Mad About You

charming grin. "The name is James Donovan." She stuck a limp hand into the one he extended.
    "Denise Womack," she said brightly, dropping her guard.
    Gesturing to the door, he said, "I wasn't sure this was the right place. I met Kat at the museum today."
    "You're British, aren't you?" she asked, as if he were a rare specimen.
    He bit back a smile. "I suppose my accent would make it difficult to convince you otherwise."
    Her eyes widened. "Oh! Are you connected with the King's letter?"
    "Indirectly."
    "Is that why you're here?"
    "Actually I came to see if Ms. McKray would join me for supper."
    The woman grinned. "Really?"
    A true-blue, matchmaking friend, he noted with delight. Conjuring up a worried frown, he said, "I hope I'm not imposing on plans the two of you made."
    "Heavens, no," she said with a wave. "Kat was only going to watch me do laundry."
    "Ah, splendid," he said, reaching for her laundry bag. "I'll let you knock since it's you she's expecting."
    "Sure," she said agreeably, then pounded on the door.
    After a pause, he heard a movement inside the apartment. "Who is it?" Kat demanded.
    "It's me, Kat," Denise said, winking at James conspiratorially. He winked back.
    Kat opened the door, and Denise chirped, "Look who I found in the hall."
    "Hallo, Pussy-Kat," he said cheerfully.
    Kat stared at James with pursed lips. "Don't call me that. And why are you still here?"
    Denise frowned. "Kat, Mr. Donovan wants to take you to dinner." She leaned forward and added through clenched teeth, "And I assured him you are not busy tonight."
    "But I've already ordered the pizza."
    Her friend glared. "I can eat the whole thing by myself anyway."
    "Liar," Kat said, then held up her novel. "And I was just getting to the good part."
    Denise scoffed. "The college professor did it because the guy was boinking his wife."
    Kat's mouth dropped open, and she stamped her foot. "I can't believe you told me the end! You know I hate that!"
    Denise snatched the book out of Kat’s hand. "Go out and have some fun."
    Hands on hips, Kat glared past her friend to focus on him.
    He smiled innocently and shrugged. "Can you blame me for wanting to dine with a beautiful woman instead of by myself?"
    Her friend moaned. "Kat," she hissed out the side of her mouth, "if you don't go with him, I will."
    Kat rolled her eyes. He laughed and deposited the bag of laundry inside the door. "We'll go somewhere nearby, Ms. McKray—anywhere you like."
    She was nibbling on that delicious looking lower lip, wavering.
    "I'll have you back in an hour," he added, crossing his heart with his index finger.
    Denise grabbed his arm and pulled him inside, then kicked the door shut. "Have a seat and give her ten minutes," she said, then turned a protesting Kat around and herded her toward the bedroom.
    After the door closed with a resounding boom, James stood and looked around Ms. Katherine McKray's flat, hoping to glean something about this fiery woman's background. He was surprised at the character of the rooms: the rich wood floors, the ornate mantels of two corner fireplaces, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Her furniture was an eclectic collection of denim-covered loveseats, velvet footstools, and impressionist-colored cushions. As he would have expected, tasteful and interesting artwork dotted the walls, the tables, and even the floor in the form of hand-painted rugs.
    He stepped closer to her bookshelves to scan the titles there. Lots of art history books, and several museum catalogs. A few movies: Gone With the Wind, Casablanca, and An Affair to Remember. He grinned. Pussy-Kat was a bit sappy, it seemed.
    Out of all the bric-a-brac lining the bookshelves, only two framed photos were displayed. One older photo of a youngish couple, presumably her parents, judging from the woman's resemblance to Kat. And a recent one of Kat and a middle-aged man, whom he determined to also be her father. James frowned. Her mother must have died some years ago.
    Through swinging doors to the right, he could see a neat white kitchenette with bright Mexican tile accents. To the left, a tiny hallway that led to an outside balcony with no view apparently doubled as her work area. A shelf of various refinishing solvents testified to a serious hobby. A set of tall wood shutters were being stripped of several layers of paint. The woman obviously didn't mind getting her hands dirty.
    When he turned back to the sitting room, an object in the comer caught his eye and he stepped over to