Kitty Rocks the House (Kitty Norville 11)

“So,” I said. “How many times now have I ended up half-naked in torn-up clothes wearing your overcoat?” I slipped on the shirt—more of a blouse than a pullover now—and started on the jeans.

He grinned. “I think it kinda turns me on.”

How could I resist a come-on like that? The flush rolling through my gut helped push away some of my anxiety. I grabbed his collar, pulled myself toward him, and kissed him. His mouth opened to mine, and I leaned in to wrap his warmth around me. There went a little more anxiety.

Pulling away, he donned a thoughtful, puckered expression. He seemed to be licking his lips. “What on earth did you eat?”

The question recalled a memory of dense fur on a lithe, stringy body. “Um. I think I killed somebody’s cat.”

“Oh geez,” he said, and laughed.

I glared. “It’s not funny.”

“It kind of is. I know, not to whoever’s cat it is. But anybody who lets their cat out around here knows about coyotes. It’s not exactly safe.”

Some cat wasn’t coming home tonight and it was my fault. “I feel really bad.”

He put his arm around my shoulder and hugged. “That’s what makes you a good person. You know that, right?”

Time to get out of here, surely. He helped me slip on the overcoat, then gave me a hand up. He didn’t let go, and I happily leaned into the solidity of him. We started hiking across the open field. I recognized where we were—an open swathe of greenway that wound through Highlands Ranch. I was still within a mile of my sister’s house. I’d lucked out, losing it this close to a reasonable facsimile of wilderness.

“I remember when you did this for me. I completely lost it, ran off. And you were right there to call me back.”

“I should know better,” I said. “After all this time, I really ought to know better. I’m the pack alpha—what kind of example is this? I feel so … dumb.”

“You controlled it enough to stay away from people. You didn’t hurt anything, so no harm done, really.”

“Except for the cat.”

He laughed again. “I’m sorry, it’s just … you couldn’t find anything more appetizing than a cat?”

“You’re not helping, dear,” I growled.

He’d parked his car by the curb, away from the main road that wound through the neighborhood. I was happy to see it. One step closer to home.

“Oh—we’re not telling Cormac about this, right?” I said.

“We are not telling Cormac about this,” he agreed.

We’d climbed into the car when Ben’s phone rang. Ben’s, not mine, which was a nice change. I even checked, patting my jeans pocket. The thing somehow managed to stay lodged there through all that mess. The call was probably one of his clients needing to be bailed out or looking for advice—before they did something stupid rather than after, one hoped.

“Hello? Yeah … yeah. She’s right here. Sh

e wasn’t answering her phone for a while. Is something wrong?” After a moment of listening, he said, “You’d better talk to her,” then handed the phone to me.

Who is it? I mouthed at him, but the voice on the other end of the connection was already talking.

“Ms. Norville? Kitty?”

“Angelo?”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he said, sounding wheezy, as if forgetting to draw breath in order to speak.

“Do what? What’s wrong?” If I didn’t know better I’d have said he was in a panic. Vampires didn’t panic.

“I need … I’m trying…” He really was gasping out the words. I clamped my mouth shut to keep quiet, to let him talk. “I need help,” he finally said.

I had to let that sink in. “What?”