MEET HENRY SINCLAIR! (as above) Well boys and girls, I promised this a while ago so here it is! If you like comedy, cats, romance, a drop of adventure and a generally highly entertaining read with a novel twist, you are sure to looooove this one! Solstice Publishing are talking advance orders, so check out their website at http://www.solsticepublishing.com. I’ve been told this would make a fabulous movie, inspired as it has been by the two films “Mousehunt” and “101 Dalmatians” – let me know what you think and do share this with anyone you know!
THE RIVAL by A J Dormaar
Prologue
He languidly stretched out on the bed, watching her dress. Every now and then her head would turn back to where he sprawled across the satin coverlet.
“It’s only a business meeting, Henry dear,” she apologised. “He’s sort of a colleague of mine. Nothing too serious. I do hope you understand.”
Oh, he understood all right. Although his face remained impassive, the dark eyes narrowed slightly. After all, he was downright blessed to land a stunner like Yvette. Beautiful, well connected and rich, with a luxury penthouse in one of the most prestigious parts of town, Yvette was the woman of his dreams.
The only problem was that other fellows thought so too.
In the adjoining ensuite he heard the click of her heels on the tiled floor and the sibilant whisper of satin as she zipped up her black Chanel evening dress.
“We won’t be late, dear. You know that.”
As he lay there pondering how to reply, the sound of the doorbell came from downstairs, followed by the housekeeper’s voice echoing up the stairwell.
“It’s Mister Farnwell, ma’am. Shall I show him in?”
“Tell him I’m almost ready.” Yvette scooped up her beaded Gucci purse. “Oh, Henry, don’t look at me like that, please! Really, I won’t be late!”
That’s what you said last time, he thought. And the time before that. Without a word he swiftly slipped from the bed and followed her down the carpeted stairs to the foyer.
There he was. Chris Farnwell; tall, russet haired, athletic, handsome. A dashing and successful corporate highflyer – and potential home wrecker.
“Darling!” He extended his hand, immaculate in his navy Armani suit. “My dear Yvette, you look stunning as always!”
“Chris!” Their faces touched. From his shadowy position on the stairs, Henry felt something hot and savage broil inside his chest at the unwelcome sight. After what seemed like an eternity to Henry, Chris finally stepped back from Yvette, his eyes alighting on the glowering Henry nearby. His warm smile wavered.
“Oh, hullo old chap. Still here are you?” His tone was suddenly cool and strained.
Not taking his glittering eyes off his rival for a second, Henry carefully moved forward.
“Can’t say I really ever liked your type…”
Without warning the seething monster in Henry’s chest snapped and he lunged forward, Chris lashing out with a deafening yell. Both crashed to the tiled floor and rolled around madly, while above the din rang Yvette’s high-pitched scream.
“Henry! Oh, Henry!”
“Wh-what?” Chris staggered to his feet. “Henry? Of all the damn, bloody…”
“Out!” Yvette pointed to the door. “Get out of this house, Chris Farnwell. I was warned about you but I wouldn’t listen. Leave. Now!”
As the door closed with a reverberating slam, Yvette knelt by Henry and gathered the magnificent ginger tomcat up in both her arms.
“How could anyone not like you my darling?” She buried her lips in the luxuriant fur. “Did that mean nasty man hurt you?” There came a resonant purr. “How about some warm milk? And that left over salmon? Would that make you feel better?”
Ohhhhhh Yvette, Henry thought. I do love you.
Chapter One
The Penthouse Pedigree
Henry certainly loved Yvette – almost as much as she loved him.
Yvette, of course, was female and human. With her sultry good looks, svelte body and supple grace, Henry had every confidence that under different circumstances she would have made a most splendid cat. Ah well, not everyone could be so lucky… still, the well stocked Frigidaire in Yvette’s designer kitchen made up for any shortcomings in that department.
As Henry crouched on the Italian tiled kitchen floor lapping full cream milk from his monogrammed porcelain bowl, the sound of Chris Farnwell’s enraged steps fading outside on the rain slicked sidewalk added further to his warm glow of smug contentment. The deliciously enticing smell of Canadian salmon, newly warm from the microwave for his exclusive delectation, tweaked his olfactory nerves: unbidden, a deep, thrumming purr resonated across the kitchen and into Yvette’s private salon where she was currently sitting on the chaise longue, alternately sipping a cocktail and talking on the phone.
“…honestly, Marta, he did! Yes, cats can sense the good and bad in people…I always had the feeling that Chris was something of a cold fish, all he ever talked about to me was his legal firm…besides, he never showed any real interest in my work for the Animal Welfare Committee. I suspected all along that what he said was all lip service…why, I clearly remember the day I first saw Henry as a kitten, cold and shivering in that old shoebox they found him in, and now you would not even believe my stupendous darling was the same cat…”
Ohhh, not the past again. Henry raised his head from his salmon, the old resentment about his humble origins rankling in his furry chest. I’d rather not be reminded of that, thank you very much…after all, one has one’s social standing to think of. He rumbled his disapproval loud enough for Yvette to clearly hear.
“Oooh, did you hear that? Yes, that’s Henry…it always gives me a slight thrill when he purrs like that, it somehow reminds me of Barry White…”
Barry White, eh? Henry turned back to his salmon, chortling inwardly. Not that he knew much about male humans, mind you – but whenever he heard Yvette mention the name Barry White, he somehow knew she meant something special.
“Anyway, I’ll talk things over with Carlo as well – you remember Carlo? You met him at the Grand Metro Premiere of La Boheme the other season; that marvellous foyer refit was his design…yes, he’s a real dear, he has the apartment just down from mine…he helps out on the Animal Committee as well…in fact, he’s coming with me to the Charity Gala next week. Still okay for lunch tomorrow? Sergio’s at twelve thirty …”
Sergio’s? Charity Gala? Henry raised his golden head again, his deep amber eyes fixing on Yvette, just visible through the doorway. I just hope you’ve learned your lesson, he thought…oh well, he’d just have to keep on reminding her where she truly belonged. Chris Farnwell was by no means the first or the least of Yvette’s rejected and somewhat clawed admirers over the past few years.
“…yes, Henry is just another man if you think about it, albeit in a fur coat…stubborn, proud, a little jealous…”
Me, jealous? Henry slowly rose from the floor and stretched luxuriously, his well polished claws glinting under the electric light. I’m just careful, that’s all. He’d spent the last two years training Yvette to perfection and he was not about to jeopardize his prize investment for anything – or anyone.
A tremendous yawn revealed gleaming, scimitar-like teeth. After all the excitement and the unexpected snack, he decided it was time for a nap. His thoughts turned to the richly upholstered chaise longue in the salon. The only problem was, Yvette was still on it. Well, too bad.
With a single lazy bound Henry leaped up beside the reclining Yvette, jolting her telephone elbow sharply as he did so. That’s enough, he thought, time to go. It’s my turn.
“Henry! Oh, sorry Marta, its Henry again, he can be very demanding…darling, stop head butting me, Mother’s trying to talk…Henry, stop that!” As she made to shift the receiver to her other hand, he gave another thrumming purr, his thick brushy tail tickling across her well-powdered nose.
“Sorry, Marta, I’d better go…yes, we’ll sort it all out tomorrow over lunch…see you then darl…byeee!” With a faint sigh of annoyance Yvette made to rise from the chaise longue, Henry promptly oozing himself into the tight space behind her to take full advantage of the warmed cushions. Ahhh, that’s better. Much better. Meanwhile his mistress, her evening purse back under her arm, slipped off her stiletto pumps and looked down at him with mingled adoration and exasperation.
“Really, my gorgeous darling, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear that you think you own me and this house.”
But I do.
“You’re terribly spoiled, you know. I’m far too lenient with you.”
But you must admit, I’m sooo worth it. Henry stretched out luxuriously on the chaise longue, his deep amber eyes blinking sleepily up at her in the way he knew she always found irresistible. The soft patter of fat raindrops outside intensified and with a final sigh Yvette scooped up her shoes and glanced out the bay window.
“Look at that weather! I must admit, I really didn’t fancy going out tonight anyway.” She turned towards the curving stairwell. “Rosita, I think I’ll take a bath now – I won’t be taking any further calls this evening. Oh, and before you leave for the evening, if you could just be a dear and quickly check Henry’s litter box; you know how he likes things to be just so.”
“I do indeed, ma’am.” Apart from Yvette herself, her long serving housekeeper, Rosita, was Henry’s most ardent devotee. “Is there anything else before I leave?”
From his supine position on the chaise longue, Henry sleepily opened one eye. Hmm…food, cuddles, couch, litter box, Chris Farnwell’s scratched cheek…he mentally ticked each item off one by one and gave an inward sigh of contentment. He could think of nothing further to improve his evening.
No, that should be all. You’re dismissed.
***
Alone upstairs in her steaming Italian marble bathtub, the foaming subs cascading into billowing peaks over the sides, Yvette Sinclair leaned her head back and allowed her thoughts to drift.
She had been so lucky in her career – too lucky, some might have said. Voted among the top ten models of the world at the zenith of her international career, she was now well in her thirties and only too aware that professionally she was past her prime. However, her superb natural bone structure, combined with her sense of simple but timeless chic and her astute business acumen, had seen her touted as the new Audrey Hepburn, and had ensured she had remained at the peak of a fickle industry that pandered almost exclusively to the young. She was well aware of the many stunning young hopefuls who would readily step into her stiletto heeled shoes, given half a chance.
With an eye to her future, over the past few years Yvette had made a name for herself espousing charitable as well as fashionable causes. Her name and face now graced the magazines and websites of several major organisations, ranging from Animal Welfare to Aid For Africa, and she had recently signed a major contract with a leading cosmetics brand promoting their eco friendly mature skin care range. Several jars of the stuff littered the marble vanity nearby.
Yes, fame and fortune were hers – but very few, if any, knew of the long hard road she had travelled to get so far. Very few knew of the seedy waitressing jobs the young Yvette had been forced to undertake, living in a run-down one bedroom flat while dreaming of the day she would be noticed; even less people knew that her true name was not Yvette Sinclair but Lorna Mae Dodd, the long suffering only child of deadbeat, alcoholic parents. Well, her mother was safe in a clinic now, albeit under a different name – Yvette had seen to that – and her father’s future had been certainly secured after he’d been caught up in a large bank heist some years earlier. Several expensive lawyers and media bribes later, Yvette had managed to keep her family connections under wraps – just. It was also at that time that the rising new modelling sensation Lorna Mae Dodd had dyed her hair two shades darker, had had a nose job and become Yvette Sinclair. Besides, as her agent had said, the French name would only enhance her professional reputation.
And with that reputation had come all the myths of course, such that she had been the mistress of a billionaire oil sheik, that she had dated royalty, that there was at least two broken engagements to handsome film stars in her wake, all of which was grist to her ever expanding publicity machine. With the increasing number of big name front cover contracts had come the promotional deals, her own website and regular fashion advice column in a major women’s magazine, guest appearances on TV – not to mention various grand department store openings – and attendance at all the major society events. She had even developed her own baying pack of paparazzi, their cameras clicking continuously at her elegantly appointed heels as she sped from one glittering Society event to the next in her chauffeured Mercedes.
And yet…and yet…despite the designer wardrobe that encompassed a whole suite of rooms in itself, her seven digit bank balance and the elegantly appointed penthouses in London, Paris and Manhattan, a deep fear secretly gnawed away at the core of Yvette Sinclair nee Lorna Mae Dodd. The fear for being found out as a fraud.
No, she was no society blue blood. Almost daily she rubbed shoulders with men and women who cruised through their lives of privilege and ease with an almost lazy arrogance, accepting it as theirs by right. Theirs was a jealously guarded elite, as the one time struggling waitress turned model knew all too well. At times she felt like a covert spy, forever watching her shadow in their midst and aware that the glaring lens of the world would be there to gleefully snap the moment should she fall.
Perhaps, she thought as she sank further into the billowing clouds of perfumed foam, that was why she doted on Henry so much. He’s like me…a parvenu, an upstart who dared hope for more in life and who had managed to hold his own. The impressive shelf in her study groaning under the glittering weight of Henry’s various medals, trophies and “Best in Show” awards, bore strong testimony to his achievement over his purebred peers. Not bad for the unwanted runt from an oversized litter, cast aside in a damp shoebox to be found by city sanitation workers down a grubby alleyway one chilly winter’s morning. No, Henry was no Penthouse Pedigree – but he gave a damn good impression of one.
Almost as good as Yvette herself.
Chapter Two
The Lunch at Sergio’s
“Darrrrling!”
Marta Csarkas, trilling the ‘rrr’s’ theatrically in her Hungarian fashion and immaculate in her navy Givenchy suit, loudly greeted Yvette in the middle of Sergio’s palm studded foyer.
“Marta.” The two women touched powdered cheeks, admired each other’s new season outfit, and allowed themselves to be escorted to a side table, buried under pristine white linen, sparkling silverware and cut crystal. The impressive panorama of the towering downtown skyline formed a backdrop through the wide glass windows. Their order was swiftly taken – chicken salad with white wine followed by a fresh fruit sorbet.
“So?” Marta’s bright blue eyes glinted conspiratorially over the rim of her wine glass. “Do tell all, darling. I can’t contain myself, I simply have to know.”
“Really, darl, you see scandals around every corner.” Yvette returned the smile over her own glass. It was well know in social circles that to find out anything about everyone who was anyone, all you had to do was ask Marta Csarkas. Although her own international modelling career was long over, Marta had since carved out a distinctive niche for herself as one of the top society gossip columnists alive, and carried her forty plus years with elegance and style. Since Yvette’s modelling debut over ten years before, Marta had been an invaluable mentor and friend. Yvette had long ago decided that if she could be like Marta when she herself passed forty, she would be doing pretty well; chic, sharp and fiercely independent with no shortage of male admirers in tow.
“You’re doing very well all by yourself from what I hear,” Yvette went on to say, forking through her mesclun salad for grapes. “How old is the latest one, darl? Twenty, twenty five?”
“Ohhh, really!” Marta dismissed her latest beau with a wave of her napkin. “Enrique? That yummy new yoga instructor at the Club? You’re giving me far too much credit, darling! But I must admit,” she added with a lascivious chuckle, “The dear boy would do anything for me…”
“Why, Marta!” Yvette was deliciously scandalized. “He’s still in college!”
“And who do you think is paying for it?” Marta let out a deep satisfied sigh. “As I said, the dear boy is sooo grateful…let’s just say he’s more than repaid my investment.” She lit up a cigarette between slim white fingers. “You know me, darling. I always make sure I’m in control of my – ahem! – affairs.” Her blue eyes suddenly became serious. “And speaking of which, darling, I just hope you know what you’ve started with Chris Farnwell.”
“Oh, that!” Yvette made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “Look, the odd date here, the occasional meeting there – honestly, lol, it was never really serious. He’s a man like any other after all, and heaven knows I’ve known enough of them over the years.”
“Mm.” Marta flicked the ash from her cigarette, her carmine mouth turned down at the corners with concern. “And that, my darling girl, is where I fear you may be wrong.” She warily looked around before she leaned over the table and lowered her voice. “The point is, as I warned you earlier when all this began, Chris Farnwell is not just any man.”
“No,” Yvette added with a wistful sigh, “he most certainly is not.” At that moment the image of Chris’s bodybuilder frame and curling russet hair sprang to mind, making her involuntarily quiver with excitement despite herself. “You were right, Marta – you always are. Oh, he’s incredibly suave and charming, certainly, but there was always just that…well…something about him I couldn’t quite put my finger on until last night.” She took another sip from her wine glass. “As they say, the really handsome ones are always flawed… well, if there ever was anything there, I’ve put a stop to it and that’s that. Oh, don’t look so worried, Marta! We’re all grown adults here! It’s over! He’s history!”
“You and I may know that’s so, dear girl, but does he?” Her painted lips firmly compressed together, Marta tapped the back of Yvette’s hand in warning. “Take a word of advice from an old hand, lol – I know his type, and he’s dangerous.”
“Oh, come on!” Yvette let out a sharp laugh. “Chris, the serial killer-stalker type? Marta, really!”
“Yes, really,” her friend went on. “Maybe not in the stereotypical way, but under all that charm Chris Farnwell is ambitious and ruthlessly clever. What’s more, he is far too rich and powerful for comfort. And men like him don’t take kindly to being turned down by women of our class, dearie. Their pride won’t allow it. What they want they usually get, no exceptions. And it just so happens the current word going around is that Chris Farnwell wants you.”
“Well, he can’t have me and that’s that.” Yvette began fishing in her reticule for her pressed powder compact. “Besides, what exactly can he do to me?”
“A very great deal of harm, my dear,” her friend said very quietly. “A very great deal indeed.”
***
Unseen by both women, at that very moment resentful eyes were watching from behind the dense foliage of a potted palm on the far side of the dining room.
Chris Farnwell slowly lowered the finance section of his newspaper, his lips tightly pursed as he covertly watched the beauteous Yvette with a steely determination. He briefly noted her platinum blonde companion – an older woman of mature years but still striking nonetheless – but dismissed her as unimportant. He had eyes only for Yvette.
“Anything else, Sir?” The table waiter, immaculate in white suit and black tie, appeared at his elbow with a silver coffee service.
“No thank you, Vanson. I have all I need.” Chris set the paper aside, numerous thoughts swirling in his mind. As he rested his closely shaved chin on his hand, his fingers brushed against the scar on his cheek, courtesy of the absent Henry. It was almost invisible now under a heavy layer of concealer. Damn beast, he thought. He’d never liked cats to start with…in fact, he’d never cared much for animals at any time…he’d only ever feigned an interest because of Yvette…
Ahhh, there was the rub. Yvette. He ground his teeth thinking of her. Chris was well aware of his irresistible appeal to women. All his life he had been used to being a magnetic dynamo at every event, the envy of every man and the desire of every woman. No matter in what circles he moved, the most desirable women available always flocked around him like moths to a flame, hungry for every word he spoke in their direction, every occasional glance. Call girls, society girls, professional career girls – yes, over the years he had dated or bedded them all, making his chosen mistress of the moment swooningly aware of the great favour, he, Chris Farnwell, was bestowing upon her. There had been the odd glitch of course, such as when that high society debutante he’d seduced last season got into what was politely termed “a situation”, but he had good contacts at a reliable and discreet clinic who handled such misdemeanours of high society most satisfactorily, and who were paid enough to keep any scandalous news from hitting the press. After all, it had not been the first time. The girls, of course, were usually too ashamed and nervous of their reputations to say anything more. They always were.
He had always figured he’d find the perfect woman someday – under his terms, of course. But he had not figured on the thunderbolt that had struck him the first time he had laid eyes on Yvette, or the way she had fuelled his desires and permeated his dreams. Normally he’d snap his fingers and the selected woman would come running. Now for the first time in his life he found himself truly enslaved, irresistibly tethered on the end of a woman’s leash, and it was a feeling Chris Farnwell did not like at all.
Despite this, Yvette had ticked all the requirement boxes in his impeccably ordered mind. She was achingly beautiful in the dark, sultry way he preferred, had exquisite tastes, was delightfully rich and famous in her own right, admired and sought after by the highest social circles, and even had a wonderful flair for gourmet cooking. And what’s more, her age was perfect. He had long tired of the pouting, unpredictable teenage starlets he had so often amused himself with in the past, and knew that his budding political career demanded that he have a more mature, useful spouse who was not just eye candy. Yes, the intelligent and cultivated Yvette was perfect in every way.
But how to get her and keep her? Problem, problem.
There were the usual avenues of course, such as blackmail and veiled threats – it wasn’t as if he was a stranger to those after all – but such tactics were not appropriate to use on the woman one wished to walk happily down the aisle. No, a whole new subtle approach was needed.
Chris stole a quick glance down at his Rolex. One thirty-two. Both women were sipping coffee now, still oblivious of his presence behind the potted palms. They were laughing now but still talking animatedly, just far enough away for the bulk of their conversation to be lost on the annoyed Chris. Eyes narrowed, he thoughtfully sipped at his own coffee, adding an extra lump of sugar in addition to his usual two. He saw how other men nearby were covertly watching Yvette, how she automatically drew their attention without any conscious effort on her part, and he felt the stinged red-hot barb of jealousy tingle in his usually cool veins.
Look all you can, he thought, because that’s all you’ll ever do. Besides, by the time I’m finished with her, she’ll only have eyes for me. In fact, I’ll have her giving me the same adoring looks she gives that overfed orange furball Henry…
Henry! Now there was an idea! Chris sharply sat upright, a deliciously devious thought leaping into his mind. Henry! Hadn’t Yvette said herself that she loved him above anything or anyone else alive, that she couldn’t imagine life without him, would move heaven and earth for him? Chris poured himself another coffee, his fingers shaking slightly with suppressed glee. Ohhh yes, all the pieces were coming together nicely now…Yvette would do anything, anything for her beloved Henry…unbidden, the sudden image of her peerless face taut with inconsolable grief in the event of Henry’s disappearance sprang into his mind…he could almost hear her tearful phone calls to police, to animal shelters, see the reward posters plastered all over town…and what’s more, the poor girl would be looking for someone, anyone, to turn to in her moment of need. And there he’d be, her one-time jilted knight in shining armour nobly letting bygones be bygones and offering the strong shoulder to cry on just when she needed it…what a delicious moment that would be…
“Ohhh Chris,” he could almost hear her say, “how could you ever forgive me? I was so wrong about you…about everything…hold me, darling, hold me tight, please…” He could see those big brown eyes staring adoringly up into his own, feel the delicious warm softness of her in his manly arms and taste the nectar of those rosebud lips…
Upon this thought, Chris Farnwell hastily set down his coffee and mopped his damp brow. Geez, it was getting hot in here. The coffee, that was it. Too much coffee.
Gleefully, almost greedily, he dared to imagine the next scenario. By some miracle Henry would be found alive and well – a little ruffled maybe by his ordeal but otherwise none the worse for wear – and it would be none other that Chris Farnwell, the hero of the moment, who by some remarkable act of heroism would restore the kidnapped feline to his mistress’s hungry arms…how pathetically, desperately grateful she would be…
And after that? The rest, as the saying went, he could take from there. Good idea…good idea…
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