“That tone again.”
In the blink of an eye, there was a black blur. Kettle unsheathed his claws and aimed at him with the speed of a swordsman. Tristan withdrew his hand but not quickly enough and couldn’t avoid being slashed by the sharp nails.
“Bloody hell!” He closed his hand as blood trickled down his wrist.
Getting punched in a ring for the pleasure of feeling pain was one thing. But being slashed by an angry cat was another matter.
“Kettle!” She picked the cat up and laid him on a chair. “Mind your cattitude!”
He wrapped his handkerchief around the cut; actually, there were three thin slashes.
She kissed the head of the panther. “I’m truly sorry. Kettle has a problem controlling his anger.”
“He isn’t the only one.”
“But fear not. I have the perfect remedy for those scratches.” She opened a drawer and took out a small glass jar.
“I’ll live. Would you just tell me where I can find your father?”
“This balm will—” She rose on her tiptoes to look out of the window. “Is that wonderful Andalusian yours?”
“What?” Words failed him.
In the span of a few minutes, she’d jumped from one topic to another without completing any of them.
She set the jar on the desk. “You let him drink in the park, didn’t you? I bet your horse gulped down gallons.” Her alarmed tone caught his attention.
“Yes, why?”
Her frown matched Kettle’s. She stared at him as if he were an imbecile. “Never allow your horse to drink large quantities of cold water. I think he’s suffering from colic.”
He forgot about the bloody cut and looked out at Zeus on the pavement. “How can you tell from here?”
“He keeps biting his flank and looking at his side. Quickly. We don’t have much time.” She rang the bell and the butler arrived. “Doyle, I need my coat.”
“But what?—”
“Your horse might die. We must stop the colic from getting worse.” She beckoned him to follow her. “Our stable is justaround the corner. Quick now, or you won’t lose just a business deal.”
