Borrowing Alex Page 10

  Alex paused in his shaving, the razor Nikki had given him resting on his jaw. The bathroom door sat open an inch. Over the last two days, he’d mastered the technique for allowing shower steam to dissipate without arousing the dogs’ curiosity enough to pester him. Shifting his gaze in the chipped mirror, he spied the reflection of Nikki’s sexy rear bobbing as she searched beneath her bed for her cat. Faded jeans hugged her hips, and a scooped-neck T-shirt the cheerful blue of robin’s eggs skimmed her torso.

  Grinning, he adjusted the mirror for a better look. Her ass bounced again, and his hand jerked, the blade nicking his skin. He dragged in air through his teeth. Shit.

  He pressed a finger to the wound. That would teach him for ogling her. Saturday night, when she’d pulled away from their kiss, she’d made it clear she didn’t want an encore. Alex wasn’t certain she’d meant it—she’d responded to him as naturally as if they’d been together for years—but when a woman said no, he listened.

  And when that woman was Nikki St. James, confused and hurt and pining for Royce, he listened triple-hard.

  So hands off. And thoughts off. Her vulnerability might lead her to do something she’d regret, and he wouldn’t take advantage of Nikki.

  Not now.

  Not ever.

  He finished shaving. After dabbing the bleeding spot with tissue, he readjusted her grandfather’s suspenders to prevent them from cutting into his shoulders. As he entered the main room, she got up.

  “Alex, have you seen Rusty?” Beside her, Santos barked, and Bernie whipped in circles on Alex’s bed, snapping at the dust motes floating in the mid-morning sun.

  “Yeah, I’ve seen him.” His head ached from the memory. He’d woken to the fantasy-inspiring sounds of Nikki in the shower to discover the cat curled atop his skull like a Davy Crockett raccoon cap with claws. When he’d moved, the claws had imbedded in his hair and skin. Knowing when he was beat, he’d scanned the rafters for cobwebs until Rusty had loosened his grip. Then he’d bent his neck, and the cat had tumbled off, racing away for an unknown destination. At that point, Alex hadn’t cared. “You were in the shower. Then I walked the dogs, and, nope, I haven’t seen him since.”

  “You took out the dogs?” Nikki picked a thumbnail.

  “I had to. Bernie was going haywire, and Santos was pawing the doors. It was either take them out or risk them whizzing on the floor.”

  “Did you leave the door open?”

  “The back one. But only long enough to consider returning for some, um, reading material.” For the outhouse. “It was open thirty seconds, maybe a minute at most.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh no! Alex, Rusty’s disappeared. He does this whenever we’re someplace new. He knows I like him to stay indoors for a few days unless I’m with him, so he runs away the first chance he gets.” She sat on the bed and yanked on tennis shoes. “It’s not your fault. I should have warned you.”

  “We’ll find him.” Alex sat beside her. Similar to Saturday night, their thighs barely touched, yet heat zinged him to the bone. She scooted away and diligently tied her shoes.

  No spontaneous lip-locks were forthcoming this bright Monday morning, he concluded, regret eddying.

  Work with it, Hart. She doesn’t need the aggravation.

  Her loyalties rested with Royce. He needed to accept that or break her heart by telling her that the schlep oozed slime.

  He patted her back, big-brother style. The tissue from his shaving mishap dislodged from his jaw and landed on his clean pair of gray polyester pants. Smooth.

  “Rusty knows which side his bread is buttered on, Nik.” He maintained a reassuring tone. “Even if we don’t find him right away, he’ll return when he’s hungry. Don’t worry about him encountering the porcupine. Santos probably scared it. I doubt it’s hanging around.”

  She bolted off the bed. “It’s not the porky. What if Rusty’s lost? He has no teeth.”

  Alex chuckled. “Rusty has fangs, honey. I’ve seen them.” They hung over the cat’s furry chin like metal spikes, one satanically longer than the other.

  “Yes, he has fangs and he has tiny front teeth, but he doesn’t have molars. He can catch a bird, but if he’s lost and starving, the most he can hope for is to gum it to death. That’s why I give him soft food. He can chew it easier than the dry stuff.”

  “Okay.” One mystery—the need for the smelly, canned food—was solved, but another had arisen. “What happened to your cat’s teeth?” he asked as he pushed bare feet into the loafers she’d retrieved from the van yesterday morning along with his practically empty laptop case. “He doesn’t look old.” He trailed her through the back door, and she closed the dogs inside. When she faced him, her pale curls glistened in the sparkling sunlight, framing her delicate features.

  Beautiful. However, his maxim remained: hands off.

  She wasn’t his, and she never would be.

  “Rusty’s not old,” she said. “He’s seven. He’s had periodontal problems since he was two, though.” They tramped through the tall grass near the shed, searching and calling for the cat. “Mrs. Dibble—Rusty’s first owner—didn’t bring him to the clinic as often as she should have. She didn’t neglect him on purpose. She just didn’t realize that he was developing a serious problem. None of her other Rusties were prone to gingivitis.”

  Curiouser and curiouser.

  “Her other Rusties?” Alex echoed. He opened the shed door and peered into the shadowy interior. Murray stared from his new home on a cluttered worktable. A spider explored the moose head’s left nostril, but Rusty—of the Dibble Rusties—was nowhere in residence. “How many cats named Rusty had she owned?”

  “Five before my Rusty, all orange tabbies.” Nikki headed behind the shed, calling for the cat. Alex stayed close to her. “When Rusty Number Five died, Mrs. Dibble’s daughter decided her mother needed something different. So Dora gave Mrs. Dibble a sealpoint Siamese kitten. And Mrs. Dibble named him Rusty.”

  Alex chuckled. “I’d wondered how he’d earned his name. Why didn’t Mrs. Dibble keep him?”

  Nikki slid a hand through her hair, and her angel-curls bounced as she peeked into the heavy brush. “He requires too much care for a seventy-five-year-old woman living alone. Mrs. Dibble noticed that Rusty shook his head when he ate—a sign a cat’s gums are inflamed. She thought nothing of it until he took ill. Even then, she didn’t understand what was making him sick. The poor fella nearly died of toxin absorption brought on by gingivitis.”

  Parting the brush, she uttered squeaky bird noises. Alex joined her in the undergrowth, remaining a few feet behind so he wouldn’t spook the cat.

  “Rusty’s back teeth were practically falling out,” she continued between bird imitations. “Dr. Green had to pull them. He could have put the cat to sleep, but the thought upset Mrs. Dibble terribly. She felt awful that she’d allowed the problem to progress to such a point. She couldn’t afford the surgery, so I offered to pay. She was so grateful Rusty didn’t have to be put down that she asked if I wanted to keep him. Of course I said yes. The chances of a cranky, semi-toothless cat getting chosen at an animal shelter are tragically slim.”

  “She didn’t plan on taking him home?”

  “No. Alex, it was so sad. She worried about any upcoming bills. If I didn’t want him, she hoped a loving family would take pity on him and adopt him. The truth was, if a shelter was Rusty’s next stop, he was likely headed for an eternal nap. After the discomfort he’d suffered, I couldn’t let that happen.”

  “That’s quite a story.” Didn’t Nikki realize how generous, caring, and warm-hearted she was? Did Royce have any clue what a gem he’d found in this woman? “You adopted Rusty to set Mrs. Dibble’s mind at ease.” Completely Nikki.

  She nodded. “I had Bernie already, and you know he was a rescue dog, so what was one more pet? Santos strayed into my life a few months ago, and our little family grew to four, plus my roommates.”

  Interesting that she didn’t include Royce as part of her e
xpanding “family.”

  Envisioning her future husband—a guy Alex considered a pal less and less, given the hell the creep kept putting Nikki through—allowing her animals into his pristine, high-rise apartment proved an even greater challenge.

  Would Royce’s condo board even allow three pets, one a massive Saint Bernard? Those fancy developments usually boasted weight and size restrictions, including rules about the common areas where a dog could and could not put down its paws.

  Imagine carrying Santos to the elevators just to take the old fellow for a walk. Had Royce promised Nikki they would move? And she’d believed him?

  “Rusty’s a lucky cat,” he murmured glumly. “Lucky Rusty Number Six.”

  She smiled, and the dark cloud hovering over him whisked away. “Isn’t that lucky number seven?” she asked.

  This from the woman who mangled clichés on an hourly basis? “Well, he’s seven years old, so he’s Lucky Seven, too. Add them together, and he’s Lucky Thirteen.”

  She chuckled. “Thank you, Alex.” A bee buzzed, and she waved it away from her curly hair.

  “For what?” God, he wanted to touch her.

  “For making me feel better. That’s what you’re trying to do with all your questions, so don’t pretend it’s not.”

  “All right, I won’t.” In the serenity of the overgrown, light-dappled brush, while a cacophony of insect noises and flirty birdsong thrummed amidst the fragrant wildflowers and towering evergreens, he couldn’t pretend his way out of a torn gunnysack.

  However, that didn’t mean he’d decided to act on his growing feelings for Nikki. He might keep the truth from her, but he could finally admit it to himself.

  He was dangerously close to falling in love with his sexy wood nymph—Royce Carmichael’s hold on her be damned.

  “Don’t get excited, Nik, but I think we’ve found your cat. It looks like he’s in trouble.”

  Nikki whipped her head around. She and Alex stood behind the unoccupied cabin neighboring her grandfather’s and had already scoured both properties front and back. Now, he pointed another cabin away. She spied Rusty, all right—in arched-back, bristle-tailed splendor. An old man raced from the small structure with a shovel cleaving the air. In the doorway, an elderly woman’s hand shot up.

  “Willie, no!” the woman called.

  “It’s getting away!” the man shouted back. His shovel thumped the ground, narrowly missing Rusty. “Keep him close, tiger! That’s it! We’ll get him yet! Damn harbinger of evil!”

  “Alex, quick!” Heart pounding, Nikki ran toward the man. “He’ll kill him!”

  Alex raced past her. “Leave that cat alone!”

  The shovel thumped again. “Crud! Missed!”

  Alex dashed into the yard ahead of her. The old guy’s head popped up, his mouth gaping as Alex grabbed the shovel.

  “Damn it, lad! Watcha doing?”

  Nikki swept in, grabbing Rusty. Heedless of the cat’s flailing paws, she clutched his trembling body to her chest. “Rusty, Rusty, are you okay?”

  The cat yowled.

  He’s okay. Thank God. A complaining Rusty was a naturally occurring phenomenon. Mewling whimpers would have indicated that the old man had hurt him.

  “Give me the shovel, boy,” Rusty’s assailant demanded.

  “Not on your life.” Alex gripped the handle with both hands. The old guy snatched the brittle wood, but his thin fingers waged an ineffectual battle against Alex’s strong and sturdy grasp.

  “Damn, boy, it’s about to climb up my leg!” The old fellow shook a bare foot. “Violet!” he called to the woman hurrying from the doorway. “Lucifer’s grandson is waging another attack! Don’t you fret! I’ll get him!”

  He swooshed a surprisingly limber hand to the ground. Straightening, he shook his quarry—not Rusty, but a harmless little garter snake.

  The man’s eyes narrowed to gleeful slits. “I’ll squeeze the life from its long, skinny lungs!”

  Nikki gasped. “Don’t you dare!” Rusty squirmed in her arms, paw swiping toward the snake. “That goes for you, too.” She swatted the cat’s skull. The old man posed no danger to her pet. While she’d been searching the bushes with her heart lodged in her throat, Rusty had been playing African Safari.

  Alex threw down the shovel and stepped toward the old guy. “You heard her. Drop the snake.”

  “I! Will! Not!” The fellow waved the traumatized garter like a banner. His unbuttoned shirt revealed a chest flecked with white hair. The scraggly patch on his head stood up, lending him the appearance of a scruffy albino rooster. “I am protecting my woman.” His chin whiskers jutted.

  The woman in question—an eighty-ish vision in a lavender shift, fuzzy purple slippers, and a lilac tint brightening her loose white hair—neared them. Calmly, she placed a hand on his arm. “Willie, I don’t need protecting. Honestly, sugar, a little nooky and you start making like a caveman.”

  “I am a man reborn,” Willie asserted. “Vigor flows through my veins, woman. Through every single one of them, if you get my drift.” Winking at her, he chortled.

  Violet clucked her tongue. “I got your drift not twenty minutes ago. We’ve two weeks, Will. We can pace ourselves. There’s no need to run around half-cocked.”

  “Half?” Willie’s shoulders thrust back. He waved the snake again. “Scoot back to bed, Vi. I’ll show you ‘half.’ But first I’m gonna skin me a rattler.”

  Nikki looked at Alex. We have to do something, she pleaded with her eyes.

  As if in understanding, he raised a hand. She translated the gesture: Let’s give it a second.

  A breath seeping out of her, she nodded.

  “For goodness sake, Will,” Violet murmured. “It’s a garter snake. If we’d closed the door, it wouldn’t have entered the cabin.” She touched his arm.

  Willie harrumphed. “The fresh air invigorates me, as you well know.”

  “That’s not all that invigorates you, dear. Please, Will, put down the snake and then maybe I won’t have to ask this nice young man—” she smiled at Alex “—to hit you with the shovel.” Her manner remained tender, loving, and oh-so-wifely reasonable.

  Willie’s gaze darted between his spouse and the shovel. A moment later, he lowered his arm. “Damn, Vi, you’re ruining my fun.” The snake dangled from his hand.

  “I’ll make up for it, sugar.”

  His blue eyes brightened. “Hot damn!” He tossed the snake over his shoulder, and it plopped onto the ground.

  Nikki’s heart squeezed. The poor creature!

  “Wait,” she appealed to the geriatric couple while Rusty meowed and squirmed in her embrace.

  She passed the cat to Alex. Kneeling where the snake had landed in the dewy grass, she picked it up with gentle fingers. Standing, she gripped the snake’s head behind its jaw, like her grandfather had taught her. A pungent odor rose from the little snake, indicating its fear. Nikki examined it for damage.

  Alex walked over and studied the garter, too, but she signaled him to step back before Rusty catapulted from his hold and stormed another offensive.

  Again, he comprehended her meaning. Nodding, he moved away, and her heart lightened. His willingness to follow her lead was something she hadn’t experienced a lot in her personal life. It was like he actually had confidence in her. Royce would have scoffed at her attempt to help a common garter snake.

  She traveled her gaze over the helpless creature. A scrape marked the dark green scales resting cool against her palm.

  Frowning, she looked up. “Mr. Gotobed, you didn’t hit this poor guy, did you?”

  The old fellow peered at her. “You know me, child?”

  Nikki nodded. Now that the commotion had subsided, she recognized Willie and his wife as long-time summer residents of Lake Eden, although she couldn’t recall them using their cabin this early in the season. She and her sister had often visited Violet with Gram while Willie and Gramps went fishing. Willie had always been excitable, but never cruel. Certainly, N
ikki hadn’t ever witnessed him trying to hack up a harmless garter snake.

  “I’m Nikki St. James,” she informed him. “Hans Sorensen was my grandfather. My, uh, friend and I are spending a few days at the cabin.”

  Willie’s gaze narrowed further. “I don’t remember a Nikki.”

  Violet smiled. “But I bet you remember a little Nicole!”

  Willie nodded. “You’re Nicole?” A wide grin split his face.

  “Yes, although I go by Nikki now.” Outside her immediate family, at any rate. Despite her requests, her parents and Gillian still called her Nicole. They probably always would. Habits formed during childhood were tough to break.

  Or so she told herself.

  “Mr. Gotobed, the snake,” she repeated. “There’s a mark near its tail that concerns me. Did you hit it?”

  “Nope.” His chest puffed. “But I was determined to.”

  “You were not,” Violet said softly. “You were showing off, nothing more. The poor thing must have been hurt before it came into the cabin.” She looked at Nikki. “I don’t know what’s gotten into my Willie....” Her lips pursed. “Well, I suppose I do.”

  “Darn tooting, you do!” The morning breeze riffled his sparse white hair.

  Violet ignored him. “However, I didn’t expect this reaction to the medication. I wonder if it’s normal.”

  “Medication, heck!” Willie whipped a tiny green pill out of his shirt pocket faster than an infomercial spokesperson. “It’s Rise-Amazing-All!”

  “Rise-All,” Violet amended.

  “Praise all!” Chortling, Willie turned to Alex. “It’s a proper miracle of modern science, young fellow. Fixes impertinence and promotes psychological well-being! They don’t promise you the psyche thing, but I tell ya, I got it! Damn prostrate has kept Willie down for years. But now he’s back! And better than ever, eh, Vi?” He hooted.

  Violet’s hand fluttered to her throat. “I can’t complain. Except, dear? The word is impotence.”

  “Not anymore!”

  Nikki blushed. She couldn’t even look at Alex, although his chuckle reached her ears. First, he confronted her about her lack of passion with Royce, and now these frisky octogenarians were staging their mating dance in public.