The house was quiet and still when he entered, in the eerie way of houses that have lost their inhabitant. Jackson felt a chill go down his back that had nothing to do with the cold nighttime air.

Great. Now he was getting imaginative. He knew Dad's ghost wasn't haunting the house. In the first place, everyone knew ghosts didn't haunt little brick ranches in the suburbs, only creepy-looking gothic mansions. Brick ranches just weren't a popular ghost hangout. Anyone who'd seen Beetlejuice knew that.

In the second place, he was pretty damn sure Dad's spirit wouldn't be lurking around anyway, because it would have headed straight for hell like it had an anvil weighing it down.

Even so, the creepy sensation that he wasn't alone didn't go away. He shoved the house key, which he hadn't used since college, into his jeans pocket. Leaving the door open behind him, he reached out, groping for the light switch next to the door.

The lights went on, flooding the room in light and making him squint against the sudden brightness. Something zoomed toward him and between his feet.

Startled, and admittedly a little creeped out, Jackson let out a bloodcurdling yell. He stumbled backward, hit the raised doorsill, and fell backward, all the way down the four concrete porch steps. He slammed onto the ground, all the breath leaving his lungs in a grunt of pain.

For a long moment he lay there, eyes closed, mentally assessing the damage. At last, deciding nothing was bruised except his dignity, he opened his eyes.

Only to find himself looking right up a woman's skirt.

Carol Bell cuddled Silver in her arms and glared down at the strange man who was lying on the ground, staring up at her with a peculiarly blank expression. He was obviously still alive, but he looked totally zonked out. She wondered if he'd gotten a concussion after that spectacular tumble down the stairs.

If so, it served him right, breaking into Robbie's house just a day after poor Robbie had passed on. The guy had probably seen the obituary and decided to break in looking for valuables. Good thing the attack kitty had caught him in the act.

The attack kitty purred in her arms, apparently dismissing the whole ugly incident and reminding her to provide dinner, which of course was why she was here. In fact, as far as the cat was concerned, providing food was her sole purpose in life, aside from the occasional rub behind the ears. As far as Silver was concerned, humans existed to serve cats.

Which was just fine with Carol. She didn't have a clue what the point of her existence might be otherwise.

She glared down at the guy, deciding to bluff, just in case his head cleared. A burglar might be dangerous, after all. Although this one obviously wasn't a criminal mastermind, if he couldn't break into a house without falling down the steps. Moron. "I just called the cops," she announced. "They'll be here any minute."

He continued to look blank, but strangely entranced, and she realized he wasn't suffering from a concussion--he was just looking up her skirt. Ugh. A perv as well as a burglar. She took a step back, still clutching the cat defensively.

He sat up, looking disappointed, and looked up, at her face this time. There was something slightly familiar about him, she thought, but he was just outside the rectangle of light that spilled from the open door, and in the near darkness she couldn't get a really good look at him. "Did you say the cops?"

"Yeah, the cops. What kind of person are you, breaking into a dead guy's house?"

He rubbed at the back of his head, looking befuddled. "You think I'm a burglar?"

"You're obviously not the maid."

"No, I'm not the maid." He studied her for a long, thoughtful moment. "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm a friend of Robbie's. I'm renting the house next door."

"Robbie? Robbie?" He stood up and stared at her incredulously. Even in the near darkness she could tell he was a nice-looking guy. And big. Very big. She took a cautious step back, still cradling Silver in her arms. "I've never heard anyone call him Robbie before."

"Everyone called him Robbie," she informed him. "He was a dear old man. I can't believe anyone would be low enough to break into his house."

"A dear old man, my sore ass. He was a flaming son of a bitch."

"What?" She felt hot rage flood through her. She wished she had brought her cell phone along, because she'd love to call the cops and have them lock this guy up. She decided to run back to her house and call 911, and cheer when they snapped the handcuffs on him. "You--you jerk. How can you talk about a sweet old man that way?"

"He wasn't sweet." The guy flashed a heart-stopping grin that would have made her melt, if he wasn't a criminal. Criminals didn't make the best dates. And a dumb criminal was even less likely to be good relationship material. "He was a bastard. And I should know. I lived with him for eighteen years."

All the wind suddenly went out of her sails. She'd thought the guy looked familiar, and now she knew why. He was a younger version of Robbie. Besides, she'd seen his face in photos. Lots and lots of photos. He'd been much younger in those pictures, but there was no doubt who he was ... the same guy whose high school and college photos were all over Robbie's house. Just a lot more rugged. And more muscular. And generally more gorgeous. Totally gorgeous. That was evident even in the semi-darkness.

Her cheeks heated, and she had to fight the urge to fan herself, despite the December chill.

"You're Robbie's son," she said with surprise. She honestly hadn't expected him to show up. He hadn't ever bothered to come see his father when the man was alive, after all. Yet here he was, in the very impressive flesh.

"Yeah. Unfortunately." He turned around and studied the small house with its weedy, overgrown front flower beds, disintegrating roof shingles, and chipping white trim. "Which makes this my house now, I suppose. Oh joy."

A pang shot through her. "I guess that makes Silver your cat, too."

He turned and stared at her incredulously. "You mean my father owned that--that ball of lint?"

"That's a terrible thing to say," she reproved. "He's a silver tabby, and really very pretty."

"Sorry. I guess I'm prejudiced against any animal that tries to murder me on first acquaintance."

"He didn't try to murder you."

"Sure seemed like it to me. He tripped me on purpose. I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd whipped out a sword, like that cat in Shrek 2. I'm telling you, he was trying to kill me."

"Pity he didn't succeed," she said under her breath, but she knew he heard her from the sudden glint of amusement in his eyes. She raised her voice. "His name is Silver Bells, or Silver for short. I gave him to your dad last Christmas, when he was just a kitten. I thought your dad seemed kind of lonely."

"The old bastard deserved to be lonely."

She gritted her teeth. "He was lonely," she growled, "because his only son couldn't be bothered to come see him for Christmas. Or his birthday. Or any other holiday."

He gave a long sigh. "Look," he said, "it's damn cold out. You want to come inside, so we can talk? And maybe you can call off the cops, or it'll be a damned short conversation."

"I was bluffing. I didn't call the cops."

"That's nice to know. Still, I'd like to talk to you." He hesitated. "My name's Jackson, in case you didn't know."

"I know. Your dad talked about you all the time. In fact, I'm the one who gave the funeral home your number. I guess I should have called you myself, but I--" I didn't much want to talk to you because I hated the way you ignored that dear old man. "Anyway. I'm Carol. Carol Bell. Your dad probably mentioned me."

"We didn't talk all that much, I'm sorry to say. But if you gave the funeral home my number, you must have known I was coming."

"No," she said shortly, letting a wealth of disapproval fill her voice. "Somehow I didn't think you'd come. You've never come before."

Jackson had the grace to wince at her tone. "Nice to meet you, Carol," he drawled, sarcasm lacing his deep voice. "Come on in. You can bring the ball of lint, too."