His 1-800 Wife (17 page)

Where was she? Jarrod asked himself, throwing the comforter aside and sitting up. He didn't like waking up without her next to him. Her soft, warm body pressed into his was as natural as breathing. He wanted to hold her, feel her come awake next to him and turn her into his arms. He wanted to make love to her again.

His stomach clenched when he thought of them making love. Jarrod had no memory of anything that affected him more than Catherine had last night. His world seemed to have begun with her.

Pushing himself up, Jarrod headed for the shower. His bikini briefs lay on the floor where Catherine had dropped them. Jarrod whistled as he scooped them up. Today was a perfect day for leopard skin, he thought.

And growled.

***

For more years than anyone alive could remember, the waters had come in against the rocks of the island. Catherine ran along the jagged coast. She'd changed into her jogging clothes after work and left the office. She needed to work off some of the steam that she'd awakened with. Throughout the day it had increased until she felt as if she was in a giant pressure cooker, its gauges dipping into the danger zone.

She'd endured the office teasing about a honey­moon full of constant and incredible sex. If Catherine included the previous night, it was only one night, but it had been incredible. She'd never imagined making love could be mind-blowing. She'd read about it in novels, movies portrayed it, but Catherine knew how orchestrated those scenes were. They looked per­fect on the screen, but they weren't real. Last night had been real. She'd never had anything comparable happen to her.

And it couldn't happen again!

There were rules. They'd agreed to them—she and Jarrod. She couldn't totally fault Jarrod. She'd been more than a willing participant in the sexual dance. And it had begun over a pair of leopard skin briefs.

Her feet pounded harder, keeping tempo with her heart as she ran. What had happened? Why hadn't she just let go when Jarrod reached for them? And now. . .The houses along the route disappeared, taking on the aspect of pages of a calendar. Now she could be pregnant. Why didn't Jarrod have a condom? If they were going to make love, why didn't one of them think of the consequences?

Catherine stopped. She knew why they didn't think of it. Her muscles seemed weak, as weak as they had been the night before, when he looked at her with eyes that were so dark and sexy and tinged with a spark of something fathomless and mesmerizing. She couldn't look away, not even if she wanted to, and at that moment, she hadn't.

Catherine started running again, pushing herself, forcing her feet to move. Her jog turned into a run. The run went faster, as if it were a race. She was racing herself or running away from herself, running from the truth.

What was the truth? That she felt more for Jarrod than she'd admitted? That she'd wanted him to make love to her last night? And not only last night, but nights before that. That if the two of them contin­ued this farce of a marriage, she would be the one to lose. Her defenses were already weakening. She wondered what Jarrod was feeling. Did he have defenses too that she had breached in some way?

The thought made her run faster. Her breath dried in her throat. By the time she stopped, the gates leading to Audrey's house loomed before her. The black iron gates had been recently painted. Gold fleur-de-lis gleamed at the top in the waning light. Subconsciously she had probably been heading there from the beginning. She was tired and thirsty. The small sign indicating
PRIVATE PROPERTY
stood by the driveway entrance. Catherine passed it unheeded. The permanent residents of the island all had signs to tell the tourist this was not one of the Preservation Authority houses on the public tour.

Catherine was drenched in sweat when she rang the doorbell. Audrey saw her through the ornate iron­work and heavy glass door. Her sister rushed over, a huge smile on her face.

"Welcome home!" Gung-ho Audrey pulled her into her arms as she let go of the door. Catherine's arms hung at her sides, stiff like a doll's. Audrey pushed her away and searched her eyes. "What's wrong? You and Jarrod haven't had a fight already, have you?"

Catherine moved out of her sister's reach and walked farther into the room. "It's not Jarrod and me. It's
you
and me." She and Jarrod were a different story, and Catherine would have to deal with that later.

Audrey smiled. "You mean the maid. I knew you'd be a little upset about me taking her to your house, but you have to admit she and Christian are godsends."

"Audrey, I don't want them."

Audrey's smile froze. "Come on in," she said, seem­ing to hear the concern Catherine felt. They went into the solarium. The windows were open to the ocean breeze. The cool air washed over Catherine. A slight shiver accompanied the sudden change in her body temperature. Passing a maid, Audrey ordered orange juice for them to drink. "Lots of it," she said.

Catherine calmed herself as she took a seat. "Audrey," she started. "It's not that I don't appreci­ate the gesture. It was really nice of you and Christian, but Jarrod and I need our privacy."

Audrey's smile was knowing. Catherine found her face turning warm. She hadn't meant that the way it sounded. She and Jarrod had made one mistake. They wouldn't make it again. But she didn't have time for that now. She had to deal with Audrey.

The maid returned with two glasses and a pitcher of orange juice. She poured the juice into the glasses and handed them to Catherine and her sister. The maid left them as Catherine drained her glass and poured herself another. She often jogged with a water bottle, but today she'd left the office and forgotten it. She needed to replace the sugar and salt her body had lost. And in the back of her mind health risks to an unborn child nagged at her.

"I'm sure Jenny and Christian won't be intrusive. They are very discreet," Audrey said.

"I know that." Catherine drank, taking the chance to formulate what she planned to say. "This is a big house, Audrey." She looked at the ceiling, indicating the vastness of the house. "Mine isn't nearly this size. We don't need a maid."

"Catherine, you have no idea how much adjust­ment is needed the first year."

"But—"

"Jenny and Christian will be able to do all the housework and shopping for you." She interrupted as if she weren't about to listen to Catherine. "You and Jarrod both work. With them helping you, you can spend time together instead of dusting furniture and washing clothes."

Audrey said it as if those were tasks she performed. Catherine would bet she hadn't seen a washing machine since Dwayne carried her across the thresh­old of this enormous house.

"I can do the work," Catherine said. "We both can. Maybe it will bring us closer together if we have to cook and do dishes."

"You hate doing dishes," Audrey reminded her. “And sending Jenny and Christian away will hurt their feelings. You wouldn't want to do that?"

"Of course I wouldn't. They can return here and everything will be fine."

"No, it won't." Audrey stalled her. "I've already replaced them with a lovely couple who are here from Ethiopia. It was perfect timing. They'll be here for a year, and when I heard about them, I thought sending Jenny and Christian would be a wonderful surprise for you."

Audrey's enthusiasm was nauseating. Why couldn't she mind her own business? And why didn't she lis­ten? Since they were children, Audrey had been a con­trol freak. She had to be in charge of something or she'd drive everyone mad. Even when she was
in
charge, she drove people
crazy.
She was on the debate team, president of the creative writing club and head of the decoration committee for every dance the school had while she was there. In Catherine's junior year in high school, she got a part in the school play. Audrey was the stage manager. Audrey would volun­teer to sew costumes or paint scenery, anything as long as she had control of it.

Audrey should have joined the Navy, Catherine thought. Then she'd have a ship full of captive souls to order around. It was probably a good thing she didn't have children. Catherine chastised herself for the last thought. Audrey wanted kids.

Catherine knew anything she said would be useless. Audrey rarely heard anything she didn't want to.

"They'll only be there during the day," Audrey continued. "After dinner the two of you will have the house to yourselves." She stood up. "And speaking of dinner," she went on, "I have to go check on ours. Would you like to stay?"

Catherine shook her head. She'd been gone long enough. She had one more confrontation tonight. She might as well get it over. Hopefully, the outcome with the second would be better than the first.

"I'll call Christian to pick you up. You can't jog or walk home now."

Audrey left her. Catherine poured another glass of orange juice and drained it.

Christian arrived within minutes, as if he knew he would be needed.

Silently he drove through the streets of Newport. A light rain started. Catherine watched the droplets appear on the windows as the wipers quickly slapped them aside. Lamplights turned to glowing circles, reminding her of the superstitious blood moon, its precognition of future events. Through the hazy light, she saw the word
DRUGSTORE
materialize.

She asked Christian to stop.

Chapter 8

The shower was more refreshing than any Cather­ine had ever taken. She wrapped herself in the huge towel and used her hand to clear the condensation off a spot on the mirror. She took the brush and pulled it through her hair, pushing it all off her face.

She felt better. Jarrod hadn't been home when Christian opened the door for her and she got out of the car. She'd had time to move all his clothes to the guest room and to take a shower, wash her hair and blow it dry.

The heat from the blow dryer eased the pounding in her head, but it didn't take the tension away. On the counter lay the home pregnancy test package. In the store, she'd surveyed the shelf of early warning products. She wondered why they called them
early warning
kits. The warning should have occurred before the need for the kit. Once this was opened and used, it wouldn't provide a warning, but a conclusion. Part of her life would be over, forever changed. Cath­erine put the package in the drawer. She couldn't use it yet. The directions said to wait at least a week; two would be better.

Coming out of the bathroom, Catherine stopped halfway across the room. Jarrod stood facing her, his expression stripping her of the towel that covered her. She'd forgotten him physically in the light of more pressing problems. She didn't understand how she could forget someone as dark and dangerous-looking as Jarrod, but she had. Earlier she had tried to regain some control of her life. She'd moved his things to the guest room. Doing something had felt good, but the effort hadn't accomplished much. With him in front of her, she could barely maintain the slender thread of control she clung to.

"Hello," he said. "I missed you."

The implication was clear. Catherine was at a disad­vantage. Why hadn't she taken some clothes to the bathroom? Jarrod didn't know she'd removed his clothes, taken back her space. He probably assumed that last night—

Why couldn't she think of last night without her knees buckling or her body going into fits of fiery crystals? Last night had been a revolution for them both, but today—tonight—would be dif­ferent.

Jarrod took a step toward her. Catherine moved aside. She knew he was going to pull her into his arms. The thought was weakening, but she couldn't let it happen.

"I moved your clothes to the guest room," she told him.

Surprise registered on his face. "I thought you were concerned about Jenny discovering—"

"It doesn't matter what Jenny thinks."

"Last night—"

"Last night was a mistake," Catherine cut him off for the second time. "It shouldn't have happened." She wanted to turn away, but she couldn't. She had to say this to his face. "We agreed sleeping together wasn't part of the deal. Neither of us wants to be married. If we stick to the rules, then we won't end up with any. . .complications."

"It meant nothing to you?"

Catherine knew he meant last night. It had changed her life. She'd seen a future that held promise and wonder and a fascination to just be, but it was an illusion. It would wear off and she'd be left with—

"Nothing," she whispered.

Jarrod moved fast. He caught her, pinned her against him. Her towel slipped. Catherine stared down at her exposed flesh.

"Look at me and tell me it meant nothing," Jarrod commanded.

She didn't look up. She couldn't. She knew what she'd find in those eyes, and she wasn't sure she could say it if she did.

Jarrod grabbed her chin and pulled her head up so she had to stare into his eyes. "Say it."

The anger staring back at her sizzled. Daggers, white hot and poised, pierced her body.
Catherine opened her mouth. Words failed her. She could do nothing, say nothing, only let him hold her.

"Say it." Jarrod didn't shout. His voice was surpris­ingly quiet, but Catherine felt the hard edge of it. She tried to say something, but words still wouldn't come. Then she threw her arms around his neck and let go of the sob that choked her. Jarrod held her. She felt the tightness of his arms ease. His squeeze changed to a caress. Both arms circled her waist and his cheek rested against hers. Catherine didn't know how long they stood there. Shudders ran the length of her. She wanted to say she was sorry. She wanted to tell him what last night had really meant, how much of herself she had given to him and what happened to her when they made love, but she just held on, her arms folded about his neck, her teeth biting her bot­tom lip. She clung as if her life depended on it.