Roz Fox - Welcome To My Family

By the time the five o’clock whistle blew signaling the end of her week, Kat’s entire body hurt from physical exertion and her neck ached from the stress of dealing with Slater Kowalski. Oh, he was clever, Kat would give him that. He popped into the warehouse at odd hours, smiling that crooked little smile, asking the employees in his sneaky, subtle way if they thought she was doing a good job. Or at least that was the way it sounded to Kat.

The single women out in the ranks soon discovered that complaining about her was a surefire way to get a few minutes alone with their handsome boss. Each time one of them cried on his shoulder, Slater made a point of suggesting Kat put forth more effort to get along. She wanted to scream, or hit him.

She should make the effort! Really! On the drive home Friday, Kat entertained visions of subjecting him to all manner of medieval tortures.

At dinner Pop mentioned that he’d be leaving soon for his poker party at Spud’s; until then, it had completely slipped Kat’s mind that she’d planned to spy on the group. “Why don’t you cancel?” she implored. “We haven’t had a moment to discuss my new job. Maybe later we could rent a video and make popcorn like old times.”

Her father paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “I can’t do that, kitten. Friday night is poker night.”

Mrs. O’Halloran rose abruptly and started banging dishes around near the sink.

Kat sighed, kissing her dream of a soothing bath goodbye. “I haven’t played poker since I left here. Maybe I’ll tag along. How much money does a person need to crash this game?” She sent her dad a smile. The kind of smile that had always worked with him before.

He looked uncomfortable. Kat knew perfectly well he wasn’t in the habit of refusing her anything. She’d begun to taste triumph when he muttered, “Stay home and keep your mother company, kitten. The game is just for regulars. Besides, you should spend your money on pretty dresses that’ll attract a husband. Not on cards.”

His wife snorted. “Shouldn’t we all.”

“Since when haven’t you been able to go out and buy clothing anytime you wanted, Maureen?” Timothy clambered to his feet and threw down his napkin. Digging a wallet out of his back pocket, he peeled off several bills and dropped them on the table. “You ladies go shopping. Be my guest. Don’t wait up, I’ll be late tonight.”

The moment the door closed on his heels, Kat’s mother burst into tears. Kat was so mad at Pop, she wanted to shake him. “Mom, call Dodie Moran. Take Pop up on his offer. Buy yourself a new dress. It’ll make you feel better.”

The sniffles slowed. “And just where would I be wearin’ a new dress, Katie? When Timothy only goes out with the men?”

“To church, Mama. You and Pop still go to church together.”

That seemed to give her mother pause for thought. “Will you come shopping, Katie? He left enough money for two dresses.”

Kat glanced away. She hated lying. “I’m really bushed, Mama. First week on a new job and all. Call Dodie. Frankly, I need an evening alone to unwind.”

“Well, if you’re sure…” Maureen O’Halloran reached for the telephone. Soon, she was preparing to meet her friend at the mall.

Kat escorted her to the door. “Shop till you drop, Mama. Then you and Dodie treat yourselves to a relaxing glass of wine at O’Toole’s.”

“Oh, we couldn’t. It wouldn’t be seemly.”

Kat delivered a swift hug. “Sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose. This is a new millennium, Mama. Live a little. I don’t want to see you home until eleven. Do you hear?”

A small frown etched her mother’s forehead, but she nodded. Kat shut the door and slumped against it. She figured that gave her until ten, at least, to check out this poker game. Kat knew her mother well. She’d never sit in a bar, not even a high-class place like O’Toole’s, for more than one glass of wine. Two, max, if Dodie was persuasive.

Kat hurried to load the dishwasher, then went upstairs to dress in black jeans and a black turtleneck. She didn’t want any neighbors to see her climbing that tree and call the cops. On her way past the bathroom, she gave the tub a last, longing look.

She parked her Trooper in the lot at the corner grocery store and walked the few blocks to Spud’s. Her vehicle still had Washington plates and was pretty distinctive. Typical of her recent luck, halfway to his house it started to rain. Cursing men in general, she hunched her shoulders and jogged the last few blocks. Kat huddled beneath a dripping tree across from the Mallory home and checked out the cars lining the drive. Bridie Mallory’s new little Motorhill compact was gone. Kat knew Mrs. Mallory’s car because when she’d come by the other day to pick up the backboard, Spud had bragged about the engine he’d help design.

Buzz Moran still had the same car he’d driven three years ago, and Kat recognized Luke Sheehan’s sports car. He’d picked her father up for the races on Sunday. Kat had listened to her mother expound for twenty minutes on how those men were all going to hell for patronizing the track on Sundays. That left only the black sedan parked parallel to the house unaccounted for. It didn’t take a detective to figure out the luxury car belonged to Louie Kowalski.

As Kat slipped around back and gazed up at the spreading branches of Mallory’s old hawthorn tree, she felt more like a small-time hood than a righteous daughter. She considered canceling her plans—until she recalled her mother’s tears. Before her courage gave way, Kat jumped to catch the lowest branch. She stifled a groan at the effort it cost her already-aching arms to swing herself aloft and straddle the branch as her brothers had done when they were kids.

“Ouch,” she yelped without thinking as a thorny branch snagged her arm. “Damn and blast.” It felt as if she’d drawn blood. Kat scrambled to a thicker limb and stopped to check. There was a gaping hole in the sleeve of her favorite sweater. She shouldn’t have yelled so loudly, but it had hurt as well as surprised her.

Josh had never mentioned the tree had three-inch thorns. Obviously one reason it served so effectively as a smuggling route. What parent would figure a kid was dumb enough to risk getting stabbed for a snitched beer or two?

Since no one roared out of the garage to investigate the noise, Kat edged up several levels toward a bough that scraped the house. The windowsill was within her grasp when a second thorn gouged her cheek. This time she swore roundly, trusting her voice would be muffled.

No one was more shocked than Kat when an arm snaked out of the attic window, grasped her by the belt of her jeans and jerked her into a black hole. Her assailant immediately clamped a hand over her mouth, cutting off not only Kat’s muffled cry but her breath, as well.

She flailed her arms and kicked backward, twice connecting with solid flesh.

“Oof. Stop it, you little spitfire,” a low voice hissed in her ear.

Kat went stiff as a board. She knew that voice. Slater Kowalski. How humiliating. Identifiable now in the faint light seeping in around a trapdoor that led to the garage, he dangled her a foot off a rough plank floor.

Kat jammed an elbow sharply in Slater’s ribs, doing her level best to bite his fingers.

“Ugh!” His breath exploded in a hiss, causing him to release her so fast she hit the floor like a sack of flour. “Shh,” he muttered, dropping down on his knees beside her. “Do you want them to hear you?”

“Me? What are you doing here, Kowalski?” she demanded with as much force as she could convey in a whisper, considering that they were both trying to be quiet. “Where do you get off manhandling me?”

He silenced her by pressing a finger to her lips, then he nodded his head toward the square door that sat propped ajar.

Only then did Kat register how loud the music and male laughter was that drifted up from the converted garage.

Abruptly, Slater moved his fingers to her chin and angled her face into the flicker of light. “You’re bleeding. What happened?” His voice was rough. His fingers gentle.

Kat jerked her head aside to keep him from seeing. There he sat in his Polo coordinates—bone-dry and not a mark on him—while she was wet and looked, no doubt, like she’d come out last in a cat fight.

Slater tried again to see her face.

“Mind your own business,” she said, dodging his fingers.

He would have insisted, but all at once there was a lull in the Sinatra song and he heard his father say, “Timothy, you’re unusually quiet tonight.”

Kat’s father answered in a lower tone that sent the two eavesdroppers crawling close to the trapdoor. “I had a hard time getting out of the house,” Timothy said. “It took a chunk of my stash to throw Maureen offtrack. I sent her shopping.”

Buzz Moran snorted. “Since this whole scheme was your bright idea, Timmy, ’tis a fine thing, you shelling out our profits in an attack of conscience.”

Lying side-by-side on the floor above the poker players, Slater felt Kat pull away. He started to nudge her, to claim victory…before he saw the quiver in her lower lip.

A huge tear slipped to the curve of her cheek and she quickly brushed it away.

Slater didn’t know which affected him more, witnessing the demise of the fierce faith she held in her old man, or the realization that he was the last person she’d want to see her crumble.

For some reason, he was moved by her attempt to keep a stiff upper lip. Without a word, he cupped a palm around the back of her head and gently guided her face into the protective curve of his shoulder. For one strained heartbeat, he waited for her backlash. When it didn’t come, Slater began to massage the nape of her neck. Her skin felt soft and cool. Her perfume wafted up and tickled his nose.

Instinct told Kat to resist overtures from a man who belonged to the enemy camp. But darn it all, this had been such a miserable day. So had the whole week, for that matter. She’d give him this much; he had tranquilizing hands. Warm hands…She hadn’t thought anything could chase away her bone-deep chill.

Perhaps her suddenly rapid heartbeat was just a belated reaction to being yanked into Mallory’s attic, Kat told herself. Perhaps it had nothing to with the man…or with her father. She’d embrace any excuse to keep from admitting that the father she’d placed on a pedestal for twenty-six years had just tumbled.

It made her shudder to think about the number of people counting on her to put the pieces back together. Her brothers. Their wives. Most of all, her mother.

Slater felt her tremble. His fingers flexed in her soft curls. Why had he ever thought her hair lacked feminine qualities? Damp, those charcoal locks clung to his palm, reminding him of satin. He murmured something unintelligible near her ear and trailed soothing kisses along the curve of her cheek. “It’ll be all right, kitten.”

Kat pushed him away. Eyes wide, she crawled out of his reach. “Who gave you permission to call me that?” She shook her head and scraped back clinging strands of hair still warm from his touch. Closing her eyes, Kat regretted showing him any chink in her armor.

Slater frowned. Had he called her kitten? Maybe he had. Come to think of it, this was the first time he’d seen those tiger claws sheathed. “Obviously a gross mistake on my part, O’Halloran,” he muttered. “It won’t happen again.” His words were barely audible. He felt restless, ready to leave. He had the answer he’d sought. The smoke from Spud Mallory’s cigars was starting to make him sick. “I’m outta here,” he said, heading for the window.