The Taming of the Billionaire (Page 11)

Edie’s gut churned. He was hitting her right in her soft spot. Somewhere in there was a shelter cat who’d just been taken out of one scary environment and into another. If she turned and walked away, he might find another cat behaviorist . . . or he might just take it back to the shelter.

She bit her lip, undecided. Then, scowling, she glared at Magnus. “If you’re a dick, I’m leaving.”

“I won’t be a dick,” he told her, putting his hands in the air in the universal “I surrender” gesture. “I promise. I just want to help my cat, all right?”

“All right,” she grumped, and ignored the happy look Bianca flashed Magnus.

Edie stepped over the threshold into the house. Inside, she immediately began to assess it how a scared cat would, and she frowned at the sight. The floors were a chilly painted cement, the walls bare and hung with a few pieces of modern art. The furniture was minimalist and strange, with a beaded (beaded!) throw rug in front of a glass fireplace. A shattered vase was in one corner of the open room, next to a few hanging twiglike things that she assumed were more modern art. She rubbed her scarf hard against her neck as she walked in, trying to cover it in her scent.

“Hey,” that annoying baritone voice said. “You okay? You’re limping.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m fine.”

“Do you need to sit down? I—”

“Do I look as if I need to sit down?” She bit out the words, glaring at him. Then she turned and glanced around. “Where did my sister go?”

He shrugged. “She went to go discuss payment with my brother, I imagine.” Big arms crossed his chest. “You want to see Cujo?”

“Cujo? Really?”

“What’s wrong with Cujo?”

“You’re setting up the cat to fail, that’s what. Giving him a undesirable moniker just reinforces the negativity in your eyes.” She tugged at her scarf again and limped into the kitchen. At least, she assumed it was the kitchen. It was set up more like an old-fashioned diner, with the long counter and barstools, and the fridge and appliances behind the bar.

“Annnd for the millionth time, he’s a damn cat, so who cares what I call him?” Magnus said, following her. “He’s in my bedroom, by the way.”

Well, that was a start at least. “Show me where that is.”

“Right this way, your majesty,” Magnus said, doing a mocking little bow as he moved in front of her. He headed to the back of the building and then up a twisting staircase.

Of course it was upstairs. There were always damn stairs. Edie ignored the throb of her knee and followed him as quickly as she could, not wanting to seem as if she needed help or was lagging behind. She didn’t want to be seen as “less” in his eyes, damn it. Not when he was so smirky and judgy already.

Upstairs, the barren motif continued, and Edie wondered why someone would get such a big house to put hardly anything in it. Magnus strode down the hall toward a closed door, and then turned and gestured at it. “This is my room. Last chance now to back out.”

“Why? Am I going to be bombarded with blow-up dolls or something?”

“No, just one super pissed-off cat,” he said, his tone as sarcastic as hers. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Magnus opened the door and Edie stepped inside. It . . . wasn’t what she expected his room to look like. She knew he was into computers and his big shoulders and muscular build spoke of an athletic lifestyle. But again, he had the minimal room set up with hardly any furniture. There was a treadmill desk in one corner of the room, a big brass bed off to one side and some strange-looking scarves covering the window that trailed onto the floor. One was slightly destroyed, and the other puffed out at the bottom, a tail flicking underneath.

That would be her charge.

Edie slid off her shoes since the floor here was wood and they’d make a lot of unnecessary noise. Her stockinged feet wiggled and she stepped forward, eyeing the room. “This is a rather unfriendly place for a cat.”

“Why’s that?” Magnus’s deep voice made her jump. She didn’t realize he was so close behind her.

She gestured at all the empty air. “There’s no place for him to hide. Did you just move in or something? There’s no furniture.”

“It’s called a minimalist look,” Magnus said, and he sounded as if she’d insulted his decorating. “The last owner of this place was an artist. We paid a lot of money to buy the place.”

“I’d have paid more for some furniture,” Edie commented, studying the bed. “I would have thought he’d go under the bed, but—”

“There’s storage under there. No room.”

“Cats like having a secure place to hide, you know. He’s probably terrified.”

“He’s a demon,” Magnus said in that grumpy voice. “You know he bit me?”

“Were you trying to pick him up?”

“How do you think I got him in here?”

Her heart softened. Poor cat. “He’s scared. Don’t make any sudden movements, okay? I’m going to go say hello.” She slung her backpack off of her shoulder and set it next to her shoes, and then padded forward. Her bad knee throbbed as she knelt next to the curtain, but she ignored it. She sat down and crossed her legs, then tugged her scarf off and folded it neatly, then placed it near the curtain.

A paw swiped out, and the low growl started.

That was okay. She’d be patient and wait. Edie settled her back against the wall a few feet away and stretched her bad knee out, rubbing it.