going home without Dalton hadn’t triggered the breathless anticipation that now throbbed along her veins.

  Brock Leonetti was to blame for her state as a nervous wreck.

  “I’m a fool,” she said. “A complete and utter fool.”

  “Sit down.” Karen caught her arm and pointed her to a chair. “I need to tell you about his marriage. When I said not you too, I didn’t mean to imply that you were chasing after him. I assumed that you were following a thread of gossip you’d heard.”

  Cat settled opposite Karen and got ready to listen.

  “Brock’s wife was called Sandra,” Karen started. “They grew up together. Played as kids, went to the same schools. When Brock left for college, Sandra got a job as a bank teller. She’d always been…emotionally fragile, but the pressure of the job made it worse. She was dreamy, absent-minded. A position that required accuracy didn’t suit her, but she was more afraid to try something different than she was to stay in a job that made her miserable.”

  Karen paused and twirled a pen in her hand, studying the flickering motion.

  “It’s all right,” Cat said. “You’re not betraying Brock by gossiping. He told me to ask you. He said it would be easier that way.”

  Karen nodded with obvious relief. “Brock kept coming home for the holidays. Sandra clung to him. She seemed better when he was around, stronger. When Brock finished college, he moved back here, and they got married. Sandra gave up her job, but it didn’t make her feel better. It made her worse. For years, she battled depression. She was on medication, tried all kinds of mental health programs. Nothing worked. In the end, she took her own life. Brock was away for a few days. When he came home, he found her body. She’d taken an overdose of sleeping pills.”