Ruth Dale - Breakfast In Bed

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.”