Nine Lives by Sharon Sala Page A

wet washcloth, folded it lengthwise and laid it across her forehead.
    Cat sighed. “Feels good.”
    He breathed a little easier as she closed her eyes, and while he was watching, she fell asleep.
    Wilson sat at her bedside until he was confident that her breathing had evened out. When she finally broke into a faint sweat, he knew the fever had broken and the pills were working.
    He thought about calling a cab and going home, but he was afraid that when the pills wore off, her fever would come back and she would be in worse shape than before. Sometime after midnight, he decided he wasn’t going anywhere until he was sure she could cope and began to make himself at home.
    He kicked off his shoes in the living room and hung his coat on a tree in the hall. After a quick look into her bedroom to assure himself she was all right, he went to the kitchen and began digging through the refrigerator for something to eat.
    To his surprise, there was plenty of food, mostly leftovers, but still intact. Nothing looked moldy or on the verge of turning green, which wasn’t always the case in his own kitchen. He shuffled through the drawers and cabinets until he found what he needed, then dished up some food onto a plate and popped it into the microwave. While he was waiting, he gathered her mail and newspapers, which had accumulated under the slot in the door, and brought them to the kitchen. He tossed everything on the counter, ignoring the fact that several envelopes fell across her answering machine. He did, however, notice the red blinking light, which reminded him to check his own messages. Later, as he was eating, he decided to check his calls.
    He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and listened to the messages, none of which were pressing. When he finished eating, he rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher, then went back to check on her.
    She had twisted and turned from the fever, until one side of her nightgown was rolled up above her waist and the covers were off. He couldn’t help but notice the length of her legs and the slender curve of her hip. And, while he wasn’t going to mess with her gown and take the chance of waking her up, he could pull the covers back over her.
    It wasn’t until he bent down to grab the blankets that he saw the small tattoo on her hip.
    His eyes widened. He looked at her profile. Even asleep, she appeared daunting. But this little tattoo was proof that there might be a softer side to Catherine Dupree.
    The tattoo was a butterfly—and it was pink.
    Who would ever have believed that Cat Dupree would be the kind of woman to have a girly thing like that?
    Barbed wire? Yes.
    A skull and crossbones? Sure.
    A snake with fangs exposed? Plausible.
    But a tattoo of a small pink butterfly on her butt? Priceless.
    Still grinning, he straightened the covers and left her alone. Another facet of this woman had been revealed. It was definitely something to consider, which set him to wondering what else she might be concealing.
    As she slept, he prowled. It wasn’t the gentlemanly thing to do, but no one had ever called him a gentleman. He was curious about her and, despite his better judgment, a little intrigued. It wasn’t until he got to her office and saw the boxes stacked against one wall, saw that they were filled with the same things that adorned the walls and the top of her desk, that he got a slow chill.
    Every page was of a different man—all criminals with rap sheets—all with varying numbers of tattoos. It was then that he remembered what Flannery had told him—that she and her father had been killed by a tattooed man. The case had long since gone cold, but she, obviously, had not given up the hunt.
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    Wind was whipping the branches of the lilac bush against Catherine’s window. The sound was familiar, and it barely registered as she turned over and pulled the covers a little closer beneath her chin.
    In seventeen days school would be