“What’s with you and bets?” Brooke stared at him, perplexed. “Are you a compulsive gambler or something?” Letter to Reader Title Page Dedication CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN Copyright

“What’s with you and bets?” Brooke stared at him, perplexed. “Are you a compulsive gambler or something?”

Garrett raised his brows. “Or something. I’m not afraid to take chances once in a while, if that’s what you mean. How about this—I’ll bet I can get cozy with your cats before you can make friends with my dogs. Name your own stakes. Make it easy on yourself.” He gave her a knowing wink.

She recoiled in horror. “No way!”

He ignored her protest. “So, what are the stakes? Hey, I’ve got it! This is a B and B, right? How about the winner gets breakfast in bed?”

Dear Reader.

Welcome to our exciting showcase series for 19971

Authors you’ll treasure, books you’ll want to keep!

Harlequin Romance books just keep getting better—and we enjoy bringing you the best choice of wonderful romances each month. Now, for the whole year, we’ll be highlighting a particular author in our monthly selections—a specially chosen story we know you’re going to enjoy, again and again....

This month’s recommended reading is Ruth Jean Dale’s Breakfast in Bed, a charming book full of fun and humor. Our SIMPLY THE BEST title for August will be Wild at Heart (#3468) by Susan Fox.

Happy reading!

The Editors

Breakfast In Bed

Ruth Jean Dale

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my daughter, Valerie Duran,

a world-class reader of romance—

and everything else she can get her hands on!

CHAPTER ONE

OH, CLARENCE, our love can never be, for you are promised to another....

Brooke had to blink away tears so she could read the elaborate script of the silent movie title card flickering on the enormous television screen. Not that she actually needed to read the words; she’d seen the film so many times that she knew it, and them, by heart.

Forbidden Love, filmed in 1925, had been the first movie to star the sixteen-year-old Cora Jackson. Decades later, her luminous celluloid beauty still transfixed twenty-five-year-old Brooke Hamilton, companion of the former movie star’s old age.

The glorious child-woman wafted gracefully across the shadowy screen. Brooke’s hand stilled on the back of the sleek orange cat draped across her lap—Miss Cora’s cat, one of two left in Brooke’s care under the terms of the will. Watching the woman’s first film on the VCR two months after her death, Brooke still found it impossible to believe that her friend and mentor was really gone. Even well into her eighties, Miss Cora had remained a vital and captivating woman.

The cat stirred, casting Brooke a disapproving glance over one furry shoulder. “Sorry, Gable,” she apologized, resuming a slow stroking. “I know I get carried away, but I miss her so much. I’ll bet you do, too.” She swallowed hard and read the next title card.

For honor’s sake, you must marry another upon the morrow. But you will always be my only love—no, don’t look at me so!

The on-screen Cora, the one who would remain forever young and beautiful, pressed the back of a slender wrist against her mouth dramatically, tears sparkling like diamonds on her lashes. Many times Miss Cora had explained to the enraptured Brooke that in those days of silent films, cameramen had moved heaven and earth to photograph stars in the best possible light.

“It took onions to get those tears to come and a genius with a camera to make them look sincere,” Cora insisted. “Goodness, what did I know about acting? Talent didn’t even enter into it. I was just a little girl from Illinois who found herself in Hollywood.”

That fortuitous circumstance had changed Cora’s life, and more than a half century later, Brooke’s life, as well. “Go figure,” she mused to Gable, tickling his ear with a gentle fingertip.

He responded with something that sounded vaguely like “Arough-ooo!” Brooke glanced down at him in surprise to find him staring at the door as if he expected something dreadful to spring through at any second and attack him.

The door, like everything in Glennhaven, Miss Cora’s magnificent Victorian mansion on a mountain-side overlooking Boulder, Colorado, was dark and elaborate and reminiscent of days gone by. Brooke had come here today ostensibly to “sort and organize,” but had found the prospect so depressing that she’d slipped a tape into the VCR instead.

She should have known that it would turn out to be a mistake. This house had been a second home to her, but she’d tried to avoid it since the death of the woman who’d been more family to her than her own family had ever pretended.

Cora Jackson Browne—Brooke’s beloved Miss Cora—had been like a mother to her. Or perhaps the proper term was grandmother, since the woman had been at least sixty years older than her young companion. Her death was even more shocking because it had been completely unanticipated. She’d simply gone to bed one night and never awakened. Although it was a gentle end to a memorable life, Brooke had been devastated.

And more so when she realized that Miss Cora herself had somehow seemed to sense that her time was near. In a long and detailed letter written only a few weeks earlier but not found until after her death, she’d laid out her plans and expectations.

A simple burial; no members of her family to be notified of her death until just before the reading of her will; and custody of her cats to Brooke, along with an acre of land and the guest house.

In typical Miss Cora fashion, she’d been specific in every detail. Although not all of it made sense to Brooke, she was prepared to move heaven and earth to accommodate her beloved patron.

Thus she had steeled herself to come today to Glennhaven to begin the bittersweet task of organizing Cora’s possessions, pending the eventual arrival of the new owner of this magnificent aberration. Miss Cora had entrusted Brooke with this chore, along with many others. She was glad to do these final insignificant tasks but it was hard—

Gable stiffened and sat up on Brooke’s lap. His ears pointed toward the door, which was slightly ajar, then slicked back flat against his broad head. Flexing his claws into the tough fabric of her jeans, he arched up on tiptoe.

“What is it, boy?” She tried to distract him by rubbing his tummy, which usually worked but this time fell flat. “Do you hear something?” She couldn’t imagine how, over the swelling strings of the musical accompaniment to the sad tale of love and sacrifice unreeling on the television screen.

Every bright hair on the cat’s body stood on end. Brooke, more curious than alarmed, followed the path of his hostile glare.

“What is it, Gable?” She tried again to soothe him. “There’s nobody in the house but you and me—”

The door flew open with a resounding crash and Brooke stared at the creature standing there—a dog! A small, black-and-white, terrier-looking creature who seemed to be all fangs and claws. What in the world was a dog doing inside Glennhaven, the refuge of all creatures feline?

Gable, for one, wasn’t interested in hanging around to find out. With an awful screech, he bolted from Brooke’s lap. The sudden movement startled the little dog and he let out a yelp of alarm, quickly followed by a staccato yapping that scared the woman almost as much as the cat.

With a shriek of alarm, Brooke leapt to her feet. The terrier didn’t even seem to notice her, too intent upon poor Gable, hotfooting it across the room. The straightest path between dog and cat, unfortunately, led through Brooke. Without hesitation, the dog took it.

Brooke panicked. In her haste to escape, she leapt in the wrong direction and one of her feet came down on the dog’s paw. He let out a howl, which further unnerved her.

So did the deep and unfamiliar voice coming from the hall outside. “Larry? Larry, where are you, you miserable hound?”

The cat made it to the fireplace and, without pausing, leapt to the top of the broad mantelpiece. Once there, he turned to face his attacker. Gable’s normally placid face wore a savage expression and he arched his back like a Halloween cat.

The dog, Larry, gave one final indignant yelp and threw himself at the fireplace, plowing into the elaborate stained-glass screen. It tottered, then fell, shattering on the hearth. The dog took no notice, too busy flinging himself into the air, trying—and failing—to reach his furry orange target.

And he yipped, and he yapped, making so much racket that Brooke wanted to scream. Instead, she turned and ran toward the door. She needed a weapon: a broom, a mop, anything to drive off that horrible creature threatening Cora’s beloved Clark Gable.

Instead of finding help, she found herself face-to-face with a stranger. He looked as startled as she—and then she found herself in his arms, unable to halt her forward momentum.

He held her easily against his broad chest. A whiff of his faint, woodsy aftershave surprised her, as did the strength of his impersonal embrace. Then he stood her on her feet and looked at her with a slightly puzzled smile curving his lips.

While she... stared. He was gorgeous, from his thick, midnight-dark hair to golden-hazel eyes alight with intelligence and curiosity. There was strength in the high cheekbones and square jaw, but humor in the quirk of the lips and tilt of his eyebrows when he looked at her.

And then she realized that blasted dog was still yapping and trying to climb up the fireplace to kill Miss Cora’s innocent cat, who’d been minding his own business prior to this vicious and unprovoked attack.

“Is that your dog?” She almost gasped the words while pointing a trembling finger. “Make him stop!”

The handsome stranger frowned. “Yeah, what’s got him so worked up?” His gaze swung smoothly from Brooke to the barking dog, then up to the big orange cat hissing and spitting his fury from on high. He recoiled. “That’s a cat!”

“Well, yes, of course it’s a cat.” Brooke edged around until the tall stranger was between her and the animals. She’d face any cat anytime, anywhere, but dogs sent her into shock—even quiet ones, which this one certainly wasn’t.

“What’s a cat doing here?” the man demanded. His golden eyes narrowed. “For that matter, what are you doing here—not that I object, you understand.”

“I’m taking care of things until the new owner—” She stared at him while understanding dawned. “Oh, dear.”

“Exactly.” Smiling, he offered his hand. “I’m Garrett Jackson. And you must be... Brooke Hamilton?”

“Yes.” She touched his hand with hers, too lightly to be called a handshake. She hadn’t meant to be unfriendly but she felt a jolt of electricity at even that slight touch. Not too unusual in bone-dry Colorado, she assured herself; nothing to worry about. “Please,” she pleaded, “will you do something about that dog? I don’t think he can reach Gable but—”

“As in Clark?”

She nodded. “That barking is making a nervous wreck of me.”

Garrett shrugged. “Guess I’m used to him.” Kneeling, he snapped his fingers and spoke in a coaxing voice. “C’mon, Larry, old boy, come to papa.”

Larry didn’t do any such thing; in fact, after one derisive glance over his shoulder, he yipped louder.

“Larry! Get over here!” Garrett spoke firmly, pointing to the priceless Oriental rug upon which he knelt.

Larry didn’t even bother to look around this time, just kept trying to scramble up the fireplace stones.

“Damn!” Garrett rose to his feet. “What’s wrong with that mutt? He’s obnoxious but he’s never been this bad before.”

“Maybe that’s not Larry at all,” Brooke couldn’t stop herself from suggesting. “Maybe it’s his evil twin.”

Garrett laughed, little smile lines curving at the corners of his generous mouth. He was extraordinarily attractive when he smiled. Well, in all honesty, he was extraordinarily attractive when he didn’t smile.

“Very funny,” he admitted. “But I know how to handle him.”

“This I’ve got to see,” Brooke muttered dubiously. She glanced anxiously at Gable, who no longer seemed so much frightened as annoyed. In fact, he seemed as curious as she to discover what would happen next.

“You doubt me?” Garrett’s golden eyes narrowed speculatively. “You wouldn’t want to put your money where your mouth is, would you?”

“Huh?”

“Wanna bet?”

“Not a chance! I’m not a gambling woman.” Too true; Brooke didn’t take chances when she could avoid them. “All I want is for you to get that beast away from my cat.”

“Okay, okay, I can take a hint.” Stepping around her, he stuck his head into the hallway. He was wearing sky-blue shorts and a white T-shirt, with white leather sneakers. His body was as attractive as his face, which hardly seemed possible.

Or fair.

“Molly!” he called. “Will you come in here, honey?”

Brooke’s brows rose. “Wife? Girlfriend? Significant other?”

His grin broadened, became almost challenging. “Daughter.”

Brooke felt a little jolt of relief. “I see.”

“You don’t, but that’s okay.”

A small form appeared in the doorway and his smile became less predatory, more gentle. “There you are, sweetheart. Think you can call old Larry off the lady’s cat?”

The little girl nodded gravely, then looked at Brooke with solemn curiosity. “Hello,” she said. “My name is Molly Jackson.”

“My name is Brooke Hamilton. I’m pleased to meet you, Molly.”

“Thank you very much.” Such a serious little thing; not so much as the hint of a smile. “I’m five years old,” she continued. “How old are you?”

Brooke melted. The child was exquisite, dainty and blond, golden-eyed like her father. She waited a moment for Garrett to intervene; instead he simply looked interested so she said, “I’m twenty-five.”

“That’s almost grown-up,” Molly observed.

Brooke stifled laughter. “Sometimes I wonder.”

“Gart is thirty-two,” the child offered.

“Gart?” Brooke glanced at the man beside her. “She calls you Gart?”

He shrugged. “She can’t handle Garrett, for some reason.” Kneeling before the child, he placed his hands on her shoulders. “Can you call Larry off now, Molly? That barking is driving us all nuts.”

“Yes, sir.” Snapping her fingers smartly, if silently, she said in an imperious tone, “Larry! Come, Larry! Come!”

Larry stopped yapping and cocked his head, his ears standing up straight. Then he turned and trotted back to his pint-size mistress.

All Brooke could see was the dog’s vicious white teeth and powerful jaws. Frightened, she edged around Garrett, always keeping him between herself and that creature. When the coast was clear, she darted to the fireplace to snatch Gable to safety.

The cat curled himself around her shoulder and neck, his expression indignant in the extreme. “Gee, Gable,” she murmured, rubbing his chest. “I’m sorry. It’s not my fault, honest.”

Garrett rolled his eyes. “You’re apologizing to a cat?”

The way he said cat sent a warning shiver down her spine. “Why not? I got him into this mess when I let him coax me into coming along today. Of course...” She glanced significantly at the broken glass, which was all that remained of the fire screen. “I’m not entirely to blame. Do you have any idea how much that piece of stained glass was worth?”

“No idea whatsoever.” He looked around the room. “Or anything else in this mausoleum, for that matter. What a tomb!”

“A tomb!” Aghast, she stared at him. “It’s not a tomb. It’s a beautiful Victorian mansion brimming with fabulous old treasures and priceless antiques.”

“I like young stuff myself.” His glance skimmed over her lightly but insolently, head to toe. He had the most intimate way of looking at her, as if he already knew something she didn’t. It made her wish she’d put on something more impressive than jeans and a plaid shirt this morning.

“You inherited very little young stuff,” she said tartly. “We’re old-fashioned around here. We do, however, have telephones.”

“Is that a crack?” If it was, he didn’t appear to be put off by it.

“I wasn’t expecting you until next week,” she reminded him.

“I’ve been trying to call for four days, ever since Molly and I left Chicago.” He ruffled the little girl’s soft curls, but he was watching Brooke.

“You drove?” But of course they drove. How else would they be accompanied by that obnoxious little dog now licking his young owner’s hand?

He nodded. “Had a nice time, too, didn’t we Molly, old girl? The dogs were a bit of trouble but—”

“Dogs, as in plural?” She glanced around with fresh alarm. “You mean, there’s more than one?”

“Had to bring old Baron.” He gave a whimsical shrug. “He’s a German shepherd and not nearly as noisy as Larry.”

Brooke couldn’t stifle her groan. “I suppose he bites first and asks questions later.”

Garrett frowned. “Are you trying to tell me you don’t care for dogs?”

“I’m trying to tell you that I don’t see how anybody could care for dogs. They’re big and mean and they bite people and dig holes and—” she glanced significantly at the shattered glass on the hearth. “—break things.”

“Unlike cats,” he inserted smoothly, “who are little and mean and sneaky, with sharp teeth and claws made for shredding furniture and clothes—”

“Of all the nerve!” She glared at him, instinctively clutching Gable more tightly. That ungrateful wretch responded by jerking away. Leaping from her shoulder onto the cut-velvet sofa, he proceeded to dig his claws into the upholstery even as she defended him from such scurrilous charges.

Garrett’s quick smile was mischievous. “Sorry, I got carried away. I take back the part about the furniture.”

She gave him a sheepish grin. “Apology accepted.” She added, “Stop that, Gable!”

“Can I pet your cat?” inquired an anxious little voice.

Brooke glanced from the child to the father, asking a question with her eyes. Is it all right?

He nodded. “But first let me put Larry out into the hall.”

“Good idea.” Brooke drew Molly forward. “Did you ever have a cat?”

The little girl shook her head. There was something so solemn about her, as if she didn’t laugh nearly enough. “Only dogs,” she said. “I got Larry when he was a little puppy.”

Brooke’s heart sank. Molly’s ownership would give that miserable mutt privileged status. “Cats are nicer,” she said staunchly. “Now, you must remember never to try to grab a cat. They don’t like that. You have to make them think that everything’s their own idea....”

Slowly and smoothly she reached for Gable, who permitted himself to be lifted from the couch and into Brooke’s familiar embrace. “Sit down,” she instructed the little girl, “and I’ll put him on your lap. If you don’t startle him, he may decide to stay. But if he wants to go, don’t try to hang on to him, okay?”

“Okay.” Molly sat down on the sofa, sliding back until her legs were straight out before her on the wide cushion. Carefully she smoothed her blue cotton skirt over her lap, then looked up expectantly.

Brooke leaned close to Gable’s ear. “You be nice now, you hear?” she murmured. Gently she deposited the cat on Molly’s lap.

Gable sank down like a puddle of orange pudding, turning his head to look into Molly’s eyes with a “How’m I doin’?” expression. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he began to purr.

“He’s making noises,” Molly exclaimed, looking up at Brooke anxiously.

“That’s because he likes you,” Brooke interpreted. “You can scratch his ears, if you’re very gentle, or underneath his chin. He likes that.”

“I like him,” Molly declared fiercely. “Oh, Gable!” Unable to restrain her enthusiasm, she leaned forward and gave him a big hug.

Which was way too much for any self-respecting cat. He slipped out of her embrace as quickly and easily as smoke from a clenched fist. Before she could recover, he’d shinnied up the heavy brocade drapes to perch atop a tall bookcase.

Molly looked close to tears. “Make him come back,” she pleaded.

Brooke slipped her arm around the child’s shoulders and gave her a comforting squeeze. “I can’t, honey. Nobody can make cats do anything they don’t want to do. The trick is to make them think you don’t really care, and that what you want them to do is really what they want to do.”

Garrett, leaning against the closed door with his arms crossed over his chest, gave a derisive peal of laughter. “Are we talking about cats here, or women?”

Brooke pursed her lips. “Very funny.”

“So are you, if you think I don’t mean it.”

“Are we talking about women here, or cats?”

“Touché!” His laughter this time sounded delighted. “Although I know as much as I care to know—about cats.” He gave an exaggerated shudder. To Molly, he added, “We don’t have time for cats now anyway. You said you were hungry, so let’s see if we can find the kitchen. If we do, maybe we’ll also find something for you to eat.”

Brooke felt a little fissure of alarm. “It’s after one o’clock. Are you saying this child hasn’t had lunch?”

He shook his head. “But that’s all right. There’s probably something around...anything at all. We’re not particular.”

“There’s not a bite to eat in this house.” Why did he have to look so...pitiful? “The cook cleaned everything out of the kitchen before she left.”

“Ouch.” He crossed to Molly’s side. “I guess that means we’ll have to drive all the way down the mountain to feed you, you poor little thing.”

Brooke was being set up and she fought it. “If you had called, I could have stocked the kitchen for you,” she said defiantly.

“I tried—didn’t you hear what I said before? I think the telephone lines must have been down or something.”

Brooke groaned. He had mentioned that. Although she didn’t know of any trouble, the telephone service way up here in the middle of nowhere was so iffy that she never knew from one minute to the next if they had contact with the outside world. Knowing she shouldn’t, she still heard herself saying, “Okay, if you meant it when you said you’re not too particular, I suppose I could find something for—”

“Hey, thanks!” He didn’t even wait for her to finish the invitation. Grabbing Molly by the hand, he lifted her to her feet.

“But no dogs,” Brooke said sternly. Picking up the television remote, she clicked off the set before facing him. “You and Molly can come but no dogs.” Maybe that would dissuade him; she could but hope.

Instead of objecting, he nodded. “I’ve got food for the dogs,” he said cheerfully. “It’s Molly and me who are starving, right, sweetheart?”

The little girl nodded, keeping all her attention focused on Brooke, who knew when she was licked.

There was nothing to do but coax Gable down from his perch and onto her shoulder, then lead the invaders to her own sanctuary.

Which, she had a strong premonition, would never be the same after Garrett Jackson invaded it.

Garrett hated to tie his dogs to a tree out front of his late great-aunt’s moldy old mansion, but he really didn’t have much choice. With the toothsome Ms. Hamilton looking on, he did the dastardly deed quickly and efficiently. When he turned back to his little audience of woman, child and cat, he’d have sworn the furry four-legged observer was smiling with evil satisfaction.

But he wasted little time or attention on the cat, much more interested in the woman. Brooke Hamilton, he thought with satisfaction, was quite an eyeful. Even so, he’d early on got the impression that she either didn’t know that or didn’t much care. For one thing she was dressed without even a nod to fashion, and if she wore a speck of makeup, he couldn’t see it. That natural look wasn’t something he had much experience with but he found it surprisingly appealing.

He liked the sleek and shiny brown hair framing an oval face with high cheekbones and a full, tenderly shaped mouth. Her brown eyes sparkled with a quick, intelligence, which simultaneously drew and repelled him—drew him because he appreciated wit where he found it, repelled him because past experiences with smart women had been...chancy. They tended to look beneath the surface of things, beneath the surface of him. That wasn’t an experience he relished.

Garrett Jackson preferred the quick and superficial when it came to women and much else in his life. No strings, no regrets; easy come, easy go. Except for Molly, of course. He looked at the little girl, rising on tiptoes beneath an arbor of tangled vines to stroke that damned cat still cuddled in Brooke’s arms.

Molly had been a little trooper on this trip. When they’d started out, he’d thought they could benefit from a little time alone together and he’d been right. Although she hadn’t exactly turned into a chatterbox, she’d shown a lively interest in everything going on around her. He was grateful for that, and for anything else that helped pull her out of her shell.

Except cats.

“I’m ready when you are,” he announced brusquely.

Brooke looked up with a quick smile. Damn, she had a beautiful mouth, curving and sweet and somehow vulnerable.

“Dogs all tied up?” she asked somewhat anxiously.

“Yeah, and I hated to do it. I hope you don’t expect—”

“But I do,” she said quickly, turning with that orange monstrosity still draped over her arm like a stole. “It’s the only answer.”

“What’s the question?”

“How to keep your dogs and my cats separated, for openers.”

“How hard can it be?” He fell in beside her on the path, made up of individual stones set into the earth with some kind of moss growing between. “We’re only talking about two cats and two dogs, four animals in total.”

“Not... exactly.” She gave him what might have been an anxious glance.

He felt a prickle of apprehension. “Not...exactly?”

“I have a few more than two cats.”

He groaned. “How many’s a few more?”

“Well...four. Of my own, that is.”

She hesitated at an ivy-covered gate, and he stepped forward to open it for her and Molly. Through a thick stand of pine, he caught a glimpse of their destination—actuary, the former gatehouse to Glennhaven. And as he knew too well, his crazy great-aunt Cora had left the gatehouse to Brooke Hamilton, along with an acre of land.

An acre of land in the shape of a pan, the “handle” providing access to the main road—and effectively controlling access to the main house and the bulk of the estate. The bequest to the lovely Ms. Hamilton had left the future of the estate in doubt; the whole situation was a mess. He figured Cora must have been a raving lunatic, or else Ms. Hamilton was not the wide-eyed innocent she appeared to be.

Then Brooke’s possible meaning sank in. “Four cats of your own?”

She nodded. “Uh...I guess you don’t know about my business.”

“You run a business from the gatehouse?” This was getting worse and worse.

She turned onto a well-defined path leading through the trees, and again he fell in beside her with Molly trotting along behind. All of a sudden Brooke stopped and opened her arms for Gable—check that, for that damned cat—to leap to the ground.

“He’s getting away!” Molly’s voice turned shrill.

“Don’t worry, honey.” Confidently Brooke took the little girl’s hand. “He’ll just lead us back home. He likes running through the trees. I try to let him, when I’m there to watch out for predators.” She shot a quick, veiled glance at Garrett.

“Can I run, too?” Molly looked from one adult to the other. “Can I, can I, please?”

Brooke deferred to Garrett. “Is it okay? The house is right there, where we can see it. We’ll be right behind her.”

He didn’t like it but he liked the disappointment on Molly’s face even less. Everybody was always telling him he was overprotective and maybe he was. With an effort, he began, “If you’re sure...”

That was enough for Molly, who took off with her thin brown legs flying. Brooke smiled at the sight.

Garrett watched for a moment before returning to the subject at hand. “You were talking about your business,” he prompted.

“Oh, that.” Her smile was absolutely angelic. “I run a bed-and-breakfast for—”

“Jeez, a B ‘n’ B?” Garrett stared at her incredulously. “Does that mean I can expect to find hordes of strangers wandering around at all times of the day and night?”

“Goodness, no.” She laughed lightly but he saw her twist her hands together behind her back.

“Then, what?”

“It’s not a B ‘n’ B for people,” she said. “I’ll give you a hint. It’s called Catty-Corner.”

Before that could sink in, she whirled and ran down the path after Molly and Gable. Garrett stared after her in a state of shock.

He’d just inherited an estate dedicated to the one animal on this earth traditionally despised by his entire family.

CHAPTER TWO

BROOKE, tried to keep her reservations at bay as she showed her guests around Catty-Corner. Maybe Garrett wouldn’t be as difficult about the cats as she feared, she decided in a burst of positive thinking. Maybe he’d give in gracefully.

Maybe pigs would fly.

Following her around the premises, he gave no indication of either approval or disapproval, although he did seem a bit more subdued than he had earlier. Even suspecting he was waiting for his chance to confront her, she still couldn’t conceal her pride in what she’d accomplished.

“With Miss Cora’s help and approval, of course,” she added, opening a door and gesturing them through. “None of this would have been possible without her total understanding and support.”

They entered a large, cozy room containing ten spacious kitty condos spaced against the walls with Brooke’s work and storage area in the center. Each compartment had a private window for bird-watching—a popular pastime of the residents—and pet-door access to an enclosed and partitioned sunning porch for felines only.

Garrett stared, his expression incredulous. “You’re kidding,” he said at last.

Brooke hardly knew how to take that. “Certainly not.” She lifted her chin a notch. “What did you expect? Surely not cages!”

“That’s exactly what I expected,” he admitted.

She shuddered. “My business comes from cat lovers, not sadists.” She slipped her fingers through the wire mesh to tickle the chin of a dainty black cat named Chloe.

His eyebrows soared. “Talk about pampered. What do you do, serve them breakfast in bed?”

“Sure, if that’s what they want,” she admitted.

“Lucky cats.”

She didn’t like that gleam in his amber eyes. To change the subject, she took Molly’s hand and smiled at the little girl. “I think it’s time I found you something to eat.”

Molly hung back. “Can I pet the kitties? Can I, please?”

“Maybe later.” Brooke cast a questioning glance at Garrett, then led the way back through the door into her own quarters. Cluttered and homelike, her sitting room boasted an eclectic blend of period and modern furniture, all chosen for comfort or sentiment. “Let’s go out to the kitchen first,” she suggested to Molly, “and see what we can—”

But she’d lost her audience. With a cry of delight, Molly darted forward with hands outstretched.

She’d spotted Carole Lombard snoozing in a fluffy white mass on a big brocaded ottoman. It was love at first sight. Carole Lombard, Miss Cora’s other cat, was practically designed to enchant a little girl: a snowy-white feline beauty with brilliant blue eyes and fur as soft and luxurious as a rabbit’s.

Lombard gave a little squeak of surprise but she didn’t try to elude her young admirer. To Brooke’s astonishment, the cat allowed the child to embrace her, then sit down on the ottoman and haul the languid feline into her lap.

“What’s her name?” Molly asked breathlessly, her eyes shining like stars.

“Lombard,” Brooke said softly. Why did this little girl have a dog? If Brooke had ever seen a child take to cats, this was the one.

“I love her,” Molly said fervently.

Brooke smiled. “I kind of think she loves you, too. I’ll call you when lunch is ready, honey.”

Brooke turned again toward the kitchen, her smile lasting until she saw Garrett. “Uh...you can wait in here with Molly, if you like.” She made the suggestion hopefully.

“I’d rather go with you.” He gave her a lazy, provocative grin. “There are a couple of things we need to talk about.”

Oh, dear, she thought, leading the way. I don’t think I’m going to like this.

Garrett perched on a kitchen stool, watching Brooke prepare grilled cheese sandwiches and a big pitcher of lemonade. For some reason, his steady gaze made her feel uncharacteristically clumsy and uncoordinated.

He spoke suddenly, startling her. “How well did you know my great-aunt?”

“Very well—maybe better than anyone. I worked for her for almost four years.” She rummaged around in a cabinet, finally extracting a cast-iron griddle, which she placed on the stove.

“What did you do for her, exactly?”

She shrugged. “Whatever needed doing. I took care of her cats, dealt with the staff—she had a cook, a housekeeper, a gardener and occasionally others in to do special things. Like...she had the rose garden dug up a couple of years ago and installed a glass-enclosed swimming pool.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “For whom? At her age, she surely didn’t—”

Brooke’s laughter stopped him. “You didn’t know her or you wouldn’t ask such a question.”

“Meaning?”

“Miss Cora got tired of swimming at the health club,” she said airily.

That drew an apparently reluctant smile from him. “She’s beginning to sound like quite a character.”

“You could say that.” Talking about Miss Cora was soothing and Brooke began to feel less stressed. “I’m only sorry you didn’t get a chance to know her.”

“Did she tell you about...”

“About what?”

“The family scandal.”

“No—but you make it sound really interesting.” She cast him an oblique glance. “I didn’t even know she had a family.”

“She didn‘t—not much of one, anyway. I wasn’t actually named in her will, I was just the only one left except for a few distant cousins.”

“I’m glad there was someone,” Brooke said sincerely. “I had no idea who the beneficiaries of her will were until after she was gone.”

“But you did know she was leaving the gatehouse to you.” He glanced around the sunny kitchen somewhat pointedly.

Brooke stiffened. “I certainly did not.”

He looked less than convinced. “And I suppose you didn’t encourage her to put those crazy restrictions in her will?”

She flipped a sandwich on the stovetop grill, exposing a golden-brown surface. “What crazy restrictions?”

“Crazy restrictions about selling.”

She whirled, a tide of heat rising in her cheeks. “Selling! You can’t sell it!”

“Want to bet?”

Biting her lip, she turned back to the stove, mashing the sandwiches so hard she squeezed out a big glob of melting cheese. “A member of Cora’s family must live here or the house and grounds are to be given to the County of Boulder for a cat sanctuary,” she said at last. “Those are the only two choices.”

She heard him rise from his stool, heard his footsteps approach, then heard his heavy sigh from just behind her quivering shoulder blades. And then she heard his husky voice and felt tension tighten her shoulders.

“Don’t be naive,” he said. “I’m an attorney from a family of attorneys. I’m only going to be here long enough to find a buyer.”

“Garrett—Mr. Jackson!” She turned to face him, her spatula held between them like a sword. “Surely you don’t mean that. How could you live with yourself if you ignored your aunt’s stated wishes in such a cavalier manner? You don’t have a moral problem with that?”

He smiled. Up close like this, the force of his personal magnetism hit her like a sledgehammer blow, knocking the breath right out of her.

“I have a problem, all right,” he murmured.

“Thank heaven.” Her shoulders slumped with relief.

“My problem,” he said with slow deliberation, “is a bit more complicated than you seem to realize. You see, I’ve got to buy your house and land before I can sell mine. And that, Brooke Hamilton, is exactly what I intend to do.”

She squared her shoulders and glared at him. “Never!”

“Never say never.”

He caught her arms just above the elbows, his grip light but very sure. Leaning closer, he stared into her eyes as if he wanted to make absolutely certain she realized he meant business.

“But my cats—my home—” She stared back at him in horror but saw no softening of his attitude. “I’ll never sell,” she said finally. “I never asked for this place, certainly never expected it or anything else in her will. But Miss Cora wanted me to have it, to live here and do exactly what I’m doing. It would have made her very happy, I know it would.”

“Cora’s dead. I’m alive, and I’ll pay you enough money to move the whole kit ‘n’ caboodle someplace else and turn a nice profit besides.”

“I don’t want to go someplace else,” she objected desperately.

“Be reasonable, Brooke.” His voice became lower, more intimate. “I don’t know what the old lady was thinking of. The configuration of your land all but destroys the value of mine. Surely you don’t want to deprive me of the highest and best use of my inheritance.”

She stared at him mutely, feeling helpless before this reasoned, coaxing approach. His hold on her bare arms seemed to be sapping her strength and she was still having difficulty breathing. “I...but I don’t...”

She had no idea how to deflect his arguments and might have stood there indefinitely stammering and shaking if Molly hadn’t walked through the doorway with Lombard nestled in her arms.

The little girl sniffed the air. “What’s burning?” she asked innocently.

“Omigosh!” Whirling, Brooke snatched the skillet from the stove—too late, unfortunately. One side of each sandwich was golden brown while the other was, in Molly’s words, “Golden black.”

But the spell had been broken, which was worth a bit of burned bread. While Brooke prepared a second batch of sandwiches, she seethed over Garrett’s bombshell.

The obvious truth of the matter was that he didn’t care about Miss Cora’s wishes. He just wanted to make as much money as he could as quickly as he could and go back to Chicago. Nor did he care what happened to Brooke or the cats or anything or anybody else.

Garrett Jackson was selfish, that’s what he was. She darted him a hostile glance where he sat at the center work island, in conversation with his child.

Unfortunately, he was also better-looking than a movie star and more electrifying than the local power company.

Brooke Hamilton finally had to admit that she was in a lot of trouble.

Brooke couldn’t eat, not after Garrett’s callous announcement of his intentions. She played with her food, although her guests seemed to be enjoying the simple meal.

Because she was so upset, she found herself watching him with a kind of suspicion normally foreign to her. She prided herself on being an honest, straightforward person who didn’t jump to conclusions. Yet as she watched father and daughter together, she found herself jumping to a lot of conclusions.

Garrett, she quickly decided, was...different when he was concentrating on his daughter. It was a side of him obviously kept well-hidden under normal circumstances. But what kind of relationship did the two of them really have? Molly called him by his first name, for heaven’s sake—or as close to his first name as she could get. That did not denote the kind of closeness he seemed to be seeking.

And then Brooke found herself concentrating on Molly, in an effort to keep her thoughts off Molly’s father. There was something curiously...sad about the little girl. She was polite and attentive, but perhaps a bit quiet and even a little withdrawn. When she turned those beautiful long-lashed amber eyes on Brooke, something melted inside and Brooke found herself wanting to enfold the child in a loving embrace.

Where was Molly’s mother?

Brooke pushed the question aside. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to get sucked into the Jacksons’s family circle despite her best efforts to the contrary.

Molly popped the last bite of sandwich into her mouth, daintily applied a paper napkin, dropped it on the counter and slid from her stool. “May I be excused, please?” she inquired. “The cats need me.”

“You’re excused.” Garrett sounded indulgent. “But don’t get too involved with that cat, okay? We’ll be going back to our own house soon.”

Molly frowned. “I think I like this house better,” she said, her glance darting from her father to Brooke.

“Nevertheless...”

Molly understood. Sighing, she turned toward the doorway.

When she’d disappeared, Brooke said a heartfelt, “She’s adorable.”

“I think so, too.” But he said it in a rather brooding manner.

She couldn’t help adding, “Her mother...?”

“Is dead.”

“Oh! I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you.” He touched a napkin to his mouth. “Lunch was terrific. Thank you again.”

“You’re welcome.” She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment. “Garrett, what you said earlier about selling the estate—”

“I meant every word.”

She sighed. “I see. I was hoping I’d misunderstood.”

“You didn’t. Look,” he added a bit impatiently, “why don’t we put off serious discussion until Molly and I have a chance to get settled?”

“Of course, if you say so, but—”

“There’s plenty of time.”

Rising, he stretched, flexing movements bringing the muscles of his upper arms into stark relief. He looked fit and firm and ridiculously attractive.

She began gathering up the plates to divert her attention. “I suppose you’re right.”

“I know I’m—damn!”

Startled, she looked back at him. He was staring at his feet with a horrified expression. When she looked down, she saw Gable twining around his ankles like a clinging vine.

She burst out laughing. “Gable must be having a nervous breakdown to get close to a dog person,” she teased.

Garrett shuddered. “That’s not it.” He gave her a pained glance. “Animals like me. Even cats. I don’t know why.”

“Come on!” She couldn’t help scoffing. “Cats are much more discriminating than that. I’m sure Gable doesn’t like you any better than you like him. He’s probably just trying to bug you.”

“Then he’s succeeding beyond his wildest dreams.” Garrett slid back onto his stool and pulled his feet up to the first rung. Gable cast him a pained glance, then wandered off. The man looked relieved. “I hate when that happens,” he said. “I don’t know why, but cats love me. The damn things won’t leave me alone.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t think so.”

“Want to bet?”

“What’s with you and bets?” She stared at him, perplexed. “Are you a compulsive gambler or something?”

He raised his brows. “Or something. I’m not afraid to take chances once in a while, if that’s what you mean.”

She felt her hackles rise. “Meaning I am?”

He shrugged. “If the shoe fits...”

“It doesn’t. I just don’t see anything to be gained by...by taking crazy risks.” She felt herself growing flustered and wondered why.

“Hey, betting on whether or not a cat’s got any smarts is hardly the same as taking a crazy risk—especially if you have the courage of your convictions. How about this—I’ll bet I can get cozy with your cats before you can make friends with my dogs. Name your own stakes. Make it easy on yourself.” He gave her a knowing wink.

She recoiled in horror only partly mock. “No way!”

He ignored her protest. “So what are the stakes? Let me think....” He made a great show of entertaining a plethora of fleeting thoughts, at last sitting up straight with a snap of his fingers. “Hey, I’ve got it! This is a B ’n’ B, right? How about the winner gets breakfast in bed?”

“How about—” And then she realized he was laughing at her and her outrage evaporated. She finished lamely, “We forget the whole thing? Cats are not taken in by cheap tricks and neither am I.”

“Meaning dogs are?”

“I don’t know anything about dogs and that’s more than I care to know.”

“An unreasonable attitude if I ever—”

The mellow clang of the entry bell startled them both. Brooke hadn’t realized how deeply he’d drawn her into the escalating confrontation until she was jolted out again.

Glad of the interruption, she headed through the parlor to the front door, Garrett at her heels. Elderly Grace Swann stood outside, tapping one foot impatiently. Her chauffeur stood two steps to the rear, holding her Maine coon cat in his arms and looking bored.

Brooke greeted one of her best customers with a big smile. “Hi, Mrs. Swann. I see you’ve brought Pookie for a visit. His room’s all ready and waiting.”

“I’d expect nothing less from you, my dear.” The woman stepped inside, gesturing with an arm dripping with diamond bracelets. “Higgins, you know the way. Please see Pookie to his room.”

Higgins rolled his eyes but not even a twitch marred the straight line of the man’s mouth. He’d been with Grace Swann long enough to understand these things. The little woman stepped forward, bending to look the cat in the eye.

“Now, you be a good boy,” she admonished fondly, rubbing his furry ears. Pookie regarded her with emotionless dark eyes.

The chauffeur said, without changing expression, “Now, madam?”

She sighed. “Now, Higgins.”

With a nod of acknowledgment, he marched into the hallway, carrying the shaggy fifteen-pound cat as formally as he’d carry a silver tray.

Brooke heard Garrett mutter in a tone filled with awe, “What is it, a lion?”

Mrs. Swann also heard. “It’s a cat, young man.” She fixed him with a steely stare which dripped with disapproval. “A champion cat, as a matter of fact. May I inquire who you are?”

Brooke rushed to fill the breach. “This is Garrett Jackson, Mrs. Swann. He’s Miss Cora’s great-nephew and he’s come to—”

“Garrett Jackson, is it? Then I know who he is and why he’s come.” Grace Swann glared at him. “I was Cora’s dearest friend for fifty years, don’t forget. I happen to know everything.”

“In that case, you’re in a class all by yourself.” Garrett stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet you,” he added, sounding sincere and looking boyishly attractive.

“Don’t be too sure about that.” She ignored the hand but a smile twitched around her mouth, as if she found him hard to resist. “Time will tell. It always does.”

Garrett smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”

The old lady’s mouth twitched as if she were suppressing a smile. She turned to Brooke. “Have you any questions before I go, my dear?”

“Have there been any changes in diet or routine since Pookie’s last visit?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Then my only question is, how long will he be with us this time?”

“I’m not sure.” Grace cocked her silver head thoughtfully. “The entire summer, most likely. I’m going first to visit family in Rhode Island and then to a film retrospective in Madrid. From there...well, I’m just not sure. I’ll drop in from time to time to check on my angel, though.”

“That’s good. I give him a lot of attention but he still misses you.”

Mrs. Swann looked pleased. “As well he should. You just be sure you take good care of him, dear.” She turned toward the door. “He’s my baby, bless his little heart. You know I wouldn’t dream of leaving him with anyone except you, Brooksey.”

“I appreciate that, Mrs. Swann.” Brooke followed the woman outside where they lingered, waiting for Higgins to reappear.

Mrs. Swann leaned close to speak in a conspiratorial tone. “Keep Pookie away from that young man,” she advised. “He’s far too good-looking to be trustworthy, and I should know.”

Brooke gave a little gasp of surprise, then realized she shouldn’t be. Mrs. Swann might be pushing ninety but there was obviously a lot of life in the old girl yet.

Filled with curiosity, Garrett watched Brooke and the feisty little woman whispering together on the front porch. Not that he thought they were saying anything particularly interesting or relevant, probably just cat talk. But he’d always had an insatiable curiosity about everything and everyone he met.

Perhaps that was what made him a good attorney.

The chauffeur, Higgins, returned, collected his mistress, installed her in the gleaming Bentley parked in front and then drove slowly away. Only after the automobile had rounded a curve in the leaf-shadowed road did Brooke come back inside the house.

Putting his finger to his lips, Garrett pointed to his sleeping child, sprawled on a sofa with Carole Lombard for a pillow. Brooke’s tight expression softened into a gentle smile.

What was it about women and children? Garrett wondered. If the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, then the way to a woman’s heart must be through the nearest kid.

Since all was fair in love and war, he’d have to remember that.

She came close to him, presumably so she could speak softly to avoid disturbing the slumbering child. “I have to go check on Pookie,” she whispered. “If you need to leave now—”

“I’m in no hurry,” he said blandly. “I’ll just wait, if you don’t mind. Maybe make friends with a cat or two, just to show you I can and win our bet.”

“Your bet.” She made a soft, scoffing sound. “Don’t bother—breakfast in bed is out.”

“I can think of other prizes, if I absolutely have to.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“I find you very corrigible.”

She gave him a slightly confused glance before turning away. He watched her through the doorway, then walked over to sit down gingerly on the very edge of the ottoman where Clark Gable lay napping. The cat opened one eye and gave the interloper a challenging glance before going back to sleep.

Ignoring the cat, which was the only way to treat the entire breed, Garrett watched Molly, still sound asleep. Since they’d be here for the better part of the summer, he supposed he should probably...explain her to Brooke.

In the meantime...he sighed and met the blue-eyed gaze of Carole Lombard. The white cat seemed to stare at him with a kind of lazy challenge. Garrett shivered and sucked in a deep breath. Cats. Argh!

The things he’d do to get his own way....

Brooke couldn’t believe that Clark Gable would stab her in the back, yet when she reentered the sitting room she found the big orange cat draped across the lap of the enemy. Garrett was stroking the creature with great sweeping motions obviously perfected on some dog somewhere.

“What are you doing?” she demanded in an outraged whisper, starting forward to rescue her pet.

“Shh!” He glanced significantly at Molly. “Don’t worry about old Clark, here. We’re best buddies.”

Another healthy stroke; a cloud of orange-and brown-tipped cat hairs rose on a beam of light and sifted back down to settle on man and ottoman.

Brooke frowned. “What did you do to my cat?” she demanded. “Did you drug him?”

“This isn’t your cat, it’s his evil twin.” Garrett gave back her earlier words, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “I told you, you can’t trust cats. They just lay around waiting for a chance to make a fool of you. Dogs, on the other hand—”

Throwing up her hands in disbelief, Brooke turned and walked into the kitchen. What in the world was going on here? She didn’t even know this man, yet her heart was pounding and her mind racing as if...as if she were really attracted to him.

Which, of course, she wasn’t. He’d come here to dismantle an entire way of life left in his care by a wonderful woman he’d never even bothered to get to know. Brooke wouldn’t, couldn’t, let herself succumb to the temptations he presented.

Naturally, he followed her, he had a penchant for that. She gave him an unhappy glance. “So you used old Gable to make a point and then dumped him,” she accused.

“Hey, that’s life. Love ’em and leave ’em.” He leaned his elbows on the center work island, resting his chin on his hands. The amber eyes he turned toward her sparkled with some indefinable devilry. “But you have to admit, cats love me. I won our bet hands down. That’s the important thing.”

“To you, maybe.”

He looked surprised. “Winning’s important to everyone, in case you hadn’t heard.”

“No, being happy is important to everyone.”

“That’s a woman’s point of view.”

“I am a woman, or hadn’t you—” She stopped short, appalled. She knew he’d noticed she was a woman, and it was that knowledge which had her so on edge. Because him noticing made her notice, which left her somehow vulnerable.

He straightened slowly away from the counter. “I noticed, all right.” A sexy little smile curved his lips. “You owe me a prize.”

“I don’t owe you a thing.”

“Oh, yes, you do.” He advanced on her, still slowly. “Nobody likes a welsher. You’ll have to pay up.”

Feeling like a bird hypnotized by a snake, she retreated, also slowly. “Stop right where you are, Garrett Jackson.”

“I wanted breakfast in bed but you seem strangely reluctant to go for that,” he reminded her. “So what’s it gonna be?”

She backed into the refrigerator, she had nowhere else to go, so she braced her hands at her sides and glared at him. “This is silly. Stop it at once!”

He ignored her command. “Let’s see, what shall I claim as my prize? It wasn’t a very big or important bet so I’m just looking for a little prize, some little something you’ll never miss...but which will remind you that nobody gets the best of Garrett Jackson.”

He leaned closer. Although he wasn’t touching her, she felt his physical presence as if he held her in his arms. Her breathing was erratic, and she couldn’t get enough oxygen to think straight.

If she’d been thinking straight, she would never have said in that faint little voice, “How about a cookie? That’s a little something I’ll never m-miss.”

His smile, she was beginning to realize, was simply glorious when he unfolded it slowly and deliberately, as he did now.

“How about a kiss?” he countered, still not touching her but leaning very near. “Surely that would remind you that I’m a man who likes to win...and does.”

And as the final word faded away, he pressed his lips to hers.

CHAPTER THREE

GARRETT pressed his lips against hers...cool and smooth and thrilling. Stiff with shock, she simply stood there as if paralyzed and let him kiss her.

It was the most powerfully erotic kiss she’d ever received, perhaps because there was only that single point of contact between them. He didn’t put his arms around her or even lean toward her, although trapped between his body and the refrigerator, she couldn’t have retreated any farther if she’d tried.

Her every sense was centered in the growing warmth of his mouth so persuasively controlling hers, the growing warmth of her blood singing through her veins with the sparkle of champagne.

Only slowly did it dawn on her that someone was calling his name. She opened her eyes, unsure when she might have closed them, and blinked, trying to find her bearings.

When she succeeded, she shoved him away and stepped aside, surprised she could stand on legs that trembled this violently. My goodness, that man could kiss! She’d never encountered anything so seductive in her entire life.

But why was he frowning? She hadn’t put any moves on him! Before she could ask, that unfamiliar female voice intruded again.

“Mr. Jackson? Are you there? Where is everybody? Honestly, if you think I’ve come all this way to wander around in some forest—”

My goodness, Brooke thought groggily, her gaze meeting Garrett’s, what a strident voice. It was one he apparently recognized, however, for his look of shock and displeasure was quickly replaced by one closely resembling resignation.

“Mrs. Sisk,” he announced with a significant glance at Brooke, as if that were explanation enough.

“Who’s Mrs. Sisk?” Brooke found she had trouble using her voice and swallowed hard.

“Molly’s nanny.” He watched her closely, as if trying to gauge her reaction to his recent sneaky advances. “I forgot all about her.”

From the annoyed tone of the woman’s voice, Brooke didn’t blame him for at least trying. “Nevertheless, I’d say she arrived in the nick of time,” she replied tartly. “If you think you can go around stealing kisses any time you feel like it—”

“Hey, that wasn’t highway robbery or anything. I won that kiss fair and square.” A roguish grin tilted his mouth at one corner. “In fact, I was robbed. I didn’t get to finish it.”

“Oh, yes, you did.” Brooke squared her shoulders and pointed toward the door. “You’re really finished. Now you’ve got to face the music.”

He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Okay, but this only delays the inevitable. Your time will come, Ms. Brooke Hamilton.”

Which was exactly what worried her, she admitted, following him into the other room. Thank you from the bottom of my heart, Mrs. Sisk!

All gratitude quickly fled, however, for Mrs. Sisk was not the kind of woman who evoked such tender emotion. In fact, Brooke thought, poor Molly had a nanny who looked more like an aging Amazon than a nurturer.

A large woman, she stood beside the sofa where Molly still dozed with Lombard curled up beside her. Fists firmly planted on her hips, the nanny stared down at child and cat with patent disapproval. Dressed in a shapeless gray dress and boxy gray wool jacket, with her jet-black hair pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck, she looked exactly like somebody’s idea of an old maid schoolteacher of a century ago.

“What is the meaning of this?” She indicated the pair on the sofa.

“Uh...” Garrett frowned. “No meaning, beyond the fact that Molly was tired and fell asleep.”

“I am talking about that animal.”

Lombard glared up at the newcomer with a look of pure feline animosity on her furry face. She did not, however, offer to move.

Brooke rushed in to smooth troubled waters. “That animal is just a cat, actually a very sweet cat.”

“An oxymoron if I ever heard one.” Mrs. Sisk dismissed Brooke with a flick of her stubby eyelashes. “Mr. Jackson, whatever are you thinking of? This practically constitutes child abuse.”

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