working on.” It was possible that Michael Lane could be stalking her again. And there was a serial killer on the loose.
Assuming they weren’t the same person.
“Will do, ma’am. Stay on the line.”
“Okay, please hurry.” She looked around the room for an escape route. The veranda was on the second floor, so unless she was willing to jump to the concrete driveway below, it wasn’t an option. There was the back stairway down the hallway, but that meant leaving the relative safety of the bedroom.
She looked for a chair to wedge under the doorknob, but the only ones in the room were two upholstered models and a stool for the vanity, all too short. She set down the phone and tried to slide the dresser in front of the door, but the furniture wouldn’t budge.
Then she heard a sound outside the door on the landing, a scuffing against the wood floor. Panic seized her. In the distance she heard the wail of sirens, but they were still far away. The peal of the alarm ended abruptly, leaving a whine of stunned silence in the air.
A thump sounded against the door.
“Go away!” Carlotta screamed. “The police are here!” But she knew it would still take precious minutes for them to arrive, possibly break into the house, and find her.
Plenty of time for her to be strangled and have a charm stuffed down her throat.
Carlotta retreated until her back slammed into a wall. She considered fleeing to the closet or the bathroom, but that would only take her farther from the last-ditch escape route of the veranda if she had to jump or shimmy down a tree in her skimpy pj’s.
“I have a gun,” she yelled, then picked up a lamp and wielded it like a baseball bat.
A scratching noise sounded against the door, sending terror rippling through her.
Then Carlotta frowned. Scratching? She took a step forward, then stopped. It was probably a ploy to draw her closer. Then an ax would crash through the door and the face of a maniac would appear.
She stood stock-still, her heart thrashing in her chest as a muted sound came from the other side of the door. Carlotta crept forward and pressed her ear against the wood.
Meow.
Carlotta’s shoulders fell in abject relief. If the maniac “intruder” was deranged, it was on catnip. Peter’s cat must’ve escaped from wherever he kept it and set off the motion detector.
She set down the lamp and unlocked the dead bolt. When she carefully opened the door, a yellow streak of fur shot through her legs and under the bed. Carlotta stuck her head out in the hall for a quick scan, but the rest of the house vibrated with stillness. The whine of the police siren grew closer. Turning back to the bedroom, Carlotta walked over to pick up the phone. “False alarm,” she said to the guy on the other end. “And the police are here. Thanks for your help.”
She disconnected the call, then dropped to her knees to lift the bed skirt and look for the cat. From a far corner, two green eyes glowed back. The alarm had probably scared it to death.
“Me, too,” she murmured to the cat in a soothing voice. “Come on, I won’t hurt you.”
It released a shaky little meow. Carlotta sprawled on her stomach and inched her way under the bed. “Come on, kitty. It’s okay.”
The cat stretched out its neck and sniffed her fingers.
“That’s it, you’re safe with me,” Carlotta urged, sliding closer.
Suddenly the cat bared its teeth and swiped at her. The claws found their mark on her hand and Carlotta howled in pain. She jerked up her head and banged it against the bed railings, which made her howl again. She suddenly realized the danger of being in a confined space with an hysterical cat. Worse, when she tried to shimmy back out, she found herself lodged between the floor and the bed.
Damn, being off work so long with a broken arm had added a little padding to her backside. She tried to move, then grunted. And to her front side, as well.
The sound of voices came from downstairs. “Police! Is anyone here?”
“I’m up here!” she called, but her voice was muffled. She frantically tried to make her way back out from under the bed and managed to retreat a few inches by the time footsteps approached.
“Are you okay?” a male voice called, sounding hollow.
“Yes,” she said cheerfully, wondering what kind of picture she presented. “You can go now, it was a false alarm.”
Carlotta gasped when hands closed around her ankles. She slid out in a whoosh, then flopped over on her back and looked up.
Into Jack’s sardonic face.
“Hi,” she ventured with a little wave.
“Hi.” He gestured to her lime-green tap pants and matching camisole. “I thought you were sleeping in sweatpants and big fuzzy socks.”
“I lied.”
He reached down and helped her to her feet. “You okay?”
“Except for the floor burns.” She winced and touched the lump on her head. “And I konked myself pretty good on the bed railing.”
He retrieved her robe from a chair and handed it to her. “Were you hiding from the intruder?”
“Not exactly.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, as if he was struggling for patience. “Is there another reason you were under the bed?”
A meow sounded and the cat appeared, rubbing against Jack’s pant leg.
“Meet the intruder,” Carlotta said, nodding to the blond Persian. “She must’ve set off the motion detector.”
“There’s a broken wineglass on the kitchen floor.”
“She must’ve knocked it over. I didn’t even know Peter had a cat.”
“Figures, though,” Jack muttered.
“It probably belonged to Angela,” she chided, then crouched down and offered the fluffy feline her hand to sniff. The cat hissed and swiped, drawing blood this time. “Ouch!” Carlotta yelped, pulling back.
“She must prefer males,” Jack offered. Then he stepped back into the hallway and called, “False alarm, guys. Thanks for your help.”
He came back in the room and crossed his arms, looking her up and down. “You gave me quite a scare.”
“Sorry. I guess I overreacted.”
“Don’t worry about it. This is the reason I’m okay with you being here—Ashford’s house is even pussy-proof. Now I can relax.”
She gave him a withering look. The cordless phone rang and she hurried to pick it up. “Hello?”
“Carlotta,” Peter said, his voice high and agitated.
