A Purrfect Romance by J.M. Bronston Page B

the way the candlelight from the table had softened the rugged planes of his handsome face and added a depth to the texture of his black hair, the way his dark eyes looked into her own . . .
    She slammed shut the door on the image.
    She turned the pages of her magazine. But her eyes took in nothing of what was on them.
    Finally she gave up trying to read. She finished her milk, turned out the light and burrowed her head into the pile of pillows. And in the dark, she realized that Mack Brewster was in the apartment next door, only a few feet away from her.
    He, too, she thought, must be in his bed, sleeping nearby, separated from her by only a wall. She wondered what his bedroom looked like. She wondered what he wore to bed—probably an old-fashioned nightshirt, she thought, making herself laugh by adding a floppy nightcap to the image—she wondered if he also drank warm milk before going to sleep, or if he said his prayers, or if perhaps he was thinking of her . . .
    She sat up abruptly, grabbed a pillow and threw it hard at the wall opposite her.
    “Damn that man!”
    Then she slumped down under the covers.
    “Damn that man,” she whispered into the dark.
     
    But Mack was not in his bed. For the last hour he’d been sitting in a deck chair on the terrace of his apartment. With Scout sprawled beside him, their two forms concealed by the night, he’d been watching the lights in the windows of apartment 12A. He knew when Bridey finished working in the kitchen and turned out the light, and he could see her shadow behind the drawn curtains of the bedroom windows as she moved about inside, getting ready for bed.
    He wasn’t spying on her.
    He just couldn’t get her off his mind.

Chapter Eight
    I t was a cool Monday morning, and Gerald Kinski was just getting out of his topcoat when the intercom on his desk buzzed.
    “It’s Miss Berrigan on one, Mr. Kinski.”
    He hit the speaker button.
    “Morning, Bridey. What’s up?”
    He tossed his coat onto the leather sofa, settled into his chair and picked up the receiver. While he talked, he fingered through the stack of weekend mail that was waiting for him on his desk. He frowned as he picked one envelope out of the pile and read the return address. Could this be the reason for her call?
    “Would you have a couple of minutes for me to come by this morning?” Bridey was saying. “I need to talk to you.”
    “Is there a problem?” he asked.
    “Maybe,” she said. “Would ten o’clock be all right?”
    He glanced at his watch. “Sure, Bridey. I’ll be able to fit you in at ten.”
    “Thanks, Mr. Kinski. I’ll be there in an hour.”
    He waited for the dial tone and then rang his secretary.
    “Cynthia, Bridey Berrigan will be in at ten. Give us about thirty minutes. And would you ring Harold Maudsley for me?” He looked at the paper in his hand and read off the phone number to her from the letterhead. “He’s on the Six Twelve Park Avenue co-op board.”

    “So, Bridey, what can I do for you?”
    Gerry settled back into the depths of his chair and smiled at her. She is such a treat, he was thinking. She brings the springtime in with her.
    Her miniskirt was pale green and dotted with tiny yellow buttercups, and her cropped yellow blouse had a row of little buttons marching down the front. She made him think of a spring flower, just opening up to summer’s sunshine. She carried a darker green jacket and laid that over the arm of her chair.
    “Well, Mr. Kinski, I’m not sure how to say this, but I think I have a problem.”
    “Yes, you said that when you called. Everything’s okay with the cats, I hope.”
    “Oh, sure,” she said nervously. For a moment she thought of confessing to him about Silk’s little adventure at the fish market but decided she’d better not say anything about that. “Silk and Satin are just fine. We’re getting along great. No, it’s about the apartment.”
    Gerry nodded his head.
    “I know you didn’t make any promises, but I