Promise Me A Rainbow (25 page)

“Then go do them,” she said, attempting to close the door. She wasn’t in the mood for this, and she was
not
going to listen.

“Wait a minute,” he said, catching the door so that she couldn’t close it. “If you didn’t want to go, you could have told me.”

“I left you a message,” she said.

“Where?” he asked, his tone of voice suggesting that he didn’t believe it for a minute.

“With Charlie.”

He started to say something else, then didn’t. He stood staring at her, his eyes searching hers. “Charlie,” he said finally. “
My
Charlie. The kid that lives at my house.”

“That’s the one.”

He exhaled sharply, looking away from her and then back again. “I didn’t get it.”

“So I gathered.”

“So . . . can I come in?”

She shrugged. “Why not?” she said, standing back again to let him inside.

“What was it? The message?” he asked as she closed the door.

“That I couldn’t make it this afternoon, and I’d call you later.”

“That’s not much of a message, Catherine. So what happened? Did you get a better offer?”

Watch your mouth
,
D’Amaro
, he thought immediately. He was pushing his luck here; the look she shot him told him that. Catherine Holben didn’t yell and scream and throw things, but right now she wanted to. She wanted to
bad
.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She shook her head, her lips tightly pressed together. He thought for a moment she was going to cry.

“What is it?” he persisted. “You got some trouble with Jonathan?” It was the only thing he could think of that might make her look the way she looked now.

“It’s not Jonathan,” she said, her voice husky. “Joe, I think you’d better go.”

He came closer. There was a big difference in what she said and what he saw in her eyes. “I think I’d better not.”

“I want you to go,” she said again.

“No, you want to bawl your head off, and you don’t want me to see you do it. Look at you. You look like hell.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Catherine . . .”

She looked up at him, her dark eyes huge and filled with pain.

He didn’t know he was going to do it, so he gave her no chance to object. He suddenly put his arms around her and hugged her tightly. He could feel her resistance, but he didn’t let go.

“Joe—”

“Yeah, I know,” he said, his voice soft against her ear. “You’re a tough guy, right? You don’t need anything from anybody. Well, maybe
I
need this, Catherine. I was worried, okay? Maybe it makes
me
feel better.”

She made a small sound and pressed her face against the front of his shirt. He wasn’t angry anymore, and he knew perfectly well what he’d been doing all afternoon. He’d been looking. He’d kept coming here hoping to find a reason not to get involved with this woman. He’d been hoping to find some major flaw in her character, something to prove beyond a doubt that she was wrong for him, that she was a liar, that she was flighty and inconsiderate like Margaret, and he should run like hell.

But all the time he knew better, and now he wanted to hold her. It amazed him that he was willing to stand there and do it when he didn’t even know what was the matter with her. He stroked her back, and she leaned into him, her arms sliding around his waist. He could feel the warm softness of her breasts against his chest. He thought she was crying, but not because he could hear her. It was just that she was so damned miserable, she had to be.

“Catherine.”

He didn’t mean that she should stop crying; he didn’t mean anything. He only meant to say her name because he thought it might help. He only meant to nuzzle the softness of her neck because she was warm and clinging and because she felt and smelled so good to him.

So good
.

“Catherine . . .” he said again, his arms tightening around her in a way that left no doubt in either of their minds as to what he was feeling. Her body stiffened, and she leaned back to look at him. When she did, her mouth grazed his. He was totally unprepared for the intensity of his desire, for the rush of feeling so white-hot that it made him catch his breath. He let his mouth lightly touch hers again, then again when she didn’t resist. She was so sweet, and she wasn’t doing anything to stop him.

Don’t do this
.

The thought came from far away, but he wasn’t going to let himself get out of hand. His eyes searched hers. She wasn’t crying after all, but God, what sad, sad eyes. He wanted to tell her, he wanted to say that he wasn’t Jonathan and that he didn’t want to
be
Jonathan. He was Joe D’Amaro, who had missed her all day and who right now wanted very much to make love with her.

He didn’t want whatever she felt for her ex-husband to have anything to do with it.

But he said nothing. He saw the sadness in her eyes and her need for someone—anyone?—and he didn’t care. He just wanted to be close to her. Was he taking advantage of her? He didn’t know.

She didn’t look away. A single tear slid down her cheek; she was so beautiful.

God, don’t cry
, he thought. Slowly, tentatively, he lowered his mouth again toward hers.

Let me, Catherine. Let me . . .

Let me taste you . . .

The kiss was not gentle despite his good intentions. It was openmouthed and hungry, and she gave a soft moan. His hands slid low to press her into him. He wanted her to feel how much he wanted her.

Go easy
, he thought.
Don’t call her Katie
.

But he couldn’t go easy. He put his hands into her hair to keep her mouth where he could reach it. He was so hungry for her, and, incredibly, she returned touch for touch, kiss for kiss. Had it been like that with Lisa? He didn’t remember. God, he didn’t remember.

He needs a shave
.

The thought came as the stubble of his beard rasped against the tender skin of her face. It hurt, burned. She didn’t care. She tilted her head back, her eyes closed, to experience whatever he wanted to do. Her fingers dug into his shoulders because her knees had gone weak. She didn’t want to think. She wanted only to feel. His fingers hooked into the front of her blouse, trembled as they strained to touch her skin. Several of the buttons came undone. She felt the cool air of the room on her exposed breasts. She felt the warm moistness of his mouth, the delicate tasting of his tongue, and, deep inside her, where she had thought of herself as irrevocably and perhaps conveniently dead, a welcome pinpoint of desire began to grow. And burn hot.

She gave a shuddering sigh.

“Catherine,” he said, and she opened her eyes. He held her away from him when she would have kissed him again.

“I want to make love with you, but I’m not . . . prepared. I don’t—” He broke off. Hell, he didn’t carry a condom in his wallet the way he had when he was a randy kid, regardless of Michael’s weekly safe sex lectures. He hadn’t
needed
a condom. He had loved Lisa with all his heart. He had to work twelve hours a day to make ends meet, and he had three kids. How could he have a sex life? He’d only let Michael think he did so he’d tell Margaret. He’d been angry with Catherine this afternoon. He hadn’t expected even to see her, much less get to this point.

“I’m prepared,” she said quietly.

“You’re prepared,” he repeated, because he wanted to make sure he’d heard right. He pursed his lips to say something, but the question didn’t quite form. He was very aroused, and he wanted to stay that way. “Which way?” he said urgently, looking around at doorways. “In there?”

“Yes,” she answered, her voice barely a whisper.

Catherine led the way, taking him by the hand. Her bed was still unmade, but she didn’t care. Having him was all that mattered to her.

She began to undress, standing at the foot of the bed. She felt no awkwardness, no false modesty. She wanted this man, and she forgot her inadequacies as a woman. She pulled at her clothing and at his until they were both naked, but there was no time to admire him, no time to touch him the way she’d had in the back of her mind for days. He held out his arms and she went into them without hesitation. The room was dim, but she could just make out their reflections in the dresser mirror. She looked abandoned, wild. How could that woman be her? she wondered.

They tumbled into bed together.

He was impatient in his lovemaking, as he was in all things. He entered her immediately. It had been a long time since she’d made love with anyone—with Jonathan—and she sheathed him tightly. She reveled in the grunt of pleasure he gave. He was trembling, his breath warm against her face.

Joe
.

He filled her mind as he filled her body. She loved his smell, his strength, his heavy weight on her. He wasn’t Jonathan, and she was glad. He wanted nothing from her. This was no test of her ability to reproduce. This was a man and woman eager for each other. They were both trying to escape, and for a little while they would elude their pain because she needed him. She needed
him
. And she didn’t care if he knew it. She wrapped herself around him to return his thrusts, her need for him swelling to bursting. His mouth covered hers. She could taste the saltiness of her own tears, and, shameless in her passion, she could hear the sounds she was making, sounds he drove from her in the exquisite taking of her body.

She wanted to make the pleasure last forever. How wonderful to feel something again, to feel wave after wave of bodily pleasure instead of relentless emotional pain. She could hear him say her name, a whisper lost in the low, guttural sound of his release.

Catherine. Catherine!

She clung to him, her fingernails raking his back, because he took her with him, over the brink, and into that place where for a small space in time, there was only oblivion.

He rolled away from her almost immediately. He thought he was too heavy for her. He could hear that it was still raining outside, and he could tell that she was still upset. He had never made love to a woman who wept before, yet he thought that her tears had little to do with him. He repressed the urge to smile. He felt so good, except for her crying. He felt so damn good! He’d made sweet, consuming love with her, this woman he’d thought was so buttoned up and reserved. She’d wanted him, and she’d let him know it, and he felt wonderful.

Don’t let me say anything stupid
.

He reached down to take her hand, sliding his fingers between hers, caressing her palm with his thumb.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked. He hadn’t gone off like that since he was a sixteen-year-old kid. Jesus, he’d wanted her. He still did. The way he felt at the moment, he’d never get enough of her.

“No. You didn’t hurt me.”

He was surprised by how normal her voice sounded. They might have been sitting across the table from each other at the pub.

“Are you sorry we—”

“I’m not sorry.”

She let go of his hand, and she would have gotten up if he’d let her.

“Don’t run away, Catherine,” he said, pulling her around so that she was lying against him, spoon fashion, his body curved around hers. “Please.”

He pulled the sheet up over them both. She didn’t resist, and he pressed his cheek against her shoulder. “Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me what happened today. I want to know.”

He waited. He could almost feel her trying to decide. She’d gone to bed with him, but did she want to talk to him? He thought that she wasn’t going to, that she was going to be content with their lying silently in the dark, but then she gave a wavering sigh.