Free A Self-Made Man by Kathleen O`Brien Page A

knee on the kitchen floor, a paper towel in his hand. He began plucking glittering shards from the soupy mess with long, deft fingers. “Throw that cat in the bathtub.” He looked up, one eyebrow raised. “God—you can wash cats, can’t you?”
    â€œOf course,” she said defensively. Why defensively? She couldn’t imagine. She didn’t care whether he liked cats or not. Besides, wasn’t he supposed to be with Jennifer Lansing tonight? Why was he here, criticizing her choice of pets? “Of course you can wash a cat.”
    â€œThen do it,” he said, returning his attention to his mission. “And while you’re at it, you might want to climb in with him. Brandy doesn’t make the best perfume, especially after a few hours.”
    One sniff told her he was right. But still she hovered in the doorway, strangely reluctant to go, reluctant to leave him here, alone in her little kitchen. Malcolm’s kitchen, actually. But still…it seemed too intimate, somehow.
    Hamlet had dozed off, nestled against her breast. His purring vibrated against her skin.
    â€œAdam,” she began stiltedly. “I really do appreciate your help with Hamlet.” It was easier to talk, she discovered, when she couldn’t see his face. “It’s just that… Well, I just wanted you to know things aren’t usually this…chaotic here. I’m a little tired tonight, and I was terribly worried about Hamlet. That may seem silly to you, but he’s very young, and—”
    Finally Adam looked up. “Don’t apologize for being human, Lacy,” he said dryly. “It’s actually considered desirable in some parts of the world.”
    â€œBut I—” She touched her dangling hair helplessly and attempted a nonchalant laugh. “You see, I had a little too much to drink at dinner. It was an awful situation. Tilly had brought in this potential investor, but then she simply couldn’t stand him, and she was arguing with everything he said, and it was so stressful, so I just kept filling everyone’s champagne glass, and…” She stopped herself with effort. Why was she telling him this? “Not,” she added hurriedly, “that I could conceivably be considered drunk… ”
    He smiled, turning a large, curving piece of broken crystal in his fingers. “No,” he agreed. “You couldn’t. You’ve probably had…what…two glasses of wine? No more than three.”
    She stared at him. “How—”
    Cocking his head slightly to one side, he studied her pleasantly. “As I recall, once you get to four your left eyelid droops an eighth of an inch. At five you have trouble with words like ‘conceivably,’ and you can’t stop yawning. By six, you’re out cold.”
    She felt herself flushing, and she struggled to contain it. Good grief, she might have guessed he’d remember that. She’d been a teenager then, for heaven’s sake, experimenting with adult sins, getting high for the first time on the forbidden thrill of cheap convenience store beer. Adam himself never drank a drop, not that night or ever. The son of an alcoholic father, he’d refused to follow in his father’s footsteps, which had always been skidding downhill.
    But Adam had sat with her, out in Tilly Barnhardt’s stables, watching over her while she stupidly drank herself into a stupor. After the first beer, she had danced, twirling merrily from the stall gate. After three, she had sung love songs along with the radio till the horses grew restless. At five, she had pressed herself urgently against Adam like a hoyden, inhibitions banished. And then, at six, long before she could persuade him to seduce her, she had fallen asleep like a baby in his arms.
    â€œI—” For the first time in years, she wasn’t winning the battle of the blush. “I—”
    He laughed softly, a