His 1-800 Wife (2 page)

"Isn't that wonderful?" Audrey's surprised expres­sion could rival that of someone discovering the cure for cancer. "Why don't you go over and reacquaint yourself?"

"I'd rather eat spiders," Catherine said dryly. She took a step, intent on returning to the house, when his voice stopped her.

"Catherine Carson. It's wonderful to hear your voice again."

It was him! The voice from her answering machine. The one she'd recognized but couldn't place. Jarrod's voice, that odd English accent underlying his own, was unmistakable. Catherine felt frozen to the spot. He knew. Oh, God! She clenched her teeth. Knowing Jarrod, he'd never let her live it down. He knew about her, about her search for a husband. How? He'd only been back in Rhode Island for three days and already he'd discovered her secret. She turned back slowly, her smile fixed, ready for that razor-sharp tongue of his to announce to all within hearing range that she was the woman behind 1-800-WIFE.

"Jarrod, what a surprise. It's good to see you again.''

"I like the hat, he said, giving it a cursory glance."

Catherine couldn't help looking up at the wide brim. She frowned, knowing she could use the hat as an umbrella if it rained. It wasn't her kind of hat. She'd chosen it for that reason, but she wouldn't have if she'd known Jarrod was going to be here. She was sure he'd find something to say to embarrass her. But Audrey had themes to her parties, and today's was the Mad Hatter. The hat was part of her statement, although Audrey seemed to take it as a joke. Standing before Jarrod, she wanted to hide under it.

"Excuse me, Jarrod. Welcome home. I'm sorry I can't stay longer. I have another engagement and I really have to go."

"Catherine, you've just arrived," Audrey said.

"And we haven't had time to fight yet," Jarrod added.

She threw him a look that could freeze water. "Jarrod, I don't want to fight with you."

"Ah," he said, "If we don't fight, marriage would be our only other option."

Her whole body went cold, then immediately after­ward blood rushed through her system, generating a furnace of heat. She could hear his voice on her answering machine. He was baiting her.

"That would be a real disaster." Catherine turned and walked away. For some reason Jarrod brought out the worst in her. She needed to escape. She was almost at the door before Jarrod caught her.

"Don't leave on account of me."

Catherine turned back. She raised her eyes slowly and took all of him in. "Still at it, aren't you, Jarrod?"

"Still at what?"

"Still here to bait me, belittle me, embarrass me. Don't you want to trip me as I pass the dessert table so I can fall into the cake?"

"Catherine, that was an accident. I didn't know you were behind me."

"Sure you didn't." It was Amanda Fedders's four­teenth birthday party. Catherine had spent half the day dressing for it. She wanted to impress Gregory Lewis, who had spoken to her only three times the entire school year. He was the best looking boy at Grace Rodgers High School. Catherine had just arrived. She carried a huge box with Amanda's present inside it, one of the large stuffed bears they were all collecting that year. Jarrod and Billy Fedders came running around the table just as she reached it. His foot caught hers, and into the table she went, pushing it over and going over with it. Her dress flew up, she crushed the box, icing covered her face and hands, and Greg­ory Lewis stood laughing at her with the rest of the party. She never spoke to him again. And she should never have spoken to Jarrod either.

That memory still made her face burn. She swung around and headed for the door.

Jarrod caught her arm. Catherine stopped, her eyes darting from the place his hand touched her arm to his face. He dropped his hand. It had been warm on her flesh. She felt coldness take the place where he'd touched her. A sudden feeling she couldn't identify washed up her arm. Catherine wanted to put her hand over it. It wasn't unpleasant, as she would have thought. It was the first time Jarrod had touched her and caused something other than pain. Well, the second time, she thought, remembering one other instance. She was unsure why this unfamiliar sensation, both prickly and soft, should result from his hand around her arm.

"If you leave, I'll feel I drove you away."

"It's not you, Jarrod. Despite what my sister may have told you. . ." Catherine glanced through the room to where Audrey stood in her version of the Jacqueline Kennedy pillbox hat. "I do have a life."

"Just not the one your family wants you to have."

"Is anybody's?" she mumbled, to herself more than to him. She didn't mistake the opening he was giving her, but she wouldn't take it.

"I guess not," he answered.

Catherine threw a look at him that said he couldn't possibly understand. No one was constantly trying to marry him off. Then she went on through the door. Jarrod followed her. "Where are you going?"

"Away from here." She pulled the hat from her head. A full sheath of ebony hair fell to her shoulders. "I've seen what Audrey invited me to see."

"Still hotheaded and impulsive," Jarrod character­ized. "I thought in the last five years you'd have grown up."

Catherine stopped. Her arms were at her sides, her entire body stiff. She turned slowly, as if gathering strength. "What would you know about it anyway? I can see you haven't learned any more about being an adult during your absence. You're still the selfish teenager out to make my life miserable."

"That was never my intention," he said.

Catherine looked at him. His eyes were serious. They burned into her as if he could see what she was thinking.

"Don't leave angry," he said.

"Why not? I always have in the past."

He took her arm. "It's time we changed the rou­tine." Jarrod slipped her arm through his and led her around the far side of the yard, away from the party. They walked around the east wing, as Audrey liked to refer to it. It was shady on this side, and devoid of people. A small veranda jutted out from the French doors. Patio furniture with colorful cushions made the arrangement lively and cheerful. Audrey often had breakfast here. Jarrod passed the veranda and headed for the stand-alone swing that gleamed with fresh white paint. Catherine stepped inside. He tightened his grip on her arm to keep her balanced as the apparatus started to sway.

She sat down. Jarrod sat next to her, and the swing moved back and forth. He was close to her, his leg touching hers. She knew why he wanted to talk to her. At least he wasn't doing it in front of the crowd. She was surprised. This was at least a different aspect of Jarrod's character. Then she remembered their past. Jarrod often got her to talk so he could use the information against her later.

He'd probably led her here for the same reason. She stiffened and vowed to keep her secrets to herself, including that her body tingled when his leg brushed hers. She fidgeted with the Dolly Levi confection she carried. Jarrod took it away from her and placed it on the opposite seat of the swaying chair. He wore a black baseball cap bearing the letters NASA stitched in white above the bill. Now he tossed his cap on the other bench too. It landed, bib tipped up against the gauze and flowers of her organza covered chapeau. The two looked ridiculous next to each other. Catherine thought of them as the incongruous romance between the sportswriter Spencer Tracy and the political activist Katharine Hepburn in the black-and-white movie
Woman of the Year.
she and Jarrod were the 21st Century version of that couple.

Jarrod took her hands and held them. Catherine didn't pull away. His hands were strong, smooth, and tender to hold. She looked into his face. His absence hadn't changed the way he looked. She couldn't deny he was attractive. Not just attractive; he was devastatingly handsome. Catherine remembered seeing him in a tuxedo for the first time. Her cousin was visiting from Boston, and Jarrod was taking her to a Christmas ball. Catherine was only fifteen, Jarrod nineteen. When she opened the door for him, she'd nearly melted in the foyer. He'd squeezed her nose and asked her if she got any dolls for Christmas. She wanted to kill him, but she couldn't deny that he was the most handsome man she'd ever seen.

He looked even better now. His face had more character. There were tiny lines around his eyes and a greater confidence that could be seen. His smile showed even white teeth, except for a tiny chip on his front tooth, the result of a tussling match with her. He was over six feet tall, with a healthy brown tan that she'd bet was the same even tone over his entire body. His hair was clipped short. His build had been average when he left for England, but now it was more defined. She could see the strength in his arms and legs even through his clothes. He had broad shoulders proportional to his waist and hips, which were easy to delineate since he wore dark gray slacks and an open-collared white shirt that looked as if they'd been made for him.

His smile fascinated her as much as his light brown eyes that said. "Trust me." She wanted to trust him. She wanted to hold his face in her hands and look into the depths of his eyes and see what he was think­ing, just as she wanted to run her hands over his hard body. She'd done it only once. He'd been uncon­scious, or at least acting unconscious. They were both in a first-aid class, and somehow he had been paired with her. After that incident, she asked for a differ­ent partner. She couldn't keep her thoughts off him despite his constant ridicule. Women vied for his attention and he had many dates when he lived in Newport. No doubt that would resume as soon as word got out that he was back in Newport.

And unattached.

"Tell me what's been happening," Jarrod said, pull­ing her out of the fog she'd drifted into.

Catherine pulled her hands free. She sat back in the swinging chair.

"We used to be confidants," he reminded her.

"I was ten years old then," she said. "And afraid of a thunderstorm." She wasn't often afraid of storms, but that one had made the sky dark as night, and the wind made the rain sound like fingers on her windows. Her parents and Jarrod's were out together. She'd screamed and screamed, and finally Jarrod had come to her room. She flew into his arms, sobbing her eyes out and clinging so tightly to him that he couldn't have left her if he wanted to. He lifted her and sat down in the rocking chair. Catherine fell asleep there, and when she woke, the sky was bright and birds sang cheerfully. Jarrod was still holding her.

"So tell me about the storm that's scaring you now. I'm good at keeping secrets."

Catherine stared at him. He'd played practical jokes on her, pulled her hair, grilled her dates as if he was her father, but he'd never mentioned the night of the storm to anyone, or the questions she'd asked him when she was growing up and afraid to ask her parents.

"I'm twenty-six and unmarried."

"Last time I looked that wasn't a crime."

"It is if you ask Audrey or my mother."

"I take it they've been throwing men at you, telling you about the joys of marriage and children, con­stantly calling to see if you're dating anyone. And setting up days like today."

"How did you know?" Her eyes opened in surprise. "It doesn't just happen to women, Catherine."

She smiled. "I know that. I just didn't know you had the same problem."

"I hadn't been home thirty minutes before my mother was asking probing questions about a possible
special
woman. Within twenty-four hours she was parading young women of marriageable age before me."

"So there is no one special?" He reached over and took a lock of her hair. "You're special."

She grabbed her hair back. "Be serious," she said.

"I am being serious."

Catherine couldn't help laughing. Jarrod laughed too. It felt good to laugh with him again. He could be charming when he chose. She knew Jarrod's mother. She was eccentric and a little transparent, but Catherine couldn't help loving her. Catherine was somehow glad there was no one special in Jarrod's life. She told herself it was because there was no one special in hers either.

"I thought of a plan to get them off my back." She relaxed, leaning forward slightly.

"1-800-WIFE?"

"How did you know about that number?" she asked. "I recognized your voice this morning."

"I didn't try to conceal it."

"As I did," she finished for him. "No one knows about the number, not even Elizabeth." Elizabeth Westfield was Catherine's best friend. The two had bonded in kindergarten and been closer than sisters ever since, but this one thing Catherine had kept to herself. It helped that Elizabeth was busy with her business and had little time for getting together right now. Catherine could reach her by e-mail and cell phone if she really needed to, but she hadn't men­tioned the 1-800 number.

Catherine didn't want to explain the number to anyone, but somehow Jarrod, who'd been able to read her like a book for as long as she could remem­ber, already knew.

"I'm flattered you recognized my voice after so long," Jarrod said. Catherine suddenly thought she'd revealed something she hadn't intended. How could she not know his voice? It was brandy dark, warm, velvet soft, and Catherine knew he could use it to entice and seduce any number of females. She was glad she wasn't one of them, yet she loved to listen to its cadence.