“Ouch,” she yelped without thinking as a thorny branch snagged her arm. “Damn and blast.” It felt as if she’d drawn blood. Kat scrambled to a thicker limb and stopped to check. There was a gaping hole in the sleeve of her favorite sweater. She shouldn’t have yelled so loudly, but it had hurt as well as surprised her.
Josh had never mentioned the tree had three-inch thorns. Obviously one reason it served so effectively as a smuggling route. What parent would figure a kid was dumb enough to risk getting stabbed for a snitched beer or two?
Since no one roared out of the garage to investigate the noise, Kat edged up several levels toward a bough that scraped the house. The windowsill was within her grasp when a second thorn gouged her cheek. This time she swore roundly, trusting her voice would be muffled.
No one was more shocked than Kat when an arm snaked out of the attic window, grasped her by the belt of her jeans and jerked her into a black hole. Her assailant immediately clamped a hand over her mouth, cutting off not only Kat’s muffled cry but her breath, as well.
She flailed her arms and kicked backward, twice connecting with solid flesh.
“Oof. Stop it, you little spitfire,” a low voice hissed in her ear.
Kat went stiff as a board. She knew that voice. Slater Kowalski. How humiliating. Identifiable now in the faint light seeping in around a trapdoor that led to the garage, he dangled her a foot off a rough plank floor.
Kat jammed an elbow sharply in Slater’s ribs, doing her level best to bite his fingers.
“Ugh!” His breath exploded in a hiss, causing him to release her so fast she hit the floor like a sack of flour. “Shh,” he muttered, dropping down on his knees beside her. “Do you want them to hear you?”
“Me? What are you doing here, Kowalski?” she demanded with as much force as she could convey in a whisper, considering that they were both trying to be quiet. “Where do you get off manhandling me?”
He silenced her by pressing a finger to her lips, then he nodded his head toward the square door that sat propped ajar.
Only then did Kat register how loud the music and male laughter was that drifted up from the converted garage.
Abruptly, Slater moved his fingers to her chin and angled her face into the flicker of light. “You’re bleeding. What happened?” His voice was rough. His fingers gentle.
Kat jerked her head aside to keep him from seeing. There he sat in his Polo coordinates—bone-dry and not a mark on him—while she was wet and looked, no doubt, like she’d come out last in a cat fight.
Slater tried again to see her face.
“Mind your own business,” she said, dodging his fingers.
He would have insisted, but all at once there was a lull in the Sinatra song and he heard his father say, “Timothy, you’re unusually quiet tonight.”
Kat’s father answered in a lower tone that sent the two eavesdroppers crawling close to the trapdoor. “I had a hard time getting out of the house,” Timothy said. “It took a chunk of my stash to throw Maureen offtrack. I sent her shopping.”
Buzz Moran snorted. “Since this whole scheme was your bright idea, Timmy, ’tis a fine thing, you shelling out our profits in an attack of conscience.”
Lying side-by-side on the floor above the poker players, Slater felt Kat pull away. He started to nudge her, to claim victory…before he saw the quiver in her lower lip.
A huge tear slipped to the curve of her cheek and she quickly brushed it away.
Slater didn’t know which affected him more, witnessing the demise of the fierce faith she held in her old man, or the realization that he was the last person she’d want to see her crumble.
For some reason, he was moved by her attempt to keep a stiff upper lip. Without a word, he cupped a palm around the back of her head and gently guided her face into the protective curve of his shoulder. For one strained heartbeat, he waited for her backlash. When it didn’t come, Slater began to massage the nape of her neck. Her skin felt soft and cool. Her perfume wafted up and tickled his nose.
Instinct told Kat to resist overtures from a man who belonged to the enemy camp. But darn it all, this had been such a miserable day. So had the whole week, for that matter. She’d give him this much; he had tranquilizing hands. Warm hands…She hadn’t thought anything could chase away her bone-deep chill.
Perhaps her suddenly rapid heartbeat was just a belated reaction to being yanked into Mallory’s attic, Kat told herself. Perhaps it had nothing to with the man…or with her father. She’d embrace any excuse to keep from admitting that the father she’d placed on a pedestal for twenty-six years had just tumbled.
It made her shudder to think about the number of people counting on her to put the pieces back together. Her brothers. Their wives. Most of all, her mother.
Slater felt her tremble. His fingers flexed in her soft curls. Why had he ever thought her hair lacked feminine qualities? Damp, those charcoal locks clung to his palm, reminding him of satin. He murmured something unintelligible near her ear and trailed soothing kisses along the curve of her cheek. “It’ll be all right, kitten.”
Kat pushed him away. Eyes wide, she crawled out of his reach. “Who gave you permission to call me that?” She shook her head and scraped back clinging strands of hair still warm from his touch. Closing her eyes, Kat regretted showing him any chink in her armor.
Slater frowned. Had he called her kitten? Maybe he had. Come to think of it, this was the first time he’d seen those tiger claws sheathed. “Obviously a gross mistake on my part, O’Halloran,” he muttered. “It won’t happen again.” His words were barely audible. He felt restless, ready to leave. He had the answer he’d sought. The smoke from Spud Mallory’s cigars was starting to make him sick. “I’m outta here,” he said, heading for the window.
Kat pulled her knees to her chest and hunched her shoulders, massaging her upper arms. “Go. I’m waiting out the rain.”
He couldn’t just leave her like this. Sighing, Slater leaned toward her and extended a hand. “Come on,” he said, “it’s over.”
Again the music ended. Nat King Cole’s “Black Magic” this time. In the lull, Buzz Moran’s voice rose above the others. “I swear, Louie, you win every pot. With your luck, we should ship you off to Atlantic City with all our remaining cash.”
Slater’s dad laughed. “Good idea. But why don’t we all go? I’m free anytime. It’s you guys who need permission.” Much male posturing followed his statement, with all the others also claiming freedom.
“I can go anytime,” bragged Tim O’Halloran. “I’ll tell Maureen I’m working on the church carnival. In fact, there it is, if anyone needs an excuse.”
“When shall we go?” Louie badgered.
Several dates were bandied about before the music blared again, blocking whatever date they’d selected from the two listening upstairs.
Kat uncoiled from her position near the door. She tendered Slater an I-told-you-so look.
He avoided her eyes. Damn, why hadn’t he left sooner? Before L.J. made a fool of himself. Slater would rather not have known about those wins, to say nothing of the proposed gambling trip. Because it meant he had to find time to deal with that issue now. Time better spent solving the car’s fuel-injection problems. He crossed to stand beneath the peaked roof and tucked both hands in his back pockets. Well, now they were even. But so help him, if she rubbed it in, if she smirked or laughed he’d—
Far from rubbing salt in his wounds, Kat’s gaze suddenly became understanding.
It wasn’t pity. That would have allowed Slater to simply walk away. Damn. He felt again as he had when he was