Courting Catherine

  “My home?”

  “Yes, where you live.”

  “It's just a house.” It occurred to him quite sud­denly that it didn't mean a thing to him. An excellent investment, that was all. “It's only a few minutes from the office.”

  “That's convenient. Have you lived there long?”

  “About five years. Actually, I bought it from my father when he and his third wife split They decided to liquidate some assets.”

  “I see.” And she was very much afraid that she did. “Does your mother live in Boston, too?”

  “No. She travels. Being tied down to one place doesn't agree with her.”

  “Sounds like Great-Aunt Colleen.” C.C. smiled over the rim of her cup. “That's my father's aunt, or Bianca's oldest child.”

  “Bianca,” he mused, and thought again of that mo­ment when he'd felt that soft and soothing warmth over his and C.C.'s joined hands.

  “She lives on cruise ships. Every now and again we get a postcard from some port of call. Aruba or Madagascar. She's eighty-something, obsessively sin­gle and mean as a shark with a hangover. We all live in fear that she might decide to visit.”

  “I didn't realize you had any relatives living other than Coco and your sisters.” His brows drew to­gether. “She might know something about the neck­lace.”

  “Great-Aunt Colleen?” Considering it, CC. pursed her lips. “I doubt it. She was a child when Bianca died, and spent most of her girlhood in board­ing schools.” Without thinking, she pulled off her earrings and massaged the tender lobes. Desire spread like brushfire through Trent's blood. “Anyway, if we could find her—which isn't likely—and mentioned the whole business, she'd probably come steaming back to hack away at the walls. She doesn't have any love for The Towers, but she has a great deal for money.”

  “She doesn't sound like a relative of yours.”

  “Oh, we have a number of oddities in our family closet.” After dropping the earrings into her bag, she leaned an elbow on the table. “Great-Uncle Sean— he was Bianca's youngest—was shot climbing out of his married paramour's window. One of his para­mours, I should say. He survived, then took off for the West Indies, never to be heard of again. That was sometime during the thirties. Ethan, my grandfather, lost the bulk of the family fortune on cards and horses. Gambling was his weakness, and that's what killed him. He had a wager that he could sail from Bar Harbor to Newport and back within six days. He made it to Newport, and was heading back ahead of schedule when he ran into a squall and was lost at sea. Which meant he lost his last bet as well.”

  “They sound like an adventurous pair.”

  “They were Calhouns,” CC. explained, as if that said it all.

  “I'm sorry the St. Jameses don't have anything to compare with it.”

  “Ah, well. I've always wondered if Bianca would have stepped back from that tower window if she'd known how messed up her children would become.” C.C. looked thoughtfully out to where lights played on the dark water. “She must have loved her artist very much.”

  “Or was very unhappy in her marriage.”

  C.C. looked back. “Yes, there is that. Maybe we should head back. It's getting late.” She started to rise, remembered, then slid her bare foot around the floor beneath the table.

  “What is it?”

  “I've lost my shoes.” So much, she thought, for the sophisticated image.

  Trent bent down to look himself and got an eyeful of long, slim leg. “Ah...” He cleared his throat and trained his eyes on the floor. “Here you go.” He took both, then straightening, smiled at her. “Put your foot out I'll give you a hand.” He watched her as he slipped the shoes onto her feet and remembered that he'd once thought she would never stand for being a Cinderella. He trailed his finger up her instep and caught the flicker in her eyes. The flicker of desire that, no matter what common sense told him, he very much wanted.

  “Have I mentioned that you have truly incredible legs?”

  “No.” She had one hand balled in a fist at her side and struggled to concentrate on it rather than the sen­sations his touch had spurting through her. “It's nice of you to notice.”

  “It's difficult not to. They're the only ones I've known that look sexy in coveralls.”

  Ignoring the thud of her own heart, she leaned to­ward him. “That reminds me.”

  He could kiss her now, he thought. He had only to shift a mere inch to have his mouth on hers, where he wanted it. “What?”

  “I don't think your shocks have more than another couple thousand miles on them.” With a smile, she rose. “I'd look into that when you get home.” Pleased with herself, C.C. started out ahead of him.

  When they settled in the car, she congratulated her­self. A very successful evening all in all, she thought. Maybe he wasn't miserable, as she was, but she was damn sure she'd made him uncomfortable a time or two. He'd go back to Boston the next day.... She turned to stare out the window until she was certain she could deal with the pain. He'd go back, but he wouldn't forget her quickly or easily. His last im­pression of her would be one of a composed, self-contained woman in a sexy red dress. Better, C.C. decided, much better than the picture of a mechanic in coveralls with grease on her hands.

  More importantly, she'd proven something to her­self. She could love, and she could let go.

  She looked up as the car started to climb. She could see the shadowy peaks of the two towers spearing into the night sky. Trent slowed the car as he looked, as well.

  “The light's on in Bianca's tower.”

  “Lilah,” C.C. murmured. “She often sits up there.” She thought of her sister sitting by the win­dow, looking out into the night. “You won't tear it down, will you?”

  “No.” Understanding more than she knew, he closed his hand over hers. “I promise you it won't be torn down.”

  The house disappeared as the road curved away, then all but filled the view. They could hear the beat and slap of the sea as they looked at it. Lights were sprinkled on throughout, glowing against the dull gray stone. A slender shadow moved in front of the tower window, stood for a moment, then slid away.

  Inside, Lilah called down the stairs. 'They're back.”

  Four women raced to the windows to peer out.

  “We shouldn't spy on them,” Suzanna murmured, but moved the curtain aside a bit more.

  “We're not.” Amanda strained her eyes. “We're just checking, that's all. Can you see anything?”

  “They're still in the car,” Coco complained. “How are we supposed to see what's going on if they're going to sit in the car?”

  “We could use our imaginations.” Lilah shook her hair back. “If that man isn't begging her to go to Boston with him, then he really is a jerk.”

  “To Boston?” Alarmed, Suzanna glanced over. “You don't think she'd go to Boston, do you?”

  “She'd go to the Ukraine if he had the sense to ask her,” Amanda commented. “Look, they're get­ting out.”

  “Maybe if we just cracked a window a little bit, we could hear—”

  “Aunt Coco, that's ridiculous.” Lilah clucked her tongue.

  “You're right, of course.” Color tinged Coco's cheek.

  “Of course I'm right. They'd hear the windows creak if we tried.” Grinning, she pressed her face against the glass. “We'll just have to read their lips.”

  “This was nice,” C.C. said as she stepped out of the car. “I haven't been out to dinner in a while.”

  “You had dinner with Finney.”

  She gave him a blank look, then laughed. “Oh, Finney, sure.” The breeze played with her bangs as she smiled. “You've got quite a memory.”

  “Some things seem to stick to it.” The jealousy he felt was, unfortunately, no memory. “Doesn't he ever take you out?”

  “Finney? No, I just go to his place.”

  Frustrated, Trent jammed his hands into his pock­ets. “He should take you out.”

  She smothered a chuckle as the image of old Albert Finney
escorting her to a restaurant ran through her mind. “I'll be sure to mention it to him.” She turned to start up the steps.

  “Catherine, don't go in yet.” He took her hands.

  At the windows four pairs of eyes narrowed.

  “It's late, Trent.”

  “I don't know if I'll see you again before I leave.”

  It took all her strength to keep her eyes steady. “Then we'll say goodbye now.”

  “I need to see you again.”

  “The shop's open at eight-thirty. I'll be there.”

  “Damn it, C.C., you know what I mean.” His hands were on her shoulders now.

  “No, I don't.”

  “Come to Boston.” He blurted it out, shocking himself while she stood calmly waiting.

  “Why?”

  To give himself a moment to find control again, he stepped back. “I could show you around.” How much more inane could he get? Trent wondered. How much more beautiful could she look? “You said you'd never been. We could...have some time to­gether.”

  Inside her wrap, she shivered, but her voice was calm and smooth. “Are you asking me to come to Boston and have an affair with you?”

  “No. Yes. Oh, Lord. Just wait.” He turned to pace a few steps away and breathe.

  Inside, Lilah smiled. “Why, he's in love with her after all, but he's too stupid to know it.”

  “Shh!” Coco waved a hand. “I can almost hear what they're saying.” She had an ear at the base of the water glass she pressed up to the window.

  At the bottom of the steps, Trent tried again. “Nothing I begin ends the way I expect it to when I'm with you.” He turned back. She was still standing with the house behind her, the dress glimmering like liquid tire in the dark. “I know I have no business asking you, and I didn't intend to. I intended to say a very civil goodbye and let you go.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I want to make love with you more than I want to go on breathing.”

  “To make love,” C.C. repeated steadily. “But you don't love me.”

  “I don't know anything about love. I care for you.” He walked back to touch a hand to her face. “Maybe that could be enough.”

  She studied him, realizing he didn't have any idea that he was breaking an already shattered heart. “It might be, for a day or a week or a month. But you were right about me, Trent. I expect more. I deserve more.” Keeping her eyes on his, she slid her hands over his shoulders. “I offered myself to you- once. That won't happen again. And neither will this.”

  She pressed her mouth against his, pouring every scrap of her tattered emotions into it Her arms en­folded him even as her body swayed seductively toward his. With a sigh, her lips parted, inviting him to take.

  Off balance, needy, he dragged her head back and plundered. Unsteady, his hands skimmed beneath her wrap, urgently seeking the warmth of her skin.

  So many feelings, too many feelings, bombarded him. He wanted only to fill himself with the taste of her. But there was more. She wouldn't let him take only the kiss, but all the emotion that went with it. He felt he was drowning in it, but it was so strong and heady a flood, he couldn't fight.

  Love me! Why can't you love me? Her mind seemed to scream it even as she was borne away on the tide of her own longings. Everything she wanted was here, inside the circle of her arms. Everything but his heart.

  “Catherine.” He couldn't get his breath. Dragging her closer, he pressed his mouth to her neck. “I can't get close enough.”

  She held him to her a moment longer, then slowly, painfully, pulled away. “Yes, you could. And that's what hurts the most.” Turning, she dashed up the steps.

  “Catherine.”

  She paused at the door. With her head high, she turned around. He was already coming after her when he saw the tears glittering in her eyes. Nothing else would have stopped him.

  “Goodbye, Trent. I hope to God that keeps you up at night.”

  As he listened to the echo of the door slamming, he was certain it would.

  It cannot go on. I can no longer pretend that I am disloyal to my husband only between the covers of this journal. My life, so calm and ordered during my twenty-four years, has become a lie this summer. One I must atone for.

  As autumn approaches and we make our plans to return to New York, I thank God I will soon leave Mount Desert Island behind me. How close, how dan­gerously close I have come these past days to break­ing my marriage vows.

  And yet, I grieve.

  In another week, we will be gone. I may never see Christian again. That is how it should be. How it must be. But in my heart I know that I would give my soul for one night, even one hour, in his arms. Imagining how it could be obsesses me. With him there would finally be passion, and love, even laughter. With him it would not simply be a duty, cold and silent and soon over.

  I pray to be forgiven for the adultery I have com­mitted in my heart.

  My conscience has urged me to keep away from the cliffs. And I have tried. It has demanded that I be a more patient, loving and understanding wife to Fer­gus. I have done so. Whatever he has asked of me, I have done. At his request, I gave a tea for several of the ladies. We have gone to the theater, to countless dinner parties. I have listened until my head was throbbing to talk of business and fashion and the pos­sibility of war. My smile never falters, for Fergus pre­fers that I look content at all times. Because it pleases him, I wear the emeralds when we go out in the eve­nings.

  They are my penance now, a reminder that a sin is not always in the action, but in the heart.

  I sit here in my tower now as I write. The cliffs are below, the cliffs where Christian paints. Where I go when I sneak from the house like a randy housemaid. It shames me. It sustains me. Even now I look down and see him. He faces the sea, and waits for me.

  We have never touched, not once, though the ache is in both of us. I have learned how much passion there can be in silences, in long, troubled looks.

  I will not go to him today, but only sit here and watch him. When I feel I have the strength, I will go to him only to say goodbye and wish him well.

  While I live through the long winter that faces me, I will wonder if he will be here next summer.

  Chapter Ten

  “Here are the papers you asked for, Mr. St. James.”

  Oblivious to his secretary's presence, Trent contin­ued to stand at the window, staring out. It was a habit he'd developed since returning to work three weeks before. Through the wide tinted glass, he could watch Boston bustling by below. Steel-and-glass towers glit­tered beside elegant brownstones in a architectural potpourri. Thick traffic weaved and charged on the streets. In sweats and colorful running shorts, joggers paced themselves along the path beside the river. Then there was the river itself, streaming with boats, sails puffed full of warm spring breezes.

  “Mr. St. James?”

  “Yes?” He glanced around at his secretary.

  “I've brought you the papers you requested.”

  “Thank you, Angela.” In an old habit, he looked at his watch. It occurred to him, painfully, that he had rarely thought of the time when he'd been with C.C. “It's after five. You should go home to your family.” Angela hesitated. She'd worked for Trenton for six years. It had only been during the past couple of weeks that he had begun calling her by her first name or inquiring about her family. The day before, he'd actually complimented her on her dress. The change in him had the entire staff baffled. As his secretary, she felt obligated to dig out the source of it “May I speak with you a minute?” “All right. Would you like to sit down?” “No, sir. I hope you won't consider this out of place, Mr. St. James, but I wanted to know if you're feeling well.”

  A ghost of a smile played around his mouth. “Don't I look well?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. A little tired perhaps. It's just that since you returned from Bar Harbor, you seem distracted, and different somehow.”

  “You could say I am distracted. I am different, and to answer
your original question, no, I don't think I am entirely well.”

  “Mr. St. James, if there's anything I can do...” Studying her, he sat on the edge of his desk. He had hired her because she was efficient and quick. As he recalled, he had nearly passed her over because she'd had two small children. It had worried him that she wouldn't be able to balance her responsibilities, but he'd taken what he'd considered a chance. It had worked very well indeed.

  “Angela, how long have you been married?”

  “Married?” Thrown off, she blinked. “Ten years.”

  “Happily?”

  “Yes, Joe and I are happy.”

  Joe, he mused. He hadn't even known her hus­band's name. Hadn't bothered to find it out. “Why?”

  “Why, sir?”

  “Why are you happy?”

  “I...I suppose because we love each other.”

  He nodded, gesturing to prod her along. “And that's enough?”

  “It certainly helps you get through the rough spots.” She smiled a little, thinking of her Joe. “We've had some of them, but one of us always man­ages to pull the other through.”

  “You consider yourself a team then. So you have a great deal in common?”

  “I don't know about that. Joe likes football and I hate it. He loves jazz, and I don't understand it.” It wouldn't occur to her until later that this was the first time she'd felt completely at ease with Trent since she'd taken the job. “Sometimes I feel like wearing earplugs all weekend. Whenever I feel like shipping him out, I think about what my life would be without him. And I don't like what I see.” Taking a chance, she stepped closer. “Mr. St. James, if this is about Maria Montblanc getting married last week, well, I'd just like to say that you're better off.”

  “Maria got married?”

  Truly baffled, Angela shook her head. “Yes, sir. Last week, to that golf pro. It was in all the papers.”

  “I must have missed it.” There had been other things in the papers that had captured his attention.

  “I realize you'd been seeing her for quite a while.”

  Seeing her, Trent mused. Yes, that cool, passionless phrase described their relationship perfectly. “Yes, I had been.”

  “You're not—upset?”

  “About Maria? No.” The fact was he hadn't thought of her in weeks. Since he'd walked into a garage and spotted a pair of scarred boots.

  Another woman, Angela realized. And if she'd had this kind of affect on the boss, she had all of Angela's support. “Sir, if someone—something else,” she cor­rected cautiously, “is on your mind, you may be overanalyzing the situation.”

  The comment surprised him enough to make him smile again. “Do I overanalyze, Angela?”

  “You're very meticulous, Mr. St. James, and ana­lyze details finitely, which works very well in busi­ness. Personal matters can't always be dealt with log­ically.”

  “I've been coming to that same conclusion my­self.” He stood again. “I appreciate the time.”

  “My pleasure, Mr. St. James.” And it certainly had been. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “No, thank you.” He turned back to the window. “Good night, Angela.”

  “Good night.” She was grinning when she closed the door at her back.

  Trent stood where he was for some time. No, he hadn't noticed the announcement of Maria's wedding. The papers had also been full of the upcoming sale of The Towers. “Bar Harbor landmark to become newest St. James Hotel,” he remembered. “Rumors of lost treasures sweeten the deal.”

  Trent wasn't certain where the leak had come from, though he wasn't surprised by it As he'd expected, his lawyers had grumbled over the clause Lilah had insisted on. Whispers of emeralds had sneaked down the hallways. It was only natural that they would find their way onto the street and into print.