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Lovers Only
Christine Pacheco
Praise for Christine Pacheco (#u3a4083f4-2b5c-5333-aa2a-dcce4a0d8ee8)Letter to Reader (#ua46a9ff1-67b2-5a69-8362-f989c1a1e16c)About the Author (#uff841b24-da09-54a9-bba9-ecc8003d2e59)Title Page (#u2e1b7bd9-e6bd-513e-a823-0b12c07c3a7b)Dedication (#u5ee6f6a9-104e-540d-bcb5-da1b3b1cbf15)Chapter One (#u9845fa29-3250-59cc-b898-1f8e331710d9)Chapter Two (#u7949d97f-1757-54c8-90f2-743bef735895)Chapter Three (#uf6eb7bb4-d979-544e-ab2f-c8f681fa9141)Chapter Four (#u30666713-02fe-5e63-8f4b-57c3281f17fe)Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Praise for Christine Pacheco
“Reading Chris Pacheco is like sitting in a balmy breeze under a banyan tree and savoring your favorite drink. Her books take me away to my favorite escape. She’s sure to please.”
—Bestselling author Debbie Macomber
“A sure delight!”
—Bestselling writer Barbara Boswell
“I Carried My Bride Across The Threshold,”
Clay said softly.
Cat’s breath seemed frozen.
“I need to give her a kiss to welcome her home. Slow and soft, Cat? Or with the passion that built inside me during the months you weren’t in my house, the months you weren’t in my bed?”
Her mind ordered her to run. Her heart held her firmly in place.
“It’s your choice. But know one thing. I’m going to kiss you. And it won’t be a kiss you’ll forget anytime soon.”
Dear Reader,
Happy Valentine’s Day! This season of love is so exciting for us here at Silhouette Desire that we decided to create a special cover treatment for each of this month’s love stories—just to show how much this very romantic holiday means to us.
And what a fabulous group of books we have for you! Let’s start with Joan Elliott Pickart’s MAN OF THE MONTH, Texas Moon. It’s romantic and wonderful—and has a terrific hero!
The romance continues with Cindy Gerard’s sensuous A Bride for Abel Greene, the next in her NORTHERN LIGHTS BRIDES series, and also with Elizabeth Bevarly’s Roxy and the Rich Man, which launches her new miniseries about siblings who were separated at birth, THE FAMILY McCORMICK.
Christine Pacheco is up next with Lovers Only, an emotional and compelling reunion story. And Metsy Hingle’s dramatic writing style shines through in her latest, Lovechild.
It’s always a special moment when a writer reaches her 25the book milestone—and that’s just what Rita Rainville has done in the humorous and delightful Western. City Girls Need Not Apply.
Silhouette Desire—where you will always find the very best love stories! Enjoy them all....
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Silhouette Readar Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609. Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
About the Author
CHRISTINE PACHECO considers herself lucky to have married her real-life hero, Jared. They live in Colorado with their two children, a boy and a girl.
Christine remembers always wanting to be a writer. She even talked her elementary school librarian into publishing her books. She notes always preferring romances because they’re about that special moment when dreams are possible and the future is magical.
You can write to Christine at P.O. Box 448, Eastlake, CO 80614.
Lovers Only
Christine Pacheco
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For my mother, whose belief in me was real and tangible. Mom, my heartfelt thanks for helping me believe I could achieve my dreams.
And for Whitney and Raymond, you two are special gifts! Of course, Jared, this is for you, too. Whatever I am, it’s because of your support.
One
Ripping paper broke the silence.
In stunned amazement, Catherine looked across at Clay. No one breathed. No one spoke.
Catherine’s heartbeat tripled its already fast tempo, and a lump lodged in her throat. Oh, Lord. Not now. Not now when things were so very close to being over.
Freedom hovered just moments beyond her reach.
Jagged legal documents fluttered to the floor.
Clay slammed his fist on the shiny cherry-wood conference table, marring the perfect gloss.
Catherine jumped. Couldn’t find a word.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Clay clipped, rising to his feet in a single, fluid motion. His hands gripped the table’s edge, and his body radiated tension.
Catherine’s shoulders sagged.
“Now see here, Mr. Landon—” her attorney began.
“No,” Clay interrupted softly. Dangerously.
How many times in the past years had Catherine heard that tone? Not as often as in the early part of their marriage, but enough to recognize the careful control with which he held his anger in check.
“No,” he repeated. “You see here. Catherine is still my wife.” With that, he broke gazes with her attorney and fixed glacial blue eyes on her—the opponent.
She shivered, despite the sun streaming through the window.
For a moment she thought she detected a softening in Clay’s expression. And something more. Perhaps a hint of hurt?
No, that wasn’t possible.
She and Clay had lost the ability to hurt each other three years ago. Catherine remembered it well. It had happened at the exact same time they’d lost their ability to communicate and share.
“She won’t be married to you for much longer,” Kevin Dobson insisted.
When Clay turned his attention to Catherine’s attorney again, the older man pulled a starched handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow.
“I want to talk to my wife. Privately.”
“Clay,” Jack Simmons said. “This really isn’t the time.”
“Out!” he ordered his own attorney.
Catherine felt the heat of their stares fasten on her, one by one. First her attorney. Then Clay’s attorney. Finally, Clay himself.
Beneath the table she twisted her fingers together, absently reaching for the missing wedding ring...the ring Clay had gently slipped onto her hand as he’d solemnly promised to love and cherish her forever.
The same ring she’d shed when he’d broken that vow. The same ring that now rested, by itself, at the bottom of her jewelry box.
“Five minutes, Cat.”
The raw-edged intensity in his tone skittered across her nerves.
“Isn’t what we had worth five minutes to you?”
She remembered the way he’d raised her hand to his lips, making the preacher pause. She swore she still felt the warmth that had rushed through her at that moment, when she’d believed she and Clay would truly grow together, have a family together, become old together....
“Out, Jack. And take Dobson with you.”
“This is highly unusual,” Kevin Dobson protested.
In less time than it took her frantic heart to beat half a dozen times, Clay had moved, coming around to her side of the table. With the toe of his cowboy boot he pushed back her chair.
When his fingers found her shoulders, she looked up, trying to gauge emotions carefully cloaked behind his unreadable blue eyes.
“Call him off, Cat.”
With slow and gentle, yet inexorable pressure, Clay drew her to her feet. Then he pulled her closer to him. She could have resisted. Part of her mind screamed at her to resist. But she didn’t.
There was something so right, so elementally right and basic about being in his arms again. It had been so long....
Illogically, a frisson of excitement took hold. He was acting as if she was special, just like the Clay she’d fallen in Jove with so many years ago. Catherine forced herself to remember that it was the man he’d become she was divorcing.
She looked up. His eyes didn’t seem so glacial. Nor did they contain the heat that they might once have had when he held her.
“Cat, talk to me. Tell them to get out. Please,” Clay said quietly.
The warmth of his breath on her cheek stirred Catherine’s starving senses, along with memories—memories of cool Colorado nights and Clay’s masculinity to keep her warm and secure.
“It’s okay,” she finally said, looking sideways toward Dobson—away from her husband.
Dobson checked his watch. “Really, Mrs. Landon, this isn’t the way things are done,” he protested a second time.
Clay’s grip tightened.
From experience she knew it was better to face the storm, brave it out and then let it blow over.
If Clay wanted five minutes, she would give it to him. And then close the door behind her, never to look back.
Besides, knowing Clay, he would stand here and argue the point for five minutes and win, anyway. Giving in now meant victory in the end. Victory in the form of freedom.
“Give us five minutes, Mr. Dobson.”
He wiped his brow again, then checked his watch. “Five minutes, Mrs. Landon. I do have other clients, you know.”
The door closed behind the two lawyers. She and Clay were alone for the first time since she’d moved out of their home several months ago.
In spite of everything, she attempted a grin. “He acts as though he’s paying me,” Catherine said.
Clay didn’t smile in return.
If anything, his expression had darkened. The storm hadn’t diminished, it had intensified.
Her smile fled. She knotted her hands into fists, fingernails cutting into her palms.
“Okay, Clay, you won.” Catherine let out a long breath, then said, “Talk.”
“We haven’t done much of that, have we?”
“Don’t,” she protested, wedging one of her clenched hands between them in a desperate attempt to gain some space. “It’s a little late for regrets.”
He shook his head; a renegade lock of hair drooped over his forehead. Instantly years and experience were erased from his features. If only pain could be vanquished so easily....
“I was serious. I’ve changed my mind about giving you a divorce, Cat.”
Her pounding heart stopped. He couldn’t mean it. Not at this stage.
He began to move his fingers in a light caress.
Her heart resumed pounding.
Catherine forced herself to drink a deep breath of air and hold it for a few seconds. “You can’t prevent me from divorcing you, Clay. These are the nineties.”
“I know,” he said, voice barely over a whisper, making her strain in order to hear his words. “But I can make life hell for you.”
Her own anger surged to the surface, red-hot and blazing. “Are you threatening me?”
“No.”
She frowned. “What then?”
“A proposition.”
Confusion replaced anger. “A proposition?” she echoed.
“I love you, Cat.”
Her pulse leapt. The right words. Too late. Oh, Lord, he’d finally used the words she’d waited night after night to hear for the last three years. Slowly she forced her fists to uncurl. “Clay—”
“Hear me out.”
She tried to harden her heart. But how could she when he stood so close? When she inhaled the same untamed scent he’d worn on their wedding day? When he moved his hands so slowly, as if in intentional seduction?
They’d been in the same room less than half an hour and already he’d tossed her emotions into a tumultuous cauldron. She should resist. Should. But a look at his implacable face, hardened jaw and drawn lips convinced her otherwise. “Okay,” she said softly, resignedly. “You’ve still got three minutes.”
“What we had was good.” When the only sounds that filled the room were the distant ringing of a phone and their combined breaths, he finally asked, “What? No argument?”
She shook her head. “What we had was good,” she agreed. “Was, Clay.”
“What happened?”
“Life,” she answered. She’d pondered that same question a hundred, a thousand, no, ten thousand times. Not a night passed that she didn’t sit in the white wicker rocking chair, pushing it with her toe as she asked herself over and over, What went wrong? “We grew in different directions. You’ve got your business. I have the store.”
She took a breath, looking him deeply in the eyes, memorizing his every nuance, wondering if this was the last time they’d ever stand this close...if this was the last time she would ever feel his once-loving arms hold her.
Catherine wasn’t a fool. She’d considered all these things before finally swallowing the past and deciding to move on to the future.
She just hadn’t realized Clay would make the finality so difficult.
“And the store’s enough for you?”
His look demanded honesty, even if his eyes shaded his true feelings. “It is for now,” she said.
“But what about at night? When you climb into bed and it’s cold? Or in the morning, when there’s no one to say hello to? Is it enough then?”
“Your five minutes are up!” Dobson called, pounding on the door.
“Tell him to go away, Cat. Or I will.”
He would. No doubt about it. “I’ll be right out,” Catherine called back.
As suddenly as he’d crossed the room and taken her shoulders in his hands, Clay released her.
Without his support, her shoulders sank forward.
“As I said, I have a proposition for you.” He pivoted and strode to the far end of the room, bracing an outstretched hand on the window frame.
He looked out for long moments, seemingly staring at nothing.
She waited.
Her pulse wasn’t as patient.
At one time she would have gone to him, skimmed her fingers up his spine. His head would have dropped forward and she would have gently worked the tension she instinctively knew resided in his shoulders.
But she could no longer lay claim to that intimacy.
She’d given up that right when she’d tearfully slipped her wedding ring into the bottom of her jewelry box.
After nearly a minute went by, he turned to face her. This time she saw vulnerability in his gaze, raw and naked. The depth of emotion etched in his eyes made her knees weak.
“Now’s not the time to have a deep discussion about what went wrong.”
“A week wouldn’t be long enough,” she whispered, fighting for strength. She smiled...falsely. She knew that it emerged weak. And that it reflected inner feelings she wanted to hide.
Clay plowed his fingers through his hair. “Then give me a month.”
“What?”
“A month, Catherine. Give me a month to prove that we’re meant to be together. A month to show you I’ve changed, that I’ll do anything it takes to have you love me again.”
He asked the impossible. It had taken her so long to find the courage to admit things weren’t and never could be magically repaired.
As for love, she’d never completely stopped loving him. But life had taught her a coldly valuable lesson she didn’t intend to forget: love wasn’t enough.
She shook her head, blinking back tears as she did.
“You don’t mean that,” he said.
Catherine discovered strength, but knew it would vanish if she didn’t draw upon it now. “I do mean no.” She blinked again. Damn, but she didn’t know a slice of pain could sting this badly. “Our relationship is over, Clay.” Shaking, she started toward the door.
When her hand closed around the knob, the quiet threat in Clay’s voice seared her like a whip.
“I’ll sue for half of your store.”
Her head fell forward, resting on the uncaring wooden door.
He couldn’t be that cruel. Yes, she knew his temper was volatile and that he could and would do nearly anything when backed into a corner. But cruelty? Never toward her.
Until now.
She closed her eyes on a fresh wave of anguish.
Owning the store had been the one dream she’d held fast to through the years. As she and Clay had slipped into being strangers under the same roof, opening her own store had taken on more and more meaning.
Right now it was self-supporting, sustaining.
But if Clay sued...
Seconds stretched to eternity.
“Don’t make me do that,” he said.
She swung around. “You don’t have to do anything,” she insisted. “Except give me my freedom.”
“That’s the one thing I won’t do willingly.”
“Damn it.” Breath eased from between her clenched teeth. “Damn you.”
His eyes narrowed fractionally. He balled his right hand into a fist.
“If you want to fight dirty, Clay, then we will.” She dashed her knuckles across tear-filled eyes, repeating a silent litany: I won’t let him make me cry. “I’ll sue for half of Landon Construction.”
“Of course.” He nodded. “But that’ll tie up our money and time for months.”
His implications rushed through her. He didn’t make idle threats. She needed her hands on her capital; she didn’t need to be enmeshed in litigation for months and months. Clay did possess the power to make her life hell. And ruin everything she’d fought to gain.
“You’re impossible.”
“Yep.”
Dropping her damp hand, she quietly said, “Don’t play games.”
“No games.” He raised his left hand. “I’m making you an offer. I’ll leave your shop alone and give you half of Landon Construction—”
“If I give you a month.”
“That’s a hell of an investment, Cat,” Clay said softly. “A few hundred grand, maybe more, free and clear, for thirty days of your time. Catherine’s Den of Antiquity would be the best with that kind of money. And you wouldn’t have to give me a dime. Think about it.”
She allowed the door to take the weight of her shoulders. Lord knew she couldn’t support herself with her thoughts spinning like this.
“Come away with me. We’ll go to the cabin. Get to know each other.” He stared at her intently. “Again.”
She blushed. The way he was looking at her meant he had only one thing on his mind.
“Let’s find out if we’re still good together.” He took a step toward her.
She stood straighter, wishing she had someplace to retreat. Struggling for survival, she said, “Having good sex doesn’t mean anything.”
“Great sex,” Clay corrected.
“Great sex?” she echoed. “It’s been so long—”
“Let’s change that.” With a few strides he demolished the distance separating them.
Thick carpeting muffled his footsteps, but the sound of her thudding heart filled the air.
“Clay,” she breathed as his callused thumb brushed a curled strand of hair from her cheek.
He leaned closer. Then stroked the column of her throat with his thumb and forefinger.
Softly she cursed him.
She was lost.
As he’d known she would be.
Tears threatened again. He eased back up her throat, thumb hovering near the thundering pulse point.
“Give me a month, Cat. Then you can have your freedom.” He touched the pulse point then. “If you still want it.”
He snared her wrists in one hand and drew her a few inches away from the door. With his free hand he began plucking bobby pins from her hair.
The first floated toward the floor.
Followed by the second.
His fingers on her scalp felt so wonderful, so captivating. So enticing.
Catherine issued a reminder to herself to keep her heart hidden from Clay’s purposeful intent. She might never have stopped loving him, but he’d stopped loving her.
He tossed the final bobby pin. It clinked on top of the others.
Never releasing her gaze, he shook her hair, fluffing it.
“Feel better?”
“Yes,” she answered, before realizing how much she’d given away.
“And this suit...” He fingered the top button of her blouse. “Cat, you’re made for flowing dresses and short shorts, not uptight suits.”
“Clay, stop.” Rationally she told herself this was as threatening as his earlier words. And in the end she would be hurt just the same, maybe worse.
But in his usual way he’d trapped her as surely as he had any opponent. No way out existed, except his.
She couldn’t believe she was actually considering accepting his ridiculous proposition. A month in seclusion, at the small Rocky Mountain cabin his father had purchased, the same cabin Clay said he’d intended to use as a retreat. And never had.
Alone.
Clay at his seductive best? She didn’t know if she possessed the wherewithal to resist. “Don’t do this to me, Clay. Please.”
“Don’t do this to us,” he countered.
One of the lawyers pounded on the door again.
Clay clicked the lock into place. Then, before she recovered her equilibrium, he returned to her.
“If you walk away at the end of a month, I’ll give you your damned divorce. And the money. No questions asked.”
Did he feel the way her pulse raced? Did he know what he did to her?
“Look at me, Cat. And give me your answer.”
She looked up. Read the raw intensity he no longer hid. Noticed the dark shadow that bruised the tender area beneath his intensely blue eyes. Saw the evidence he hadn’t shaved.
Clay always shaved.
Unless he’d been awake all night.
As if totally in tune with her thoughts, he said, “Two nights.” Marginally he loosened his grip on her hands. “I haven’t slept in two nights.”
More incessant pounding continued on the door.
The tension elevated between Clay and Catherine.
She reached one hand to his cheek, tracing the stubble, outlining the determined jaw and finding the slight indentation—he refused to name it as a dimple-in his chin. Business was the only thing Clay lost sleep over.
Wasn’t it?
“I don’t know what went wrong, Cat. But I intend to find out. And fix it. If you’ll let me.”
“Two weeks,” she countered.
“A month.”
His expression lightened. He knew he’d won, but obviously didn’t intend to gloat. Thank goodness.
“Two and a half.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “A month.”
Clay stood so close. Too close. He filled her vision, her thoughts. Stole her breath. “But—”
“You said it yourself. It’ll take time to sort through what went wrong.”
“You want to spend the entire month at the cabin?”
He nodded.
“Is there a phone?”
“No.”
Her eyes widened. “You mean to tell me you want to spend a month with me? And no phone? No computer? No modems or faxes?”
“No television, either. And the nights are long. Plenty of time to become reacquainted.”
The corners of his mouth began to crinkle. Oh, Lord, she prayed, don’t let him smile. Clay’s smile combined with an engaging attitude was powerful. Overwhelming. Irresistible.
“Do it, Catherine. Run away with me.”
“But my business...”
“Isn’t Melissa still your assistant?”
“Yes, but—”
“She’s capable of running the shop for a few weeks.”
She sighed and nodded, admitting defeat. There wasn’t much else to do when faced with the power of an oncoming locomotive.
“I’m leaving Jeremy in charge of Landon Construction.”
Catherine worried her lower lip. He hadn’t trusted his younger brother, Jeremy, to water their plants when they went on their honeymoon.
“That’s how important this is.”
The memory of their idyllic honeymoon just served as a needle in the expansive balloon of his idea. Their weeks in sensual solitude had been as close to perfect as possible.
Hawaii had been beautiful—paradise on earth. Her new husband lavished all the attention of a devoted spouse on her. She’d been spoiled, pampered and well loved.
She suspected the same would happen for the next few weeks.
But then reality would intrude as it always did.
When the plane had parked at the gate at Denver’s airport, her husband had been a changed man, consumed with thoughts of making Landon Construction a success in a recessionary market. No one thought he could do it. Except her.
And he’d succeeded.
Admirably.
At the cost of their marriage.
As much as she wanted to believe things could be different, experience told her otherwise. Still, in order to win the war—her freedom—she had to concede the battle.
“Yes, Clay. I’ll go with you.”
He leaned toward her, breath fanning her ear as he whispered, “You won’t be sorry.”
She sighed quietly. “I already am.”
Two
“We’re here.”
Dreamland didn’t want to let her go. And she didn’t want to leave it, either.
A gentle hand shook her shoulder.
She snuggled deeper into her pillow.
No, not her pillow.
Leather upholstery. Soft and supple. She frowned. Became aware of unnatural silence. And the scent of...
Mountain spice.
Clay.
Her eyes shot open.
It wasn’t a dream. Or a nightmare. It was reality. A four-week reality with her husband. Her heart picked up tempo.
Maybe it was a dream.
“Clay,” she said softly.
She expected uncertainty to cloak them. After all, things had been tense when they’d faced down their attorneys. Mr. Dobson had insisted Catherine had lost her mind and that Clay must have issued a threat of some kind. Indignant, Jack Simmons had slammed a fist on the table and issued a loud objection, suitable for the actual court case.
Clay had taken her by the wrist, pulled her from the office and shut the door on the argument.
As he’d pressed her against the wall near the elevator, she’d expected him to lean just a bit closer and seal their bargain with a kiss.
He hadn’t.
She’d felt strangely bereft.
In her apartment, alone with her doubts and fears, she’d reached for the phone half a dozen times, intent on telling him she’d changed her mind about their month in seclusion.
The call to Melissa hadn’t helped, either. Melissa had eventually agreed to run the shop, but not until she’d voiced her opinion that Catherine was insane.
Catherine had nodded in silent agreement.
Despite her misgivings and apprehensions, she’d been ready to leave at the agreed hour.
Clay hadn’t been there when the clock had struck the hour.
Catherine had spent ten minutes pacing in front of the fireplace...wondering if he’d changed his mind. Hoping he had.
Praying he hadn’t.
He hadn’t.
He’d given her a quick kiss on the cheek, setting her insides on slow, remembered burn, then grabbed her suitcase and headed for the car.
“Are you awake?” Clay asked. Then he shocked her. He smiled for the second time that day.
Her heart melted.
She hadn’t seen him smile this much in years. And it was a real smile. It reached his eyes, igniting them with fire. With desire?
The sun barely cast a glow through the tall pines, and she noted that the evening’s first stars had started to peek through the faded purple velvet backdrop.
She resisted the fanciful notion of wishing on one of the twinkling stars.
What would she wish for?
The impossibility of her and Clay falling in love again? The possibility that he’d give her the divorce she asked for?
Neither option sounded like what she truly wanted.
She yawned and stretched. Then she shifted uncomfortably. Clay’s miss-nothing gaze hadn’t left her face for a single second.
“Your palace awaits.”
Even she couldn’t help but smile at that imagery. The cabin was okay, as far as cabins went, but... She and Clay had visited once a long time ago. The lack of indoor plumbing hadn’t made her anxious to return. The wood-burning stove had seemed romantic at first, but when the fire died in the middle of the night and there was no furnace to take the chill from the air... Suddenly she wasn’t glad she’d accepted the invitation.
Clay opened the car door, and emerging night sounds spilled into the interior.
Her new apartment was close to downtown. The night sounds that surged through her open windows there included honking horns, rowdy teenagers and the impassioned speech of an occasional religious fanatic.
“Coming?”
“Enjoying the silence.”
“There’s been a lot of that at the house.”
He said it without accusation. Just a simple comment that cut her to the quick.
Clay opened the back door and grabbed two bags. “I miss your lousy CDs.”
“My CDs aren’t lousy, they’re—”
“Spiritually healing.”
She allowed that comment to pass with nothing more than the hint of a grin. He was teasing. It surprised her that she recognized it at all. Surprised her even more that he still knew how.
Clay walked to the cabin and unlocked the front door, pushing it open with his foot. He used their bags to prop open the entrance, then flipped the light switch. She sat in the car, watching him.
He moved with fluid grace, muscles tight, flannel shirt stretched taut across his back. Jeans hugged his hips and thighs, conforming to him the way she might have...years ago. He had a nice butt. Still.
Clay was magnificent.
She met a lot of men in her job. None were his equal.
Clay returned to the car. “Gonna let me do all the work?”
What would he do if she said yes? After all, this trip had been his idea. If she had her way, she’d be toasting her new life with a lonely glass of champagne amid the hollowness of an empty apartment.
“Is that a yes?”
Deciding to yield to unnatural impishness, Catherine yawned.
Clay leaned toward her menacingly. Without a word he unsnapped the safety belt and scooped her from the car.
“Put me down,” she protested, laughing.
He didn’t.
Suddenly she didn’t want him to.
She wanted, if just for this moment in time, to believe this craziness might truly last.
And why not? She was well and truly stuck for the next month. He held the keys to the car. Along with the one to her heart.
She vowed he wouldn’t open that lock to the same hurt a second time.
Clay carried her inside, holding her tight to his chest. She heard the steady ebb and flow of his breaths, noted the fact his dark hair was now shaded with subtle streaks of gray.
“Well?” he asked, letting her slide down the length of his hardened body.
She glanced around the cabin. Sucked in a deep breath. “You did all this?”
He shrugged. “Not much use owning a construction company if you don’t put the talents to good use.”
“It’s stunning.” Old, worn wood had been replaced with bleached pine. A fireplace graced an inside wall. A bank of windows formed the exterior wall. No drapes hung on the picture windows to mar the sensational view of the valley below.
Warm throw rugs adorned the hardwood floors. Dried mountain wildflowers sat in vases scattered through the living room and kitchen.
“I did it for you.”
Her eyes squeezed shut. “Clay...”
He turned her to face him. Then he ran a fingertip across her eyelids, commanding her attention. “I’m not trying to guilt you into staying with me, Cat.” He laid one finger across her lips. “Don’t make any decisions. Don’t say anything. Just enjoy the moment. ”Can you do that?”
She managed a shallow nod.
“First things first.” He moved his finger, slowly trailed it to her chin, pausing on the small cleft.
“Dinner?”
“Nope.”
“Unloading the rest of our supplies?” asked Catherine.
“I carried my bride across the threshold.”
Her breath seemed frozen.
“I need to give her a kiss to welcome her home.”
Oh, heavens.
“Slow and soft, Cat?”
Her mind ordered her to run.
“Or with the passion that built inside me during the months you weren’t in my house, the months you weren’t in my bed?”
Her heart held her firmly in place.
“It’s your choice. But know one thing. I’m going to kiss you. And it won’t be a kiss you’ll forget anytime soon.”
For all the aspens in the high country, she couldn’t find her voice.
His finger trailed lower, down the middle of her neck, then lower again. Before he’d arrived to pick her up, she’d shed the suit jacket and opened the top button on her blouse.
Now Clay opened the next one.
His callused finger dragged her tender skin as he eased down even farther. She shivered. Vulnerability began to chum inside. No man ever touched her the way Clay did. No man knew exactly the right words, the right combination of sensual pleasures that undid her.
Her lips parted.
She wanted.
Wanted to resist.
No and yes blurred in her mind as he prolonged the torture. She no longer knew the meaning of the words, no longer cared.
“Which will it be?”
He gently opened the next button, skimmed the lace bra, and paused between her breasts, right above the clasp that held the material together.
She looked up at him.
“Hmm, Cat? Slow and soft? Or fed by passion?”
Which would it be? Neither, she wanted to say. Neither, she should say. They’d spent less than three hours in each other’s presence and already she yearned for his touch.
Before much longer, she knew he would make her burn, too.
Damn it, why had she agreed to this?
“Tell you what,” he said softly, leaning a little closer, stealing the air she intended to breathe, “I’ll make the choice for you.”
Her eyelids drifted shut as another button magically surrendered beneath his skilled touch. Clay tugged on her blouse, pulling it free of the skirt’s waistband.
He released the final button.
The slippery silk slid against her shoulders.
Did Clay intend to slip it off her and allow it to pool on the carpeted floor?
Would she let him?
A breeze brushed treetops, then drifted through the open door, teasing the flesh laid bare by Clay’s hands.
“Slow, this time. Soft, too. I want to savor you, Cat.”
She licked her lower lip in anticipation. But he surprised her.
A feathering of a kiss whispered across her forehead. She opened her eyes.
Then shivered.
Clay’s blue eyes had darkened. Silver flecks from the dim overhead lighting radiated his inner intensity.
This was no game to Clay.
He wanted her back.
And intended to pursue her with the same single-minded determination that won Landon Construction half a dozen of the biggest contracts in Denver this year.
He brought a hand up, cupping her chin in his palm. “Your eyes show hurt, Cat.”
She swallowed. “I hurt,” she softly admitted.
“And I’m the one who hurt you.” Self-loathing sandpapered his voice.
The night gave courage. His eyes demanded the truth. “Yes,” she admitted.
“I’m going to chase it away.”
“And what if you make it worse?”
No answer. Just sounds of nocturnal animals stirring to life. Her heart continued to beat frantically. His jaw hardened.
“I won’t make it worse,” he finally said.
A part of her wanted to believe it.
“Fall in love with me, Cat.”
She refused to admit she already was.
“Let me love you. Let me chase away the pain.” Gently, ever so gently, he moved his forefinger across her brow, then back again.
Incredibly tender, he explored the contours of her face, the length of her nose, the outline of her lips, the shape of her cheekbone. Everywhere he touched felt light and ethereal, as if moonlight had caressed her.
Her lips seemed to swell with the promise that never came.
Instead, he lowered his head, trailing warm kisses down her throat, over her shoulder, baring it as he went.
Silk teased her skin, raising goose bumps.
He thumbed aside the bra strap, healing the flesh beneath with his tongue.
Catherine’s head tipped back as she surrendered to Clay. She offered her trust. Hoped he was worthy of it. Her hair hung down her back in abandon she hadn’t felt in years.
He lovingly rediscovered the nuances of her, the hollow of her neck, that place where a pulse raced, then the underneath of her chin.
His left hand held her, palm flat against the small of her back. With his right hand, he supported her neck.
With his mouth, he awakened her.
Clay’s unhurried homage made her feel feminine. Womanly.
Her breathing labored. Sharp nails sliced into her palms, adding to the hundreds of sensations that bombarded her.
“Touch me, Cat.”
His breath warmed her and she responded to his words, reaching for him, burrowing her hands in his thick hair, drawing him closer.
His evening shadow dragged across her skin. She cried out, not with pain, but with awareness.
Clay paused for a moments, looking at her questioningly.
Her eyes didn’t want to stay open, didn’t want to do anything but let her other senses be consumed. “Please don’t...”
His Adam’s apple moved as he gulped, waiting for her to finish.
“Don’t... stop.”
His curse was earthy. Fired a purely womanly response deep inside.
Holding his head, she urged him up. She ached for his touch. Ached. Wanted. Wanted it. Wanted it now.
“Kiss me, Clay.”
“Slow and soft...Cat?”
She barely recognized his voice, so labored with his rapid breaths.
“Or with passion?”
“Sl-slow,” she managed. Any more passion would see her unhinged. She knew it, suspected he knew the exact same thing.
His grip tightened, holding her steady as he claimed her lips.
The first second was like heaven refound.
He tasted of promise and night. He was warm as a sunbaked Colorado day.
And her mind remembered when...
The connection between them flared. She opened her eyes; silver flecks danced in his eyes. He remembered, too.
The next second made her insides liquid.
That was the moment their tongues touched, timed together with a hesitant heartbeat.
Confusion swamped her.
He retreated slightly.
So did she.
They looked deeply into each other’s eyes, not hiding their emotions any longer, but with stark honesty.
Both clearly read what the other wanted.
And it was so much more than a kiss. Or sex. Or undeniable passion.
Clay wanted her love.
Catherine wanted her freedom before it was too late. Dear God, before it was too late.
With a muffled cry, she reached her hands between them and pushed him away.
A tear trickled from the corner of her eye.
Three
Clay cursed himself for every kind of fool.
Reluctantly releasing Catherine, he strode to the cabin door and slammed it shut, sealing them both inside.
His right hand trembled.
Good God, what had he done?
Clay clenched his fist. He’d brought Cat to the cabin with every intention of seducing her.
But not yet.
Not for a week, maybe even two.
First he intended to win her trust. Talk. Allow her to vent her frustrations. Forge a plan to renew their relationship. Together.
But immediately he’d blown it.
At the first sight of Catherine as vulnerable and needy as he, he’d moved.
Instead of nurturing her, he’d thrown them back into the dark ages.
Smooth move.
Actions like that weren’t his style. Cool. Controlled. Calculated. Those were his style.
But holding her in his arms had stamped his resolve into the ground.
It’d been so long.... Still calling himself a dozen different words for fool, he turned to her, extended his hand, palm up. “I’m sorry.”
Catherine was shoving her blouse tails into the rigid skirt, her hands shaking like his own.
“Let me.” The words surprised even him, but once spoken, they couldn’t be called back.
She froze. Then looked at him. Her eyes had been the first thing that had captured Clay all those years ago.
He’d been on a construction site, as a foreman. She’d walked by, wearing a tight, oh so tight, skirt. The small slit up the back accentuated her shapely hips and a waist small enough to wrap his hands around. Light brown hair flirted with her shoulders, lifted by the wind. His men had whistled lewdly. He’d thought nothing of it. After all, she was an attractive woman.
But the next day he’d been taking a break. His shirt had lain on a nearby fence post, sweat had beaded his brow, and he’d been slugging down an iced tea.
The guys had started the catcalls.
She’d glanced at him. He’d read anxiety, realized it made her hazel eyes darken into drownable depths. Man, he’d decided he’d rather drown than swim. The blush that had painted her cheeks tied the conspiracy together. He’d been lost.
Sunk. Snared.
The next day he’d made sure he was dressed and had intentionally hopped the fence, getting in her way. He would deck the next guy who dared whistle at the woman Clay had declared his.
She’d fallen for him as surely as he’d fallen for her. And the memories of their honeymoon were still seared into his mind.
Hesitant in the beginning...he’d been her first.
They’d moved quickly, until his love for her had encouraged them both to learn together.
Life had seemed great. He’d gotten the girl. Within months, Landon Construction had scraped its way out of the barrel.
But, even though his company was on its way up, his marriage had gone down. And he still wasn’t doing a heck of a job of rescuing it.
Hell, who’d have thought it would come to this? He’d blackmailed his wife into giving him a reprieve. Blackmailed, for chrissake. Then damn near jumped her bones before the door was even shut.
If she was keeping score, he didn’t stand a chance.
Scary thing was, he would do the first all over again. Hell, he would probably blackmail her a second time, too—not that he was proud of it—such was his desperation to get her back.
Clay captured Cat’s hands. He wrapped her wrists with one of his hands, leaving the other free.
“Clay...”
“Trust me,” he said, hoping he could trust himself. Gulping a huge breath of air to clear the fog that seeped into his brain every time she was near, he snared the bra strap and moved it back onto her shoulder. “Wish you wouldn’t wear one of these torture traps.”
“Clay.”
He heard the undercurrent of warning, even though her breaths were constricted. Instead of ignoring the words, he heeded them. He would woo her. Win her.
With restrained gentleness he kissed the hollow of her neck, relishing the way she instinctively swayed toward him. Before he could give in a second time and lavish the love he was desperate to, he slid the white silk blouse back into place.
Reluctantly he fastened the buttons she’d missed, taking care not to skim her skin, though not doing so made him swallow hard in order to retain control.
“Thanks,” she managed to say, tucking the tails in the rest of the way.
He didn’t respond...that would be hypocritical.
Clay pivoted and crossed to the fireplace, resting his elbow on the mantel. “You hungry?” It sounded stupid. Inane. But common pleasantries might distract him from other, more pleasant thoughts.
“I haven’t eaten all day,” Catherine confessed.
“I’ve got a cooler in the trunk. How about some grilled burgers?”
“Sounds fine.”
Two strangers couldn’t have done a better job.
But then, two strangers hadn’t nearly succumbed to the temptations both knew waited for them beyond the bedroom door.
Clay nodded, then walked past her, going to the car and making three trips with luggage and groceries. She didn’t offer help; he was relieved. He needed some distance—and physical exertion, no matter how minor.
“Your room is down the hall,” he said, after closing the door a final time. He grabbed her duffel bags and started toward the bedrooms.
Her high-heeled shoes clicked as she followed him down the hall, unenthusiastically, if the cadence was anything to judge by.
Clay turned the knob, then stepped aside, allowing her to enter. Not being an idiot, though, he didn’t back out of her way.
Their bodies had to brush.
He heard the sharp intake of her breath. But she walked past him, her shoulder rubbing against his flannel shirt.
Once inside, she stopped and turned. Eyes wide, she asked, “You did this for me?”
He’d remembered Cat sharing one of her dreams, two days before they were married.
She’d lain on her back, looking at the clouds, imagining their shape. He’d been propped on an elbow, imagining her shape.
One of three girls, she’d never had a place all her own. And she wanted one. Somewhere to escape and daydream. Feminine and soft. Pastels and lace. Pillows and sachets. Until a month ago he hadn’t known what the hell a sachet was.
Thank God he had a secretary to help him take care of the details. She’d found a magazine, cut out the pictures, directed Clay to the right store, even found him a shopper to help put it all together.
“You did this?” Catherine asked again.
“Mostly.”
Her eyes narrowed, but a genuine smile curved her lips. Ah, what a paradox, this woman he loved. The woman he hoped would soon invite him into the ridiculously froufrou queen-size bed...barely big enough for two.
“Mostly?”
“Jean gave me pictures,” he admitted.
“Go on.”
“And sent me to a store at the mall.”
Catherine’s jaw dropped in the most unladylike manner. “And you did the rest yourself?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“A shopper helped me pick it all out.”
“And you did the rest yourself?”
He nodded.
She frowned. “You arranged all these pillows?”
“And the sachet.”
“Sachet,” she corrected. “The T is silent.”
So was he.
He waited in agony for her to say something. Anything. He’d never done anything like this before. He shifted. Already he was starting to regret it.
The deep throw rug absorbed the sound of her heels as she walked toward him.
She stopped, barely a foot away.
Jeez. The scent of her perfume, some sort of flower, teased him, reminding him of a time he’d stretched out on their bed, watching her dress, not caring that the inaction would make him late for an appointment.
Her eyes, wary, but not skittish, were open wide, searching for the truth in his gaze.
Her motion wasn’t swift and sure, but rather slow and considered as she reached for him. Her fingertips were smooth as they stroked the length of his cheek—smooth softness to dark shadow. He remained still, not sure of his reaction to the reality of her touch after dreaming of it for months.
The sharp edge of a fingernail dragged the outline of his lower lip.
He hardened.
A more purely sensual act, or response, he couldn’t remember. Couldn’t imagine.
“Thank you, Clay. It means a lot to me.”
“It’s all yours, Cat.”
He wondered if she too remembered the bitter argument they’d had when she’d insisted on having her own space. Not much, really, just a room for her to decorate the way she wanted, fill with the things she adored.
Even though she’d shared the simple dream and he wanted to make her wishes come true, when faced with the reality of her having something that didn’t include him, he’d panicked. Selfish and blind, he’d believed she wanted to be away from him.
Back then he hadn’t realized the more independence she had, the more she’d turned to him. For a while, at least.
Then had come the half-bottle-of-whiskey night when she hadn’t come home at all.
She finally had all the space she wanted.
He placed a hand over hers, stilling her motion. His gut had tightened painfully and the emptiness could only be eased by Catherine’s healing touch.
“I’ll let you know when dinner’s ready,” he said, letting go of her hand.
She nodded.
He escaped.
In his mind the soft click of her door seemed to reverberate his failure. There’d been a time when nothing stood between them.
Now a gulf of years yawned wide and unbridgeable.
Clay reminded himself he specialized in conquering jobs others believed impossible. Love would be the toughest of all.
He went to the kitchen, popped the top on a beer, put a bottle of chardonnay in the refrigerator to chill. Didn’t matter that they were having red meat. Catherine liked her chard.
Clay frowned. At least he thought she still liked that kind of wine.
As he lit the grill and unpacked the groceries, Clay realized he was fooling himself if he thought getting Catherine to capitulate—agree to stay married till death do us part—would be an easy matter.
She had made him the gift of her love once. He hadn’t cherished it, as promised in front of their friends and family, in front of God. She probably had no intention of succumbing with her heart, even if she did with her body.
Which made his job twice as difficult.
Sex was great, likely that hadn’t changed.
It was the emotional angle that needed work.
But until the instant he’d lost Catherine, Clay hadn’t realized he was an emotional man.
“Smells good.”
At the sound of the melodic tone weaving through her voice, Clay turned. And immediately he was struck by her loveliness. She’d left her hair loose, and it floated around her shoulders, just the way it had on their wedding day. Blue jeans snuggled her hips and thighs, and a sweatshirt showed the gentle swell of her breasts.
The uptight businesswoman was gone.
In its place resided the Catherine he’d once known.
Maybe he did have a chance.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said.
“You didn’t,” he lied.
She entered the kitchen far enough to lean against a counter. “Anything I can do to help?”
“You can grab the silverware and plates.”
Having her in his kitchen seemed so natural. So right. He went back to the salad, pleased by his triumph. This morning he’d gambled. Bluffed. If she’d called it, he had no doubt he’d be staring at the bottom of a glass through glazed eyes, instead of chopping tomatoes.
“Uh, Clay?”
He stopped.
“Where do you keep the silverware?”
Reality hit him with a thud. She didn’t know. Damn it all. “Top drawer in the island.” Concentrating on dinner instead of the sudden pain, he scooped tomatoes on top of the shredded lettuce and asked, “Something to drink?”
She glanced up from where she folded napkins. Her hair curtained her expression. “White zinfandel, thanks.”
He cursed silently. Strike two. “I’ve got chardonnay chilled.”
With her fingers, she tucked her hair behind her ears. She grinned. “In that case, chardonnay is fine.”
He recognized the impish tilt to her mouth. She’d got him. He carried the salad bowl to the table. “Just for that, I should tell you I only have beer.”
“Makes me sick.” She wrinkled her nose. “But if that’s how you want to spend our month together...”
Not wanting to follow her unspoken words, but rather to take the truce, he said, “I’ll grab the corkscrew.”
Dinner was awkward, neither said much, both tiptoed, ignoring her earlier question of what went wrong. And both scrupulously avoided touching the other.
“You didn’t eat much,” he said.
“Sherlock Holmes had nothing on you.”
“Making conversation,” he. admitted with a slight shrug.
“Me, too.”
They looked at each other. He saw regret in her eyes. Regret for what failed? Or regret that she hadn’t gone her separate way this morning?
Damn it, dancing around important issues like two strangers didn’t suit him one bit.
She stood and gathered their plates. “You cooked, I’ll clean.”
“We both ate,” he said. “I’ll help.”
It wasn’t until she gave him a wide berth near the dishwasher that he realized she was trying to avoid anything that might resemble intimacy.
Finally, dishes rinsed and loaded in the machine, counters wiped, he offered, “Refill on your wine?”
At her nod, he poured her another, then grabbed a second beer for himself.
She followed him into the living room with the huge bank of windows.
After turning on a couple of lights and sliding a New-Age favorite of hers into the CD player, Clay took a seat with his back to the window, leaving her little option but to sit across from him.
Confront him.
Catherine sank into the couch, curling her legs beneath her.
How many times had he imagined a similar scene as he’d worked to make the cabin into someplace Catherine would want to be? In his mind, though, their being together hadn’t been shrouded with distrust...nor had it been dampened by Cat’s reluctance to be near him.
For a few minutes he asked questions about her antique store and the recent pieces she’d acquired. Then he surprised them both. “Tell me what I have to do to get you to stay married to me.”
Her mouth fell open a fraction of an inch. She sipped from her glass.
And he waited.
Clay reached for the cold aluminum can and held it with one hand, grateful for the iciness seeping into him. At least it distracted him from complete concentration on the length of time her response was taking.
“It’s not an easy question to answer.” She rolled the crystal stem between her fingers. “Our relationship started falling apart a long time ago—years ago. And it’s not one specific thing, it’s lots of things.”
“So tell me.”
A ghost of a smile feathered her lips. “That’s the bottom-line businessman in you speaking.”
He took a couple of long drags from his beer. “And that’s not what you want.”
“No.” She looked at him levelly. Her glass stilled. “I want the man I met and married.”
He bit out a four-letter oath. “We’ve both changed, Cat.”
“Yes.” She twirled her glass, then directed her gaze to the window, not looking at Clay at all. “You’re right. I guess we have.”
“Damn it, Catherine, you’re not even looking at me.”
Slowly she turned her attention to him.
The ache in her eyes transcended the distance and time separating them. Made him understand how far he had to go. Made him wonder if it was possible.
“Do you even want to try and save it?” The instant the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to snatch them back. There was a huge possibility he wouldn’t like her answer.
Seconds dragged into a minute. Catherine bravely held his gaze the entire time. Maybe twenty seconds later, she lowered her eyelashes. The unnaturally long lashes shaded the magnificent hazel from his view. When she glanced up again, she resumed looking out the windows, into the starless night Dark as it was, maybe she just stared at a reflection of the room.
Unable to stand the suspense any longer, Clay shoved his drink on the coffee table, then stood. “Dumb question,” he conceded. He paced in front of the stereo, not finding her music spiritually healing in the least. “If you wanted our marriage to work, you wouldn’t have filed for a divorce.”
“You didn’t leave me much choice.”
A wisp of mountain breeze could have knocked him to his butt. They looked at each other intently.
“I didn’t give you much choice?” he demanded. “If I remember right, I got home from work one night and you weren’t there.”
His lip curled into a sneer, despite his best efforts to woo and win her. A saner part of his mind told him to knock off the irrational thoughts, tamp down the emotion. But, damn it all, he hurt, too. “You barely had the courtesy to leave me a note.”
Catherine pulled her knees to her chest, looking lost in the huge couch. “You had no clue it was coming?” she asked incredulously.
“None.”
“I’d moved out of our bedroom.”
“Hell, Catherine, I thought I was giving you the space you wanted. The space you insisted you had to have.” He paused. “I thought I was doing it for you.”
She shook her head. Strands of hair fell forward. And a single tear began to trace a solitary path down her right cheek.
Damn it. He’d never felt more an idiot. Or more alone.
“You’re wrong, Clay. So very wrong.”
He sat on the coffee table, thrummed his fingers on the wooden surface. As quickly as it descended, his anger evaporated. Hollowness remained. He held his hand still. Searching to figure out where to go, what to do, he said, “Tell me, then. Help me to understand.”
“It wasn’t freedom I wanted.” Catherine made no attempt to hide the pain he’d unintentionally inflicted on her.
He winced.
“It was never freedom,” Catherine whispered.
He frowned.
“It was you, Clay.” She swallowed deeply.
Clay sought to find understanding, knowing how important it was.
Both her eyes were now frosted with fragile tears. “I wanted you.”
Four
Clay cursed.
Catherine turned away from him, wrapping her arms across her chest at the same time.
Damn it, he wanted honesty, believed they could sort through their problems, but these vague answers were no answers at all. “Look at me.”
Her shoulders began to shake.
“Damn it all, Cat, look at me.”
Slowly she turned to face him. He squeezed his eyes shut momentarily. Along with fragile tears, he saw regret and fear in her eyes. It hit him then. Hit him hard. He possessed the power to make her hurt.
And he’d used it.
The accusation aimed at him landed with stinging force. Suddenly he wanted to use that emotion to heal. Heal her. Heal them.
Trouble was, he didn’t have any experience in that field, didn’t know where to start. “I don’t understand,” he confessed. He heard the ragged drag on the syllables.
Catherine looked up at him.
“Help me, Cat?” he asked again. Had his gut ever been this wrenched? Even when she’d moved into her own room he’d mistakenly believed she would be back. Mistakenly believed he was doing the right thing, giving her the space she always said she wanted. Things weren’t that bad. Or so he’d convinced himself. Or rather, tried to convince himself.
But when she’d left the house... He couldn’t imagine anything worse. “Even if you don’t forgive me...” Clay gulped, wished for strength.
He always prided himself on his strength. But nothing—nothing—ever mattered this much. Love made him weak. And he knew he’d have to battle that before he won what was most important. “Even if you don’t forgive me, for God’s sake, give me the chance to try and understand what went wrong.”
Their gazes collided. Neither blinked, neither looked away. When she spoke it was with such softness, such hesitancy, he wasn’t certain he’d heard right.
“Okay, Clay.”
“What?” he asked quietly.
“Okay,” she said again. Slowly, with controlled precision, she unfolded her arms and allowed her hands to drop.
He recognized her capitulation. A breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding eased through his throat.
“I’ll warn you, though. You may not want to hear what I have to say.”
“I’ll take that chance.”
She nodded, then slipped off her shoes. Through the silky sheer stockings, he saw her toenails were painted red.
Red.
Jeez.
How little he knew about her. How much he wanted to know.
Catherine slipped one leg beneath her, allowing the other to drape across the couch. She looked natural—as if she belonged there. Here. With him. To him.
He forced himself to look away from the tantalizing tease of fire-engine red. It definitely didn’t fit with the uptight image she’d presented at the attorney’s office earlier. And it made him wonder if slow and soft had been the way she really wanted their kiss.
Maybe heated passion was more the way to reach her.
Instantly he dismissed the idea.
Sure he wanted her in his arms, in his bed. But in his life was more important. And he’d do anything—anything—to get her there again.
“Coffee?” he offered. She was fiddling with her hands. Truth to tell, he might need something to do with his hands, too...other than rediscover his wife.
“Do you know how to make it?”
“Lady, since you left, I’ve become a master of many things.”
“Maybe it was for the best that I—”
“Don’t say it,” he said, tone laced with impatience. Coming to his feet in a manifestation of that frustration, he strode to the kitchen and turned on the tap. He yanked the glass carafe from the coffee maker and thrust it under the running water, impatiently tapping his knuckles on the counter.
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Christine Pacheco
Praise for Christine Pacheco (#u3a4083f4-2b5c-5333-aa2a-dcce4a0d8ee8)Letter to Reader (#ua46a9ff1-67b2-5a69-8362-f989c1a1e16c)About the Author (#uff841b24-da09-54a9-bba9-ecc8003d2e59)Title Page (#u2e1b7bd9-e6bd-513e-a823-0b12c07c3a7b)Dedication (#u5ee6f6a9-104e-540d-bcb5-da1b3b1cbf15)Chapter One (#u9845fa29-3250-59cc-b898-1f8e331710d9)Chapter Two (#u7949d97f-1757-54c8-90f2-743bef735895)Chapter Three (#uf6eb7bb4-d979-544e-ab2f-c8f681fa9141)Chapter Four (#u30666713-02fe-5e63-8f4b-57c3281f17fe)Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Praise for Christine Pacheco
“Reading Chris Pacheco is like sitting in a balmy breeze under a banyan tree and savoring your favorite drink. Her books take me away to my favorite escape. She’s sure to please.”
—Bestselling author Debbie Macomber
“A sure delight!”
—Bestselling writer Barbara Boswell
“I Carried My Bride Across The Threshold,”
Clay said softly.
Cat’s breath seemed frozen.
“I need to give her a kiss to welcome her home. Slow and soft, Cat? Or with the passion that built inside me during the months you weren’t in my house, the months you weren’t in my bed?”
Her mind ordered her to run. Her heart held her firmly in place.
“It’s your choice. But know one thing. I’m going to kiss you. And it won’t be a kiss you’ll forget anytime soon.”
Dear Reader,
Happy Valentine’s Day! This season of love is so exciting for us here at Silhouette Desire that we decided to create a special cover treatment for each of this month’s love stories—just to show how much this very romantic holiday means to us.
And what a fabulous group of books we have for you! Let’s start with Joan Elliott Pickart’s MAN OF THE MONTH, Texas Moon. It’s romantic and wonderful—and has a terrific hero!
The romance continues with Cindy Gerard’s sensuous A Bride for Abel Greene, the next in her NORTHERN LIGHTS BRIDES series, and also with Elizabeth Bevarly’s Roxy and the Rich Man, which launches her new miniseries about siblings who were separated at birth, THE FAMILY McCORMICK.
Christine Pacheco is up next with Lovers Only, an emotional and compelling reunion story. And Metsy Hingle’s dramatic writing style shines through in her latest, Lovechild.
It’s always a special moment when a writer reaches her 25the book milestone—and that’s just what Rita Rainville has done in the humorous and delightful Western. City Girls Need Not Apply.
Silhouette Desire—where you will always find the very best love stories! Enjoy them all....
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Silhouette Readar Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609. Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
About the Author
CHRISTINE PACHECO considers herself lucky to have married her real-life hero, Jared. They live in Colorado with their two children, a boy and a girl.
Christine remembers always wanting to be a writer. She even talked her elementary school librarian into publishing her books. She notes always preferring romances because they’re about that special moment when dreams are possible and the future is magical.
You can write to Christine at P.O. Box 448, Eastlake, CO 80614.
Lovers Only
Christine Pacheco
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For my mother, whose belief in me was real and tangible. Mom, my heartfelt thanks for helping me believe I could achieve my dreams.
And for Whitney and Raymond, you two are special gifts! Of course, Jared, this is for you, too. Whatever I am, it’s because of your support.
One
Ripping paper broke the silence.
In stunned amazement, Catherine looked across at Clay. No one breathed. No one spoke.
Catherine’s heartbeat tripled its already fast tempo, and a lump lodged in her throat. Oh, Lord. Not now. Not now when things were so very close to being over.
Freedom hovered just moments beyond her reach.
Jagged legal documents fluttered to the floor.
Clay slammed his fist on the shiny cherry-wood conference table, marring the perfect gloss.
Catherine jumped. Couldn’t find a word.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Clay clipped, rising to his feet in a single, fluid motion. His hands gripped the table’s edge, and his body radiated tension.
Catherine’s shoulders sagged.
“Now see here, Mr. Landon—” her attorney began.
“No,” Clay interrupted softly. Dangerously.
How many times in the past years had Catherine heard that tone? Not as often as in the early part of their marriage, but enough to recognize the careful control with which he held his anger in check.
“No,” he repeated. “You see here. Catherine is still my wife.” With that, he broke gazes with her attorney and fixed glacial blue eyes on her—the opponent.
She shivered, despite the sun streaming through the window.
For a moment she thought she detected a softening in Clay’s expression. And something more. Perhaps a hint of hurt?
No, that wasn’t possible.
She and Clay had lost the ability to hurt each other three years ago. Catherine remembered it well. It had happened at the exact same time they’d lost their ability to communicate and share.
“She won’t be married to you for much longer,” Kevin Dobson insisted.
When Clay turned his attention to Catherine’s attorney again, the older man pulled a starched handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow.
“I want to talk to my wife. Privately.”
“Clay,” Jack Simmons said. “This really isn’t the time.”
“Out!” he ordered his own attorney.
Catherine felt the heat of their stares fasten on her, one by one. First her attorney. Then Clay’s attorney. Finally, Clay himself.
Beneath the table she twisted her fingers together, absently reaching for the missing wedding ring...the ring Clay had gently slipped onto her hand as he’d solemnly promised to love and cherish her forever.
The same ring she’d shed when he’d broken that vow. The same ring that now rested, by itself, at the bottom of her jewelry box.
“Five minutes, Cat.”
The raw-edged intensity in his tone skittered across her nerves.
“Isn’t what we had worth five minutes to you?”
She remembered the way he’d raised her hand to his lips, making the preacher pause. She swore she still felt the warmth that had rushed through her at that moment, when she’d believed she and Clay would truly grow together, have a family together, become old together....
“Out, Jack. And take Dobson with you.”
“This is highly unusual,” Kevin Dobson protested.
In less time than it took her frantic heart to beat half a dozen times, Clay had moved, coming around to her side of the table. With the toe of his cowboy boot he pushed back her chair.
When his fingers found her shoulders, she looked up, trying to gauge emotions carefully cloaked behind his unreadable blue eyes.
“Call him off, Cat.”
With slow and gentle, yet inexorable pressure, Clay drew her to her feet. Then he pulled her closer to him. She could have resisted. Part of her mind screamed at her to resist. But she didn’t.
There was something so right, so elementally right and basic about being in his arms again. It had been so long....
Illogically, a frisson of excitement took hold. He was acting as if she was special, just like the Clay she’d fallen in Jove with so many years ago. Catherine forced herself to remember that it was the man he’d become she was divorcing.
She looked up. His eyes didn’t seem so glacial. Nor did they contain the heat that they might once have had when he held her.
“Cat, talk to me. Tell them to get out. Please,” Clay said quietly.
The warmth of his breath on her cheek stirred Catherine’s starving senses, along with memories—memories of cool Colorado nights and Clay’s masculinity to keep her warm and secure.
“It’s okay,” she finally said, looking sideways toward Dobson—away from her husband.
Dobson checked his watch. “Really, Mrs. Landon, this isn’t the way things are done,” he protested a second time.
Clay’s grip tightened.
From experience she knew it was better to face the storm, brave it out and then let it blow over.
If Clay wanted five minutes, she would give it to him. And then close the door behind her, never to look back.
Besides, knowing Clay, he would stand here and argue the point for five minutes and win, anyway. Giving in now meant victory in the end. Victory in the form of freedom.
“Give us five minutes, Mr. Dobson.”
He wiped his brow again, then checked his watch. “Five minutes, Mrs. Landon. I do have other clients, you know.”
The door closed behind the two lawyers. She and Clay were alone for the first time since she’d moved out of their home several months ago.
In spite of everything, she attempted a grin. “He acts as though he’s paying me,” Catherine said.
Clay didn’t smile in return.
If anything, his expression had darkened. The storm hadn’t diminished, it had intensified.
Her smile fled. She knotted her hands into fists, fingernails cutting into her palms.
“Okay, Clay, you won.” Catherine let out a long breath, then said, “Talk.”
“We haven’t done much of that, have we?”
“Don’t,” she protested, wedging one of her clenched hands between them in a desperate attempt to gain some space. “It’s a little late for regrets.”
He shook his head; a renegade lock of hair drooped over his forehead. Instantly years and experience were erased from his features. If only pain could be vanquished so easily....
“I was serious. I’ve changed my mind about giving you a divorce, Cat.”
Her pounding heart stopped. He couldn’t mean it. Not at this stage.
He began to move his fingers in a light caress.
Her heart resumed pounding.
Catherine forced herself to drink a deep breath of air and hold it for a few seconds. “You can’t prevent me from divorcing you, Clay. These are the nineties.”
“I know,” he said, voice barely over a whisper, making her strain in order to hear his words. “But I can make life hell for you.”
Her own anger surged to the surface, red-hot and blazing. “Are you threatening me?”
“No.”
She frowned. “What then?”
“A proposition.”
Confusion replaced anger. “A proposition?” she echoed.
“I love you, Cat.”
Her pulse leapt. The right words. Too late. Oh, Lord, he’d finally used the words she’d waited night after night to hear for the last three years. Slowly she forced her fists to uncurl. “Clay—”
“Hear me out.”
She tried to harden her heart. But how could she when he stood so close? When she inhaled the same untamed scent he’d worn on their wedding day? When he moved his hands so slowly, as if in intentional seduction?
They’d been in the same room less than half an hour and already he’d tossed her emotions into a tumultuous cauldron. She should resist. Should. But a look at his implacable face, hardened jaw and drawn lips convinced her otherwise. “Okay,” she said softly, resignedly. “You’ve still got three minutes.”
“What we had was good.” When the only sounds that filled the room were the distant ringing of a phone and their combined breaths, he finally asked, “What? No argument?”
She shook her head. “What we had was good,” she agreed. “Was, Clay.”
“What happened?”
“Life,” she answered. She’d pondered that same question a hundred, a thousand, no, ten thousand times. Not a night passed that she didn’t sit in the white wicker rocking chair, pushing it with her toe as she asked herself over and over, What went wrong? “We grew in different directions. You’ve got your business. I have the store.”
She took a breath, looking him deeply in the eyes, memorizing his every nuance, wondering if this was the last time they’d ever stand this close...if this was the last time she would ever feel his once-loving arms hold her.
Catherine wasn’t a fool. She’d considered all these things before finally swallowing the past and deciding to move on to the future.
She just hadn’t realized Clay would make the finality so difficult.
“And the store’s enough for you?”
His look demanded honesty, even if his eyes shaded his true feelings. “It is for now,” she said.
“But what about at night? When you climb into bed and it’s cold? Or in the morning, when there’s no one to say hello to? Is it enough then?”
“Your five minutes are up!” Dobson called, pounding on the door.
“Tell him to go away, Cat. Or I will.”
He would. No doubt about it. “I’ll be right out,” Catherine called back.
As suddenly as he’d crossed the room and taken her shoulders in his hands, Clay released her.
Without his support, her shoulders sank forward.
“As I said, I have a proposition for you.” He pivoted and strode to the far end of the room, bracing an outstretched hand on the window frame.
He looked out for long moments, seemingly staring at nothing.
She waited.
Her pulse wasn’t as patient.
At one time she would have gone to him, skimmed her fingers up his spine. His head would have dropped forward and she would have gently worked the tension she instinctively knew resided in his shoulders.
But she could no longer lay claim to that intimacy.
She’d given up that right when she’d tearfully slipped her wedding ring into the bottom of her jewelry box.
After nearly a minute went by, he turned to face her. This time she saw vulnerability in his gaze, raw and naked. The depth of emotion etched in his eyes made her knees weak.
“Now’s not the time to have a deep discussion about what went wrong.”
“A week wouldn’t be long enough,” she whispered, fighting for strength. She smiled...falsely. She knew that it emerged weak. And that it reflected inner feelings she wanted to hide.
Clay plowed his fingers through his hair. “Then give me a month.”
“What?”
“A month, Catherine. Give me a month to prove that we’re meant to be together. A month to show you I’ve changed, that I’ll do anything it takes to have you love me again.”
He asked the impossible. It had taken her so long to find the courage to admit things weren’t and never could be magically repaired.
As for love, she’d never completely stopped loving him. But life had taught her a coldly valuable lesson she didn’t intend to forget: love wasn’t enough.
She shook her head, blinking back tears as she did.
“You don’t mean that,” he said.
Catherine discovered strength, but knew it would vanish if she didn’t draw upon it now. “I do mean no.” She blinked again. Damn, but she didn’t know a slice of pain could sting this badly. “Our relationship is over, Clay.” Shaking, she started toward the door.
When her hand closed around the knob, the quiet threat in Clay’s voice seared her like a whip.
“I’ll sue for half of your store.”
Her head fell forward, resting on the uncaring wooden door.
He couldn’t be that cruel. Yes, she knew his temper was volatile and that he could and would do nearly anything when backed into a corner. But cruelty? Never toward her.
Until now.
She closed her eyes on a fresh wave of anguish.
Owning the store had been the one dream she’d held fast to through the years. As she and Clay had slipped into being strangers under the same roof, opening her own store had taken on more and more meaning.
Right now it was self-supporting, sustaining.
But if Clay sued...
Seconds stretched to eternity.
“Don’t make me do that,” he said.
She swung around. “You don’t have to do anything,” she insisted. “Except give me my freedom.”
“That’s the one thing I won’t do willingly.”
“Damn it.” Breath eased from between her clenched teeth. “Damn you.”
His eyes narrowed fractionally. He balled his right hand into a fist.
“If you want to fight dirty, Clay, then we will.” She dashed her knuckles across tear-filled eyes, repeating a silent litany: I won’t let him make me cry. “I’ll sue for half of Landon Construction.”
“Of course.” He nodded. “But that’ll tie up our money and time for months.”
His implications rushed through her. He didn’t make idle threats. She needed her hands on her capital; she didn’t need to be enmeshed in litigation for months and months. Clay did possess the power to make her life hell. And ruin everything she’d fought to gain.
“You’re impossible.”
“Yep.”
Dropping her damp hand, she quietly said, “Don’t play games.”
“No games.” He raised his left hand. “I’m making you an offer. I’ll leave your shop alone and give you half of Landon Construction—”
“If I give you a month.”
“That’s a hell of an investment, Cat,” Clay said softly. “A few hundred grand, maybe more, free and clear, for thirty days of your time. Catherine’s Den of Antiquity would be the best with that kind of money. And you wouldn’t have to give me a dime. Think about it.”
She allowed the door to take the weight of her shoulders. Lord knew she couldn’t support herself with her thoughts spinning like this.
“Come away with me. We’ll go to the cabin. Get to know each other.” He stared at her intently. “Again.”
She blushed. The way he was looking at her meant he had only one thing on his mind.
“Let’s find out if we’re still good together.” He took a step toward her.
She stood straighter, wishing she had someplace to retreat. Struggling for survival, she said, “Having good sex doesn’t mean anything.”
“Great sex,” Clay corrected.
“Great sex?” she echoed. “It’s been so long—”
“Let’s change that.” With a few strides he demolished the distance separating them.
Thick carpeting muffled his footsteps, but the sound of her thudding heart filled the air.
“Clay,” she breathed as his callused thumb brushed a curled strand of hair from her cheek.
He leaned closer. Then stroked the column of her throat with his thumb and forefinger.
Softly she cursed him.
She was lost.
As he’d known she would be.
Tears threatened again. He eased back up her throat, thumb hovering near the thundering pulse point.
“Give me a month, Cat. Then you can have your freedom.” He touched the pulse point then. “If you still want it.”
He snared her wrists in one hand and drew her a few inches away from the door. With his free hand he began plucking bobby pins from her hair.
The first floated toward the floor.
Followed by the second.
His fingers on her scalp felt so wonderful, so captivating. So enticing.
Catherine issued a reminder to herself to keep her heart hidden from Clay’s purposeful intent. She might never have stopped loving him, but he’d stopped loving her.
He tossed the final bobby pin. It clinked on top of the others.
Never releasing her gaze, he shook her hair, fluffing it.
“Feel better?”
“Yes,” she answered, before realizing how much she’d given away.
“And this suit...” He fingered the top button of her blouse. “Cat, you’re made for flowing dresses and short shorts, not uptight suits.”
“Clay, stop.” Rationally she told herself this was as threatening as his earlier words. And in the end she would be hurt just the same, maybe worse.
But in his usual way he’d trapped her as surely as he had any opponent. No way out existed, except his.
She couldn’t believe she was actually considering accepting his ridiculous proposition. A month in seclusion, at the small Rocky Mountain cabin his father had purchased, the same cabin Clay said he’d intended to use as a retreat. And never had.
Alone.
Clay at his seductive best? She didn’t know if she possessed the wherewithal to resist. “Don’t do this to me, Clay. Please.”
“Don’t do this to us,” he countered.
One of the lawyers pounded on the door again.
Clay clicked the lock into place. Then, before she recovered her equilibrium, he returned to her.
“If you walk away at the end of a month, I’ll give you your damned divorce. And the money. No questions asked.”
Did he feel the way her pulse raced? Did he know what he did to her?
“Look at me, Cat. And give me your answer.”
She looked up. Read the raw intensity he no longer hid. Noticed the dark shadow that bruised the tender area beneath his intensely blue eyes. Saw the evidence he hadn’t shaved.
Clay always shaved.
Unless he’d been awake all night.
As if totally in tune with her thoughts, he said, “Two nights.” Marginally he loosened his grip on her hands. “I haven’t slept in two nights.”
More incessant pounding continued on the door.
The tension elevated between Clay and Catherine.
She reached one hand to his cheek, tracing the stubble, outlining the determined jaw and finding the slight indentation—he refused to name it as a dimple-in his chin. Business was the only thing Clay lost sleep over.
Wasn’t it?
“I don’t know what went wrong, Cat. But I intend to find out. And fix it. If you’ll let me.”
“Two weeks,” she countered.
“A month.”
His expression lightened. He knew he’d won, but obviously didn’t intend to gloat. Thank goodness.
“Two and a half.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “A month.”
Clay stood so close. Too close. He filled her vision, her thoughts. Stole her breath. “But—”
“You said it yourself. It’ll take time to sort through what went wrong.”
“You want to spend the entire month at the cabin?”
He nodded.
“Is there a phone?”
“No.”
Her eyes widened. “You mean to tell me you want to spend a month with me? And no phone? No computer? No modems or faxes?”
“No television, either. And the nights are long. Plenty of time to become reacquainted.”
The corners of his mouth began to crinkle. Oh, Lord, she prayed, don’t let him smile. Clay’s smile combined with an engaging attitude was powerful. Overwhelming. Irresistible.
“Do it, Catherine. Run away with me.”
“But my business...”
“Isn’t Melissa still your assistant?”
“Yes, but—”
“She’s capable of running the shop for a few weeks.”
She sighed and nodded, admitting defeat. There wasn’t much else to do when faced with the power of an oncoming locomotive.
“I’m leaving Jeremy in charge of Landon Construction.”
Catherine worried her lower lip. He hadn’t trusted his younger brother, Jeremy, to water their plants when they went on their honeymoon.
“That’s how important this is.”
The memory of their idyllic honeymoon just served as a needle in the expansive balloon of his idea. Their weeks in sensual solitude had been as close to perfect as possible.
Hawaii had been beautiful—paradise on earth. Her new husband lavished all the attention of a devoted spouse on her. She’d been spoiled, pampered and well loved.
She suspected the same would happen for the next few weeks.
But then reality would intrude as it always did.
When the plane had parked at the gate at Denver’s airport, her husband had been a changed man, consumed with thoughts of making Landon Construction a success in a recessionary market. No one thought he could do it. Except her.
And he’d succeeded.
Admirably.
At the cost of their marriage.
As much as she wanted to believe things could be different, experience told her otherwise. Still, in order to win the war—her freedom—she had to concede the battle.
“Yes, Clay. I’ll go with you.”
He leaned toward her, breath fanning her ear as he whispered, “You won’t be sorry.”
She sighed quietly. “I already am.”
Two
“We’re here.”
Dreamland didn’t want to let her go. And she didn’t want to leave it, either.
A gentle hand shook her shoulder.
She snuggled deeper into her pillow.
No, not her pillow.
Leather upholstery. Soft and supple. She frowned. Became aware of unnatural silence. And the scent of...
Mountain spice.
Clay.
Her eyes shot open.
It wasn’t a dream. Or a nightmare. It was reality. A four-week reality with her husband. Her heart picked up tempo.
Maybe it was a dream.
“Clay,” she said softly.
She expected uncertainty to cloak them. After all, things had been tense when they’d faced down their attorneys. Mr. Dobson had insisted Catherine had lost her mind and that Clay must have issued a threat of some kind. Indignant, Jack Simmons had slammed a fist on the table and issued a loud objection, suitable for the actual court case.
Clay had taken her by the wrist, pulled her from the office and shut the door on the argument.
As he’d pressed her against the wall near the elevator, she’d expected him to lean just a bit closer and seal their bargain with a kiss.
He hadn’t.
She’d felt strangely bereft.
In her apartment, alone with her doubts and fears, she’d reached for the phone half a dozen times, intent on telling him she’d changed her mind about their month in seclusion.
The call to Melissa hadn’t helped, either. Melissa had eventually agreed to run the shop, but not until she’d voiced her opinion that Catherine was insane.
Catherine had nodded in silent agreement.
Despite her misgivings and apprehensions, she’d been ready to leave at the agreed hour.
Clay hadn’t been there when the clock had struck the hour.
Catherine had spent ten minutes pacing in front of the fireplace...wondering if he’d changed his mind. Hoping he had.
Praying he hadn’t.
He hadn’t.
He’d given her a quick kiss on the cheek, setting her insides on slow, remembered burn, then grabbed her suitcase and headed for the car.
“Are you awake?” Clay asked. Then he shocked her. He smiled for the second time that day.
Her heart melted.
She hadn’t seen him smile this much in years. And it was a real smile. It reached his eyes, igniting them with fire. With desire?
The sun barely cast a glow through the tall pines, and she noted that the evening’s first stars had started to peek through the faded purple velvet backdrop.
She resisted the fanciful notion of wishing on one of the twinkling stars.
What would she wish for?
The impossibility of her and Clay falling in love again? The possibility that he’d give her the divorce she asked for?
Neither option sounded like what she truly wanted.
She yawned and stretched. Then she shifted uncomfortably. Clay’s miss-nothing gaze hadn’t left her face for a single second.
“Your palace awaits.”
Even she couldn’t help but smile at that imagery. The cabin was okay, as far as cabins went, but... She and Clay had visited once a long time ago. The lack of indoor plumbing hadn’t made her anxious to return. The wood-burning stove had seemed romantic at first, but when the fire died in the middle of the night and there was no furnace to take the chill from the air... Suddenly she wasn’t glad she’d accepted the invitation.
Clay opened the car door, and emerging night sounds spilled into the interior.
Her new apartment was close to downtown. The night sounds that surged through her open windows there included honking horns, rowdy teenagers and the impassioned speech of an occasional religious fanatic.
“Coming?”
“Enjoying the silence.”
“There’s been a lot of that at the house.”
He said it without accusation. Just a simple comment that cut her to the quick.
Clay opened the back door and grabbed two bags. “I miss your lousy CDs.”
“My CDs aren’t lousy, they’re—”
“Spiritually healing.”
She allowed that comment to pass with nothing more than the hint of a grin. He was teasing. It surprised her that she recognized it at all. Surprised her even more that he still knew how.
Clay walked to the cabin and unlocked the front door, pushing it open with his foot. He used their bags to prop open the entrance, then flipped the light switch. She sat in the car, watching him.
He moved with fluid grace, muscles tight, flannel shirt stretched taut across his back. Jeans hugged his hips and thighs, conforming to him the way she might have...years ago. He had a nice butt. Still.
Clay was magnificent.
She met a lot of men in her job. None were his equal.
Clay returned to the car. “Gonna let me do all the work?”
What would he do if she said yes? After all, this trip had been his idea. If she had her way, she’d be toasting her new life with a lonely glass of champagne amid the hollowness of an empty apartment.
“Is that a yes?”
Deciding to yield to unnatural impishness, Catherine yawned.
Clay leaned toward her menacingly. Without a word he unsnapped the safety belt and scooped her from the car.
“Put me down,” she protested, laughing.
He didn’t.
Suddenly she didn’t want him to.
She wanted, if just for this moment in time, to believe this craziness might truly last.
And why not? She was well and truly stuck for the next month. He held the keys to the car. Along with the one to her heart.
She vowed he wouldn’t open that lock to the same hurt a second time.
Clay carried her inside, holding her tight to his chest. She heard the steady ebb and flow of his breaths, noted the fact his dark hair was now shaded with subtle streaks of gray.
“Well?” he asked, letting her slide down the length of his hardened body.
She glanced around the cabin. Sucked in a deep breath. “You did all this?”
He shrugged. “Not much use owning a construction company if you don’t put the talents to good use.”
“It’s stunning.” Old, worn wood had been replaced with bleached pine. A fireplace graced an inside wall. A bank of windows formed the exterior wall. No drapes hung on the picture windows to mar the sensational view of the valley below.
Warm throw rugs adorned the hardwood floors. Dried mountain wildflowers sat in vases scattered through the living room and kitchen.
“I did it for you.”
Her eyes squeezed shut. “Clay...”
He turned her to face him. Then he ran a fingertip across her eyelids, commanding her attention. “I’m not trying to guilt you into staying with me, Cat.” He laid one finger across her lips. “Don’t make any decisions. Don’t say anything. Just enjoy the moment. ”Can you do that?”
She managed a shallow nod.
“First things first.” He moved his finger, slowly trailed it to her chin, pausing on the small cleft.
“Dinner?”
“Nope.”
“Unloading the rest of our supplies?” asked Catherine.
“I carried my bride across the threshold.”
Her breath seemed frozen.
“I need to give her a kiss to welcome her home.”
Oh, heavens.
“Slow and soft, Cat?”
Her mind ordered her to run.
“Or with the passion that built inside me during the months you weren’t in my house, the months you weren’t in my bed?”
Her heart held her firmly in place.
“It’s your choice. But know one thing. I’m going to kiss you. And it won’t be a kiss you’ll forget anytime soon.”
For all the aspens in the high country, she couldn’t find her voice.
His finger trailed lower, down the middle of her neck, then lower again. Before he’d arrived to pick her up, she’d shed the suit jacket and opened the top button on her blouse.
Now Clay opened the next one.
His callused finger dragged her tender skin as he eased down even farther. She shivered. Vulnerability began to chum inside. No man ever touched her the way Clay did. No man knew exactly the right words, the right combination of sensual pleasures that undid her.
Her lips parted.
She wanted.
Wanted to resist.
No and yes blurred in her mind as he prolonged the torture. She no longer knew the meaning of the words, no longer cared.
“Which will it be?”
He gently opened the next button, skimmed the lace bra, and paused between her breasts, right above the clasp that held the material together.
She looked up at him.
“Hmm, Cat? Slow and soft? Or fed by passion?”
Which would it be? Neither, she wanted to say. Neither, she should say. They’d spent less than three hours in each other’s presence and already she yearned for his touch.
Before much longer, she knew he would make her burn, too.
Damn it, why had she agreed to this?
“Tell you what,” he said softly, leaning a little closer, stealing the air she intended to breathe, “I’ll make the choice for you.”
Her eyelids drifted shut as another button magically surrendered beneath his skilled touch. Clay tugged on her blouse, pulling it free of the skirt’s waistband.
He released the final button.
The slippery silk slid against her shoulders.
Did Clay intend to slip it off her and allow it to pool on the carpeted floor?
Would she let him?
A breeze brushed treetops, then drifted through the open door, teasing the flesh laid bare by Clay’s hands.
“Slow, this time. Soft, too. I want to savor you, Cat.”
She licked her lower lip in anticipation. But he surprised her.
A feathering of a kiss whispered across her forehead. She opened her eyes.
Then shivered.
Clay’s blue eyes had darkened. Silver flecks from the dim overhead lighting radiated his inner intensity.
This was no game to Clay.
He wanted her back.
And intended to pursue her with the same single-minded determination that won Landon Construction half a dozen of the biggest contracts in Denver this year.
He brought a hand up, cupping her chin in his palm. “Your eyes show hurt, Cat.”
She swallowed. “I hurt,” she softly admitted.
“And I’m the one who hurt you.” Self-loathing sandpapered his voice.
The night gave courage. His eyes demanded the truth. “Yes,” she admitted.
“I’m going to chase it away.”
“And what if you make it worse?”
No answer. Just sounds of nocturnal animals stirring to life. Her heart continued to beat frantically. His jaw hardened.
“I won’t make it worse,” he finally said.
A part of her wanted to believe it.
“Fall in love with me, Cat.”
She refused to admit she already was.
“Let me love you. Let me chase away the pain.” Gently, ever so gently, he moved his forefinger across her brow, then back again.
Incredibly tender, he explored the contours of her face, the length of her nose, the outline of her lips, the shape of her cheekbone. Everywhere he touched felt light and ethereal, as if moonlight had caressed her.
Her lips seemed to swell with the promise that never came.
Instead, he lowered his head, trailing warm kisses down her throat, over her shoulder, baring it as he went.
Silk teased her skin, raising goose bumps.
He thumbed aside the bra strap, healing the flesh beneath with his tongue.
Catherine’s head tipped back as she surrendered to Clay. She offered her trust. Hoped he was worthy of it. Her hair hung down her back in abandon she hadn’t felt in years.
He lovingly rediscovered the nuances of her, the hollow of her neck, that place where a pulse raced, then the underneath of her chin.
His left hand held her, palm flat against the small of her back. With his right hand, he supported her neck.
With his mouth, he awakened her.
Clay’s unhurried homage made her feel feminine. Womanly.
Her breathing labored. Sharp nails sliced into her palms, adding to the hundreds of sensations that bombarded her.
“Touch me, Cat.”
His breath warmed her and she responded to his words, reaching for him, burrowing her hands in his thick hair, drawing him closer.
His evening shadow dragged across her skin. She cried out, not with pain, but with awareness.
Clay paused for a moments, looking at her questioningly.
Her eyes didn’t want to stay open, didn’t want to do anything but let her other senses be consumed. “Please don’t...”
His Adam’s apple moved as he gulped, waiting for her to finish.
“Don’t... stop.”
His curse was earthy. Fired a purely womanly response deep inside.
Holding his head, she urged him up. She ached for his touch. Ached. Wanted. Wanted it. Wanted it now.
“Kiss me, Clay.”
“Slow and soft...Cat?”
She barely recognized his voice, so labored with his rapid breaths.
“Or with passion?”
“Sl-slow,” she managed. Any more passion would see her unhinged. She knew it, suspected he knew the exact same thing.
His grip tightened, holding her steady as he claimed her lips.
The first second was like heaven refound.
He tasted of promise and night. He was warm as a sunbaked Colorado day.
And her mind remembered when...
The connection between them flared. She opened her eyes; silver flecks danced in his eyes. He remembered, too.
The next second made her insides liquid.
That was the moment their tongues touched, timed together with a hesitant heartbeat.
Confusion swamped her.
He retreated slightly.
So did she.
They looked deeply into each other’s eyes, not hiding their emotions any longer, but with stark honesty.
Both clearly read what the other wanted.
And it was so much more than a kiss. Or sex. Or undeniable passion.
Clay wanted her love.
Catherine wanted her freedom before it was too late. Dear God, before it was too late.
With a muffled cry, she reached her hands between them and pushed him away.
A tear trickled from the corner of her eye.
Three
Clay cursed himself for every kind of fool.
Reluctantly releasing Catherine, he strode to the cabin door and slammed it shut, sealing them both inside.
His right hand trembled.
Good God, what had he done?
Clay clenched his fist. He’d brought Cat to the cabin with every intention of seducing her.
But not yet.
Not for a week, maybe even two.
First he intended to win her trust. Talk. Allow her to vent her frustrations. Forge a plan to renew their relationship. Together.
But immediately he’d blown it.
At the first sight of Catherine as vulnerable and needy as he, he’d moved.
Instead of nurturing her, he’d thrown them back into the dark ages.
Smooth move.
Actions like that weren’t his style. Cool. Controlled. Calculated. Those were his style.
But holding her in his arms had stamped his resolve into the ground.
It’d been so long.... Still calling himself a dozen different words for fool, he turned to her, extended his hand, palm up. “I’m sorry.”
Catherine was shoving her blouse tails into the rigid skirt, her hands shaking like his own.
“Let me.” The words surprised even him, but once spoken, they couldn’t be called back.
She froze. Then looked at him. Her eyes had been the first thing that had captured Clay all those years ago.
He’d been on a construction site, as a foreman. She’d walked by, wearing a tight, oh so tight, skirt. The small slit up the back accentuated her shapely hips and a waist small enough to wrap his hands around. Light brown hair flirted with her shoulders, lifted by the wind. His men had whistled lewdly. He’d thought nothing of it. After all, she was an attractive woman.
But the next day he’d been taking a break. His shirt had lain on a nearby fence post, sweat had beaded his brow, and he’d been slugging down an iced tea.
The guys had started the catcalls.
She’d glanced at him. He’d read anxiety, realized it made her hazel eyes darken into drownable depths. Man, he’d decided he’d rather drown than swim. The blush that had painted her cheeks tied the conspiracy together. He’d been lost.
Sunk. Snared.
The next day he’d made sure he was dressed and had intentionally hopped the fence, getting in her way. He would deck the next guy who dared whistle at the woman Clay had declared his.
She’d fallen for him as surely as he’d fallen for her. And the memories of their honeymoon were still seared into his mind.
Hesitant in the beginning...he’d been her first.
They’d moved quickly, until his love for her had encouraged them both to learn together.
Life had seemed great. He’d gotten the girl. Within months, Landon Construction had scraped its way out of the barrel.
But, even though his company was on its way up, his marriage had gone down. And he still wasn’t doing a heck of a job of rescuing it.
Hell, who’d have thought it would come to this? He’d blackmailed his wife into giving him a reprieve. Blackmailed, for chrissake. Then damn near jumped her bones before the door was even shut.
If she was keeping score, he didn’t stand a chance.
Scary thing was, he would do the first all over again. Hell, he would probably blackmail her a second time, too—not that he was proud of it—such was his desperation to get her back.
Clay captured Cat’s hands. He wrapped her wrists with one of his hands, leaving the other free.
“Clay...”
“Trust me,” he said, hoping he could trust himself. Gulping a huge breath of air to clear the fog that seeped into his brain every time she was near, he snared the bra strap and moved it back onto her shoulder. “Wish you wouldn’t wear one of these torture traps.”
“Clay.”
He heard the undercurrent of warning, even though her breaths were constricted. Instead of ignoring the words, he heeded them. He would woo her. Win her.
With restrained gentleness he kissed the hollow of her neck, relishing the way she instinctively swayed toward him. Before he could give in a second time and lavish the love he was desperate to, he slid the white silk blouse back into place.
Reluctantly he fastened the buttons she’d missed, taking care not to skim her skin, though not doing so made him swallow hard in order to retain control.
“Thanks,” she managed to say, tucking the tails in the rest of the way.
He didn’t respond...that would be hypocritical.
Clay pivoted and crossed to the fireplace, resting his elbow on the mantel. “You hungry?” It sounded stupid. Inane. But common pleasantries might distract him from other, more pleasant thoughts.
“I haven’t eaten all day,” Catherine confessed.
“I’ve got a cooler in the trunk. How about some grilled burgers?”
“Sounds fine.”
Two strangers couldn’t have done a better job.
But then, two strangers hadn’t nearly succumbed to the temptations both knew waited for them beyond the bedroom door.
Clay nodded, then walked past her, going to the car and making three trips with luggage and groceries. She didn’t offer help; he was relieved. He needed some distance—and physical exertion, no matter how minor.
“Your room is down the hall,” he said, after closing the door a final time. He grabbed her duffel bags and started toward the bedrooms.
Her high-heeled shoes clicked as she followed him down the hall, unenthusiastically, if the cadence was anything to judge by.
Clay turned the knob, then stepped aside, allowing her to enter. Not being an idiot, though, he didn’t back out of her way.
Their bodies had to brush.
He heard the sharp intake of her breath. But she walked past him, her shoulder rubbing against his flannel shirt.
Once inside, she stopped and turned. Eyes wide, she asked, “You did this for me?”
He’d remembered Cat sharing one of her dreams, two days before they were married.
She’d lain on her back, looking at the clouds, imagining their shape. He’d been propped on an elbow, imagining her shape.
One of three girls, she’d never had a place all her own. And she wanted one. Somewhere to escape and daydream. Feminine and soft. Pastels and lace. Pillows and sachets. Until a month ago he hadn’t known what the hell a sachet was.
Thank God he had a secretary to help him take care of the details. She’d found a magazine, cut out the pictures, directed Clay to the right store, even found him a shopper to help put it all together.
“You did this?” Catherine asked again.
“Mostly.”
Her eyes narrowed, but a genuine smile curved her lips. Ah, what a paradox, this woman he loved. The woman he hoped would soon invite him into the ridiculously froufrou queen-size bed...barely big enough for two.
“Mostly?”
“Jean gave me pictures,” he admitted.
“Go on.”
“And sent me to a store at the mall.”
Catherine’s jaw dropped in the most unladylike manner. “And you did the rest yourself?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“A shopper helped me pick it all out.”
“And you did the rest yourself?”
He nodded.
She frowned. “You arranged all these pillows?”
“And the sachet.”
“Sachet,” she corrected. “The T is silent.”
So was he.
He waited in agony for her to say something. Anything. He’d never done anything like this before. He shifted. Already he was starting to regret it.
The deep throw rug absorbed the sound of her heels as she walked toward him.
She stopped, barely a foot away.
Jeez. The scent of her perfume, some sort of flower, teased him, reminding him of a time he’d stretched out on their bed, watching her dress, not caring that the inaction would make him late for an appointment.
Her eyes, wary, but not skittish, were open wide, searching for the truth in his gaze.
Her motion wasn’t swift and sure, but rather slow and considered as she reached for him. Her fingertips were smooth as they stroked the length of his cheek—smooth softness to dark shadow. He remained still, not sure of his reaction to the reality of her touch after dreaming of it for months.
The sharp edge of a fingernail dragged the outline of his lower lip.
He hardened.
A more purely sensual act, or response, he couldn’t remember. Couldn’t imagine.
“Thank you, Clay. It means a lot to me.”
“It’s all yours, Cat.”
He wondered if she too remembered the bitter argument they’d had when she’d insisted on having her own space. Not much, really, just a room for her to decorate the way she wanted, fill with the things she adored.
Even though she’d shared the simple dream and he wanted to make her wishes come true, when faced with the reality of her having something that didn’t include him, he’d panicked. Selfish and blind, he’d believed she wanted to be away from him.
Back then he hadn’t realized the more independence she had, the more she’d turned to him. For a while, at least.
Then had come the half-bottle-of-whiskey night when she hadn’t come home at all.
She finally had all the space she wanted.
He placed a hand over hers, stilling her motion. His gut had tightened painfully and the emptiness could only be eased by Catherine’s healing touch.
“I’ll let you know when dinner’s ready,” he said, letting go of her hand.
She nodded.
He escaped.
In his mind the soft click of her door seemed to reverberate his failure. There’d been a time when nothing stood between them.
Now a gulf of years yawned wide and unbridgeable.
Clay reminded himself he specialized in conquering jobs others believed impossible. Love would be the toughest of all.
He went to the kitchen, popped the top on a beer, put a bottle of chardonnay in the refrigerator to chill. Didn’t matter that they were having red meat. Catherine liked her chard.
Clay frowned. At least he thought she still liked that kind of wine.
As he lit the grill and unpacked the groceries, Clay realized he was fooling himself if he thought getting Catherine to capitulate—agree to stay married till death do us part—would be an easy matter.
She had made him the gift of her love once. He hadn’t cherished it, as promised in front of their friends and family, in front of God. She probably had no intention of succumbing with her heart, even if she did with her body.
Which made his job twice as difficult.
Sex was great, likely that hadn’t changed.
It was the emotional angle that needed work.
But until the instant he’d lost Catherine, Clay hadn’t realized he was an emotional man.
“Smells good.”
At the sound of the melodic tone weaving through her voice, Clay turned. And immediately he was struck by her loveliness. She’d left her hair loose, and it floated around her shoulders, just the way it had on their wedding day. Blue jeans snuggled her hips and thighs, and a sweatshirt showed the gentle swell of her breasts.
The uptight businesswoman was gone.
In its place resided the Catherine he’d once known.
Maybe he did have a chance.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said.
“You didn’t,” he lied.
She entered the kitchen far enough to lean against a counter. “Anything I can do to help?”
“You can grab the silverware and plates.”
Having her in his kitchen seemed so natural. So right. He went back to the salad, pleased by his triumph. This morning he’d gambled. Bluffed. If she’d called it, he had no doubt he’d be staring at the bottom of a glass through glazed eyes, instead of chopping tomatoes.
“Uh, Clay?”
He stopped.
“Where do you keep the silverware?”
Reality hit him with a thud. She didn’t know. Damn it all. “Top drawer in the island.” Concentrating on dinner instead of the sudden pain, he scooped tomatoes on top of the shredded lettuce and asked, “Something to drink?”
She glanced up from where she folded napkins. Her hair curtained her expression. “White zinfandel, thanks.”
He cursed silently. Strike two. “I’ve got chardonnay chilled.”
With her fingers, she tucked her hair behind her ears. She grinned. “In that case, chardonnay is fine.”
He recognized the impish tilt to her mouth. She’d got him. He carried the salad bowl to the table. “Just for that, I should tell you I only have beer.”
“Makes me sick.” She wrinkled her nose. “But if that’s how you want to spend our month together...”
Not wanting to follow her unspoken words, but rather to take the truce, he said, “I’ll grab the corkscrew.”
Dinner was awkward, neither said much, both tiptoed, ignoring her earlier question of what went wrong. And both scrupulously avoided touching the other.
“You didn’t eat much,” he said.
“Sherlock Holmes had nothing on you.”
“Making conversation,” he. admitted with a slight shrug.
“Me, too.”
They looked at each other. He saw regret in her eyes. Regret for what failed? Or regret that she hadn’t gone her separate way this morning?
Damn it, dancing around important issues like two strangers didn’t suit him one bit.
She stood and gathered their plates. “You cooked, I’ll clean.”
“We both ate,” he said. “I’ll help.”
It wasn’t until she gave him a wide berth near the dishwasher that he realized she was trying to avoid anything that might resemble intimacy.
Finally, dishes rinsed and loaded in the machine, counters wiped, he offered, “Refill on your wine?”
At her nod, he poured her another, then grabbed a second beer for himself.
She followed him into the living room with the huge bank of windows.
After turning on a couple of lights and sliding a New-Age favorite of hers into the CD player, Clay took a seat with his back to the window, leaving her little option but to sit across from him.
Confront him.
Catherine sank into the couch, curling her legs beneath her.
How many times had he imagined a similar scene as he’d worked to make the cabin into someplace Catherine would want to be? In his mind, though, their being together hadn’t been shrouded with distrust...nor had it been dampened by Cat’s reluctance to be near him.
For a few minutes he asked questions about her antique store and the recent pieces she’d acquired. Then he surprised them both. “Tell me what I have to do to get you to stay married to me.”
Her mouth fell open a fraction of an inch. She sipped from her glass.
And he waited.
Clay reached for the cold aluminum can and held it with one hand, grateful for the iciness seeping into him. At least it distracted him from complete concentration on the length of time her response was taking.
“It’s not an easy question to answer.” She rolled the crystal stem between her fingers. “Our relationship started falling apart a long time ago—years ago. And it’s not one specific thing, it’s lots of things.”
“So tell me.”
A ghost of a smile feathered her lips. “That’s the bottom-line businessman in you speaking.”
He took a couple of long drags from his beer. “And that’s not what you want.”
“No.” She looked at him levelly. Her glass stilled. “I want the man I met and married.”
He bit out a four-letter oath. “We’ve both changed, Cat.”
“Yes.” She twirled her glass, then directed her gaze to the window, not looking at Clay at all. “You’re right. I guess we have.”
“Damn it, Catherine, you’re not even looking at me.”
Slowly she turned her attention to him.
The ache in her eyes transcended the distance and time separating them. Made him understand how far he had to go. Made him wonder if it was possible.
“Do you even want to try and save it?” The instant the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to snatch them back. There was a huge possibility he wouldn’t like her answer.
Seconds dragged into a minute. Catherine bravely held his gaze the entire time. Maybe twenty seconds later, she lowered her eyelashes. The unnaturally long lashes shaded the magnificent hazel from his view. When she glanced up again, she resumed looking out the windows, into the starless night Dark as it was, maybe she just stared at a reflection of the room.
Unable to stand the suspense any longer, Clay shoved his drink on the coffee table, then stood. “Dumb question,” he conceded. He paced in front of the stereo, not finding her music spiritually healing in the least. “If you wanted our marriage to work, you wouldn’t have filed for a divorce.”
“You didn’t leave me much choice.”
A wisp of mountain breeze could have knocked him to his butt. They looked at each other intently.
“I didn’t give you much choice?” he demanded. “If I remember right, I got home from work one night and you weren’t there.”
His lip curled into a sneer, despite his best efforts to woo and win her. A saner part of his mind told him to knock off the irrational thoughts, tamp down the emotion. But, damn it all, he hurt, too. “You barely had the courtesy to leave me a note.”
Catherine pulled her knees to her chest, looking lost in the huge couch. “You had no clue it was coming?” she asked incredulously.
“None.”
“I’d moved out of our bedroom.”
“Hell, Catherine, I thought I was giving you the space you wanted. The space you insisted you had to have.” He paused. “I thought I was doing it for you.”
She shook her head. Strands of hair fell forward. And a single tear began to trace a solitary path down her right cheek.
Damn it. He’d never felt more an idiot. Or more alone.
“You’re wrong, Clay. So very wrong.”
He sat on the coffee table, thrummed his fingers on the wooden surface. As quickly as it descended, his anger evaporated. Hollowness remained. He held his hand still. Searching to figure out where to go, what to do, he said, “Tell me, then. Help me to understand.”
“It wasn’t freedom I wanted.” Catherine made no attempt to hide the pain he’d unintentionally inflicted on her.
He winced.
“It was never freedom,” Catherine whispered.
He frowned.
“It was you, Clay.” She swallowed deeply.
Clay sought to find understanding, knowing how important it was.
Both her eyes were now frosted with fragile tears. “I wanted you.”
Four
Clay cursed.
Catherine turned away from him, wrapping her arms across her chest at the same time.
Damn it, he wanted honesty, believed they could sort through their problems, but these vague answers were no answers at all. “Look at me.”
Her shoulders began to shake.
“Damn it all, Cat, look at me.”
Slowly she turned to face him. He squeezed his eyes shut momentarily. Along with fragile tears, he saw regret and fear in her eyes. It hit him then. Hit him hard. He possessed the power to make her hurt.
And he’d used it.
The accusation aimed at him landed with stinging force. Suddenly he wanted to use that emotion to heal. Heal her. Heal them.
Trouble was, he didn’t have any experience in that field, didn’t know where to start. “I don’t understand,” he confessed. He heard the ragged drag on the syllables.
Catherine looked up at him.
“Help me, Cat?” he asked again. Had his gut ever been this wrenched? Even when she’d moved into her own room he’d mistakenly believed she would be back. Mistakenly believed he was doing the right thing, giving her the space she always said she wanted. Things weren’t that bad. Or so he’d convinced himself. Or rather, tried to convince himself.
But when she’d left the house... He couldn’t imagine anything worse. “Even if you don’t forgive me...” Clay gulped, wished for strength.
He always prided himself on his strength. But nothing—nothing—ever mattered this much. Love made him weak. And he knew he’d have to battle that before he won what was most important. “Even if you don’t forgive me, for God’s sake, give me the chance to try and understand what went wrong.”
Their gazes collided. Neither blinked, neither looked away. When she spoke it was with such softness, such hesitancy, he wasn’t certain he’d heard right.
“Okay, Clay.”
“What?” he asked quietly.
“Okay,” she said again. Slowly, with controlled precision, she unfolded her arms and allowed her hands to drop.
He recognized her capitulation. A breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding eased through his throat.
“I’ll warn you, though. You may not want to hear what I have to say.”
“I’ll take that chance.”
She nodded, then slipped off her shoes. Through the silky sheer stockings, he saw her toenails were painted red.
Red.
Jeez.
How little he knew about her. How much he wanted to know.
Catherine slipped one leg beneath her, allowing the other to drape across the couch. She looked natural—as if she belonged there. Here. With him. To him.
He forced himself to look away from the tantalizing tease of fire-engine red. It definitely didn’t fit with the uptight image she’d presented at the attorney’s office earlier. And it made him wonder if slow and soft had been the way she really wanted their kiss.
Maybe heated passion was more the way to reach her.
Instantly he dismissed the idea.
Sure he wanted her in his arms, in his bed. But in his life was more important. And he’d do anything—anything—to get her there again.
“Coffee?” he offered. She was fiddling with her hands. Truth to tell, he might need something to do with his hands, too...other than rediscover his wife.
“Do you know how to make it?”
“Lady, since you left, I’ve become a master of many things.”
“Maybe it was for the best that I—”
“Don’t say it,” he said, tone laced with impatience. Coming to his feet in a manifestation of that frustration, he strode to the kitchen and turned on the tap. He yanked the glass carafe from the coffee maker and thrust it under the running water, impatiently tapping his knuckles on the counter.
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