he tried to decide what to call it…. Old friends? Oh, brother. Was there anymore transparent euphemism than that one?
So the Stepwitch hadn’t always been made of ice? That was an interesting little nugget of information, which she stuffed into a mental pocket, recognizing that it could have its uses someday.
In fact, it might be useful right now. She’d been waiting for a sign to help her decide which of these great-looking guys to choose as her next conquest, and perhaps this was it. She rubbed her thumbs slowly over the ribbed handlebar and moistened her lips in eager anticipation. An “old friend” of Lacy’s. How lucky could a girl get?
“Well, in that case, Mr. Kendall,” she said blandly, reaching around to pat the leather seat behind her. “Hop on.”
CHAPTER FOUR
LACY’S DINNER GUESTS left at ten-thirty, and, though she was exhausted, she forced herself to wash the brandy glasses. She never, ever went to bed with even one dirty spoon in the sink—Malcolm wouldn’t have stood for it, and after all these years it had become a rather comforting habit. A habit she wasn’t going to break now, no matter how she longed for sleep. Adam Kendall, damn him, wasn’t going to destroy her routine as well as her peace of mind.
She still had two glasses to go when she realized that Hamlet, who usually slept on the breakfast nook windowsill, waiting for her to go to bed, was missing. Her chest tightened as she saw the mudroom door open a crack. Evelyn, her day cleaner who had stayed late to help with the party, must have left it unlatched again.
Drying her hands on the white cotton apron she’d pulled over her evening dress, Lacy hurried out to the west portico. She didn’t need this right now. Seeing Adam at the hospital—and then that tacky confrontation with Jennifer Lansing—had left her so drained that she’d hardly been able to carry on a decent conversation at dinner. Foolishly, she’d drunk three glasses of champagne, hoping for a slight lift, but it had only made her disagreeably tipsy, with a headache threatening.
And now this. She pinched the bridge of her nose. There ought to be a law. Surviving a showdown with an old boyfriend should give you a free pass for the rest of the day.
Luckily, Hamlet was predictable. Whenever he got loose, he always dashed gleefully up the big English oak in the side yard, and then, as if the whole escapade hadn’t been his own idea, cried plaintively to be rescued.
She leaned over the edge of the portico’s balustrade and peered up into the murky branches of the hundred-year-old tree. Whoops… Squeezing her eyes shut against the tilting dizziness, she gripped the railing carefully. She took a deep breath to steady herself. She really should have stopped with just one glass of champagne….
Even when she felt stable enough to open her eyes again, she couldn’t see a thing up in the tree. Rain was due before morning, and clouds as thick as black velvet smothered any moonlight.
“Hamlet?” She pursed her lips and aimed small kissing sounds toward the tree. The wind sent the leaves rustling like silk, but no frightened kitten emerged.
Why wasn’t he crying? Protecting her equilibrium by moving very slowly, Lacy leaned farther over the railing, ignoring splinters that might snag her expensive embroidered bodice. The complete silence unnerved her. She told herself she was overreacting—if she hadn’t had too much wine, she wouldn’t be feeling this rising panic. Her breath was coming a little too fast, and she clutched the wood with anxious fingers.
Darn it, this was why she had always refused to own a pet. For ten years now she had resisted tumble-footed puppies, sleepy-eyed cats and operatic canaries—all offered by well-meaning friends who couldn’t accept her preference for solitude. She’d even turned down a goldfish, for heaven’s sake! How could she have let this little lost kitten slip past her defenses?
She kissed the air again, praying that he would hear her, but the murmuring of the ever-rising wind was her only answer. It lifted the sweet scent of her Lady Banks roses all the way from the east garden, but it didn’t bring even a hint of Hamlet. Would he have left the yard? Please, no… The night was so ruthlessly black. It could swallow one tiny silver cat without a ripple.
“Hamlet. Hamlet.” Her headache had arrived. She bent over the railing, waiting for the porch to stop listing. “Oh, where are you, Hamlet?”
“I’m no Shakespearean scholar,” an amused voice said from somewhere just behind her left shoulder, “but shouldn’t that be ‘Romeo’?”
Lacy whirled, her hand at her bare throat. “Adam,” she gasped on an intake of shallow breath that squeaked in a particularly humiliating way. Instinctively, she took refuge in anger. “What were you thinking, sneaking up on me like that? You startled me.”
He raised his brows, silently questioning the extremity of her reaction. “Sorry,” he said politely. “I thought you heard me. I wasn’t exactly in stealth mode. In fact, I just had a rather resonant encounter with your next-door neighbor.”
“Silas?” Oh, dear. Lacy’s annoyance fled, replaced by a sense of dread. She uneasily scanned Adam’s face for bruises or bleeding. “You ran into Silas Jared?”
“I didn’t get his name. Nice fellow? Silver hair? Rather large rifle?”
She nodded nervously. Silas had his rifle out. That didn’t sound good.
“He’s an interesting old guy, isn’t he?” Adam grinned slightly. “He thinks the world of you. Doesn’t care much for strange men on your property, though.”
In spite of herself, Lacy smiled, picturing Adam staring down the barrel of Silas Jared’s ancient rifle. Something—perhaps the three glasses of wine—made the image particularly funny.
“It’s not personal,” she said apologetically, hoping she wasn’t slurring her words at all. She couldn’t bear for Adam to know that she was tipsy. “It’s just that, well, Silas sort of appointed himself my protector when Malcolm died. Sometimes he gets a little…carried away. But don’t worry. That rifle hasn’t been loaded since the Civil War.”
“He mentioned that.” Adam chuckled. “But apparently he also has a bowie knife he’s itching to use.” Hitching one foot up onto the porch step, he leaned across the railing comfortably. “So. Who’s Hamlet?”
“Who’s—” Lacy remembered suddenly, with a sting of remorse, that she still hadn’t found Hamlet. She must be even more scatter-brained than she had realized.
“He’s my kitten,” she said, looking up into the shadows of the oak once more. “I think he’s stuck up in the tree. He’s just four months old, and he can’t get down—”
“Is he one of those flat-faced, spoiled-rotten, purebreds? Fur almost as silver as Silas Jared’s hair?”
Lacy didn’t like the description—it completely overlooked Hamlet’s elegance and charm. But she had to admit it summed up the Persian cat fairly well. “Yes,” she said, too tired and worried to take offense. “Why? Have you seen a cat like that? When? Where?”
“Just now. Through your kitchen window. He had his face in a brandy snifter.”
“Hamlet!” Relief and exasperation flowing equally through her system, Lacy rushed back inside. Just as Adam had said, Hamlet stood on the kitchen counter, whisker-deep in the half-empty brandy glass. “Hamlet,
