Tempting Faith. Susan Mallery

widened her blue eyes. “I keep cats.”

      “Cats?” He rubbed his pounding temple.

      “Jeff didn’t explain?”

      “No.” He cursed under his breath. Cats? What had his boss gotten him into? He glanced at Faith. In her jeans and shirt, with her sensible work boots and unmade-up face, she didn’t look like his idea of a person who kept bunches of cats, but then when had he ever met one? “So you keep, what, twenty of them in the house?”

      She chuckled. Her smile could only be described as impish. “No cats in the house, I promise. And no more than forty or so at a time. I don’t have the room.”

      “Forty?” He swallowed. Maybe he should have taken his chances with his D.C. apartment and the tourists.

      “They aren’t a bother.”

      “I bet.”

      “Oh, but Sparky does sort of have the run of the place.”

      “Sparky? Does he sleep in the house?”

      “No, he sleeps in the office. He’s our mascot.”

      “Great.” He pictured some flea-bitten alley cat cowering in the corner.

      “He was Edwina’s favorite. Edwina is the lady who used to run the way station.”

      “So there really are forty cats?”

      “And Sparky.”

      Oh, Christ. Cort leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Why was Jeff doing this to him? His boss was normally a pretty fair guy. Had the last assignment been messed up that badly?

      He allowed himself to get lost in the pain, controlling his breathing and counting out his heartbeats. It wasn’t until the truck slowed that he looked around.

      She’d stopped to make a left-hand turn onto a dirt road. A small sign stated that they were entering the Edwina Daniels Feline Way Station.

      She stared at the entrance. “The gate’s open. I wonder why?” She shrugged. “Maybe the kids knew I’d be coming back.”

      “What’s normal procedure?” he asked.

      She pointed to the small black box attached to the sun visor on the passenger’s side of the cab. “It’s remote controlled.”

      He picked up the transmitter. “Looks like it’s for a garagedoor opener.”

      “It is. We modified it.”

      Which meant the electronic device on the gate could be defeated by a ten-year-old.

      After shifting into neutral, she pulled on the lever that switched the truck from two- to four-wheel drive. “Hold on.”

      He gripped the window frame with one hand and the back of the seat with the other. His fingers rested inches from her shoulder. The truck turned onto the dirt road and immediately hit a huge bump.

      “The gullies got worse with the spring rains,” she said.

      “I’ll bet.”

      They lurched over a rock as, behind them, the trailer hit the first bump. The combined action loosened his grip and jarred his injured leg.

      He swore.

      “Sorry.” Faith gave him a quick glance. “I’ll try to go slower.”

      “Not on my account,” he ground out as fresh blood seeped from the wound. He resumed his hold on the window frame and the back of the seat. This time, a few strands of her hair became trapped under his hand. The soft silkiness distracted him from his pain and he wondered what a woman like her was doing out here, alone except for some college kids and a few dozen cats.

      Before he could formulate an answer, they took a sharp turn to the left and rolled onto a paved road.

      “What the—” He glanced behind at the dirt torture session, then ahead at what looked like a good mile of asphalt. “You care to explain that?”

      “It’s to discourage visitors. We keep the bumps and rocks because they’ll scare off anyone in a car.”

      “Probably lose the whole chassis.”

      “That’s the idea.”

      “And the paved road?”

      She shrugged, then moved the lever from four- back to two-wheel drive. “It’s convenient. We have another two miles to go.”

      “You don’t want anyone near your cats, do you?”

      “Only invited guests. The foundation is privately funded. There are about two hundred donors. The bulk of the money comes from Edwina’s estate. We have the donors out a couple of times a year for fund-raisers, but we put planks over the ruts so their limos don’t lose their transmissions.”

      “Smart move.”

      She rolled down her window and inhaled. “Almost home. I can smell it.”

      He rolled down his window and took a tentative sniff, half expecting to smell eau de Kitty Litter. Instead the scent of leaves and earth filled him. The road was plenty wide enough for the truck. Tall trees and thick underbrush lined both sides of the pavement. Birds and rustling leaves filled the quiet of the warm June afternoon. He inhaled again, noticing the sweet scent of flowers. Peaceful. Exactly what he needed.

      Faith chattered about the weather and the house. Cort shifted his position and didn’t listen. He craved a good twelve hours of sleep. Then he would regroup.

      “We’re here,” she said, breaking into his thoughts. They rounded the last corner. He was nearly jerked from his seat when she unexpectedly slammed on the brakes.

      Less than three hundred feet up the road stood a large open area. Trees had been cleared to create a natural parking lot. The pavement circled around in front of a long, one-story building. High bushes and trees concealed everything behind the structure.

      In the middle of the parking area, looking very bright and very out of place, stood a shiny van. The colorful logo of a Los Angeles television station gleamed in the late afternoon sun.

      “I told him no.” Faith shook her head and looked at Cort. “Reporters. One of them called from an L.A. station and asked for an interview. He’d heard rumors about the kittens. I told him I wouldn’t talk to him.”

      Cort stared at her. Did she say kittens? Before he could ask, she’d pulled the truck up next to the van.

      Faith set the brake. Five people glanced up at her. Two looked incredibly guilty, three vaguely surprised.

      “This is private property,” she told the newspeople as she got out of the truck. “You don’t have permission to be here. You’re trespassing. I want you out of here, now!”

      It wasn’t hard for Faith to pick out the reporter. Aside from being indecently handsome, he wore a coat and tie over his jeans. The other two men with him, one holding a camera, the other operating a mike, smiled winningly and began clicking on switches.

      “Hey, I’m James Wilson, from Los Angeles. K-NEWS,” the reporter said, moving next to her and offering his hand. “We spoke on the phone yesterday. What a great story. I’ve got all I need from your assistants, but maybe we could talk for a few minutes. It would really add some depth to the piece.”

      Faith ignored the outstretched hand. “You’re right, Mr. Wilson. We did speak on the phone. I told you not to come up here. The kittens aren’t to be taped or photographed. This is private property. You are trespassing. Please leave.”

      His perfect smile faded slightly. “I don’t understand.”

      “It’s simple,” she said. “You don’t have permission to be here, or to write a story. You’re trespassing.”

      “Hey, this was on the wire service. Don’t blame me. Besides, the freedom