“No problem.”
She fished her key out of her purse, unlocked the door, and then paused with her hand on the knob. “Do you want to come in?” she asked, without noticeable enthusiasm. “I’ve got wine if you want a drink.”
He shook his head. “That’s all right. I should be getting home.”
“Okay.” She was looking at him now with a little frown between her brows, and he wondered what she was thinking.
“So what’s the deal with the tattoos?” she asked suddenly. “Do I get to hear that story?”
“Maybe someday,” he said, deflecting the question. He didn’t usually talk about his past, and the longer he stood here, gazing into Kate’s blue eyes and breathing in her subtle fragrance, the harder it was to remember all the good reasons not to kiss her.
He cleared his throat and took a deliberate step back. “I’ll keep the weekend of the twelfth open. Good night, Kate.”
“Good night, Ian.”
She opened the door, gave him a quick smile, and disappeared inside.
That was the first time she’d ever called him by his first name.
When he realized he was still staring at her door a minute later, he turned and headed for the elevator.
There was no reason to look forward to an event Kate had described as “the wedding from hell.” But as he gunned Stephen’s Harley and drove away, that was exactly what he was doing.
CHAPTER THREE
When Kate woke up the next morning, she opened her eyes to find Gallifrey staring at her from a distance of three inches. He was sitting on her chest like a library lion, gazing down with sphinxlike majesty.
“Go away,” she told him, even as she reached up to scratch between his ears. His low, rusty purr vibrated through her.
She had a headache, and her mouth tasted like the bottom of a birdcage. What the hell had she—
Oh, God.
Memory came flooding back in a sickening wave. Her show . . . Chris . . . the club last night and three shots of whiskey.
Three shots of whiskey . . . and Ian Hart.
Oh, God.
She replayed the evening’s events in her head, trying to remember everything that had happened with Ian.
Okay, she hadn’t kissed him. That was good.
On the other hand, she’d wrapped herself around him on the dance floor and on the motorcycle.
The motorcycle . . .
Kate closed her eyes as she remembered that ride. It really was like having power between your legs. Maybe that’s what made it so sexy—as sexy as their dance had been. Her body pressed against Ian’s, her arms around that rock-hard abdomen . . . feeling the bunch and release of his muscles as he wove through traffic . . .
Hoo, boy.
And he’d offered to be her date to Jessica’s wedding.
Gallifrey, who had apparently decided the time for Zen-like meditation was over, interrupted her thoughts. He kneaded her chest through the cotton sheet, the prick of his claws causing her to say, “Ow, ow, ow,” before she sat up in bed and ran her hands through her hair.
Since sitting up was her usual prelude to getting out of bed and feeding him, Gallifrey jumped to the floor and headed for the kitchen.
As soon as he was gone, Kate collapsed back on her pillow. She felt like crap, though she would’ve felt a lot worse if she’d stayed at the club last night and continued drinking shots.
Ian had kept her from doing that. And he’d kept her from going home with a stranger, too.
He’d looked out for her. And he hadn’t been too heavy-handed about it, all things considered.
In fact, he’d been pretty nice.
Well, why not? He owed her, didn’t he? They’d both agreed on that.
She turned her head and looked at the clock. Was it really almost noon? She hadn’t slept this late in years.
“Mrrowr!”
That was Gallifrey, sitting in the bedroom doorway with a disgusted look on his face.
“I’m coming, I’m coming. Give me a minute.”
Coffee and a shower would make her feel more human, and the cat wouldn’t leave her alone until he got his breakfast. She might as well get up.
A few minutes later, Gallifrey was eating and Kate was pouring milk into her coffee. The thought of food was not appealing, so she took her mug into the living room, curled up in the armchair by the window, and took her first sustaining sip of caffeine.
The day ahead of her was depressingly blank. If she didn’t find some way to keep busy, she’d definitely start feeling sorry for herself.
The first item on her agenda would have to be uninviting Ian to Jessica’s wedding. That had been an arrangement made in the heat of rejection and under the influence of alcohol.
She’d thank him for the offer—as galling as it was to have to thank the man who’d cancelled her show for anything—but explain that she’d be just fine going to the wedding alone. She was a strong, self-confident woman, and she didn’t need a crutch to face her ex-fiancé.