bed any time soon. But once he’d finally wrestled the cat into the box, he’d made up his mind he wasn’t prepared to write the idea off completely. Not yet.
He glanced at his watch. He knew a cosy little four-star restaurant in Notting Hill where he and Daisy could discuss their next moves over a glass of Pouilly Fumé and some seared scallops before he grabbed a cab to St Pancras International. He didn’t see why he shouldn’t stake his claim before he went. A three-week wait would be a pain, but he could handle it if he had something tangible to look forward to when he got back.
He pressed the buzzer again. Where the hell was she? It was ten o’clock on a Saturday morning and she’d been up most of the night—surely she couldn’t have gone out?
He noticed the ragged paint on the huge oak door and glanced up at the house’s elegant Georgian frontage. Crumbling brickwork and rotting window sills proved the place had been sadly neglected for years. She really did live in a dump.
The thought brightened his mood considerably.
Maybe he could persuade her to housesit while he was gone. He’d had a call back from the estate agent while he was having his spat with the cat. Even if he got an offer straight away as the guy seemed to think, it would take a bit to do all the paperwork. And he liked the idea of Daisy being there, waiting for him when he got back from his trip. He was just imagining how much they could enjoy his homecoming when the door swung open.
‘Well, if it isn’t the invisible neighbour.’ The elderly woman standing on the threshold stared down her nose at him, which was quite a feat considering she was at least a foot shorter than he was. The voluminous silk dressing gown with feather trim she wore looked like something out of a vintage Hollywood movie. Her small birdlike frame and the wisps of white hair peeking out of her matching silk turban would have made her look fragile, but for her regal stature and the sharp intelligence in her gaze. Which was currently boring several holes in his hide.
‘What do you want?’ she sneered, eyeing him as if he were a piece of rotting meat. ‘Finally come to introduce yourself, have you?’
As Connor didn’t know the woman, he figured she must have mistaken him for someone else. ‘The name’s Connor Brody. I’ve a cat with me belongs to the landlady here.’
He put the box down in front of her, the screech from inside making his ears throb and the slashes on his hand sting.
She gasped and clutched a hand to her breast as her face softened. ‘You’ve found Mr Pootles?’ she whispered, tears seeping over her lids. She bent over the box—the anticipation on her face as bright as that of a child on Christmas morning.
He stepped forward, about to warn her she was liable to get her hand ripped off, but stopped when she prised open the lid and a deep purr resonated from inside. He watched astonished as she scooped the devil cat into her arms. Lucifer rubbed its head under her chin, gave another satisfied purr and slanted him a smug look. The little suck-up.
‘How can I ever thank you, young man?’ The old woman straightened, clutching devil cat to her bosom as if it were her firstborn babe. ‘You’ve made an old lady very happy.’ The joyful tears sheening her whiskey-brown eyes and the softening of her facial features made her look about twenty years younger. ‘Wherever did you find him? We’ve been searching for weeks.’
‘The cat’s been bunking in my kitchen,’ he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets, not sure he really deserved her thanks. ‘I should warn you. There’s more than one cat now.’
The elderly lady’s eyes popped wide. ‘Oh?’
He nodded at the creature, who was gazing at him as if butter wouldn’t melt in its mouth. ‘Your Mr Pootles became a mammy eleven days ago. I have four kittens at mine.’
‘Four…’ The lady gasped and then giggled, sounding for all the world like a sixteen-year-old girl. She held the cat up in front of her and nuzzled it. ‘You naughty cat. Why didn’t you tell me you were a girl?’
Connor figured it probably wasn’t his place to point out the cat couldn’t talk. ‘Here.’ He pulled out a spare set of keys from his pocket. ‘You’ll want these to get the kittens now, as they’re too little to be on their own for long.’
‘Why, that’s awfully sweet of you,’ she said, taking the keys.
‘They’re in a cupboard in the kitchen,’ he added. ‘Is Daisy around?’ he asked, awkwardly. ‘I need to speak to her.’
The old lady’s eyes widened as she put the keys in the pocket of her gown. ‘You know Daisy?’ she asked, sounding a lot more astonished about that than she had been about her tomcat’s kittens.
‘Sure, we’re friends,’ he said, colour rising in his cheeks under the old woman’s scrutiny. It wasn’t a lie. If what they’d got up to that morning didn’t make them friends, he didn’t know what did.
‘Well, I never did,’ she said. ‘After all the nonsense Daisy’s said about you in the last few weeks.’
What nonsense? She hadn’t even met him until last night.
‘Daisy’s such a dark horse.’ The old woman gave him a confidential grin, confusing him even more. ‘I always thought she might have a little crush on you, the way she could not stop talking about you. Little did I know she’d been fooling us all along. So, did you two have a lovers’ tiff? Is that why she said all those awful things?’
‘No,’ he said, totally clueless now. And not liking the feeling one bit. ‘What things?’
The old woman waved her hand dismissively. ‘Oh, you know Daisy. She’s always got an opinion and she does love to voice it. She told us all how you were rich and arrogant and far too self-absorbed to care about a missing cat. But we know that’s not true now, don’t we?’
Connor’s lips flattened into a grim line. So she’d badmouthed him, had she, and before she’d even met him. Wasn’t that always the way of it? As a boy it had driven him insane when people who barely knew him told him he’d never amount to a thing. That he’d turn out no better than his Da.
But Daisy’s bad opinion didn’t just make him mad. It hurt a little too. Which made him more mad. Why should it bother him what some small-minded, silly little English girl thought?
Was that why she’d bolted? Because she’d decided he wasn’t good enough for her? If she thought that she was in for a surprise.
‘Is Daisy in her room? I need to speak to her.’ Make that yell at her.
‘Of course not, dear,’ the old lady said quizzically. ‘Daisy and Juno are working on The Funky Fashionista.’
‘The what?’
The woman gave him a curious look. ‘Her stall in Portobello Market.’
‘Right you are,’ he said hastily. Not knowing what Daisy did for a living probably made his claim to be a friend look a bit suspect. He took a step down the stairs, keen to get away.
Portobello Road Market was round the corner. It shouldn’t take him too long to track her down—and give her a good piece of his mind.
‘But, Mr Brody…’ The elderly woman called him back. ‘How will I get
