His 1-800 Wife (10 page)

"I'm glad you like what you see." Jarrod smiled and ran toward the water.

Catherine couldn't deny his comment. Shame at being caught with her hand in the cookie jar washed over her. Between the sun and Jarrod's affect on her, she should be nothing more than a mass of Jello on the blanket. Yet her skin held her intact. She watched Jarrod run down the beach, unable to tear her gaze away from him. He was beautiful. She'd never seen a man more perfect. He'd stood her in front of a mirror today and forced her to look at herself. Now she looked at him, stared at him. He knew the effect he'd had on her. When had this happened?

She should get in the water. The Atlantic was often cold and refreshing; however, today she feared that if she walked into the water, her body would sizzle.

Chapter 5

It was her wedding day. Catherine couldn't believe how fast the last six weeks had passed. She also couldn't believe this room. Masquerading as a guest room, it now looked like the aftermath of a war zone, a war of roses, baby's breath, netting, gloves, tissue paper and discarded clothes. Bridesmaids crowded the mirrors, applying makeup and adjusting their hair. Catherine's mother bustled about as if she'd lost her way. Audrey muttered to herself about cater­ers, the band, the photographer, any number of details that needed her personal attention or the world would fall apart. Everyone was talking, raising the noise level to decibels high enough to repel dogs.

Bouquets, shoes, purses and spilled magazines were scattered on the bed, the floor, the dresser and draped across the sides of the antique mirror. The room looked like an explosion of white cotton mixed with clusters of pink and rose.

Catherine was the only one not moving or talking. People skittered about her as if she were an appari­tion. She looked at her white gown, seeing the irony of her ghostlike appearance. Yet she wasn't a ghost, and the man she was marrying wasn't a ghost either. She wished she were; then she wouldn't be the only scared person in this room; that is, if she discounted Audrey, who was probably afraid something would go wrong, like mayonnaise jelling in shrimp salad or the petals in the pool withering before the reception started.

She wondered what Jarrod was feeling at that moment. Was he as uptight as she was? Catherine looked around her. She wanted to scream, force them all to leave, give her some breathing space, but she was too frightened she'd come undone. Whatever was holding her together, she needed to cling to it or she'd be worse off than the other women around her.

A knock on the door arrested everyone's attention. They all stopped at once, as if some choir director had cut the last note with a quick snap of his thumb and forefinger. Everyone turned and looked at the white-with-gold-accented door as if they expected the horror from 20,000 leagues to enter.

It wasn't a monster, but one of Audrey's maids who came inside. She looked at Catherine and offered her a smile.

"The photographers are here," she said to Audrey.

Moments later, Catherine allowed the platoon of photographers to place Catherine and the brides­maids in position. Thank God, they lived in a small state. It seemed Audrey had hired every photographer available. Video crews and portrait photographers swarmed over the group, separating them and putting them together like marionettes. She smiled for the cameras, doing everything expected of a blushing bride, but her flush was due more to her deceptive plan than the love she should be feeling today.

She wished this whole affair was behind her. If she had it to do over, she would never agree to a wedding. An elopement would be quick and simple. Allowing Audrey to plan this circus had been her second mis­take, but there was nothing to be done about it now. In a few hours it would be over. She and Jarrod would have the wedding and reception behind them. They'd be on a plane to Montana, away from everyone and able to relax.

She looked forward to the honeymoon. It would be a time she could literally let her hair down. There would be no one around they needed to pretend for. They'd be free to do as they pleased for a week. By the time they returned home, she'd be in a better frame of mind and could develop the routine she and Jarrod would play for the next six months.

Catherine plastered a smile on her face for the camera and that was how she remained until she stood at the back of the First Baptist Church. The music began and the bridesmaids went down the aisle. It was her turn now. The doors opened and the dream began. Catherine gripped her father's arm hard enough for him to look at her with concern. She released her hold and smiled as best she could. Sun­light streamed into the sanctuary, filtering through the stained-glass windows, giving the room the dream­like quality she'd imagined nearly a month earlier. She stared at the figures waiting: her sister, her bridesmaids, Elizabeth. Then Jarrod stepped forward and smiled at her. She could see through the veil covering her face a smile that warmed her heart.

The wedding march began. Catherine took the first step.

***

In New York City in the 1870's, it was fashionable for married couples to accept the loan of a house in the country. The rich, who spent their summers in cottages by the ocean in Newport, set the standards of that closed society.

Jarrod and Catherine had been born in Newport, but neither would fit into the stringent rules of old New York society or even their own. If they did, they wouldn't be in the Montana mountains on a pretend honeymoon. Jarrod hadn't thought of tradition when he accepted the loan of this cabin from his friend. He'd thought of it as a perfect setting for Catherine. He'd been with Rafe, Rafael Patterson, a buddy from architectural school. When Rafe presented the design for the cabin, Jarrod had seen several photos of the construc­tion and followed as the building was going up. This place, however, was a cabin in the same way The Breakers was a cottage. And Rafe rarely visited it any longer. He was often away on a job or running his business in San Francisco.

The great room was the heart of the house, a huge central area that ascended to the stained-glass roof. The walls were dark paneling, giving the place a subtle smell of oil soap. A wide staircase sat to the side, angling upward past a sweep of window that covered the entire wall. Uncarpeted steps veered onto a veranda that squared off the room like a Shakespearean balcony.

Jarrod pictured Catherine in this room. The fire­place was stone and enormous, rustic enough to roast a cow on a spit. It dwarfed his six-foot frame. Jarrod hadn't expected it to be this cold in Montana in August. Apparently, they were having an unusual cold spell. He'd built a fire as soon as he and Cather­ine arrived. The central heating was on, but the fire made it much more relaxing. The soft sounds of Wynton Marsalis played in the background.

After the wedding this morning, and the reception and flight, Catherine probably needed sleep more than anything else. Jarrod had brought champagne and set it on the coffee table in front of the sofa, near the fire.

He hadn't thought that being married had a feel­ing, but it did. He knew he would never allow anything to happen to Catherine if he could prevent it, but now he felt responsible for her, protective of her, that he was linked to her with a strong bond, even if it was for a finite period of time. During that time he'd follow the vows he had uttered this morning.

Catherine came out of her bedroom. Her footsteps echoed on the floor above. He waited for her to appear. She'd looked so beautiful that morning. His breath had literally been taken away when he saw her standing at the back of the church, poised, ready to join hands with him and swear before God and the entire congregation to be his wife. For the length of the aisle, he wished the fairy tale was real.

She came down the stairs dressed in a long white sweater and black slacks. The sweater reached her knees. It had a huge collar that stretched to her shoul­ders. It stood up and folded over, extending across her body and coming to a stop at the teasing swell of her breasts. The body of the garment hugged her curves, moving as she moved, with the flow of her steps, like those of an elegant queen, taking her from her private chamber to the cavernous throne room below.

She paused at the turn, her hand on the banister. During daylight the sky and mountains could make the scene look as if she floated on air. Her hair was still in the style she'd worn for the ceremony, pulled up on top of her head in curls that were too numerous to count. A single ringlet coursed down the side of her face, drawing attention to her high cheekbones and soft complexion. Jarrod swallowed.

"You ought to be tired," he said.

Catherine smiled, her eyes shining and bright "I'm so glad its over." She came forward. "You brought champagne. Wonderful. I love champagne."

Jarrod led her to the sofa, and when she was seated, he poured the wine and handed her a glass flute.

"What shall we drink to?"

"Long life, love." She raised her glass and looked him straight in the eye. "And to the best friend a woman could ever have."

"Long life. . .love," he repeated. They clinked glasses and drank. Jarrod put his glass on the table. "I ordered some food. I thought you might not want to go out"

Catherine turned and looked at him." From where? It's an hour's drive through nothing but trees and hills to the airport. Or are you hiding a Taco Bell on the other side of that mountain?" Her smile was wide and happy as she glanced toward the window, where all that could be seen was the reflection of the room within.

"Rafe's caretakers provided the food. All we have to do is microwave it."

Catherine sipped the champagne. "I'm not very hungry, but I love the attention. Are you going to be this attentive for the next six months?"

"Absolutely," he responded, hoping she didn't hear the catch in his voice.

Six months, Jarrod thought. Inside him something tightened around his heart. This was temporary. He had to remember that Catherine was making this light. She was probably trying to put him at ease. It was their wedding night. But he wasn't at ease. He was tense. The last few weeks he'd become used to being with her, talking to her, explaining things, learning things. They were compatible. Jarrod kept to his promise. He hadn't touched her unless there was a reason. He admitted he wanted to, but she had an air that set limits.

He turned and stared into the fire. The flames licked the firewall and leapt toward the dark sky out­side. Jarrod linked and unlinked his hands.

"Jarrod, are you nervous?" Catherine asked.

He turned back to her. His instinct was to say no. He found it difficult to be anything else when she was around, except nervous. And he found it impossible to lie to someone who looked like a queen. "Yes," he whispered.

"Sit down, Jarrod." She smiled.

He walked to the sofa and sank down next to her. “If I knew it was going to make you happy, I wouldn't have told you."

"Happy doesn't mean power, Jarrod. I'm not plan­ning to use the way you feel. I want you to be comfort­able around me."

"Are you nervous around me?" he asked.

She waited a moment, then said, "Yes." Jarrod watched her eyes turn to the fireplace.

"Why?"

She shrugged. "I don't know."

Jarrod took her face and pulled it around so she had to look at him. "Want me to tell you?"

He saw arousal in her eyes. She said nothing, but he noticed the slight movement of the springy ringlet of hair that dripped inside the sweater and onto her neck. Jarrod clenched his hand so he wouldn't reach out and touch it. He watched it, his eyes glued to its movement, as if it were a talisman holding him with its power.

Then his hand moved. Slowly he grasped the hair lightly between his fingers. Catherine's breath caught. If he hadn't moved so close to her he wouldn't have heard it.

His knuckles touched the sweater's collar. She jerked, as if he'd shocked her. He looked into her eyes. Dark as midnight they smoldered, Jarrod grew warm, his body tightening in places that felt good. Cathy made him feel good.

Pulling on the free strand, her head moved closer to his. Jarrod felt her breath on his mouth. He smelled the light fragrance she often wore, and that underly­ing scent that made him want to growl, along with the champagne. He saw her eyelids droop, then close. Barely an inch separated them. Jarrod moved to elimi­nate the separation.

"No," Catherine said, turning away.

He took a deep breath and let it out in a whoosh that emptied his lungs. She was in his arms, her head on his shoulder, his arms around her. Her arms were at her sides. Jarrod could feel her body vibrating. He should let her go, but he didn't want to. This was what she did to him. She'd bring him to the brink and set a limit.

He'd reached it.

"Catherine," he whispered.

"Yes?"

“What is the real reason you're afraid of marriage?"

"I'm not afraid."

"You're terrified." Jarrod remembered the times he'd held her before. He knew she was attracted to him, aroused by him. All he had to do was push her back to stare into her eyes to see the truth; the dark fathomless depths dilated pupils let him see the fire inside, the smoldering depths that he could bring to the surface and the flare of heat that would ignite if his mouth touched hers. He was sure his kisses set her on fire as much as they did him, but she hid behind her conviction that she only wanted to marry to divorce. There had to be more to it than family pressure.