Cattitude (9 page)

He used Ted’s electric razor, which didn’t
give as smooth a shave as his own. Rubbing his jaw, he frowned at
his reflection. Two lines were etched between his brows. Frown
lines, not smile lines. He looked like a man who didn’t enjoy
life.

That was going to change soon. But not today.
In addition to Sorcha, he had Belle to worry about. He hadn’t seen
her since yesterday morning. Sometimes she disappeared, but she
usually managed to sleep curled against his back.

Was that Belle yesterday in the trees? If so,
why didn’t she come to him? And how had she stolen out of the
house?

Yesterday hadn’t been one of his stellar
days. Today would be different. Today he’d get Ted to agree to his
plan, relocate Sorcha, find Belle, get his agenda current and back
on course.

If something happened to delay him, he had
the sick feeling inside that he would never go. Never achieve the
dream he’d had since he was a kid.

Some days he felt as though they’d been
buried the day his dad died.

He tilted his head toward the ceiling. “I did
it, Dad.” His voice sounded loud in the bathroom though he spoke
quietly. But he was speaking loud words. “I kept my promise. Ted
and Tory are grown and ready to be unleashed. Now it’s my
turn.”

Lowering his head to frown at his reflection,
he waited a moment, as if expecting a reply.

“Stupid,” he said. He left the bathroom and
headed toward his bedroom.

His knock was forceful. So was the second.
The third. No answer to any of them.

Maybe she was sleeping, though she’d slept
most of the afternoon yesterday and went to bed right after she’d
eaten all the anchovies and half the sausage off the pizza. He
knocked again. No answer. He brought up his hand again, and this
time he stung his knuckles pounding.

“Sorcha?” he called. When no one answered, he
pushed the door open.

The sheets and covers on his bed were more
rumpled than usual, but Sorcha’s slender body wasn’t tangled in
them. He glanced around the room. When he’d checked on her last
night, he’d picked up his clothes from the floor and piled them on
the padded chair in the corner. She’d added her jacket, slacks and
top to the pile, and it looked like the leaning tower of
laundry.

The door to the bathroom was open and he
heard running water. Why didn’t she answer him? Last night she
mentioned she was dizzy. Could she have fallen and hurt
herself?

He hurried across the room, calling her
name.

***

Bliss. Belle reclined in the tub. Yesterday’s
bath had been too short. Just as she’d discovered how wonderful the
pulsing water felt, Caroline had barged in to get her. The blond
woman had made her dress in Tory’s exercise clothes. Then Caroline
said if she was well enough to get out of bed and eat, she was well
enough to leave.

Belle had considered picking up the lamp on
the dresser and conking Caroline on the head. Instead she pretended
to be weak and dizzy, like Annette in
The Love
Chronicles
.

Closing her eyes now, she purred. Warm water
jetted out at her back, her sides and her two human breasts. This
strange body sang with pleasure.

She stretched, her head back, concentrating
on the experience. A knocking sound came but she ignored it. This
was too delicious to—

“Sorcha? Are you all right? Sorcha?”

Max! Jolted out of her languor, Belle’s eyes
opened. She sat up straight, water splashing. For an instant, she
forgot how to talk like a human, and a startled noise came from her
throat.

“Sorcha!” Max rushed into the bathroom.

She gawked at him.

“What are you...” He stared at her breasts
then backed up. “Uh...sorry. I didn’t expect... I wanted to see...
Umm.” He swallowed, the lump men had in their throats going up and
down. Backing over the threshold, he pulled the door shut. “If you
want breakfast, help yourself.” His voice sounded thicker than
she’d ever heard it. “I’ll be out looking for my cat.”

Belle glanced down at her breasts. Was
something wrong with them? They were puffy and inconveniently big,
tipped with pink. And only two of them. That couldn’t feed many
babies at once.

She cupped them in her hands and felt a
tingle. Her breath gasped at the feeling, like when she rubbed
against the rug and Max touched her and she sparked. But this was a
different kind of spark. Not in way that pained her, but in a good
way.

Did Max know about the tingle? Was that why
he stared?

Did he want to do this to her?

She dropped her hands and stood. Her mind
swirled with all the new sensations. She decided to get dressed in
Tory’s clothes, then go outside with Max to look for the real
Sorcha and get her body back.

The cool air chilled her skin, warm from the
water, and she grabbed the towel to wrap it around her body. But
though the towel was warm, she shivered.

“I’m a cat,” she whispered fiercely at the
ceiling. “It doesn’t matter my skin is completely hairless, not one
speck. Inside, I’ll always be a cat.”

***

Sorcha lifted her head. Without buildings to
block the sound, the wind carried the voice to the bushes where she
hid. “Belle,” the man called. “Belle.” And again and again and
again.

She recognized the voice. The man from
yesterday, calling for his cat.

“Belle,” came the voice. “Belle, Belle.”

Sorcha quaked. Most of the time, she was cozy
in her hideaway between the bushes and the brick mansion, but every
once in a while a gust of wind sliced through the branches. Even
though it was April, winter didn’t let loose of its tight grip on
Wisconsin.

If she went to the man calling for his cat,
he would never guess she wasn’t his Belle. She would be warm. She
would be fed and watered. Maybe she would see the cat inside her
body. Maybe they could switch back.

She whimpered, curling against the wall.

The she remembered why she couldn’t do that.
Someone had thrown the cat at her windshield, trying to kill it,
just as Deavers tried to kill her.

What if she went back and the cat killer
tried again?

Her body chilled, as if ice built up within
her.

She wasn’t ready to face a killer again. Not
now. In her earlier despair, she’d been ready to die. Perhaps it
was leftover determination from the cat that changed her, made her
cling to life. Even in this small, four-legged body.

At least for now.

***

The wind buffeted Belle. Without fur covering
her skin, she quaked with cold. She wanted to go home and huddle
next to a heat vent, but humans didn’t do that. Instead they piled
clothes on their bare skins. Besides, she had to find the cat and
get her body back.

She trotted to the trees that lined Max’s
property, convinced Sorcha would have hung around, eager to find
her human body. Belle opened her mouth to call out to Sorcha—and
heard Max’s voice.

“Belle!” he called. “Belle!”

Every cell in her body sprang to attention.
She fought an urge to run toward his voice. Instead, she stepped
back. If he heard her calling Sorcha’s name, he’d make her go to
the hospital for sure. He thought she was Sorcha.

Would Sorcha realize Max was calling her?
Would she go to him?

Not sure if it would work, Belle sent out a
silent command:
Come to Max. Come to him or come to me. Come
now!

She waited a moment, listening. The wind
gusted. Leaves rustled. From a distance, she heard the muted sound
of a truck. Then Max’s call again. “Belle! Belle!”

Her teeth chattered, and she turned back to
the house. She’d look for Sorcha later, when Max wasn’t outside.
Besides, her stomach was giving her
feed me
messages.

The wind blew against her back, propelling
her forward. The door handle was cold under her palm. She turned it
the wrong way. Turning the knob the other direction, she told
herself it was okay to make mistakes. In the four years she’d
watched humans, they made mistakes all the time.

The kitchen looked odd without the morning
paper spread over the table and the cereal box and empty bowl left
on the counter. She nodded her understanding and approval. Of
course Max had left without eating. He thought she—the cat—was
missing and it was more important to find her than to eat. He loved
her.

She loved him too, but she wasn’t letting
that stop her from eating.

She tossed Sorcha’s jacket over a chair back
and hurried into the pantry. For almost her whole life she’d been
lusting after the tuna in the cans inside. Even though she couldn’t
read words, she grabbed a can from the second row, recognizing the
shape and the mermaid design.

Two things about being human were good, she
admitted, walking to the can opener on the counter. First the
bathtub and now the tuna.

Squinting at the opener, she started pushing
and pressing buttons. A small roar came. She jumped back, her hand
opening. The can crashed to the countertop and bounced to the
floor.

“Eeep!” She slapped her hand over her mouth.
Taking a calming breath, she bent and picked up the can to try
again, ignoring the wild beating inside her chest, like bird wings
flapping. The machine was supposed to make that noise when it was
working. She could figure it out. After all, she was Belle.

Max’s cousin, Emery, used to sing parts of a
song to Max. “Anything you can do I can do better.” It turned out
he was wrong, because if he was so wonderful Caroline wouldn’t have
pushed him off a hiking trail.

But in her case, it was true.

Ten minutes later, Ted walked into the room,
his hair mussed, his eyes half lidded, bristles on his jaw, looking
like he’d just rolled out of bed.

“What’s all the ruckus?”

Belle jumped again. Her hand dropped from the
top of the machine, and its noise stopped. This time, she kept her
grip on the can of tuna.

“I’m trying to open this thing.”

“Jesus.” He strode to her and grabbed the can
from her hand. He pressed it against the rim of the can opener,
slammed down on the silver handle, and the motor droned. The top
popped off, he released the handle, the motor silenced, and he held
out the can to her.

“You really do have amnesia, don’t you?”

Busy pulling tuna out of the can with her
fingers and stuffing it into her mouth, she didn’t answer. Tuna.
Was there anything better?

Bob Deavers drummed his fingers on his ebony
desktop and watched his half-brother enter his office in the
Evanston corporate office. Phil’s quizzical smile was like a big
question mark hovering over the top of his full head of hair and
boy-next-door-meets-teen-idol face.

Bob stood and stepped around the desk,
holding out his arms. Phil looked surprised but came toward him. A
simple man, eager to believe in goodness. Easy to manipulate.

They hugged awkwardly, pounding backs and
stepping quickly away.

“How are the kids?” Phil asked.

“The best.” Bob gestured him to one of the
two leather chairs and took the matching chair next to his. More
friendly and less intimidating than sitting behind the desk. “My
P.A. sent you the latest pictures, didn’t she?”

Phil nodded at their photos on the desk.
“Tell them Uncle Phil said hi. Melanie too.”

“Will do.” Bob worked to keep his smile in
place. The last time his wife had seen Phil, she cooed over him
like he was a kitten she wanted to take home. With her supermodel
looks and his toned body and glossy hair, they made a striking
pair. No room for short, chubby husbands who paid Melanie’s
exorbitant bills without questions or complaints.

He caught himself rubbing his hands together
and put them on his thighs. Time to get down to business.

“Did you get that loan for your fitness
center?”

“Uh, no. I—”

“You still need the money?”

Something flashed across Phil’s face.
Desperation? Bob knew all about desperation. It drove a man to do
terrible things.

“Doesn’t everyone?” Phil’s voice wasn’t quite
steady and he laughed a breath too late.

The tension eased from Bob’s muscles. He
leaned toward Phil. “Maybe I can help.”

Phil’s fingers clenched and unclenched. “You
said my plans were worthless.”

“I didn’t say worthless.”

“You said your financial advisors told you it
was an unstable investment and advised you not to put money into
it.”

“And you remembered that word for word.” Bob
lowered his head and shook it, rubbing his hand through his
thinning hair. “I must’ve hurt your feelings. Will you accept my
apology?”

“Yeah, sure.” Phil crossed his arms over his
chest.

Bob frowned. Phil wasn’t buying his
contrition. As if Phil knew he’d kept it on his desk for a week
before calling him with his line of bull. Family was always the
hardest to fool.

Everyone but his father and brother bought
his act. And his wife, who only cared that he pay her bills and
didn’t complain when she flew off to Europe and New York to mingle
with the rich and slightly famous.

But his kids... If they doubted him...found
out that he was a fake...found out he’d murdered a man...

The thought lodged a fist-sized knot in his
chest, and he sought out the photo of Lorna and Danny on his desk.
They both had dark blond hair like their mother and smiles like
his. If they saw through his façade to the insecure wimp his father
more than once said he was, he may as well cut his throat.

He tore his gaze from the photo and sucked in
a breath. Phil was looking at him curiously, waiting for him to go
on.

His stomach tightened. Time for the show.

“Let me tell you a story. I married above
myself.” He held up a hand. “No, no, don’t lie. I know what I look
like. I know what she looks like. Women like Melanie only marry men
like me for our money and our power.”