A Purrfect Romance by J.M. Bronston Page A

on, and right now I have eight cakes to check and a day’s worth of notes to write up.”
    “Well, keep me posted. I gotta go now, too. Gotta get my beauty sleep.”
    They said good-bye, but Bridey didn’t head for the kitchen right away. Instead, she remained curled up in the corner of the sofa, stroking Silk’s back. There was something deep inside her heart that was stabbing at her painfully, a confusion of anger and anxiety, along with a persistent memory of Mack’s voice, his smile, a sense of his authority that wrapped itself protectively around her.
    It made no sense. It made no sense at all.
    She let her fingertips feel the reassuring, sensual pleasure of Satin’s responsive movement under her hand as the cat snuggled warmly up against her, purring softly.
    Bridey imagined having to leave this wonderful apartment and suddenly realized that in the short time she’d lived here, it had become more than just a wonderful opportunity; she had come to love it for its beauty, its elegance and perfection of taste, for its gracious comfort. Without knowing it, she had allowed it to become her home. Her eyes wandered around the room, as though she needed to store up in her memory each beautiful thing here, the glow of the lamplight on the fine old woods, the silver and crystal objects that decorated the room, the silk upholsteries, the Persian carpets.
    And then, and not for the first time, her gaze rested on the portrait of Henrietta Willey that hung above the fireplace. There was something about the portrait that had drawn her, irresistibly, from her first day there, as though it held some special message for her, something loving and magical. The picture had been painted long ago, when Henrietta hadn’t been much older than Bridey herself was now, and in its vibrant, amused expression Bridey could see no resemblance at all to the irascible and reclusive old woman Henrietta had become. The girl in the portrait wore a gown of sea-foam green satin that billowed luxuriously about her, showing off the slim grace of her lithe figure, with a filmy lace stole draped casually off her white shoulders, her long, slim fingers clasping it loosely before her. A cloud of glowing, tawny-blonde hair surrounded her dramatic face, and her expression radiated a lively and gregarious energy and a warmth that invited intimacy. What turn in Henrietta’s life could have soured her into the mean-spirited, isolated woman she’d become?
    Even so, I think I would have liked to have known her.
    The room was dark beyond the single light next to the sofa, and outside lights sparkled from thousands of windows. They reminded her that there were countless individuals out there, each with their own concerns, each of them unconnected to the other, each untouched by her problems.
    She went toward the kitchen, turning on the lights in each room as she passed through.

    Two hours later, after recording the results of her day’s work, she was finally ready for bed. It was time to put aside her worries, at least until the morning, and she decided she badly needed some pampering. She logged off her computer and put it to bed for the night.
    “A hot bath,” she said to the cats, who were settling into their beds. “A long, bubbly soak in the tub, just the thing to make me forget Mack Brewster and the ASPCA. That and a glass of warm milk.”
    But despite a long, relaxing soak in the bubble-filled bathtub, and despite a lavish, all-over application of lotions, the man next door remained on her mind. Even as she snuggled into bed with a magazine and her glass of warm milk, she couldn’t forget him. Her feelings were more complicated than she could understand. Sure, Mack was the heavy in this piece, but still . . . what was it? A feeling of loss that had nothing to do with eighteen rooms and free rent and a fabulous kitchen. What was it about him—was it only his intelligent face, his secure masculinity, his confident, self-assured bearing—she remembered