LITMIR.BIZ

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out of it. I went in the cage to change his bandage and give him water.”

      She moved down a little on the cot, so that she was sitting by his thighs instead of by his waist. She began unbuttoning her blouse. He ignored his surprise and forced himself to hold her gaze and not follow the movements of her fingers. But in the periphery of his sight he saw the blouse fall open. She held it together just above her breasts.

      “I hadn’t bothered to check to see if he was still sleeping. I crouched down to pick up his water bowl.”

      She turned away from him and shrugged out of the shirt. He wasn’t sure what to expect. Her blouse slipped off her left shoulder. Cort stared. From just below the nape of her neck, across the top of her back, along her shoulder blade and ending on the back of her arm, four scars traced the route taken by the lion’s claws. The parallel lines puckered in some places, as if the depth of the slashing hadn’t been uniform.

      “He was awake and he attacked me.” She pulled up her blouse and turned to face him. “I was lucky. I got out before he really hurt me.”

      Though she held the front together, he could see the paleness of her chest and swelling curve of her breasts. Her choice in lingerie matched the rest of her wardrobe. Sensible cotton trimmed in a thin ribbon of lace. A female who dismissed the need to entice a man with satin, though her choice in perfume was anything but pedestrian.

      “Do you see why I’m not afraid of you?” she asked.

      No. He and the mountain lion had little in common. The creature of God killed for food or to protect itself. Cort killed because it was asked of him.

      She touched his arm briefly. “Sleep now,” she said. “I’ll be right down the hall. If you need anything, call me.” She rose and walked to the door.

      She stood there watching him. Although her hands clutched her blouse together, he could still see the top of one breast. The unexpected view of that female curve hit him low in the gut, spreading need throughout his body. All cats are gray in the dark, he reminded himself, then closed his eyes. Maybe. But something told him Faith Newlin was a special brand of cat…and one he should leave alone.

      * * *

      He could hear the tide lapping against the pilings that supported the dock. And he could smell salt air.

      The warehouse.

      Cort shook his head to clear it. Was he meeting someone, or picking something up? Why couldn’t he remember?

      Something was wrong. Danger! He heard it, felt it. A voice called to him. Dan? He had to get out, to run. The explosion! There wasn’t time. He spun to leave, but something blocked his way. Danger! Run!

      “Hush, Cort. You’re safe now.” Gentle hands pressed against his shoulders.

      He forced his eyes open. Instead of a damp South American warehouse, or even the fires of hell, he stared into wide blue eyes and inhaled the scent of French perfume.

      “Je t’aime.” he murmured.

      “A lovely thought,” the woman said, then smiled. “But you’ve just met me.”

      “Your perfume.”

      “Ah. Yes. That’s it.”

      He blinked several times to clear his vision and his head. Everything came back to him. The time in the hospital, the cats, the woman. “Faith.”

      “Good morning. How do you feel?”

      He sat up. Sometime in the night, he’d woken up enough to strip off his clothes. The sheet pooled around his waist. He raised his arms above his head and stretched. “Like a new man. What time is it?”

      “Almost nine.”

      He’d been out almost fourteen hours. “Guess I was tired.”

      “Guess so. You want some breakfast?”

      His stomach rumbled.

      She chuckled and rose to her feet. She looked fresh and clean. Her long brown hair had been pulled back into a braid. Jeans and boots covered her lower half, but the plaid work shirt had been replaced by a pink T-shirt. She handed him the crutches.

      “I put your shaving kit in the bathroom,” she said.

      He took the crutches and pulled himself to his feet. As he rose, he realized he was wearing nothing but his briefs. A quick glance at Faith told him she didn’t even bother to look. Yeah, he’d impressed the hell out of her.

      He took an experimental step. The leg felt stronger and his head didn’t hurt anymore. He rubbed one hand over his face. Stubble rasped against his palm.

      “I need a shave,” he said.

      “When you’re done, I’ll have breakfast ready.” She ducked ahead of him in the hall and tossed a pair of jeans and a shirt into the bathroom. “The towels are clean. I put a plastic bag out, so you can shower without getting the bandage wet.”

      Before he could thank her, she was heading down the hall. Her braid swayed with each step, as did her curvy hips. He stared after her until she turned the corner.

      By the time he’d made himself presentable, he could smell food cooking. He followed the delicious odors past two more offices, through a door marked Private and into a small living room.

      “Faith?” he called.

      “In here.”

      He maneuvered the crutches around the maple coffee table and rocking chair into a cheery yellow kitchen. A Formica table stood in front of a bay window that looked out into the forest. The stove appeared to be older than he was and the refrigerator older still by ten years. But everything gleamed in the morning light. He sniffed, smelling mint along with the cooking.

      Faith looked up from the stove. “I hope scrambled is all right.” She motioned to the table. “Have a seat.”

      She’d set a place for him and lined up all his medications in a row. A glass of orange juice sat next to a cup of coffee. He looked at the setting, then at her. “Very nice. Thanks.”

      He pulled out a chair, sat down and sipped the coffee. She served his breakfast, then poured herself a cup and took the seat opposite him. A stack of papers rested in front of her. As she studied them, she nibbled on the corner of her mouth. Was it worry or simply a habit? Who was this woman who took in stray lions and spies? He buttered the toast she’d made, then sorted through the jars of jelly.

      “What are you looking for?” she asked.

      “Mint. I can smell it. Can’t you?”

      She looked down. “Yes.” He could have sworn her shoulders were shaking.

      “What’s so funny?”

      She looked up, her face expressionless. The innocence didn’t fool him. “Nothing,” she said.

      “Sure.” He cautiously took a bite of the eggs. “This is great. I was half-afraid you’d feed me cat food.”

      “Eggs are cheaper.”

      He heard a rumble, like a low-flying plane. The sound continued for several minutes as he ate, then it stopped. He chewed a mouthful of food and swallowed. “What do the cats eat?”

      “Anything I can get my hands on. Chicken mostly. The bones keep their teeth clean and exercised. Sometimes hunters leave me extra venison.”

      “Must get expensive.”

      She nodded. “The biggest cats eat up to fifteen pounds a day.”

      The rumble started again, broke, became an almost coughing sound, like someone sawing wood, then resumed. “What the hell is that?”

      “What?”

      “That rumble. Can’t you hear it?”

      She chuckled. “I’m so used to it, I only notice when

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