Read Online A Self-Made Man by Kathleen O`Brien - Free Book Online Page B

She’d even turned down a goldfish, for heaven’s sake! How could she have let this little lost kitten slip past her defenses?
    She kissed the air again, praying that he would hear her, but the murmuring of the ever-rising wind was her only answer. It lifted the sweet scent of her Lady Banks roses all the way from the east garden, but it didn’t bring even a hint of Hamlet. Would he have left the yard? Please, no… The night was so ruthlessly black. It could swallow one tiny silver cat without a ripple.
    â€œHamlet. Hamlet.” Her headache had arrived. She bent over the railing, waiting for the porch to stop listing. “Oh, where are you, Hamlet?”
    â€œI’m no Shakespearean scholar,” an amused voice said from somewhere just behind her left shoulder, “but shouldn’t that be ‘Romeo’?”
    Lacy whirled, her hand at her bare throat. “Adam,” she gasped on an intake of shallow breath that squeaked in a particularly humiliating way. Instinctively, she took refuge in anger. “What were you thinking, sneaking up on me like that? You startled me.”
    He raised his brows, silently questioning the extremity of her reaction. “Sorry,” he said politely. “I thought you heard me. I wasn’t exactly in stealth mode. In fact, I just had a rather resonant encounter with your next-door neighbor.”
    â€œSilas?” Oh, dear. Lacy’s annoyance fled, replaced by a sense of dread. She uneasily scanned Adam’s face for bruises or bleeding. “You ran into Silas Jared?”
    â€œI didn’t get his name. Nice fellow? Silver hair? Rather large rifle?”
    She nodded nervously. Silas had his rifle out. That didn’t sound good.
    â€œHe’s an interesting old guy, isn’t he?” Adam grinned slightly. “He thinks the world of you. Doesn’t care much for strange men on your property, though.”
    In spite of herself, Lacy smiled, picturing Adam staring down the barrel of Silas Jared’s ancient rifle. Something—perhaps the three glasses of wine—made the image particularly funny.
    â€œIt’s not personal,” she said apologetically, hoping she wasn’t slurring her words at all. She couldn’t bear for Adam to know that she was tipsy. “It’s just that, well, Silas sort of appointed himself my protector when Malcolm died. Sometimes he gets a little…carried away. But don’t worry. That rifle hasn’t been loaded since the Civil War.”
    â€œHe mentioned that.” Adam chuckled. “But apparently he also has a bowie knife he’s itching to use.” Hitching one foot up onto the porch step, he leaned across the railing comfortably. “So. Who’s Hamlet?”
    â€œWho’s—” Lacy remembered suddenly, with a sting of remorse, that she still hadn’t found Hamlet. She must be even more scatter-brained than she had realized.
    â€œHe’s my kitten,” she said, looking up into the shadows of the oak once more. “I think he’s stuck up in the tree. He’s just four months old, and he can’t get down—”
    â€œIs he one of those flat-faced, spoiled-rotten, purebreds? Fur almost as silver as Silas Jared’s hair?”
    Lacy didn’t like the description—it completely overlooked Hamlet’s elegance and charm. But she had to admit it summed up the Persian cat fairly well. “Yes,” she said, too tired and worried to take offense. “Why? Have you seen a cat like that? When? Where?”
    â€œJust now. Through your kitchen window. He had his face in a brandy snifter.”
    â€œHamlet!” Relief and exasperation flowing equally through her system, Lacy rushed back inside. Just as Adam had said, Hamlet stood on the kitchen counter, whisker-deep in the half-empty brandy glass. “Hamlet, no!”
    The kitten lifted a guilt-stricken, brandy-soaked face at the sound of Lacy’s