dropped The Cat and was at her side in seconds.
She waved him away, grabbed her wine glass and tipped it up, realising it was empty at the same time. She felt Stirlingâs hand come down on hers.
âHere. I donât think you need any more of that.â He took the wine glass away and delivered a cup of water into her grasp instead.
âParty pooper,â she mumbled.
And then promptly passed out.
Chapter 11
When Jaime woke up she couldnât work out where she was. She was reclining somewhere and a bongo drum was playing the rumba in her head. Her mouth was as dry as a parched puddle of bulldust and she couldnât figure out how sheâd got to wherever she was.
She half sat up and peered around through slitted eyes. The afternoon sunlight boring in from outside was making the rumba turn into a salsa. She flopped back down. She was on the couch in the lounge. The last thing she remembered wasâ?
Oh, hell no. The kitchen, sponges and Stirling McEvoy. She cringed. He must have put her on the couch. She moaned, how embarrassing.
She lay there for a good five minutes and tried to pull herself together, then heaved herself off the couch. She best go and see what other damage sheâd inflicted on the place. If she remembered rightly the kitchen was a train smash.
As she walked through the kitchen door she was met by the sound of the dishwasher whirring, the scent of Pine O Clean and the sight of no less than five amazing sponges all sitting on the bench under fly covers. She sat on the nearest bar stool agog.
The kitchen was sparkling.
Stirling McEvoy to the rescue. Again.
The man deserved a medal for this little effort. But unfortunately her head wasnât going to allow her to deliver one just yet. She got up and staggered to the medicine chest. Sheâd never been able to hold her liquor, which was why she usually steered clear of the stuff. Grappling for painkillers, she popped a couple of tablets from their packet and downed them with a cup of water that was sitting on the benchtop. The same cup she remembered Stirling handing her just before she passed out. She gave the bench another cursory glance and saw, balanced perfectly on its end, a roll of Beroccas. Ha! So the man thought sheâd have a hangover?
Well, she was going to find a shower and her beautiful, comfy bed, because she hated to admit it, but he was right.
Â
It was dark when Jaime woke again. She felt much better than last time. The painkillers had done their job, as had a restorative sleep. She looked at her watch. It was only ten oâclock.
She wondered what had woken her.
A rustle came from under her bed, followed by a scratching near the bedside table.
What the hell?
âCâmon, Cat, stop playing funny buggers,â she called into the blackness of her room.
All was quiet once more.
Until a thump followed by some heavy scrabbling came again.
She went to flick on the light. Nothing happened. Okay, this was getting a bit weird. The lamp had been plugged in and working last time sheâd used it. Maybe the power had gone out? The rustle was louder now and followed by a loud bump. Suddenly The Cat made a screeching meow and jumped to somewhere in the middle of the room.
Feeling quivers of unease, she called out again, âWhatâs going on, Cat?â
Another hiss and snarl.
She had a torch around here somewhere. Jaime slid her hand down over the side of the bed. Touched a soft furry bundle. She let out a yell, which scared The Cat because it was hissing and spitting from what sounded like up on top of the wardrobe. Which meant â¦
⦠her hand hadnât touched The Cat.
What theâ?
She finally found the torch beside her pillow. Quickly switched it on.
A pair of big round white eyes were reflected back at her.
She screamed at the top of her lungs.
It wasnât The Cat; that was now obvious. The fur was grey-brown rather than blue and over the creatureâs back was
She waved him away, grabbed her wine glass and tipped it up, realising it was empty at the same time. She felt Stirlingâs hand come down on hers.
âHere. I donât think you need any more of that.â He took the wine glass away and delivered a cup of water into her grasp instead.
âParty pooper,â she mumbled.
And then promptly passed out.
Chapter 11
When Jaime woke up she couldnât work out where she was. She was reclining somewhere and a bongo drum was playing the rumba in her head. Her mouth was as dry as a parched puddle of bulldust and she couldnât figure out how sheâd got to wherever she was.
She half sat up and peered around through slitted eyes. The afternoon sunlight boring in from outside was making the rumba turn into a salsa. She flopped back down. She was on the couch in the lounge. The last thing she remembered wasâ?
Oh, hell no. The kitchen, sponges and Stirling McEvoy. She cringed. He must have put her on the couch. She moaned, how embarrassing.
She lay there for a good five minutes and tried to pull herself together, then heaved herself off the couch. She best go and see what other damage sheâd inflicted on the place. If she remembered rightly the kitchen was a train smash.
As she walked through the kitchen door she was met by the sound of the dishwasher whirring, the scent of Pine O Clean and the sight of no less than five amazing sponges all sitting on the bench under fly covers. She sat on the nearest bar stool agog.
The kitchen was sparkling.
Stirling McEvoy to the rescue. Again.
The man deserved a medal for this little effort. But unfortunately her head wasnât going to allow her to deliver one just yet. She got up and staggered to the medicine chest. Sheâd never been able to hold her liquor, which was why she usually steered clear of the stuff. Grappling for painkillers, she popped a couple of tablets from their packet and downed them with a cup of water that was sitting on the benchtop. The same cup she remembered Stirling handing her just before she passed out. She gave the bench another cursory glance and saw, balanced perfectly on its end, a roll of Beroccas. Ha! So the man thought sheâd have a hangover?
Well, she was going to find a shower and her beautiful, comfy bed, because she hated to admit it, but he was right.
Â
It was dark when Jaime woke again. She felt much better than last time. The painkillers had done their job, as had a restorative sleep. She looked at her watch. It was only ten oâclock.
She wondered what had woken her.
A rustle came from under her bed, followed by a scratching near the bedside table.
What the hell?
âCâmon, Cat, stop playing funny buggers,â she called into the blackness of her room.
All was quiet once more.
Until a thump followed by some heavy scrabbling came again.
She went to flick on the light. Nothing happened. Okay, this was getting a bit weird. The lamp had been plugged in and working last time sheâd used it. Maybe the power had gone out? The rustle was louder now and followed by a loud bump. Suddenly The Cat made a screeching meow and jumped to somewhere in the middle of the room.
Feeling quivers of unease, she called out again, âWhatâs going on, Cat?â
Another hiss and snarl.
She had a torch around here somewhere. Jaime slid her hand down over the side of the bed. Touched a soft furry bundle. She let out a yell, which scared The Cat because it was hissing and spitting from what sounded like up on top of the wardrobe. Which meant â¦
⦠her hand hadnât touched The Cat.
What theâ?
She finally found the torch beside her pillow. Quickly switched it on.
A pair of big round white eyes were reflected back at her.
She screamed at the top of her lungs.
It wasnât The Cat; that was now obvious. The fur was grey-brown rather than blue and over the creatureâs back was
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