His 1-800 Wife (19 page)

What was happening to her? How could she think things were light? Nothing was light. It was a charade. All she needed to do was think of Jarrod and her mind went off on unplanned vacations. Her body went into overdrive and she ended up hot and both­ered.

Catherine searched for something else to think about. She latched onto her job. The new sailboat was nearing completion, and the cabin cruiser was only waiting for the final test and the owner to pick it up. She could go out on it for the final test. She loved sailing and didn't often get the chance to do much of it. It was also getting late in the season. There wouldn't be many more opportunities before spring. Catherine kept thinking about the office, what she had to do today, what ads she needed to compose, what she expected to come in today's mail. She steered clear of anything involving Jarrod until she was dressed and on her way to the dining room.

She smelled the coffee before she entered the room. Jarrod met her at the door.

"I heard you coming," he said. He handed her a cup of coffee.

Catherine took the cup in both hands and sipped. She tried to concentrate on the smell of the coffee, but Jarrod's cologne caught in her nostrils and she closed her eyes, savoring it while she forced her knees to lock. Jarrod looked better each time she saw him. This morning he had on a dark suit, white shirt and striped tie. Everything contrasted and conspired to unnerve her. The efforts she'd used in her bedroom were useless in his presence. She could only concen­trate on him.

"Catherine, are you all right?" Jarrod looked at her.

"Oh, yes." She went to the table and put her coffee down. As she took a seat, Jenny showed up with her breakfast. At the same time, the doorbell rang.

"I'll get it," Jarrod said as Jenny looked toward the door.

"Who's coming at this time of the morning?" Cath­erine asked, popping a piece of bacon in her mouth.

"I'll let you know."

Jarrod left the room. He came back moments later with a huge bouquet of roses. He set them down in front of her. "Happy Anniversary."

Catherine nearly choked. She'd never thought of an anniversary. They'd been married—

"Our three-week anniversary." Jarrod completed her thought.

Catherine got out of her chair and smelled the flowers. She pulled the card from the small plastic pick and opened it.
They say three's the charm, I say it's you.
She looked up, then threw herself into his arms. She hadn't thought about what she was doing. She was just there. Jarrod pressed her against him. The cologne again. It told her that she shouldn't be here, but she didn't listen. She let the skittering feeling work through her, the warmth of him enter into every cell in her body. He dropped a kiss on her cheek and pulled back. Catherine quivered at the sensations inside her. It was like an earthquake or violent subter­ranean reaction; she could do little more than stare at him.

Jarrod hesitated. She knew he was thinking of the rules. She thought of them too, but her mind was clouded. His mouth was enticing, too enticing. All she could concentrate on was the sensual lips above her own, the look in his eyes and the butterflies in her stomach.

"Cathy, stop me now," he whispered. There was almost a plea in his request.

Catherine didn't want to stop him. She knew this would happen. She couldn't be around Jarrod and not want him. Every fiber within her poured need and want like a narcotic into her bloodstream. Shivers raced up and down her spine. Her feet arched, push­ing her up another two inches. Jarrod's mouth met hers. Like two war survivors, they clung to each other while they exploded in each other. Catherine stretched her arms around his neck, his circled her waist, pulling into full contact. She felt his arousal, knew he'd won, knew that the two of them were a fire waiting for a spark. She understood they were on dangerous ground, that somehow the tectonic plates on which the earth balanced were dangerously tip­ping, that the volcanic flames of the underground reservoir were steering toward a volatile eruption. Yet flowing through Catherine were centuries of devel­oping heat. It melted her defenses, reconstructed the walls she bore around her, eliminated the protective covering she maintained. It left her alone and vulner­able.

Jarrod lifted her off the floor, repositioning his mouth and devouring her with a kiss so drugging she couldn't think. She wanted to put her legs around him, but her skirt was too tight. Instead, she threaded her fingers in his short hair and opened her mouth, further accepting the invasion of his tongue. Wet, hot, raw, powerful excitement coursed through her until the two of them were in a virtual battle. The kiss went on and on until they snapped apart in order to take air into their lungs.

Catherine's head fell onto his shoulder; her body sucked air into it, gasping for the life-giving oxygen that kept her alive. Her heart thundered, drowning out all other sound. She couldn't hear Jarrod. His voice reverberated against her body, but her mind was too hazy. She was too far over the edge to hear. Sound didn't travel in this dimension. She vibrated on some celestial plane where nothing moved but her. She floated there, clinging to Jarrod, holding him as only someone in love could. She knew it now, knew why she fought him so hard, why no one else had been able to touch her where Jarrod did. Her arms were rubber; her legs would be unable to sup­port her if Jarrod let her slip to the floor.

"Cathy."

She finally heard Jarrod's voice. It was gravelly, as if he hadn't spoken in years and his vocal chords were unused to the vibration that produced sound. Yet in his last breath before dying he had to say her name.

"Cathy."

***

The streets of Newport were narrow, designed more for carriages than limousines. The summer tourists were gone, back to schools and jobs, leaving the small island unclogged. Catherine eased down Thames Street toward America's Cup Avenue. She turned left toward the water and parked in the lot of the Seagull Restaurant. From June through August she wouldn't think of trying to get into the Seagull for lunch. But it was nearly September, and the road was practically hers. Catherine got out of the car. She loved the way the sea smelled in September. The air was heavy and salt-thick. She lifted her face to it, almost able to feel the crystals smarting on her skin.

Elizabeth waited for her at a table by the window. Outside the water was dotted with sailboats. Several photographers had cameras on tripods facing the water, undoubtedly shooting postcards for the next season's batch of flybirds.

Catherine made her way to the table. A glass of iced tea sat before her. She took a sip.

"I ordered for you," Elizabeth said.

Unlike their previous meeting, Elizabeth didn't have time for a long, leisurely lunch, and neither did Catherine. The waiter appeared almost as soon as she sat down and put a salad in front of each of them.

"How's it going?" Elizabeth asked as soon as he left them alone.

Heat flooded Catherine's face as if on cue. Other parts of her body stood at attention. After the way she had left the house that morning, she could only think of herself and Jarrod wrapped in each other's arms. The image played in her head as if some movie camera had circled around them, displaying the cou­ple from all angles: front, back, top, bottom, around. Catherine was dizzy with the replay.

"I suppose you could say we're on some common ground."

"Hmmm." Elizabeth picked up her glass of iced tea. "That sounds interesting."

Elizabeth could always see through her lies. Cather­ine might as well tell her the truth.

"I didn't think it would be this hard," she blurted out.

"You mean living with Jarrod is more difficult than you thought? Having problems keeping your hands to yourself?"

"Elizabeth!" She acted surprised, but her friend obviously didn't need the customary three guesses. She'd discovered the truth on the first one. "I've never really lived with anyone before."

"Jarrod isn't
anyone.
He's your husband."

"In name only," Catherine added. She was sur­prised she could even say that. There was much more between them than a name.

"You mean you were alone with him for a week in Montana and another two weeks here and you're still in name only? Catherine, one of you is made of ice, and I don't think its Jarrod."

"Neither of us is made of ice," she mumbled.

Elizabeth smiled.

"Stop it," Catherine said. "You don't have to look as if you knew this would happen all the time."

"I never said a word."

"I know you didn't. But you could have warned me."

"What fun would that be?" She reached across the table and squeezed Catherine's hand. "What hap­pens now?"

"I don't know. I suppose we continue as we have."

"How do you feel, Catherine?"

She didn't answer immediately. The thought had been trying to find its way to the surface of her mind for days, but Catherine had insistently pushed it to a hidden crevice of her brain. Now, with Elizabeth's question, it was at the forefront of her mind. She needed to admit the truth, even if it was only to herself. "I think I'm falling in love with him."

"That's wonderful."

Catherine didn't realize she'd said it out loud until Elizabeth responded.

"That's not wonderful. It's terrible. I can't fall in love with Jarrod.''

"Why not? You're both married. . .to each other. It's a perfect arrangement."

"Elizabeth, you know my feelings on marriage."

"I do," she said. "I think they're old-fashioned and ought to be discarded with the next breath you take."

"Elizabeth, you've never said that before."

"It never mattered before. It matters now."

"What about your own marriage? It didn't turn out well."

"You can't compare mine to yours. You can't com­pare any two marriages. They're all different."

"They all have the same effect. Either they end in divorce or women are the losers."

"You've been married three weeks; what have you lost?"

"My. . ." She could think of nothing to say. "My house," she finished weakly.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes, letting Catherine know her choice was less than stellar.

She did enjoy having Jarrod around. Each night she rushed home to talk to him. That sense of humor he'd had since she could remember always made her smile. She liked sitting in the evening light and watching the sunset. She liked dancing and. . .She stopped thoughts of that morning, and another morning when she woke in his arms. She liked that too. She liked it too much.

"Since things are already changing for you, Cather­ine, why don't you just give them a chance? See what happens. You might find marriage is different than you thought it would be."

Catherine didn't remember eating the rest of her meal. She had a vague recollection of hugging Eliza­beth in the parking lot and getting in her car. Eliza­beth said something about her party next month, but Catherine's mind was reeling from what her friend had said about giving her marriage a chance.

Should she?

Should she change the way she viewed marriage? Could the relationship between herself and Jarrod really turn out differently than all the marriages around her? Marriage needed to be worked at full-time. It was something both she and Jarrod would have to agree to. This was a drastic departure from the rules they'd set up, but things were drastically different already.

Catherine opened the car door and threw her shoulder bag on the passenger seat. It slid across the leather, spilling its contents as it landed on the floor of the car. Getting in, she leaned over, restoring the spilled objects to their rightful places. Then she saw the folded piece of paper.

It was beige card stock with a lacy embossed pattern. It had been folded into an origami of a dancing couple. A hole had been punched in the top. A silky blue ribbon was threaded through it and tied in a love knot. Along the ribbon was writing, a crisp, clear print on the narrow fabric. She held it up, her head turned as she read the words along the curve.
Me—Fred, You—Ginger.
There was no signature.

None was necessary.

Chapter 9

The day at work was a useless waste of energy. The only positive thing Jarrod had done was call the phone company and have that phone line disconnected. 1-800-WIFE was a thing of the past. Catherine had a husband, even if he was only temporary.

Jarrod looked at the plans swimming before his eyes. His easel was spread with several projects in progress. He needed to visit the Ocean Avenue site, where they were constructing a house. He needed to continue the plans for the shopping center in Providence and the office building in Boston, but each time he looked down at his work, he saw Cather­ine. Between the blue lines of the architectural paper, he saw her face smiling up at him. Or her eyes glazed with need beckoning him to her. This morning was a colossal mistake. She'd done nothing other mornings but smile and say thank you to his gifts. This morning he hadn't anticipated the consequences. He should have remembered how small things made Catherine happy and how it was natural to hug someone for something special.

But he didn't let it go there. It had been two weeks since he'd touched her for more than dancing, always to songs that would keep them apart or only holding hands. For two weeks he had watched her when she wasn't looking, stared at her when she'd fallen asleep on the sofa, imagined her sitting across from him while he worked. She moved about the house with an easy grace that had his gaze following her around, imagining her as she had been that first night home, when they'd made love and slept in each other's arms. Jarrod missed her in his bed. He wanted her there again, and this morning when she'd flung her arms around him it had all snapped, come rushing down on him like some ghost pushing him forward and forcing his hand, a hand that offered little resistance.