His 1-800 Wife (12 page)

"I know. I feel bad that we did. It's just that I wouldn't want you to lock yourself away in some men­tal convent over a man who didn't deserve you in the first place."

The comment sent a warmth through her that was unexpected. Jarrod seemed to be surprising her a lot since his return.

"I should be tired," she said. "I suppose it was the stress of the day, the trip here and not sleeping in my own bed."

Jarrod immediately sat down next to her. "We should have waited until tomorrow to come."

Catherine put her hand on his arm. "I'm fine, Jarrod. Don't worry about me." Then, realizing he was also up when he should be asleep, she asked, "Why are you awake at this hour?"

He smiled. "The same reason."

"You miss your bed too?"

"Just my pillow." They laughed. "And I want to apologize for saying what I did."

"I suppose there is a grain of truth in what you said. The breakup was angry. I don't suppose a person can go through any emotional experience and not have it effect some part of her, how she views the world or acts in the future."

Then the room quieted. Only the crackle of the fire and an occasional popping of burning logs created sound.

"You said you weren't in love with him."

"At the time I thought I loved him, but it was an illusion." Jarrod shifted in his seat. Catherine won­dered if it was relief she felt in him. "Life was different in New York, something happening all the time. I loved the rush of it, the fast pace, the nonstop rhythm. It was moving so fast, I didn't see the reality of it."

"And what about loving the sea, the smell of the wood in the building yard?"

"I love that too." She smiled.

"Would you want to go back?"

"To New York?"

He nodded.

"I wouldn't mind." She had liked her job in the news department. It was frenzied and hurried and she was always running to get a tape to the floor or finish a flash that had just happened somewhere in the world. She was constantly on the phone with reporters the world over or passing out pages that needed facts checked. Would she do it again? Yeah, she would.

"You know what you haven't told me?"

She only stared, waiting for him to tell her.

"You haven't told me what
you'd
lose."

"Who I am," she answered. She waited again for him to comment When he didn't she went on. "I know it doesn't sound like it could happen, even that I'd let it happen, but if I don't fight for me, no one else will ever know I was here."

"I'll always know," Jarrod told her.

After that, they sat quietly, listening to the silence. Catherine tried to think of something to say, but her mind kept going to his legs and the robe. She watched as the satiny fabric slipped over his body. Was he wearing anything under it? Arousal fired inside her at the thought. She had to stop this. Jarrod was her friend. He'd agreed to help her fool her sister and her mother. She had no right to think of sex with him. She'd ruled sex out. But she couldn't stop thinking of it. Sex with Jarrod.

"What are you thinking?" Jarrod asked.

Catherine nearly jumped, as if he knew what her thoughts had been. Could he see it on her face? He could often read her like a book. Was this also open to him?

"That you must be cold," she said finally

"I am," he said. "Share your blanket with me." It wasn't a question. He grabbed the end of the afghan and pulled it over himself, moving closer to her.

Catherine went hot immediately. She tried to move away, but that pulled the blanket. Compensating, Jarrod slipped closer until his leg aligned with hers. Catherine could feel his hard, naked muscles against the sheer fabric of her gown.

He rested comfortably against the back of the sofa. Catherine sat stiffly next to him. "What did you think of the ceremony?" he asked, seemingly indifferent to her discomfort.

The wedding was a safe subject. She relaxed slightly, although her rising temperature was vying for her concentration. "It was longer than I thought it would be."

"Did you like it?"

"Like it?"

"Did you listen to the words the minister said?"

She nodded.

Jarrod raised his arm and slid it behind her neck. Her back went as straight as if she had a pole in place of her spinal cord.

"I listened," she said. Even though a tremor made her voice a note or two higher than normal, she kept her reply noncommital.

"And—" he prompted.

"I thought Audrey did a wonderful job on such short notice."

"I'm not talking about Audrey. Tell me why your hands were ice cold when we joined hands."

Catherine cleared her throat "I've never been mar­ried before. I was nervous."

“Why? You knew what kind of marriage we'd have.''

"It was all those words." She hadn't intended to say that.

"The minister's words? The vows?" His brows rose in question.

Catherine leaned forward. "Jarrod, why are you giving me the second degree?"

He pulled her back, but not to the place where she had been on the sofa. He pulled her into the crook of the arm he draped over her as he repositioned the afghan. Catherine felt the heat again, but she liked it. She let it wash over her as she leaned against Jarrod. She'd stay here for only a moment. Then she'd resume her own position. It wouldn't hurt anything if she warmed herself with his heat for a moment.

Catherine didn't know how long she lay there. Her eyes closed and she listened to his heart beat. The sound comforted her. Jarrod's arm slipped from the back of the sofa and lay across her shoulders. He gath­ered her closer. Catherine let his arm pull her. Her arm slipped across the silky fabric of the paisley robe and rested at his waist.

"Cathy, you're driving me crazy." Jarrod's voice was a raspy groan, as if it were painful for him to speak. She raised her head and looked at him. He was closer than she thought. She could see his eyes clearly. The mischievousness she expected to find had been replaced by something deep, sincere. She was caught in some kind of net—an invisible web that held the two of them. She wasn't afraid. Not even when Jarrod's head descended toward hers. His mouth dropped to hers. It was at once fierce, raw, wet and demanding. She shifted, turning into the kiss. Sensation raced through her, heat consumed the air like a flash fire. The all-consuming blaze robbed her of sensibility.

They were married. It was all right.
Catherine heard the chant over and over in her head as Jarrod pressed her backward. The sofa became a mattress under her. Jarrod's mouth never left hers. Conflicting sensations warred inside her. Her body wanted his, yearned for him, cried out to unleash the pent-up need inside her and take the blessed release. Her mind told her to be cautious, to remember that this was an unreal situation, that neither she nor Jarrod was forging a lasting relationship. Neither she nor Jarrod was ready to commit to each other. But they wanted each other, and there was something in them exorcizing the need they had for each other.

His mouth was magic, taking her from the great room to the greater wonder and spangle of the night. Stars formed in her mind as his tongue mated with hers, asked for more, and she gave it without thought, pure need supplying an equal need.

He continued the wizardry. They slid from the sofa to the padded rug that ran in front of the glowing fire. The heat and color of the flames matched the raging inferno inside her.

"Cathy, I can't stand this much longer."

She heard his words. His body covered hers. She felt his hardness pressing against her and knew only the robe separated her from his naked skin. She ran her hands over the fabric, feeling the heat under her hands.

Jarrod's hands caught the hem of her gown. She felt the sizzle of heat when he touched her hips. Catherine didn't sleep in underwear. There was no barrier between the two of them. Jarrod pushed her gown upward, his hands going all the way to her breasts. She couldn't stop the catch in her throat that bubbled out when his fingers reached her nipples. Sensation rioted through her body. With­out volition her legs spread, accommodating him.

Jarrod groaned. He pulled her body up from the floor and yanked the gown over her head. His own robe was discarded and his body, red in the glow of the firelight, mixed with the lighter tones of her skin. They stared into each oth­er's eyes. Catherine's hands moved to his chest. She ran her fingers over him, feeling the taut skin and rapid beat of his heart. Jarrod took her hand and pulled her back into his arms, his mouth aimed for hers. He pushed her down, threading his fingers through her hair.

"This is what our wedding night is supposed to be like," he whispered against her mouth.

The fire snapped.

Catherine jumped, pushing against him. "Jarrod, we can't."

"What?"

"We can't," she repeated.

"Cathy, we had blood tests for the wedding. We made sure they checked for all diseases. We both know everything came back negative."

She pushed him away, trying to get out from under him. He held her.

"I'm not thinking of disease." She looked directly in his eyes. "I could get pregnant."

Chapter 6

The sun pierced his eyes when Jarrod finally woke. Rafael Patterson loved wide open spaces, the ability to bring the outside in, and since only the mountains had a view of the cabin, he saw no need to shroud the windows with coverings. Jarrod's years in England, where every square of space contained something historic and there was very little available open space, left him a man welcoming curtains to block out the blinding light and the memory of Catherine in his arms that sprang to his mind the moment he became aware of the day.

He rolled away from the sun, a groan going with him. Last night had been a disaster. He'd heard Catherine's footsteps along the wooden floor. The clatter and snap of the slippers and the cadence of her walk when she left her room. He'd been awake, telling himself it was their argument, the room, the bed, the wedding and all its details keeping him awake. When the truth was, he was obsessing on Catherine. When he didn't hear her return in a reasonable amount of time, he went to the door. The fire burned bright as she stared into it. He wished he could see her face. She stared so blindly into the flames, he wondered what she was thinking. Then he called her name, and surprise registered on her face as she looked up at him. Her expression was one of being caught. Had her thoughts been the same as his? Was she dreaming of a real wedding night?

Jarrod swung his feet to the floor and stopped his wayward thoughts. His body was already hard just thinking of Catherine. He stood up and went to the shower. Thirty minutes later, he was dressed and hungry.

He heard the music first when he opened his door. Looking over the railing, he saw everything was in place. The afghan he'd shared with Catherine was folded and lying across the back of the sofa. The smell of firewood mingled with flavored coffee permeated the warm air that rose from below. He could see the fire, not banked and dying but alive and leaping, as if it was being regularly tended.

Catherine, he thought His gut wrenched and he grabbed the railing harder. He didn't know how to approach her, but she was down there, probably in the kitchen, if the coffee and music were any indication. Taking the steps slowly, he went to the kitchen door.

Pushing it inward, he found her. At the stove, her back was to him. Every cabinet in the room stood open. The center counter was covered with copper pots, bowls, measuring cups and various ingredients, including butter, milk, sugar, salt and baking powder.

The entire conglomeration was covered with a light coating of flour. Catherine had an apron tied around her waist as she bent over to open the oven.

She extracted a metal tray and turned around. She stopped abruptly when she saw him. Then she smiled, but her eyes were weary. "Good morning," she said. "I hope I didn't wake you. I tried to play the music only in this room, but it took a while to get used to the system."

She was nervous, Jarrod thought.

"I need to put this down," she said, moving to the cluttered counter and setting the tray on top of a pot.

"It smells good," Jarrod said. "What are you making?"

"I'm trying croissants," she answered. "Would you like some coffee?"

"I'll get it." Jarrod glanced at the coffeemaker. The pot was full, and in front of it stood a cream-colored mug with
GOOD MORNING
printed on it in five languages. He filled it and took a drink. He liked coffee. In England he drank tea with his colleagues, but at his home he savored the American coffee his mother sent him every couple of months. He leaned against the counter. Catherine's coffee tasted every bit as good as his own.

"I didn't know you could cook."

She swung around to stare at him as if his comment was a challenge. "I meant it," he said defensively.

"I can't cook," she told him. "I can do breakfast, spaghetti and any number of sandwiches."

"And croissants?" he teased.

She glanced at the cookbook. "Your friend must like French cooking. Most of the cookbooks specialize in some form of French food."