Page 3 of The Gentleman

It circled twice, kneading her work pants like it was baking bread, then collapsed in a warm puddle, purring like a small engine.

Kat blinked down at it. “Well. That’s presumptuous.”

It ignored her, eyes blissed shut, full belly clearly winning over protocol.

She stroked its narrow head, fingers trailing over velvet-soft ears. The purr doubled in volume.

Outside, the night had fully settled—dark and quiet. Somewhere on the street, tires crunched over gravel. Kat glanced toward the window. Nothing but shadow. She let the sound go.

“Hey, buddy. You got no one either, huh?” She ran her hand gently down its spine and it pressed back into her touch.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “Guess that makes two of us.”

The wine had left her limbs heavy, tension draining from her shoulders. The weight of the day—missing leads, the grind of the Korolov file—blurred at the edges.

Her eyelids drifted shut to the rhythm of the cat’s purr and the hush of the house.

Kat jerked awake.

Her neck ached from an awkward angle. The kitchen was dark, the only light a pale wash of moon filtering through the window. She blinked, disoriented, then checked her watch.

3:00 a.m.

What the hell, Kat?She rubbed her eyes, gathering herself.

The cat was still curled in her lap, but its ears were twitching now, alert.

She hadn’t dreamed it. Something was off, wrong enough to wake her.

The doorbell rang.

The cat bolted, claws ticking across the floorboards as it fled.

Kat pushed upright, her chair scraping against the floor. Her pulse ramped.

Who was at her door at this hour?

It rang again, a longer ring this time—more insistent.

She tiptoed out of the kitchen and into the hallway. Her fingers wrapped around her service weapon, safety on, muzzle down. The bell rang again.

Someone’s impatient.

Staying to the side, she eased toward the front door and peered through the peephole.

She couldn’t make out faces—the porch light was angled wrong—but the stiff posture and anonymous suits? Government issue all the way.

She pulled away from the peephole, the wall cold against her shoulder blades.

MI6 didn’t make house calls.

Whatever this was—it wasn’t good.

2

Gun snug against her spine,shirt tugged down to hide it, Kat balanced on the balls of her feet and opened the door.

Victoria Eldridge waited outside, charcoal wool suit a shade darker than the night behind her. Faint creases bracketed a mouth set for bad news. Her short, ash-brown hair lay in an uncompromising part, untouched by dye. Her gaze was intent.

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