Free A Self-Made Man by Kathleen O`Brien

voice. Young as he was, he obviously knew trouble when he heard it. He tried to dart away, but his feet could find no traction on the marble countertop. Skidding helplessly, he churned his little legs until both he and the brandy glass tipped over in a splashing heap onto the kitchen floor. For a chaotic moment the air was filled withsplintering glass, meowling cat and one human cry of anguish.
    Lacy rushed forward, but Hamlet, reeking of brandy and terrified beyond endurance, streaked through her grasping hands and headed for the open door.
    â€œAdam!” she cried.
    Thank heaven, Adam was already in action, shutting the door solidly behind him and capturing the fleeing animal, seemingly all in one easy movement.
    Hamlet didn’t bother to struggle. Instead he hung limply, eyes all blinking innocence, as Adam held him out toward Lacy, one hand on the scruff of his neck, the other tucked under his back legs. Brandy dripped between Adam’s fingers.
    â€œOh, Hamlet, you rascal,” Lacy scolded, though a chuckle was pressing against her throat. He did look so ridiculous—like a soggy toupee. And he smelled simply horrible. Still, she took possession eagerly, gathering him up against her chest with a sense of exquisite relief. She combed her fingers through his fur, searching for any dangerous slivers of glass. Luckily there didn’t seem to be any.
    â€œThank you, Adam,” she said belatedly, finally lifting her gaze from Hamlet’s pitiful coat. To her surprise, Adam was watching her closely, a curious expression on his features. “Thank you so much.”
    He nodded with a strange half smile, not taking his gaze from her, still apparently mesmerized by…by something.
    â€œWhat?” she asked nervously, wondering if she had wet cat hair on her chin. “What is it?”
    Perhaps it wasn’t cat hair. Maybe it was something even worse. Now that her anxiety had begun to abate, she was becoming aware that she’d made a complete fool of herself. She’d been tearful, then flustered. And completely out of control.
    She felt like cursing. This was why she should never have let Hamlet stay when he had materialized at her back door, all skin and bones and begging eyes. Loving anything too much made you do crazy things. Made you weak.
    Of course, it was also why she should never have more than one glass of champagne at dinner.
    She lifted her chin and drew herself up, knowing that the effort was probably wasted, that the purring wet tangle of hair now chewing on the beads of her bodice made any attempt at dignity futile. Sure enough, Adam was grinning.
    â€œWhat?” she asked again, her voice hardening just a little.
    He glanced from Lacy to the kitten, then back to Lacy. “Nothing,” he said calmly. “It’s just that—I prefer dogs, myself.” He smiled. “They hold their liquor better.”
    She resisted the urge to smile back. “Adam,” she said, trying to focus. “I appreciate your help, but what, exactly, are you doing here?”
    â€œYou mean, besides playing goalie in this rather fascinating game of cat-hockey? I think I’m mopping up a pile of broken glass.” He sauntered into the kitchen and slid a towel from the drain rack.
    â€œNo, really,” she said, following him with something that felt like desperation. How had things comeso unglued? How had she ended up with her cat reeking of liquor, her kitchen a shambles…and Adam Kendall standing in it, acting as if he owned the place? “Don’t bother. I can do it la—”
    â€œDon’t come in here. You’re barefoot.”
    Good Lord, she was. She looked down at her feet as if they had betrayed her. She must look like a madwoman. A brandy-stained apron flung over an evening dress, hair tugged out of its once-pristine French twist, barefoot and covered in cat hair…
    â€œLacy.” He had already shed his jacket, and was crouching, one