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  Toeing his shoes off by the front door—Mrs. Paracha hated it when he walked on her clean floors in his dirty shoes—he picked them up and headed to his bedroom. He was halfway up the stairs when his phone began to chirp like a cricket.

  He let it ring several times before answering. “Linus Collier speaking.”

  From the other end of the line came a loud sigh. “Why do you insist on doing that?” his sister, Susan, asked.

  “Doing what?”

  “Answering so formally. We both know I’m the only person you have programmed to ring as a bloody cricket.”

  “Because.” You could fill in the blank with a number of answers. Because it annoyed her. Because that was what big brothers did. Because he was supposed to be the quirky middle child and so it was expected. “Why are you calling me on a Friday night? Shouldn’t you be out with your boyfriend?” he asked.

  His sister was dating Lewis Montoya, the ex-footballer. The two of them made a rather odd couple, his prickly baby sister and the reformed Casanova, but they seemed to be making it work. Lewis’s turnaround gave him hope that zebras could change their stripes.

  “Movie night,” Susan replied. “We’re going to watch that rock-’n’-roll documentary everyone’s talking about. Interested in joining us?”

  A romantic Friday night playing third wheel? Sounded peachy.

  Walking into his bedroom, he loosened his tie before lying down on the bed. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ve got plans.”

  “Really? What?”

  Anything else, he almost answered.

  “Nothing fancy. Dinner. Paperwork. A couple of pints.”

  “In other words, nothing.”

  And what was wrong with that? “I’ll have you know Mrs. Paracha made her lamb stew. One doesn’t walk away from such culinary perfection.”

  Another sigh. “Linus...”

  “Susan...”

  “I’m serious. What is going on?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do. You’ve been preoccupied and living like a monk for months. It’s not like you.”

  Ah, but that was precisely the point. He was an outrageous flirt who hurt people without thinking. He wanted to be someone different. Someone better. “Maybe I’m on a journey of self-discovery,” he told her.

  “Are you? Or are you punishing yourself?”

  “Must you attempt to ascribe a motive to everything?” He wasn’t in the mood for her armchair psychology, especially when it cut close to the truth. “Maybe I’ve had a long day and feel like staying in. Is that so unbelievable a concept?”

  Her silence spoke volumes.

  “By the way, I met the new neighbor today,” he said, changing the subject.

  “The million-pound pet sitter? What are they like?”

  “Antisocial. Teddy Moreland was on her doorstep.”

  “I’d be antisocial, too, under those circumstances. Did you see her? You did say she was female.”

  “Yes, she’s female. American, from the sound of her accent.”

  “Huh,” his sister said. “I wonder what would make someone cross the Atlantic to become a pet sitter.”

  “Giving a guess, I’d say it was because she likes cats and wants to live in London. There are worse ways to make a living.”

  Rather than answer, his sister let out an uncharacteristic half giggle, half squeal that left him rolling his eyes. Only one person made his sister giggle, and that was her boyfriend.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Lewis surprised me coming out of the shower.”

  “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” In the background he could hear mumbling, followed by another giggle.

  And they wondered why he didn’t want to join them for movie night.

  Seizing the opportunity, he wished his sister a good time and ended the call.

  It was nice, he thought, as he stared at the ceiling, to see his siblings find happiness. Both Susan and their brother, Thomas, deserved it.

  Someday maybe he’d again believe he did, too.

  He continued to stare at the ceiling, but in his mind he saw his nightstand and the cream-colored envelope tucked inside. The letter had been neatly written, the lines painstakingly straight, each cursive loop the same height and width. Perfect penmanship to deliver a harsh truth.

  It wasn’t the first swipe at his behavior. Just the first one to hit home. The first one to make him truly understand the consequences of being Linus Collier, playboy.

  Better to live like a monk until he learned to be someone else.

  He lay on his bed until nature called too loudly to be ignored. Struggling to his feet, he made his way to the bathroom, barely registering the way the sun filtered through the terrace plants to cast shadows on the floor.

  Until he heard the meow, that is. Forgetting all about nature, he looked out the terrace door and then down.

  A large white cat with mismatched eyes looked back.

  * * *

  Stella stared at the stacks of cans in the pantry. Thirty of them, organized in groups of two by flavor. Chicken. Chicken and liver. Chicken and salmon. Chicken and tuna. Flavors were to rotate daily with no flavor repeating two days in a row. Apparently Etonia Toffee Pudding didn’t like repetition. She did like chicken, though, because she was also to receive one chicken tender roasted fresh at midday. A note on the instruction file said that the housekeeper would take care of the cooking. The woman wouldn’t be returning from leave, however, until tomorrow.

  From down the hall, the grandfather clock chimed six times. Stella plucked a can at random and hoped it wasn’t a duplicate.

  “Dinnertime, kitty!” she called. Etonia Toffee Pudding was way too much of a mouthful.

  Odd, but she assumed the cat would come running as soon as she peeled back the lid. Wasn’t the sound supposed to be some kind of universal feline signal? Maybe British cats weren’t as needy as American cats. She set the bowl on the floor.

  Where was the cat? “Kitty?”

  She headed down the glass-lined corridor, back to the living room. The velvet sofa and matching chairs were empty. No one was hiding underneath, either. “Here, kitty, kitty,” Stella called. Where the dickens was she hiding?

  Just then, the doorbell rang, causing her to jump. Again. So help her, if that was Theodore Moreland, she was going to slam the door on his foot.

  It wasn’t Teddy. It was her neighbor, the handsome one with twinkling eyes. He smiled and lifted a furry white face up to the space in the door. “Lose something?” he asked.

  Stella stared at the animal in his arms. “Etonia?”

  “She prefers Toffee,” he replied.

  Whatever. What was he doing with her?

  “Found her meowing at my terrace door, asking to come in.”

  “But that’s impossible. You’re on the other side of the building.” Except the terraces wrapped around the corners and she’d been standing in the opening when Teddy knocked. Stella looked over her shoulder at the terrace door.

  “Dammit. I left the slider open when I went to let Mr. Moreland in. She must have run outside while we were talking.”

  “Smart cat. If only we could all escape from Teddy’s visit.”

  “I’d rather she did her escaping under a bed,” Stella said as she unlatched the door. “Come here, you naughty kitty.” The cat let out an indignant meow at being transferred, but she settled down once Stella cradled her. “Thank you for bringing her back. I would have had a heart attack when I discovered her missing. You and I are going to have a long talk about house rules, missy,” she said.

  “She doesn’t look too worried.”

  “Probably because she knows who’s the boss in this house. Come on inside. It’s time for her supper, and I don’t want to put her down while the door is open.”


  While her neighbor did as he was told, she set Etonia—or rather, Toffee—on the floor. The cat, having understood the word supper, immediately trotted toward the kitchen. “I wanted to...”

  The words caught in her throat. For the first time, she got an unobscured view of her neighbor. Originally, she’d pegged him has handsome, but now that she had a better view, she realized that description was inadequate. Linus Collier was capital-H handsome. Tall and slender, he was built to wear his custom-made suit. His sandy-brown hair was stylishly cut and he had sharp features that gave him an aristocratic air. All and all, he looked exceedingly sophisticated and very British—if that was a thing. Standing there wearing a training camp T-shirt and tattered sneakers, Stella felt extremely common.

  She coughed and started again. “I wanted to thank you for earlier. With Mr. Moreland.”

  “No need to thank me,” he said, waving a hand. “You looked to have the situation well under control.”

  She liked to think she did, too. However, confirmation was nice to hear. “Even so, I appreciated the gesture. It was very gallant.”

  His laugh was sharp. Self-deprecating. “You give me far too much credit. I was simply there for the entertainment value. Teddy’s been making himself at home up here for as long as I can remember. He visited Agnes pretty much every week.”

  “Really?” And yet Dame Agnes had cut him from the will. Since she’d taken the job, Stella had been trying to ascertain why someone would skip over a relative in favor of a pet.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Linus said. “Do not mistake frequency with quality.” Hands in his pockets, he strolled toward the glass wall. The late-afternoon sun caught the highlights in his hair, turning them golden. “Agnes left Teddy out of the will for good reason.”

  “Which was?”

  “She liked the cat better,” he said, turning and tossing a grin over his shoulder.

  Stella grinned and looked away. The man had to know how attractive he looked doing that. If he didn’t, then he was either clueless or his apartment lacked mirrors. “Did you know Dame Agnes well?”

  “Well enough. Her last few years she began inviting me over for dinner, and we developed a friendship. She once made me read Othello to her Desdemona. Said practicing lines kept her mind sharp.”

  And having a handsome dinner companion probably kept her spirits up.

  Just then, a sated Toffee came strolling down the hall. In a demonstration of superiority, she plopped herself down against Linus’s leg and began washing her paw, completely unconcerned with whether she was getting hair on his pants or not.

  “Do you think she knows she’s worth the cost of a Van Gogh?” Stella asked.

  “Oh, I’m fairly certain she thought herself priceless before Agnes passed. Isn’t that right, you little diva?” Bending on one knee, he buried his fingers in the fur at the back of Toffee’s head. The cat immediately began purring like a small engine. “Are you at loose ends now that Agnes is gone? Is that why you came hopping across to my balcony?”

  He looked up, and Stella saw softness in his gaze that hadn’t been there before. His eyes had become muted, shifting into a blue gray that reminded her of the sky right before the dawn. The change suggested there were layers to the man. That if you peeled back the charm and the good looks, you would discover something even better.

  Of course, she wasn’t looking to discover anything, but it was nice to think her neighbor seemed decent. She coughed away the thought, and said, “Nothing personal, but I’m planning on her escape being a onetime event. I prefer not to think of her taking that leap more than once.”

  “Can’t say that I blame you.” Giving the cat one last rub behind the ears, her neighbor stood up and tucked his hands back into his pockets. “Now that the fugitive has been returned to custody, I should let you get back to your unpacking. It was a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Russo. I hope...” The sentence drifted off, as if he thought better of whatever it was he intended to say. “I’m sure we’ll run into one another again.”

  Stella was sure they would, too. Hard to avoid when they lived across the hall from one another. She walked him to the door, thanked him again for bringing home Toffee and said good-night. It wasn’t until she locked the door that she wondered about the sentence he didn’t finish.

  Copyright © 2020 by Barbara Wallace

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  ISBN-13: 9781488065224

  Hired by the Unexpected Billionaire

  Copyright © 2020 by Linda Susan Meier

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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