given her a baby.
And now, it seemed, he‟d given her a cat.
She looked at Emily, playing with the kitten on the floor. The little pucker between her brows was gone, her expression
open and more relaxed than at any time since their move to World‟s End. Liz would accept anything and anyone who put that
smile on her daughter‟s face.
And the kitten was responsible, she thought. No, Morgan was responsible.
He arched an eyebrow. “Regrets?”
“No,” she answered honestly. “Thank you. For the cat.”
Emily‟s head shot up. “We‟re keeping him?” She sought confirmation in her mother‟s face. “We‟re keeping him!”
Scrambling from the floor, she launched herself at Morgan, hugging as high as she could reach. “Thank you! Thank you,
Morgan.”
He stiffened like a startled dog.
Liz bit her lip, a pang at her heart. He wasn‟t used to children, she reminded herself. Emily wasn‟t his. Despite his kindness
this afternoon and his gesture with the kitten, he could not give her open-hearted daughter the affection she sought.
“It‟s Mr. Bressay, honey,” she reminded gently.
He raised his large hand and slowly, carefully stroked her daughter‟s curls. “Morgan.” His voice was harsh. He cleared his
throat. “I told her to call me Morgan.”
Emily tipped back her head and beamed. “Because we‟re friends.”
“Yes.” His deep voice made the word sound like a vow. “We are.”
He crouched beside her. “Now that the cat has a home, you must give it a name.”
They both watched the kitten. Deprived of Emily‟s attention, it stalked across the floor and pounced on Morgan‟s boot.
Emily giggled. “Tigger.”
His brows rose in question.
“From Winnie the Pooh ,” Liz supplied. “He bounces.” Morgan looked blank.
Poor man. He really was out of his element.
Yet there was nothing false about his interaction with Emily, none of the fake heartiness of her male colleagues who had
tried to hit on her with her children around. He treated Emily with the same grave courtesy he might have shown an adult.
And Emily, Liz saw, soaked up his masculine attention like a flower turning its face to the sun. “I‟ll take good care of
him,” she promised. “He can sleep on my bed.”
“In a box,” Liz said.
“In a box on my bed,” Emily said without missing a beat.
“I saw big boxes in your garage,” Morgan remarked. “Big as houses, if you were the size of your kitten.”
Emily‟s eyes rounded. “We could make a Tigger house.”
“I imagine we could,” he agreed.
Smooth, Liz thought. He was very good at getting what he wanted.
“ I want you, ” he had said last night, his tone low and thrilling, dark desire in his eyes.
She gnawed her lower lip again. She appreciated his intervention with Emily. He was perceptive, he was kind. But he was
not safe.
“The moving carton is a great idea,” she said. “Emily, honey, why don‟t you look in the linen closet and see if we have any
towels to make a bed for Tigger? The green ones.”
“Can I take Tigger?”
“Tigger will be fine down here with me. Now scoot. The faster you get the towels, the sooner we can get started on his
house.”
Her daughter bolted up the stairs.
She faced Morgan, trying to ignore her stuttering heart. “What are you doing?”
That beautiful mouth curved. “I believe I am turning a carton into some kind of cat accommodations.”
“You didn‟t come over tonight to build a kitty condo.”
“My plans will wait.”
“But you had plans.” For God‟s sake, why was she pushing this?