His 1-800 Wife (22 page)

He threw her a frigid look. Elizabeth took it without malice. The two of them had bantered back and forth for as long as Catherine and Jarrod had played jokes on each other.

"I don't mean dinner. I've been to wedding re­hearsal dinners and after wedding breakfasts, but whoever heard of an after-the-honeymoon wedding-party party?"

"This is just a family dinner," Audrey protested. "The wedding was so fast. Jarrod had only been back from England a couple of months. Tonight is just to say hello and enjoy a little food."

The first course was served on the tail end of Audrey's comment and promised to be anything but little. Conversation went in spurts; sometimes the entire table was engaged, other times only the couples sitting next to each other were involved. Catherine sat erect. Her shoulder didn't hurt so much as her back. She felt as if a hot poker had been placed directly next to her spine, and it was getting hotter as time went by. Jarrod eyed her for a sign that she needed to leave, but she continually shook her head. She didn't want to give anyone here reason to think she was ill.

"It would have to be someone who lives on the island." Robert was speaking when she came back to the conversation. She had no idea what he was talking about.

"Why do you say that?" Audrey asked.

"The tourists have returned to their homes, and they won't be back until Christmas, and the number still works."

Catherine's head snapped up, despite her stiffness. 1-800-WIFE? Were they talking about
her
number?

"You called it?" Jarrod asked.

"Not for a few days, maybe a week," Robert answered. "I see the way you and Catherine look at each other; I thought I might be missing something in this marriage thing."

Without thinking, she looked at Jarrod. He did the same. What did Robert mean? Could other people see more than friendship in how she felt about Jarrod?

Could
he?

"But the message says—" Catherine started.

"I thought I heard somewhere that she was only looking for a temporary husband," Elizabeth inter­rupted Catherine, saving her from blurting out infor­mation she shouldn't know. That error would not be lost on the keen minds of most of the congregation.

"I might be able to convince her otherwise." Rob­ert straightened his tie, a wide smile planted on a

face that reminded her of a male peacock. "Or I might only want a temporary wife. In either case, I win."

"Robert," Elizabeth said, "I never realized how smug you are."

"Elizabeth, I'm not smug." He leaned closer to the table, his voice soft, as if the two of them were co-conspirators. "You can be my temporary wife any time."

"I wouldn't be your any kind of wife, temporary or otherwise," she snapped.

Suddenly the table was laughing. Everyone was looking at them. Catherine knew they liked each other much more than either would admit, publicly or privately, but they always bickered. For a moment, Catherine scrutinized them both. She and Jarrod had always been at odds, yet it had been a cover-up. Could this be the same thing? Were Elizabeth and Robert hiding the way they really felt about each other, even from themselves?

"What's so funny?" Robert asked.

"That's exactly how it starts," Catherine's mother, who'd confined her conversation to the end of the table where she sat, explained. "We used to act just like you two." She looked at Catherine's father.

"And look what happened to us," her father fin­ished. He reached over, picked up his wineglass and toasted his wife.

"Catherine, you're awfully quiet. Do you have a theory about 1-800-WIFE?" Robert asked, turning his attention away from his adversary.

"This is nonsense," Audrey intervened. "Anyone who would advertise a phone number to find a hus­band must be really desperate."

Catherine looked from Robert to Elizabeth to Jarrod and finally to her sister.

"I agree," Catherine answered.

Chapter 10

Half of Catherine felt like the Tin Man, while the other half was a rag doll. The right side of her body was flexible to the point of being floppy. Her left side had fused together during the night and movement was tantamount to wrenching metal apart.

She couldn't get out of bed.

She could hardly walk by the time she and Jarrod left Audrey's the previous night. She'd taken a pain pill just before they left to go to dinner and couldn't take another one for four hours. Jarrod brought the Jeep as close to the front door as he could, with all the other cars blocking entry. She leaned heavily on him as they walked the last few feet.

Jenny hadn't been there when they got in and, against her protests, Jarrod helped her into her night­gown and carried her to the big bed. He hadn't closed her bedroom door, and now she could hear Jenny in the hall.

"Jenny," she called forcing the pain out of her voice.

The maid came quickly to the door. "I didn't know if you'd be awake yet."

"I need help."

Jenny took a step, then grabbed the door handle and pulled it. She didn't completely close it, and Catherine could hear her speaking to Jarrod.

"I'll help her, sir," she said.

"I want to know how she is."

"Mr. Greene." Jenny's voice was kind, but firm. "She needs a few minutes."

There was a moment of silence before Jarrod said, "I understand."

Then the door opened and Jenny slipped inside, closing it with a soft click. With all the efficiency of a trained nurse, she came to the bed and began asking her questions in a low, professional voice.

"Are you stiff?"

"Extremely. I can't get up."

"Your muscles are protesting the fall. You need to exercise them. I'll run you a bath."

She disappeared into the bathroom. Catherine heard the water running. Then she saw the rose on the pillow beside her. The pillow was slightly depressed. Jarrod must have lain there sometime dur­ing the night. The thought caught her off guard, shook her inside; then a kind of comfort settled over her. He'd stayed with her, making sure she was all right. Catherine reached for the flower. Around its stem was a woven piece of paper. I'll
kiss it and make it better,
it read.

"How sweet," she murmured aloud and kissed the delicate petals.

Jenny returned. Catherine slid the paper under Jarrod's pillow and laid the flower on top of it. With Jenny's help and guidance she slid her legs to the side and, using her good arm, braced around Jenny, she sat up. The effort made her dizzy. She waited a moment for it to pass.

"The worse of it is in the morning, Mrs. Greene," Jenny soothed her. "We'll get you to the bath and the water will loosen the muscles.

"Don't try to stand yet. Let me massage your neck.'' Jenny's fingers were magic. She climbed on the bed behind Catherine and gently cajoled her neck mus­cles into submission. After a minute, Catherine could turn her head from side to side.

"Catherine?" Jarrod called from outside the door.

"That husband of yours," the maid commented. "I swear, I wish we could hold on to that newlywed love." She climbed down and went to the door. "It'll be a moment, Mr. Greene. I want to get your wife into the bath." She didn't give Jarrod time to protest. The door closed. She went into the bathroom and turned off the water. Then she was back.

Wife,
Catherine thought. She'd called her a wife. It caused a tiny wiggle in her insides. She didn't know how she felt about it. In Montana people had called her
Mrs.
Greene, emphasizing the
Mrs.
since they knew she and Jarrod were newly married. Jenny said it matter of factly, as if the two of them had been married for years and would continue to be so. She was someone's wife. Jarrod was her husband. Did he feel that way?

Catherine tried to stand. Her legs supported her and she walked to the bathroom.

"I'll give you some time alone," Jenny said.

Catherine felt a pang of guilt. Jenny was more than a godsend, she was an invalid's saint. As soon as she completed her toilet, Jenny helped her into the tub of warm water.

"How do the bruises look?" Catherine tried to see herself in the mirror. Her shoulder was dark purple. She couldn't swivel her neck around to see any more.

"They'll heal as expected," Jenny said diplomati­cally.

"Which means they look worse today than they did yesterday."

The water stung on the scrapes on her legs, but it felt good to descend into its warm depths. It covered her to her shoulders. Jenny had added rose-scented salts, and bubbles burst near her nose, reminding her of the flower lying on the bed and the man who had put it there.

"Catherine, I'm coming in." Jarrod's voice came from the bedroom. She was completely covered when he appeared at the door.

"I'll be back with your breakfast in a moment." Jenny edged past Jarrod. "Call me if you need me," she said over her shoulder as she left them alone.

Jarrod was dressed in jeans and a sweater. He looked as if he'd just pulled in from a thousand-mile haul through rain, sleet and snow.

"Haven't you slept?" she asked.

"I got a couple of hours in. How do you feel?"

"Guilty. I'm feeling like a terrible person for telling Audrey I didn't need Jenny. She's wonderful."

"How do you
feel?"

"I'm much better," she lied. She didn't want him thinking she couldn't be trusted, and that he needed to look after her wherever they went. "I enjoyed going to the site yesterday. I'd like to go again. Please don't let this accident keep you from taking me."

He strolled into the tiny space and sat down on the side of the huge tub. Catherine had often thought the tub was large enough for two people to sit in it side by side.

“I won't.'' He smiled at her, but his eyes were tired. "I liked you being around too. And the guys were ogling you to no end."

"I didn't see a thing," she teased, knowing the words had double meaning. "I guess your clothes mean you're not working today."

"I'm staying here. I already called your office to let them know you won't be in."

She didn't protest. She was grateful. "Then you should get some sleep."

"I will," he told her. "As soon as I eat. I wouldn't want Jenny to go to so much trouble for nothing."

"You just like Jenny's cooking," she teased.

"I love it," he agreed. "You must be feeling better; you can joke."

Jarrod stared at her until Catherine felt uncomfort­able. She was vulnerable in the tub, naked, but she felt safe with Jarrod. He would protect her, sacrifice himself trying to keep her safe. She'd seen it in his eyes yesterday. For the split second between the time she saw the trucks and him and tried to move, she knew he would push her out of the way and take the consequences of his actions. She was glad nothing serious had happened.

"Aren't you hurt, Jarrod? After that crash to the ground, you must have some aches and pains this morning."

"None to speak of."

"Let me see it?" she commanded. She wanted to see his arm, where he'd fallen.

"It's only a small scrape."

"Let me see it?"

He pushed his sweater up his right arm past his elbow. Several long scabbed lines ran down the side, no wider than scratches.

"I'll live," he said lightly, pulling the sweater down.

"So will I. Now get out of here so I can relax a moment before Jenny returns."

"Anything I can get you?" He stood up.

"Something to put on." She thought of the caftan in her closet, but she didn't think Jarrod would know what a caftan was. She needed something without much shape to it, something that would not restrict her movement. "There's a long pink and brown dress in my closet. It's hanging near the far end. If you could get that."

He left her, coming back a moment later with the caftan and some underwear. Maybe she'd underesti­mated him.

"You've done this before," Catherine stated as he laid the garments on the counter and hung the gown on the back of the door.

"Blame it on your sister's layout map."

Catherine smiled. The card still lay on the corner of her dresser.

"Should I help you, or would you like me to call Jenny?"

"It's all right. I can get out." It was the truth. Jenny's massage and the hot water had done the trick. Move­ment was much easier than it had been before the bath.

"I'll only be a shout away." He left her, closing the door.

Jarrod hadn't answered her question. It pained her more than her shoulder did to think of him dressing and undressing other women. Catherine knew Jarrod had dated many women. Newport alone had women vying for him, and it was a small community. While he was in England, she understood he hadn't lived like a monk, and theirs wasn't a real marriage. They'd had only one night together—two encounters if she counted him waking her in the middle of the night. Jarrod was a masterful lover. She slipped down into the water, thinking of their joining, her muscles relaxing from the thought more than any medication could force them to do. She hadn't thought of Jarrod being celibate for six months, although she'd pro­posed the rule. And he'd accepted it.