Julie Kenner - The Cat's Fancy.rtf

The Cat’s Fancy

Julie Kenner

There are people in this world who believe in magic, who search for the possibility in their daily lives. With awe, they open fortune cookies hoping for an omen, and turn over stones searching for fairies. They avoid sidewalk cracks, the thirteenth floor, and the undersides of ladders. Secretly, they believe that Darren was an idiot for not letting Samantha give his career a boost, and holdfast to the conviction that if they keep combing beaches they'll find Barbara Eden in a bottle.

To these people, love is just as magical as a unicorn in your driveway.

Nicholas Goodman was not one of these folks.

It didn 't matter.

Maggie found him anyway.

Prologue

"This is what you want?" Old Tom teetered in the crook of the juniper tree, peering down at her with his one good eye.

Maggie pictured her Nicholas. Perfect Nicho­las. She didn't hesitate. "Yes."

Old Tom cocked his head so that his bad eye, the one covered with the gray-green film, ap­peared to focus on her. Maggie stood fast. They said he could see things with that eye, he just couldn't see the world. Well, let him look. She had nothing to hide. Nothing to fear, and everything to gain.

As far as she knew, no one had ever asked to do—had never even considered trying—what she wanted. Certainly no one had the nerve to come to Old Tom for help. But she wasn't going to flinch. She wanted this. So much she could feel it in her stomach. So desperately she couldn't sleep for thinking about it.

If it couldn't be done, so be it. But if it could .. . well, Old Tom would know how. Or he could find a way.

"You would do this for love?"

She raised her chin. "Yes."

"You understand the consequences? What you would be giving up?"

Consequences? She was asking to be human. Wasn't that consequence enough? Could there be more? "I haven't. . . I don't..."

"You are . . . special, Maggie. Different. So this yearning you feel does not surprise me. But the consequences . . ." He trailed off, looking toward the sky. When he turned back, his expression was firm.

"Your life. It is quite fine now, no?"

Everything except for not having Nicholas. "Yes."

"You are very young—"

"I'm almost—"

"—and this is only your first life. Humans get only one, you know."

"With him, one would be a blessing. Without him, eight more would be torture."

Was that compassion in Old Tom's dead eye? She wanted to look more closely, to explore the enigma, but just then he lifted his head to snarl at a mockingbird cackling at them from the branches above. When he turned back, the eye was flat. Emotionless.

"This love of yours that is so deep, you would give up all you know. . . . Will he return it?" His nose twitched. Could he smell her hesitation?

She turned away. "He calls me precious. He calls me sweetheart. I make him happy."

"You haven't spoken with him of this? He hasn't told you how he feels?" Old Tom blinked and the pupil in his good eye narrowed to a slit.

Maggie shrank back. "He doesn't understand me. I've tried, but he doesn't hear." How could she make Old Tom understand? She knew how Nich­olas felt. He loved her. And if he didn't now, he would. Eventually, he would. He had to.

"Child, you ask the impossible of me."

She struggled to breathe as her world collapsed around her. The stories were lies. He didn't have the power. She was trapped. Trapped in her world, and Nicholas in his. She sank down to the ground, her head resting on the cool dirt, her eyes closed.

Soon Nicholas would belong to that female. And there would be nothing Maggie could do ex­cept watch and seethe. She could scratch and spit and howl and claw the furniture, but none of that would matter.

That female would get Maggie's Nicholas.

How could she have such horrible luck? "But the stories..."

"If there was a bond. . . if he had the hearing, could understand you . . . But no. Without that as­surance . . . no, no, I must not. You are special, Maggie. And I cannot risk being wrong."

Must not? She opened her eyes.

"Oh, please, please, you must. If you love me at all, you must help me."

It was unfair of her, she knew. The members of Old Tom's clan were close, and she knew he loved them all. Still, there was a special place in his heart for her. She'd never asked for favors before, and she knew that her failure to take advantage made him love her all the more. But now, now she would do anything.

"Why now?"

She looked away, ashamed that her thoughts were so vulnerable. "There is no special reason."

"Maggie ..." The compassion was back in his eye, but there was a sternness also. "/ have seen the female. The one in the tall shoes. She touches him as a lover."

"They are to be married."

"Married? The bonding ritual of humans. You would interfere with this? Why?"

"He doesn't love her. He couldn't love her."

"And you? You would be a better mate? One he does not even know exists?"

Pride straightened Maggie's spine. She lifted her chin and looked down her nose, composed and serene.

Old Tom grunted. "Hmph. What is it you dislike about this female? Why could he not love her?"

"She smells ... unreal." Maggie tried to search

Old Tom's face without looking like she was watching him. They all trusted their noses, but Old Tom more than anyone. Maybe it was be­cause he only had that one eye, the one that she was now desperately searching for a clue.

"If I do this thing, it will be by my rules. Do you understand?"

She nodded.

"You must choose now. Once it is done, only then will you know the rules. But before you choose, ask yourself how well you know his heart. How well do you know your own ? Are you sure that he will love you and turn away from his female?" He squinted at her. "How do you choose?"

"I choose Nicholas."

"Then it is done."

As he spoke, she felt a tingling in her limbs, like the crackling of the air during a lightning storm, only this was inside her, ripping her apart.

Dizzy. She felt dizzy. Focus. Old Tom was speaking. Must focus.

". . . The skills you will need. . . but not com­pletely human . . . your soul, yes . . . but not your shape . . . only at night. . . only until All Hallow's Eve . . . by day . . . yourself. . . secret. . . can't re­veal to Nicholas . . . forfeit. . . all. . ."

It was no use. She was fading. She was so tired, so dizzy. The sun was setting. Her legs wouldn't support her. Old Tom crouched above her, a sil­houette against the full moon.

His words; she needed to understand his words.

"Maggie, child," his tone cut through the fog in her head. "He must declare his love for you of his own free will before your time is up. He must tell you. Or you will remain a cat forever, and I will be unable to help you."

Chapter One

"Maggie, here, kitty, kitty. Maggie?" Nick Good­man dumped the overstuffed bag into the garbage can and took another look around his front yard. Where the hell could that cat be?

Something rustled in the brush that had taken over the vacant lot across the street. "Maggie?" He padded down his driveway, making a mess of his socks in the process, and stood on the curb facing the lot. Nothing.

"Maggie-cat?" As if waiting for his cue, a swarm of birds lifted from the junipers and oaks, flood­ing the purple sky.

"Nickie? Come back in the house, darling. You look like hell."

Angela's high, nasal tones accosted him and Nick cringed, then caught himself. He put on a smile and turned toward the house.

"I'm putting out the garbage, babe. I hardly think that calls for a necktie." Her eyes met his, then roamed down his body. He knew well enough what she'd see. A paint-splattered T-shirt touting some band he'd never heard play, Har­vard athletic shorts that always seemed on the verge of splitting but held together with a forti­tude he admired, and dime-store athletic socks. Not GQ by any means, but hardly unreasonable attire for a Sunday evening.

She rolled her eyes, then leaned against a newel post wrapped in orange and black Halloween streamers and began to examine the fingernails she'd been fussing over for the last hour. Nick bit back the observation that her fire-engine-red manicure didn't quite match the coordinated leg­gings and sweater that had probably cost more than his car payment. He didn't give a damn if she was coordinated, and the comment would only piss her off.

He turned back to the trash can. What the hell was wrong with him? This was the woman he was going to marry, after all. She was supposed to be the love of his life, conjure up bells, whistles, fireworks, and all that other stuff. So why was he so on edge every time she decided to stay at his place for the weekend?

Because you're used to being alone. Right. Sure.

Just typical bachelor jitters. Nothing to call Dr. Ruth about.

A yellow Ferrari glided by. Nick raised one hand in greeting to his neighbor, a prep-school type who'd moved to Los Angeles after making and losing a fortune in Internet stocks.

"Do you really think Robert is going to trust his next deal to an attorney who hangs out in his driveway in his underwear?"

"Angie ..." he said, knowing he shouldn't be annoyed. She was Reggie Palmer's daughter, after all. Killer business instincts were in her genetic code.

"I'm just saying there are certain things that you should keep in mind if you want to get ahead." She arched her brow. "If you want us to get ahead."

He glanced down the road, giving the neigh­borhood one last once-over. The cat was nowhere in sight.

"Have you seen Maggie?"

Her nose crinkled. "I haven't seen the little beast all afternoon."

He sighed, turning back to scan the neighbor­hood one more time. "Animal control's going to start doing sweeps. They always do around Hal­loween."

"That's days away. Besides, I'm sure she's not outside. If only I were that lucky. More likely she's in the closet clawing my clothes to shreds. She hates me."

Nick cast a glance skyward.  Just what he needed. A fiancée who was jealous of his pet. "She doesn't hate you."

Angela followed him into the house. "Oh, you're so right. I forgot. I'm the one who detests her."

"I'm not giving up my cat, Angela. Can we not go there again, please?"

"I didn't say a word, sweetie. Really. I'm sure little snookie-wookums is around here some­where. She'll turn up. She always does. Usually when it's most inconvenient." She flashed him her trademark smile, the one that had practically brought him to his knees the first time they'd met. "Speaking of, do you want me to stay the night?"

"Whatever you want," he said, hoping she'd go back to her place.

"Can we go out to dinner?"

He shook his head and gestured to the pile of SEC filings and other equally dry documents stacked neatly on the coffee table. "Can't. Work."

Angela tapped one of her nails. "All dry. I think I'm going to run, then, sweetheart."

"Sorry if my livelihood annoys you. You liked it just fine when we went to Paris." He immedi­ately regretted opening his mouth. His words had been tacky, true, but mostly he feared she'd change her mind and stay over just to prove him wrong.

It wasn't that he didn't love her. Of course he did. He'd agreed to get married, hadn't he? He just liked having his space, wanted to enjoy it while he could.

She planted a quick kiss on his cheek, then rubbed the lipstick off with the edge of her thumb. "Ah-ah," she warned, but there was a tease in her voice. "Don't play high-and-mighty with me. You know you want me to leave. Poor Nickie just hates when his routine is upset. I never thought there was anything in the world that could ruffle the great Nicholas Goodman's feathers. At least not until I saw how you reacted when I left my panty hose drying on your shower rod."

"Angela—"

"Now, I'm not criticizing. I think it's adorable. And wouldn't Daddy think it's a hoot? His fireball deal-maker, his secret weapon, brought to his knees by control-top pantyhose and a jar of face cream. You're going to have to get over that after the wedding."

"Angela, of course you can stay. Really—"

She just threw him that I-know-you-better-than-you-think-I-do smirk, grabbed her purse, and headed for the door. Nick didn't try to talk her into staying, and when he saw her turn off his street and onto Laurel Canyon, he felt more re­laxed than he had in hours. Maybe that made him a bad person, but the truth of it was, other than her drop-dead good looks, Angela Palmer wasn't exactly warm and fuzzy either.

Hell, they deserved each other.

He wiped his hands on the beleaguered Har­vard shorts and wondered what the hell had hap­pened to him in the nine years since law school. No, he didn't really wonder. The answer was plain enough. Youthful idealism and a belief that he could somehow make the world a better place had been trampled like a bug trying to cross a highway at rush hour.

He shoved the melancholy thought aside and took another look around the neighborhood. No Maggie. Now it was after dark, after her supper time. She so rarely ventured outside that he couldn't blame her for wanting to do a little ca­rousing, but now her whole schedule would be screwed up. She'd probably be jumping all over his bed, wanting to play, when all Nick wanted to do was sleep.

"Maggie? Here, kitty. Maggie!" he shouted, knowing it pissed off the neighbors, but not in the mood to care. After watching the lot across the street for any sign of her, he pulled the door shut. He wouldn't worry yet. He'd do that if she hadn't shown up by midnight.

Work beckoned from the living room, and he planted himself on the couch, planning on read­ing over the stack on the corner of the coffee ta­ble. To Angela's credit, she'd left the house exactly as she found it. She'd even straightened his mag­azines so that the edges were square, and had picked up the wineglasses they'd left on the back patio.

He couldn't help but smile. Yes indeed, Angela was great. Smart, beautiful, well-connected, she was the perfect wife for an up-and-coming law­yer.

He'd told his best friend the same thing not two weeks ago and, in typical fashion, Hoop had told him that he was only justifying a bad deal he was going to regret. That was the problem with Hoop. He always said exactly what was on his mind. And just because he was often right didn't mean he was on the mark about this.

This time Nick was doing what was right. Set­tling down, getting married. And getting a good wife in the process. The fact that marrying Angela would lock in what was already sure to be a suc­cessful career was little more than a perk.

The phone rang and he said another thank you to the powers that be. Angela had left the cordless phone in the cradle, exactly where it was sup­posed to be. One of the few women he'd ever dated who did that.

He scooped up the hand set, expecting it to be Angela on her cellular.

"Hey, man, the Ice Queen leave?" It was Hoop.

"Last time I checked, she was still going by An­gela."

"No shit? Well, I'll tell you a little secret. I just call her Icey to piss you off." He paused, and Nick could hear him take a swig of something, proba­bly a beer, and exhale loudly into the phone. "Ah, I thought I saw her perky little I'm-a-daddy's-girl Beemer slip past my place a few minutes ago. Can't believe she's leaving a birthday boy all alone."

"That's not until tomorrow, and she hasn't mentioned it."

"Then you're in for it."

"You know this for a fact? She invited you?"

"Are you crazy? She thinks I'm the spawn of Satan. It's just that when a chick doesn't mention your birthday, it can only mean she's pulling out all the stops. Either she's taking you someplace amazing and you're gonna get laid, or she's throwing a surprise party and you're stuck with fifty people you avoid all year wandering through your house making small talk. Considering it's Miss An-gee-la we're talking about, I'd say either way you're pretty much screwed. So"—he paused—"wanna come over for a beer?"

"I'm working."

"Bullshit, man. You're always working. One beer won't slow you down. Besides, you got me sucked into this mess, too, and I've got some news to report."

Some news? Now, that could be interesting. Hoop might be crude and offensive and generally despised by women the world over, but he was a damn good investigator. If Nick managed to pull off the Vision Entertainment deal, no small part of it would be because he had some heavy-duty ammo tucked away. Heavy ammo he hoped Hoop could lay his hands on.

"What have you got?"

"I'll tell you about it when you get here; I don't trust phone lines. Let's just say we all get by with a little help from our friends."

So Hoop had someone on the inside. That was good. If the info was juicy . . . well, who knew how far Nick could milk it? Reggie Palmer would be thrilled, and some of that goodwill would likely rub off on his future son-in-law. And that meant Nick could walk away with a hefty year-end bo­nus in a couple of months—not to mention mak­ing partner.

"You've talked me into it. One beer." He hung up and headed for the bedroom. It never got too cold in Los Angeles, even in late October, but there was a definite chill in the air, and he tugged on the sweatpants that he'd left hanging on the hook inside his closet door. He folded his shorts and placed them back in a drawer, straightened the magazines on his bedside table, then noticed Angela's fingernail polish and manicure tools scattered along the window ledge above the bed.

He ignored a rising irritation. He'd have to get used to sharing his personal space. He could do it. He could leave the miniature nail salon.

Purposefully not looking back, he headed into the narrow hallway between the bedroom and his study. He managed to grab a hooded fleece jacket from the hall closet and then pass through the living room without giving in to the urge to head back to the bedroom and clean up. When he reached the front door, his resolve melted. He trotted back to the bedroom, shoved the para­phernalia into the drawer of his bedside table, and returned to the entrance hall.

"Nick, you're a basket case. Nail polish and em­ery boards aren't going to rock your world," he told himself.

He was right.

A second later he opened the front door and saw her standing there in the twilight: An exotic vision of a woman with close-cropped raven black hair and probing green eyes.

And not a single stitch of clothing.

That was when his world really began to spin out of control.

Chapter Two

The first thought that went through Nick's head was that he was dreaming. The second, that he had died and gone to heaven. But since he didn't remember any pain, tripping over anything, or otherwise meeting his demise, he abandoned that theory. No, there was only one explanation for finding a naked woman on his doorstep at twi­light on the eve of his birthday—somebody was playing a really wild joke on him.

And he knew who. Hoop didn't have news. He'd just wanted Nick to open the door and see his birthday surprise.

He pulled open the screen door and tried to grab the woman's arm without gawking. It was more difficult than it sounded. Maybe a monk could have ignored the way her skin glowed in the light of the rising moon or the way her green eyes stayed locked, unblinking, on him. But Nick doubted it. Besides, he was no monk.

He finally managed to grab her wrist and tug her firmly inside. He shrugged out of his fleece jacket and threw it over her shoulders. She stared at him for a moment, blinked, and then slipped her arms through the sleeves. Luckily, the jacket was extra large and she was extra small. It more or less consumed her.

...