needed, Lucas thought, was a vial of bleach and a quick burial.
She strode past him, arms overflowing, and somehow managed to free a hand and open the door.
“I know it’s hard for you to understand,” she said over her shoulder, “but I don’t believe in letting living things suffer.”
Lucas, following after her as the cat tried to claw its way to freedom through his suit jacket, through his shirt and,
Deus,
through his flesh, could only wonder if that philosophy might yet apply to him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A THIRTY-TWO million dollar penthouse. A place that could have made the pages of
Architectural Digest,
if Lucas had not been so protective of his privacy.
On the walls, an eclectic mix of Japanese woodcuts, Mark Rothko paintings and Lucas’s latest find, a moody and magnificent Edward Hopper oil.
On the floors, antique Tabriz carpets over Brazilian rosewood.
In the twelve light-filled rooms, soaring ceilings, pale cherry furniture, low white silk sofas and fresh flowers massed in beautiful Steuben vases and bowls.
Now, two new pieces had been added. The fern that looked like a Pleistocene leftover was—well, it was somewhere in the guest suite. Caroline had lugged it up the stairs after she had Oliver settled in. Lucas had offered to carry it but she’d refused him.
“I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself,” she’d said coolly.
Now, she and the fern were out of sight.
A bright red cat litter pan was not. It stood in the elegant downstairs lavatory. It was a hooded pan, for sure, but there was no disguising its purpose, especially now, Lucas thought grimly, as he made the mistake of glancing toward the lavatoryjust in time to see the somewhat battered head of the cat poke out the hole in the pan’s domed cover.
The cat and Lucas made eye contact.
The cat hissed. Its ears, what there were of them, folded back.
“The same to you, pal,” Lucas muttered, and kept going.
That there was a dying fern in his home seemed improbable. That there was a litter pan seemed impossible. That he was the person who’d purchased it seemed beyond logic, but it had been that or have Caroline hand him the cat again after they’d settled in the backseat of his limo, the fern on the floor, the cat once again in her arms.
“We’ll have to make a stop,” she’d said. “Oliver will need some things.”
Lucas had decided there was nothing to be gained by pointing out that what Oliver needed was a personality transplant.
“A pet shop. Or a drugstore will do.”
Lucas had leaned forward. “Stop at the Duane Reade on the next block, please, James,” he’d said.
His driver had complied, pulling to the curb in front of the all-purpose pharmacy.
And Caroline had held out the cat.
The cat had looked at Lucas and hummed. Lucas narrowed his eyes, hoped the cat was half as good at reading minds as it was at drawing blood and reached for the door handle instead.
“I’ll go in,” he’d said coldly. “Just tell me what you need.”
It was the first time he’d ever gone up and down the aisles of a Duane Reed. Of any store, other than Saks or Tiffany’s or Barney’s, for that matter, in a very, very long time.
It was also the first time he’d stood in a queue of people waiting to pay for their purchases. It was not an experience he was eager to repeat, especially not while he balanced twolitter pans, two covers, half a dozen cans of something called Daintee Deelites, a bag of Kitty Krunchies, and two plastic things euphemistically called litter scoops.
When he’d finally emerged from the store, his driver sprang from the car, went to the rear and opened the trunk. Caroline, who’d watched him as he approached, put down her window.
“Where’s the litter?”
The litter.
His driver had coughed. Lucas had glared. And if The Cat from Hell could have flashed a feline smile, he was sure that it would have done so.
“Shall I go, sir?” his driver had asked.
But Lucas had already turned away and marched
She strode past him, arms overflowing, and somehow managed to free a hand and open the door.
“I know it’s hard for you to understand,” she said over her shoulder, “but I don’t believe in letting living things suffer.”
Lucas, following after her as the cat tried to claw its way to freedom through his suit jacket, through his shirt and,
Deus,
through his flesh, could only wonder if that philosophy might yet apply to him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A THIRTY-TWO million dollar penthouse. A place that could have made the pages of
Architectural Digest,
if Lucas had not been so protective of his privacy.
On the walls, an eclectic mix of Japanese woodcuts, Mark Rothko paintings and Lucas’s latest find, a moody and magnificent Edward Hopper oil.
On the floors, antique Tabriz carpets over Brazilian rosewood.
In the twelve light-filled rooms, soaring ceilings, pale cherry furniture, low white silk sofas and fresh flowers massed in beautiful Steuben vases and bowls.
Now, two new pieces had been added. The fern that looked like a Pleistocene leftover was—well, it was somewhere in the guest suite. Caroline had lugged it up the stairs after she had Oliver settled in. Lucas had offered to carry it but she’d refused him.
“I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself,” she’d said coolly.
Now, she and the fern were out of sight.
A bright red cat litter pan was not. It stood in the elegant downstairs lavatory. It was a hooded pan, for sure, but there was no disguising its purpose, especially now, Lucas thought grimly, as he made the mistake of glancing toward the lavatoryjust in time to see the somewhat battered head of the cat poke out the hole in the pan’s domed cover.
The cat and Lucas made eye contact.
The cat hissed. Its ears, what there were of them, folded back.
“The same to you, pal,” Lucas muttered, and kept going.
That there was a dying fern in his home seemed improbable. That there was a litter pan seemed impossible. That he was the person who’d purchased it seemed beyond logic, but it had been that or have Caroline hand him the cat again after they’d settled in the backseat of his limo, the fern on the floor, the cat once again in her arms.
“We’ll have to make a stop,” she’d said. “Oliver will need some things.”
Lucas had decided there was nothing to be gained by pointing out that what Oliver needed was a personality transplant.
“A pet shop. Or a drugstore will do.”
Lucas had leaned forward. “Stop at the Duane Reade on the next block, please, James,” he’d said.
His driver had complied, pulling to the curb in front of the all-purpose pharmacy.
And Caroline had held out the cat.
The cat had looked at Lucas and hummed. Lucas narrowed his eyes, hoped the cat was half as good at reading minds as it was at drawing blood and reached for the door handle instead.
“I’ll go in,” he’d said coldly. “Just tell me what you need.”
It was the first time he’d ever gone up and down the aisles of a Duane Reed. Of any store, other than Saks or Tiffany’s or Barney’s, for that matter, in a very, very long time.
It was also the first time he’d stood in a queue of people waiting to pay for their purchases. It was not an experience he was eager to repeat, especially not while he balanced twolitter pans, two covers, half a dozen cans of something called Daintee Deelites, a bag of Kitty Krunchies, and two plastic things euphemistically called litter scoops.
When he’d finally emerged from the store, his driver sprang from the car, went to the rear and opened the trunk. Caroline, who’d watched him as he approached, put down her window.
“Where’s the litter?”
The litter.
His driver had coughed. Lucas had glared. And if The Cat from Hell could have flashed a feline smile, he was sure that it would have done so.
“Shall I go, sir?” his driver had asked.
But Lucas had already turned away and marched
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