Catching the Cat Burglar (4 page)

"You talk. You actually talk!" He looks at me innocently, seeming to grin. I stalk up to him. "What are you? Who are you?"

"Groofy," he says.

I blink. "Groofy?"

"That's my name." He scratches behind his ear once more. "Groofy."

"Groofy." I shake my head in wonder. "And... how can you talk?"

"You spend enough time watching humans, you pick it up. Know what I mean? Powers of observation."

"And - can other animals talk?" I feel like I'm wading into the deep end of the pool.

"Nah, most of them can't. Dumb as bricks, they are. I've met a few others that can, though. There's a white trout in a pond up in the mountains that can talk when it's got a mind to. A black fox close by, though she's a nutball. And a little gold owl that nobody seems able to see, for some reason."

I run my hand over my hair, mind spinning. "Wow. And - why are you talking to me?"

"You?" Groofy looks me up and down. "Because you have a kind soul and a beauty that won over my little heart."

My eyes go wide. "Really?"

He grins, his little red tongue poking out from beneath his bushy whiskers. "No. You seemed like an easy mark. I knew I'd get something hot and sugary if I bothered you long enough."

I scowl. "Well, that was back in town. What are you still doing here?"

He actually gives a little doggie version of a shrug. "Dunno, really. I was thinking about moving on, but was curious to see where you were walking off to. And who knows? Maybe I'll get more food out of you."

"Unlikely," I say, crossing my arms. "Not when you state your intentions so obviously."

"Want to bet?" His little black eyes twinkle.

I narrow my eyes. "I don't gamble. Not with little talking dogs named Groofy."

"That," he says, voice judicious, "is a remarkably narrow category."

"Well, it's a sound principle, regardless. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some policing to do."

"Oh, sure, be my guest. You were doing such a fine job." He lies down, resting his nose on his crooked tail. Then he raises one eyebrow. "So I assume you don't want to know about this funny smell?"

I hesitate. "What smell?"

"The smell right here. It was up in the bedroom too, but nowhere else in the house."

"Really?" I step up and look at the snowy lawn. "What kind of smell it is?"

"Buy me a steak in town, and I'll tell you."

I put my hands on my hips. "Excuse me?"

"What?" He tries to look innocent. "I need to make a living too, you know. I may look like a paragon of doggie virility, but it's hard bringing down a deer when your back legs are twice the size of your front ones. So, yeah. Steak for dinner, and I'll tell you."

I sigh. "Fine. A little steak. For dinner." I can't believe I'm saying this. "Now. Spill the beans."

He stands up excitedly. "Can we make that lunch?"

"Yes! Fine! Lunch it is. Now. Talk."

He lowers his nose and snuffles around, then moves to the flowerbed and sniffs there before turning to me. "Definitely a shifter."

"A shifter?" It makes sense, given how challenging the robbery was. "A wolf?"

He sniffs again and shakes his head. "Nope. Cat."

"A werecat?" He nods, and I can't help but smile. This is definitely new information. "And you smelled the same thing upstairs in Rachel's bedroom?" Groofy nods, and my smile turns into a grin. "That's great! That's a clue. A lead. Though I'm not sure it's admissible in court." I frown and rub my chin. "Still! Werecats. How many of those could there be in town?"

Groofy shrugs.

"Yeah, I don't know either. Come on. You've earned yourself some meat."

We head back into town, where I order a T-Bone to go from the Wise Salmon, which I then deposit on the sidewalk outside. Groofy takes a sniff and falls onto his back, wiggling his legs in the air in sheer ecstasy.

"Now, I'm heading back to the library. With a little luck, Chase will be gone." I don't know if I mean that. I might actually appreciate an opportunity to ogle him a little more. Would Mr. Elon agree to put in a glass wall to Chase's office? Probably not. "I'll catch you later, Groofy. Enjoy lunch."

"Arf!" says Groofy, and then he attacks the steak, all ferocious growls and serious rump shakes. I smile and head over the bridge of flowers to Bridge Street, then off it to the library. I pause by the front door and peer inside. All is quiet. I step inside, and then realize that Chase is seated behind the checkout counter, feet crossed before him, a leather-bound book in his hands.

"There she is," he says, arching one eyebrow. "My erstwhile librarian. I thought you had made good on your threat and already quit."

"Ah," I say, stepping up to the counter. I give him a hopeful smile. "Did you miss me?" Oh boy. He looks sinfully hot all stretched out like that. Languorous and lithe. How is this man a librarian? He should be a gymnast or something. His face and body displayed on billboards in Times Square.

"Miss you?" He snorts. "I've burned for you ever since you left. Especially since nobody has given me a log-in to the computer system."

"Oh!" I grimace. "Sorry! How have you been checking out books?"

"The old-fashioned way," he says, indicating a pile of notes by his side. "Pen and paper. Positively nineteenth century."

"Sorry?"

"Apology accepted." He pauses, and that amused glint enters his devilish green eyes again. "Notice how gracefully I accepted your apology. No raking over the coals needed."

I laugh. "Well, it's a question of scale. What I did hardly lands on the same chart where your misdemeanors are ranked."

"My misdemeanors?" He lowers his feet and the book, and leans forward on his elbows. Hoo boy. I really do have an overactive imagination. The way his turtleneck stretches across his shoulders and chest makes it too easy to imagine what lies beneath. "And what do you know about my misdemeanors, plural?"

Somehow I've strayed into dangerous territory. That playful glint is still shining in his eyes, but there's something predatory about him, like a tiger that's just starting to wake up and notice the deer that's strayed into its cage.

"I - well -" I force myself to swallow. When did my throat get so dry? He arches a brow, waiting for a response. "It's conjecture, but based on sound intuition."

"And what exactly are you conjecturing?" Oh, his voice is the most delicious rumble. Deep and masculine. It makes me want to fan myself and take a step back, but I'm not about to give him the satisfaction.

"Point number one." I hold up a finger. "Your deception this morning, allowing me to believe what I wished, coupled with your obvious enjoyment of its denouement."

"An incident, I'll note, that has already been apologized for. Also, please see my reference above about 'coals' and 'raking'." His smile, however, undercuts what could be seen as a complaint. Emboldened, I continue.

"Second, you are far too handsome to be a head librarian. I'll throw in your obvious sense of fashion. Round that off with your youth, and I'd say there's clearly more to you than meets the eye."
Not that I'm complaining about what I'm seeing,
I almost add, and bite my tongue.

A lazy smile does dangerous things to his face and sends a throb of excitement down between my legs. He leans back in his chair and laces his fingers behind his head. "So you think I'm handsome."

My face immediately burns bright red, but I soldier on. "And your work manner verges on improper. If we had an HR department, I might report you for - for -"

He arches his brow again in that disarming and boyish way he has. "For what? Flirting?"

My blush deepens. How did I get into this mess? I take a deep breath. "So, in short. A propensity for deception, coupled with, um, unusual -"

"Joanna." He cuts me off just as I'm about to cut and run. "If you won't have lunch with me, have dinner instead."

"Dinner?" I blink, completely flatfooted. "To discuss library systems?"

He shakes his head, that lazy smile growing wider. "Forget the library. To discuss you. I'm curious. I want to learn more."

Oh boy. Excitement floods my veins in a quick, dizzying high. "I don't know if that would be appropriate."

"Appropriate? Probably not." He shrugs one shoulder. He has me pinned with his burning gaze. "But you can just add it to my list of misdemeanors."

Christ! Has this sinfully gorgeous man really just walked into my life? I hesitate, but before I can reach a conscious decision I hear myself say, "Sure. Dinner. Why not?"

"Great." He hesitates. "I'm new in town. Where should I take you?"

"The Wise Salmon is nice," I hear myself say.

"The Wise Salmon it is." He stands and stretches, both arms reaching for the sky, a sinuous movement that causes his muscles to slide and ripple beneath his turtleneck. I don't gape, which is a victory of sorts, but still I drink him in. He releases the stretch with a sigh, and then grins. "I'll see you there at six?"

"Six? Sure. Wait. Are you leaving?"

He checks his watch. "It's almost eleven. It's been a long day already. I'm out. Can you hold the fort till closing?"

A long day already? "Sure," I say. "Not a problem."

He flashes me his roguish smile and pulls on his pea coat. "Thanks. See you soon, Ms. Kilmarten."

"See you soon... Mr. Xavier."

I stand there blinking as he strides out the front door. I'm all kinds of bewildered, aroused, and excited. The way he uses my last name feels positively dirty, despite supposedly being correct. Calling him Mr. Xavier when he looks at me that way feels equally naughty. What am I doing? Am I going to regret this? Wasn't I just lecturing Chase on how much trouble he was?

But he saved me from that serial killer this morning. He's been incredibly polite. He hasn't done anything truly improper. So why am I so suspicious? It isn't just because he's so hot and interested in me. My curvy body, fiery red hair and large bust draw more attention than I sometimes know what to do with. I'm used to being hit on, but this is different. He wasn't staring at my chest when he asked me to dinner. He was looking deep into my eyes. He was asking
me
out, the real me, the part that most men never bother to pay attention to while they instead stare at my hips and ass and bust.

I sit down and resist the urge to fan myself. Chase Xavier is a true mystery. How was he hired to this position? Where did he come from? Who is he really? He feels more like a secret agent undercover as a librarian than an actual librarian.

Maybe dinner can be useful. I'll learn more about him. Get at the real Chase. Then I'll head to the station and prepare for my patrol. If that werecat is on the loose, I'll be ready for him. Though how exactly I'll notice him when he can slip into places like Honeycomb Hall unnoticed I'm not exactly sure.

I feel a thrill of excitement. Did I think life was growing dull? Now I have a dinner date with a mysterious, delicious hot guy, and a chance to make my mark by catching a were burglar and snagging Bardwell's spot on the force. I let out a little squeal of excitement, and then immediately sit upright and go silent as two old gentlemen open the door. I assume a look of frosty detachment and pretend to be sorting the small box of pencils before me until they pass into the magazine section - and then I grin and hug myself again.

Chapter 4

Each time I sit up into a crunch the town of Honeycomb Falls comes into view through the window. I lie flat, and my window shows a square of dusk, the sun hidden behind the mountains to the west. Up again, fingers touching my temples lightly, a slow burn growing in my core. The second story of the buildings across the street, their windows lit, the families within going about their lives. I've only been in this apartment – in Honeycomb Falls - a few days, and already I've got a sense of the people living across from me. A beautiful family. Three kids, a young couple. They've decorated for Christmas.

I lie flat again, and then reach behind my head for the legs of my bed. Grab them, and then lift my legs up off the ground, torquing my lower abs. I close my eyes, and images of that family dance across my mind. Imagined scenes. Domestic bliss. A life denied to me ever since Samantha passed. I lose myself in the exercise, the dull burn in my core matching the dull pain in my heart. Over and over I lift my legs, till finally with a gasp I relax and lie flat, opening my eyes to stare at the ceiling.

Samantha. Dead these past five years. Amazing to think so much time has already passed. I've lived in seven different places since then. How long will Honeycomb Falls last? Three months, in my experience. Three months before I forge a new resume, apply to a new job in another state, and move on. Leaving before I can get tied down to a real life. Leaving before I get caught.

I roll up to my feet and wipe my arm across my brow. I lean back, stretching deliciously, and then rotate my head around my neck. Lean down till my forehead presses against my knees and hug my legs, stretching out my hamstrings. Then I place my hands on the ground, and with complete focus, lift my legs up so that I form an inverted 'L'. I pause, and then slowly straighten my legs so that my toes brush the ceiling. A perfect handstand. My shoulders begin to burn, and I fight the urge to drop down. Instead, I handstand-walk across the room, and finally flip to my feet, falling into a crouch in front of my suitcase.

It's a battered old monster, big enough for my favorite books and clothing, and the only constant in my life. I reach down into it and draw out my battered copy of James Joyce's
Ulysses
. Inside are a dedication from Sam and my only photograph of her. It shows her grinning, wearing her favorite black leather jacket, her blonde hair mussed at the end of a night out in Montreal. I gaze down into her wild smile, and feel old. She'll always be twenty-one, while I drift away from her, growing ever older, turning into a different person. One day I'll look at this photograph and feel nothing. That day, however, hasn't arrived yet.

I drop the photograph and purse my lips. I'm due to meet Joanna in half an hour. I picture the fiery redhead, and can't help but smile. The memory of how large her eyes grew when she realized who I was is priceless. She's the first woman I've asked out since Sam passed. I still don't quite know why I did. What caused me to break my pattern.