Читать книгу Lovers Only - Christine Pacheco, Christine Pacheco - Страница 10

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.”