Kissed by Cat. Shirley Jump

      Catherine fought against him anyway, but he cradled her close, within the soft comfort of his sweater. A well-worn wool, washed so many times it felt rather like down. He ran a hand along her head, crooning again, saying nothing at all really, but sending a sense of calm rippling through her veins.

      Against every instinct she’d honed in the last two centuries, Catherine relaxed, snuggling into that warmth, allowing herself to relax.

      Such a long, lonely road I’ve traveled. How nice it would be to let someone else take care of me. For just one tiny, blissful minute.

      And then, she’d go back to her life. To finding the kittens. To worrying about the curse, the deadline looming over her.

      A low, quiet, strange rumbling started in her throat. Catherine jerked upright. The sound stopped. The man kept stroking her head and again, she relaxed. A second later, the curious sound started again, vibrating through her as gently as the wash of a tide.

      Why was that sound coming from her throat? What did it mean? And why did it feel so good?

      “There you are, little one,” he whispered, touching every nerve with what seemed such intimate knowledge of the best-feeling places, “I knew I could make you purr.”

      She closed her eyes and forgot momentarily about escape. Absorbing simply this man, his touch, his kindness.

      A few more seconds, that’s all. Then she’d—

      There was a squeak. Catherine opened her eyes only to see a second, bigger cage. He’d betrayed her. She shrieked but couldn’t stop him from placing her inside and shutting the door.

      “I’ll be back, don’t worry,” he said. “Sleep tight.”

      Catherine hissed and swatted at his retreating form. A second later, the room was plunged into darkness.

      She settled onto the newspaper-covered floor and let out a heavy sigh, ignoring the bowls of food and water beside her. Oh Lord, she was tired, more tired than she could remember feeling before. Maybe because the end was near. Six more days and her fate would be sealed. For better or worse, this half existence would be over.

      She only had those few days to get a taste of what life might have been like—had she been able to go down a different lane. A life that could have included a husband, children. A home of her own. She’d missed out on all of that, thanks to Hezabeth’s rather warped sense of revenge. If only—

      Enough self-pity. Catherine got to her feet and paced the length of the metal container, clean newspaper crunching beneath her paws. She was in a bit of a sticky wicket, to say the least.

      First on the agenda was escape. She’d deal with figuring out how to get back to the kittens and the alley where she’d stashed her small reserve of cash for safekeeping later. She’d had two hundred years to ponder her fate and hadn’t reached any answers yet. Better to stay busy with the things she could change.

      There had to be a way out. Finding a twenty-five-year-old blonde busting out of the locked two-by-three cage where he’d last seen a pale orange tabby would undoubtedly shock Humanitarian Harry into cardiac arrest. As appealing as that idea was, Catherine pushed it aside and went back to trying to figure out how she could pick a lock with four paws and a spattering of whiskers for tools.

      The clock on the wall ticked along at a steady pace. Catherine had four hours to find a way out. Four hours until she changed from a cat…and became a woman again.

      She had until sunrise to pull off a miracle.

      Garrett couldn’t sleep. Charlie, his chocolate Labrador, snored loudly at the end of the bed. In a corner basket, Ferdinand and Isabel, a pair of muddled-blood cats, lay stretched out and quiet. Garrett, the only human in the room, lay on the bed, eyes open, arms crossed behind his head.

      He’d come back to the house he shared with his Aunt Mabel at one in the morning. As always, he’d stopped to check on his elderly aunt, turning off the blaring TV and covering her with a blanket before heading to his own room. Up until a couple weeks ago, when Aunt Mabel had come down with a bout of pneumonia and temporarily needed more care, he’d lived in a cottage that sat on the back of her land.

      When her home had been part of an estate, the little house had been the gardener’s home. Ten years ago, Uncle Leo had converted it into a rental property. But when Leo died, leaving a grieving and frail Mabel alone, Garrett had moved into the cottage. Just at the right time, too, given all that had gone wrong in his life then.

      Garrett rolled over and punched his pillow into a new shape, but it didn’t make him any sleepier. His thoughts went back to the stray he’d found that night. She was such a tiny thing, all spit and fire. Despite her temper, she was a beautiful cat—short-haired and petite, with a pale orange coat, almost blond in color. He chuckled. Whoever took her home would need a lot of patience and cat treats to win over that grumpy girl.

      Exhaustion weighed on him, but not enough to grant him sleep. His mind refused to quit, to give in and stop the reminders.

      Garrett hadn’t slept for more than two hours at a stretch in three years. Every time he closed his eyes, the nightmares returned, tearing at him, making him relive that horrible night again and again.

      To hell with it. He got to his feet. The Monday morning sun would be up in an hour or so and then sleep would be pointless. As he’d done a thousand times before, he decided to go to the office before the rest of the world woke up. There was always work.

      Ever since his last assistant had quit, he’d been running himself ragged, trying to keep up with the appointments, the shelter and the day-to-day of running his practice. Dottie, his receptionist, was a big help, but what he really needed was a second pair of hands to work with the animals. Problem was, he’d been through three assistants in the past six months.

      Either he couldn’t hire good help or he didn’t have the personality to keep good help. He had a feeling it was the latter.

      Standing around thinking about the problem wouldn’t get it solved. He needed to work on plans for expanding the shelter and hopefully come up with a strategy to convince the Lawford Community Foundation to finance his dream. Their support thus far had been barely tepid, which, admittedly, was partly his fault. He wasn’t exactly a great communicator. If he was going to make his dream happen, he needed a miracle before Saturday night.

      Without looking in the mirror, Garrett showered, shaved and dressed. He avoided his reflection, slipping into jeans and a light blue button-down shirt, stepping into loafers and combing his hair into the same pattern as he had for almost twenty-eight years. Minutes later, he’d fed his cats and dropped them off at the cottage for the day, then set off for the office. Charlie panted in the seat beside him, eager for work.

      First thing, he’d see how that cat was doing. After tangling with her last night, he’d put off an exam until today. No sense igniting her temper more than he already had. Once she was deemed healthy, he could find her a home.

      He’d miss her, despite her cranky personality. He missed every animal that left his building. You can’t keep them all, his mother always told him, or you’ll be running a zoo instead of a veterinarian’s office.

      He already had three pets, more than enough for the cottage and for his aunt’s home. And here, in the office, there was always a dozen or so waiting for his attention. Between the shelter and his veterinarian practice, hundreds of animals came into his care each year.

      He loved them all. Well, except for Miss Tanner’s giant Doberman. What he wouldn’t give for a little help with Sweet Pea, whose name had nothing to do with her description or her personality. Even Dottie feared the dog, a nearly maniacal barker who ate almost everything in sight. Garrett had to admit he dreaded Miss Tanner and Sweet Pea’s annual appointment. Not to mention her continual “emergency” visits with the dog.

      Where her Doberman was concerned, Miss Tanner was a canine hypochondriac.

      But the rest of the animals had a piece of his heart. Maybe because