Charade (10 page)

She watched sympathetically as the dog slunk to the edge of the porch and did as he was told, settling his head on his front paws but keeping his woeful eyes on her. She turned back to the man. He was holding open the screen door with a taut, straight arm, providing her an unobstructed, intimate view of his armpit. A single drop of sweat rolled down the corrugated surface of his ribs toward his waistline, which tapered into the unfastened blue jeans. She swallowed dryly. "I'm afraid there's been a mistake." "I need some coffee. Come on in." He turned and disappeared down the hall. She caught the screen door before it slammed shut, then hesitated, deliberating the wisdom of following him inside. He seemed in no frame of mind to entertain a guest. His wife had yet to make an appearance. On the other hand, it went against her grain to retreat in the face of adversity. She'd invested over an hour of her valuable time in the long drive out here. If she left now, the trip would be a total washout. Besides, Sherry expected a full report. She couldn't leave without getting to the bottom of this. She was piqued by Mr. Walters's incredible rudeness but curious as well. She'd read the couple's application, and it had excited her. Both were college graduates; forty-something, but, after fifteen years of marriage, still childless. Mrs. Walters was willing to end her career as a librarian to become a full-time mother to a special child. Her retirement and thus the suspension of her income would place no financial burden on them because Mr. Walters was a successful cement contractor. They had seemed ideal to parent one of Cat's Kids. Why would they take the time and trouble to apply for adoption, then go to no effort whatsoever to prepare for their first interview? It was too intriguing a question to leave unanswered. "Curiosity killed the Cat," she reminded herself as she pulled open the door and went inside. The adage would make a clever headline if she didn't come out alive, she thought wryly. The arched opening through which Mr. Walters had disappeared led into a spacious living area. Wide windows allowed for plenty of sunlight and brought the breathtaking Hill Country landscape in

doors. The furniture had been chosen for comfort and coziness. It would have been a lovely room, if not for the mess. A man's shirt dangled from the arm of the sofa. A pair of cowboy boots and a pair of socks lay in the middle of the floor. The TV was on, but it had been muted, which spared Cat from having to listen to the sound of one cartoon character chasing another and whacking him over the head with a tennis racquet. Newspapers were scattered everywhere. A pillow had been wadded into one corner of the sofa and bore the imprint of a head. There were two soda cans on the coffee table, along with an empty, crumpled potato chip bag and what looked like the remains of a bologna sandwich. Cat stood just inside the arch, disgusted by what she saw. Beyond a dividing bar was the kitchen, where Mr. Walters was taking mugs from a cabinet. He blew dust out of them. "Is Mrs. Walters here?" she asked haltingly. "No." "When do you expect her?" "Can't say. In a few days I guess. Coffee's ready. I set the timer to come on at seven. It's been sitting here for a few hours, but the stronger the better, right? Cream or sugar?" "Really I don't--" "Whew! Forget the cream." He'd taken a carton of half-and-half from the refrigerator and opened it. Cat could smell it from where she stood. "There's a sugar bowl around here somewhere," he muttered as he went searching. "I remember seeing it a day or two ago." "I don't need any sugar." "Good. 'Cause I can't find it." She wasn't surprised. The kitchen was in a worse mess than the living room. The sink was full of dirty dishes that overflowed onto every available inch of counter space. There were crusty pans on the stove. The dining table was littered with more dirty dishes, unopened mail, books and magazines, stacks of paper, and a greasy cardboard box with Carlotta's Homemade Tamales stenciled across the top of it. Something yellow and gelatinous had dripped onto the floor. The neat exterior of the house had been deceiving. Its inhabitants were slobs.

"Here you go." He slid a mug of coffee across the bar toward her. It sloshed onto the tiles, but he seemed not to notice. He was already sipping from his mug. After several swallows, he sighed. "Better. Now, what is it you're peddling?" She gave a small, incredulous laugh. "I'm not peddling anything. Sherry Parks was under the impression you had an appointment this morning." "Huh. What'd you say your name is?" "Cat Delaney." "Cat--" He squinted at her through the steam rising out of his coffee mug. His eyes took her in, head to feet and back again. "Well I'll be damned. You're the soap opera queen, right?" "In a matter of speaking," she replied coldly. "I'm standing in for Ms. Parks, who had an appointment with you at eleven o'clock this morning." "An appointment? This morning?" He shook his head in befuddlement. Cat waved her hand in dismissal. "Never mind. The signals got crossed somewhere, but it makes no difference." She looked at the clutter surrounding her, then faced him squarely. "I'm terribly sorry, but I don't think you'll do." He slurped his coffee. "Won't do what?" He was either dense or extremely clever. She couldn't tell if he was playing with her or if he was indeed clueless as to what had brought her to his house. Mrs. Walters might have submitted the application and arranged this meeting without her husband's knowledge, in a covert attempt to win him over to the idea of adopting. That happened sometimes. One partner, usually the wife, wanted to become a parent, while the husband did not. Sometimes the husband was even bitterly opposed to the idea. That could be the case here. Cat certainly didn't want to get caught in the cross fire of a marital dispute. "Have you and Mrs. Walters discussed every aspect of this?"

He turned to pour himself a second cup of coffee, asking over his shoulder, "Every aspect of what?" "Adopting a child," she answered impatiently.

He gave her a sharp, hard glance, then bowed his head, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I must've been up later than I thought," he mumbled, then raised his head and looked at her again. "You're here to talk about adopting a kid?" "Of course. What did you think?" "I don't know," he said, matching her vexed tone. "For all I know, you're selling Girl Scout cookies." "Well I'm not." "So what--" He broke off when a light of realization went on behind his eyes. He slammed his mug down on the counter. "Oh shit! What day is this?" "Monday." He consulted the calendar hanging beside the refrigerator, then slapped the wall with his palm. "Damn." He came back around, raking his fingers through his dark hair and looking chagrined. "I was supposed to call you--or this Ms. Parks--on Friday and cancel the appointment. Entirely my fault. Forgot to check the calendar every day like she told me to. She'll be good and pissed," he said, almost to himself. "Look, I'm sorry. I could've saved you the trip. The interview will have to be rescheduled." "I don't believe that will be necessary," she said crisply. "Tell your wife--" "My wife?" "You mean you aren't married?" "No." "But she goes by Mrs. Walters." "Of course she does." The suggestion of a grin pulled at his lips. "Irene Walters is married to Charlie Walters. They'll get a real kick out of you mistaking me for him." In answer to her puzzled look, he shook his head and said, "I'm housesitting for them. They were called away unexpectedly last week when one of Charlie's relatives took sick in Georgia. I needed a peaceful place to work while my apartment's being painted. So it was a good tradeoff." "They left you in charge of their house?" She looked pointedly toward the sink filled with food-encrusted dishes. He followed her gaze and registered surprise, as though noticing

the mess for the first time. "Guess I should tidy up before they get back. A lady came the day before yesterday--I think it was--to clean, but I ran her out. She was dusting around me and running the vacuum while I was trying to write. Drove me freaking nuts. 1 think I yelled at her. Anyway, she left in a huff. Irene will have to smooth her feathers. Irene'll be pissed about that, too." He gave a tsk of remorse. "Write?" His eyes swung back to Cat. "Pardon?" "You said you were trying to write." He sidestepped her and moved to a built-in bookcase in the living room. Taking a book from it, he thrust it at her. "Alex Pierce." She read the title of the book, then turned it over to look at the photograph on the back of the sleek dust jacket. The man in the picture was well groomed and fully dressed. But his eyes were the same --gray and incisive beneath heavy eyebrows, one of which was halved by a vertical scar. Attractive squint lines. Straight nose. Unsmiling yet sensual mouth. Square jaw. It was an extremely masculine face. Hard and handsome. She kept her head down, finding it easier to look into the eyes in the photograph than to meet the real thing. She was unaccountably warm and felt the need to clear her throat. "I've heard of you. But I wouldn't have recognized you." "I cleaned up for the picture. My agent Arnie insisted." "How many books have you had published, Mr. Pierce?" "Two. Third one's due out early next year." "Crime fiction, isn't it? Something like that?" "Something like that." "I'm sorry. I haven't read them." "You wouldn't like them." That brought her head up with a defensive snap. "Why not?" "You just don't look the type." He shrugged. "My stories are about guts and guns. Blood and brains. Murder and mayhem. Not nice novels." "Although alliterative." Impressed, he arched his jagged eyebrow. "Why don't you think I'd like your books?" He gave her another insolent once-over, then reached out and

fingered a strand of her hair. "Because the redheads in them are always easy." Her stomach quickened, which made her angry, because she suspected that that was the reaction he wanted. She knocked his hand aside. "And short-tempered," he added with an arrogant smile. She shoved the book back at him. "You're right. I wouldn't like your writing." Struggling with her temper, she succeeded only in holding it in because she didn't want to live up to the stereotype. "When do you expect Mr. and Mrs. Walters to return?" He set the book on the end table and took another sip of coffee. "They said they'd call before leaving Georgia. Until I hear from them, it's anyone's guess." "Tell them to contact Ms. Parks's office when they get back. She'll reschedule an appointment." "Irene and Charlie are great. They'd make wonderful parents for one of those kids." "That'll be for a judge to decide." "But your endorsement goes a long way, doesn't it? I'll bet you influence Ms. Parks and others in authority, don't you? Don't they value your opinion?" "What's your point, Mr. Pierce?" "My point is," he said succinctly, "don't screw it up for Irene and Charlie because of a few dirty dishes. Don't pass judgment on them because of me." "I resent your implication. I didn't come out here to pass judgment." "Like hell. You already said I wouldn't do." "You wouldn't." "See what I mean? You think highly of your opinion and like to throw your weight around. Why else would a soap queen like you be slumming in San Antonio?" Cat was seething, but in a war of words she feared she would lose. "Goodbye, Mr. Pierce." He followed her to the front door. She knew that the middle of her back was a target for his piercing eyes as she strode across the veranda. "Goodbye, Bandit."

The dog came to his feet and whined as she stamped past. He was probably unhappy because his owners had left him in the care of a creep who could curdle cream. Lord. More alliteration. Alex Pierce was more abrasive than sandpaper. He had grated on her, unnerved her, and insulted her. However, she was more angry with herself than with him. Why had she let him get the upper hand? Instead of becoming embarrassed over her blunder, why hadn't she laughed it off? Humor was her antidote for most awkward situations. But this time her supply of wisecracks had dried up. She had blushed and stammered like a nervous schoolgirl and now was left with only shreds of her pride and a prevailing resentment toward an author of sleazy cop stories who lived like a pig and drank scalding black coffee as though it were tap water. Doubly galling was that she thought everyone should look as good as he when they got out of bed. The subject of her scorn sauntered out onto the veranda and dropped into the porch swing, which squeaked pleasantly beneath his weight. He patted the space beside him. Bandit, deliriously happy over the unspoken invitation, jumped onto the seat and laid his chin on the author's thigh. Cat left with the vision of Alex Pierce gently rocking in the swing, sipping coffee, and idly scratching Bandit behind the ears.

Chapter Sixteen

"You two look beat." Melia, looking as fresh as an exotic blossom in a florist's refrigerator, greeted Cat and Jeff from behind her desk as they trudged in. "We've been to a steam bath. Also known as Brackenridge Park." Cat eased her heavy bag off her shoulder. "There wasn't a breath of breeze. Remind me never to wear silk again in the summertime in San Antonio." She plucked the fabric away from her clammy skin. "Otherwise how'd it go?" "Very well." "We got some great video of Tony," Jeff told Melia as he wilted into an armchair. "He wasn't the least bit camera shy." Melia passed Cat a handful of telephone messages. "Sherry Parks wants to speak to you right away. She believes the judge is going to approve Danny for adoption." "That's great!" she said, her fatigue vanishing. "See if you can get her for me, please." Retrieving her bag, she went to her private office, kicked off her

shoes, and sat down at her desk. Out of habit, she checked the clock, then reached for her bottom desk drawer. The telephone beeped. She depressed the speaker button as she opened the desk drawer. "Yes, Melia?" "Ms. Parks on line one." The drawer was empty. "Want me to put her through?" The drawer was empty. "Cat? You there?" "Yes, but my . . . Melia, where is my medication?" "What?" "My pills. My medication. Where is it?" "Don't you keep it in your desk drawer?" Melia asked, sounding puzzled. "Of course, but it's not here." She slammed the drawer shut, then immediately yanked it open again, as though the empty drawer had been an optical illusion that would reverse itself. But the drawer was empty. Her pills were indisputably gone. Melia appeared in the doorway. "I told Ms. Parks you'd call her back. What's happened?" "Exactly what I said." Unintentionally shouting, she quickly brought her voice under control. "My medication is missing," she stated calmly. "I keep all my pills here in the bottom drawer. Always. But they're not here now. Somebody's taken them." "Who'd want your pills?" Cat glared at her. "That's what I'd like to know." Jeff came in. "What's the matter?" "Somebody's taken my medication from my drawer." "What?" "Have both of you gone deaf?" she cried. "Must I repeat everything? Somebody waltzed in here and stole my medication!" She knew she was being unreasonable, but the drugs were her lifeline. Jeff stepped around the desk and looked into the empty drawer. "Who would have stolen your pills?" Cat shoved her hand through her hair.