C.J.'s Fate C.J.'s Fate C.J.'s Fate

by Kay Hooper

  “Certainly.” C.J. stepped into the elevator as the doors slid open, fighting to keep her face solemn. “It’s a rare talent, you know. Not everyone has it.”

  “What am I thinking right now?” he demanded suspiciously.

  “That I’m a liar.”

  Fate drew her nearer in the crowded elevator. “Bingo! What do you know—she does read minds!”

  “It’s a gift.”

  “Give it back.”

  “Funny, Maestro. Be careful, or I’ll give you back.”

  “Was I a gift? I think I should resent that. Who gave me?”

  “Your namesake.”

  They joined the others making their way toward the dining room, and he took a moment to respond. “You mean fate?” When she nodded, he went on cheerfully, “Well, that’s all right. I don’t mind being given to you—by whomever or whatever.”

  “Gosh, it’s all mine! What shall I do with it?”

  “Take it to your heart and cherish it,” he directed firmly. “Don’t feed it candy or let it chase cars. And pat it kindly on the head from time to time. A little tender loving care.”

  “Yes, but what does it do?” she asked gravely. “I’m not much for useless ornaments, you know.”

  “It’s good in courtrooms,” he offered hopefully.

  “I don’t know about that. It got its tenses and pronouns mixed up.”

  “One little mistake!” he exclaimed, hurt.

  She ignored that. “And it has an unnerving habit of acting a little crazy. I mean, I’m all for being my brother’s keeper, but that bit of sage advice wasn’t meant to be taken literally.”

  Fate pulled her suddenly into a handy alcove just outside the dining room and out of the way of traffic.

  “Why are we stopping?” she asked severely.

  “Well, it has to show what it’s good for, doesn’t it?”

  “Fate, you wouldn’t!”

  He would. And did.

  Emerging from the embrace totally breathless and feeling that at least three ribs had been cracked, C.J. said weakly, “That’s quite a talent you have there.”

  “I hoped you’d appreciate it,” he murmured.

  “Well, don’t look so smug, damnit.”

  “I don’t look smug, I look satisfied,” he said with injured dignity. “I want you to be satisfied with the package, after all.”

  “How can I be satisfied with a bundle of dynamite and a match?” she asked wryly.

  “Some people like to live dangerously,” he noted.

  “Sure. Some people like to jump out of airplanes, climb mountains, and hunt lions. Happily, I am not one of their number. I’m much addicted to safety and comfort.”

  “That’s no fun,” he objected reproachfully.

  “It may not be fun,” she said stubbornly, more than half serious, “but it’s a lot more calm.”

  In the tone of one clinching an argument, Fate said, “You told Patrick that I was good for you.”

  “Hearsay, counselor,” she retorted instantly. “Not admissible as evidence.”

  “Then here’s some firsthand evidence—I make you laugh. Admit it.”

  “Old Bob Hope movies make me laugh. So do Murphy’s Law, old Tarzan movies, feathers, and letters from the Internal Revenue Service.”

  “Well, if that last isn’t living dangerously—”

  “Also fat puppies, talking birds, and kids,” she finished dryly.

  “And me,” he added calmly.

  “You come in somewhere between the fat puppies and the talking birds,” she said reflectively.

  He ignored that. “I’m good for you; admit it. I keep you on your toes and make you laugh.”

  “What you do,” she replied, “is make me doubt my sanity.”

  Instantly, she was caught in another bearhug. “At last. The woman made an admission. I’m driving her crazy. That’s step one. Now for step two.”

  C.J. tried to hold back as he began leading her toward the dining room, but her efforts at resistance were unsuccessful. “What do you mean step two?” she demanded suspiciously. “Fate, what have you got up your sleeve now? Fate? Fate, are you listening to me?”

  “No, darling; you aren’t saying anything important.”

  A bit shaken by the endearment, C.J. nonetheless pushed on. “I want to know what you meant by that!”

  “Be patient. You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “But what do you mean?” she wailed.

  EIGHT

  WHAT FATE MEANT turned out to be quite an experience for C.J. She was neither a shy woman, nor easily embarrassed, and the past week had somewhat accustomed her to public displays of affection. After all, Fate had played the lover like one born to the role.

  However, compared to the Fate who had declared his love and meant to prove it, that earlier Fate was a total slouch.

  If C.J. had been asked to define a true romantic courtship, she would have instantly produced as an example the days of knights and chivalry. Days when a man had adored his chosen lady openly and constantly, writing poems, singing songs, performing brave deeds. When tenderness and sensitivity had been virtues, and honesty had been more than just a word. Idealistic, perhaps, but no woman could think of that age without a tug on the heartstrings.

  And C.J. would have added other qualities from other ages in history that she admired. The graceful compliments from Regency England. Lovely rituals from the Orient. The gentle courtesy and fierce protectiveness of the antebellum South. And, being a woman, she would have added a smattering of caveman rough-and-ready tactics—just to keep things lively and interesting.

  Realistically, of course, the brave deeds that a twentieth-century man could perform for his lady were few and far between. And Oriental rituals required at least a passing acquaintance with the countries in that geographic area. Poetry, also, required at least some innate skill, and a bit of practice.

  The rest demanded a man, simply, who was neither afraid nor ashamed to show the softer side of himself. A man who openly and cheerfully declared himself to be in love and loving it, without giving a particular damn who was watching or what they would think of him. A man who seemed to see rainbows around every corner complete with pots of gold, and castles in the air, and clouds with silver linings. A man who could make love gently and with great tenderness, then turn abruptly and revert to primal man, filled with fiery passion and raw need.

  A tall order. But Fate filled it.

  He might have taken a page from C.J.’s book and read her mind. Or he might simply have been drawing on the love of history that both of them shared. Perhaps both. Then again, it could have been the natural outpouring of Fate in love.

  Whatever it was, C.J. was by turns amused, moved, excited, bewildered, astonished, and delighted by the courtship.

  The wedding celebration lasted—predictably—all day and well into the evening. The bridal pair disappeared sometime in the middle of the festivities, and no one was tactless enough to go looking for them. They were hardly missed, on any account. The buffet turned into dinner, which turned into a full-scale party with dancing and whatever. Nobody bothered to change, but ties were loosened and flowers discarded.

  Fate danced with C.J., staring daggers at anyone who even looked as though he were going to cut in. He kept her laughing with his energetic sales pitch for the package fate had tossed into her lap, enumerating his qualities—all good—which ranged from a protective love of animals to a total lack of vices such as snoring.

  Sandwiched between the catalogs of his virtues were sessions during which he pulled her into various dark areas and continued to demonstrate to her what “it” was good for. By the time they left the party sometime around midnight, she would have fought like a wildcat if he’d even suggested she should sleep alone. Not, of course, that he did.

  He delighted her that night. Wooed and seduced her. With ardent tenderness and spellbinding gentleness. He was the Indian from her dream, murmuring words of love and need in many languages and tak
ing her to a place only angels and lovers knew of. He made love to her as though that act and that moment in time were the only things that mattered. The center of everything. And waking up beside him the next morning gave her a feeling of completion and contentment she had never known before.

  And that day began to give the word “courtship” a whole new meaning for C.J.

  It started with a shared breakfast in bed—carried in by a poker-faced waiter—and then went on to a shared shower. Rapidly discovering that Fate couldn’t look at her or be near her without touching her, C.J. surprised herself at the total lack of self-consciousness and embarrassment within her. She found that she not only enjoyed the little touches, she returned them. And the teasing between them continued.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you spoke several languages?”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  “Oh. You know, I had a funny dream the night we met.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes. Um…Fate?”

  “What, sweetheart?”

  “Stop nibbling; I want to ask you something.”

  “Go ahead. I can nibble while I listen.”

  “My neck is not caviar! Besides, I can’t see your face.”

  “Your neck is better than caviar. Put that soap down, you little witch! All right, now you can see my face. What’s the question?”

  “That dream I had…”

  “What about it?”

  “It was a dream…wasn’t it?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Fate?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. I don’t think I want to know.”

  “Whatever. My turn now.”

  “Your turn for a question? What is it?”

  “Cyrena Jasmine?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Clorinda Junella?”

  “Heavens, no. Where are you getting these names?”

  “I found a book. Cosima Jacosa?”

  “That can’t be a name!”

  “Well, it is.”

  “It’s not mine.”

  “Damn. Take pity on me?”

  “No. It amuses me.”

  “Cruel. Why do I love you?”

  “Beats me.”

  “I’d like to.”

  “How creative! Right now?”

  “In a minute. When I finish nibbling.”

  “I thought you were finished.”

  “When pigs grow wings.”

  “I read a story just the other day about a pig with wings.”

  “Don’t believe everything you read.”

  “The water’s getting cold.”

  “I’ll keep you warm, love.”

  “Funny man.”

  “Chryseis Joakima?”

  “Sorry…”

  After the shower, and feeling unaccountably energetic, they decided to go skiing. C.J.’s friends made no appearance, either having been prompted by him, or showing unexpected tact. Most of the other guests were apparently sleeping off last night’s party, so C.J. and Fate virtually had the slopes to themselves.

  He challenged her to a race down one of the more advanced slopes, won by an indecent margin, then gloated so loudly that she caught him off guard and pushed him into a snowdrift. Nose in the air, C.J. executed a beautiful kick turn, dug her poles in, and glided away.

  He caught up with her a few yards away, tackled her gently, and covered her with snow and kisses until she surrendered and apologized. In a masterful tone, he demanded that she plead to be allowed to get up, and was answered with snow down his neck.

  By the time the tussle ended, they were both covered with snow and gasping for breath. By mutual consent, they left the argument in the air and decided to repair to the lodge for lunch. After the meal, over which they conducted a spirited discussion on the rival merits of football and hockey, Fate took her into the deserted lounge and sat her down at one end of the couch.

  “Wait here.”

  “For what?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Curious, she sat before the fire and stared into it, smiling to herself. What Fate had in mind, she didn’t know. But she was thoroughly enjoying his company, so it didn’t really matter. She was a little surprised, though, when he returned to the room carrying two mugs in his hands and a small hardbound book under one arm.

  “Hot chocolate,” he explained, handing her a mug.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, and then watched in amusement as he placed his own mug on the coffee table, then stretched out on the couch with his head in her lap.

  “Comfortable?” she asked politely.

  “Luxuriously,” he replied with a gusty sigh. He propped the small book on his chest and opened it.

  “Am I boring you?” Her voice was affable.

  “Not at all. I’m going to read love poems to you. It’s called wooing. Pay attention, now.”

  Oddly touched, C.J. sipped her chocolate and gazed at his grave face, listening to his deep, rich voice read words written in celebration of love centuries before.

  It was about half a dozen poems later that she suddenly felt the heat of the fire transfer itself to her cheeks. “Good Lord,” she said faintly. “What is that?”

  Fate looked up at her solemnly. But there was laughter in the purple depths of his eyes. “A love letter. From a poet to his wife. He’d been away from her for months.”

  “It sounds like it,” she said involuntarily. “I’ve never heard anything so—so—”

  “Earthy?” he suggested gravely. “I believe I’ve said it before, but you’re cute as hell when you blush.”

  She gave him a goaded look. “Take my advice and don’t say things like that when you’re at my mercy. I could drown you in chocolate.”

  “Hush. You’re being wooed.”

  “It sounds like I’m being invited to do something illegal.”

  “Would I do that?” Rather hastily, since she showed definite signs of answering a resounding yes, he added, “Shall I read the wife’s reply to the letter?”

  “Is it as bad as his letter?”

  “Worse. Women can be earthy, too.”

  “Oh. Well, I’m not interested.”

  “Liar.”

  She held her mug over his head, tipping it threateningly. “Don’t push me, Maestro.”

  “I was commending your taste,” he said reproachfully. “This stuff is considered classic literature, you know.”

  “Really? Oh, well, who am I to scoff at culture? Read on.”

  “Sure you don’t want me to spare your blushes?”

  “Sure you don’t want a chocolate facial mask?”

  Bowing meekly to the threat, he began to read again. Moments later, C.J. was laughing.

  “My God, you were right! That’s worse than the first one was!”

  “Or better, depending on your point of view,” he said critically. “They were perfect for one another, weren’t they?”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “Like us.”

  “Read on, Mighty Chief.”

  “You’re a stubborn lady, pixie.” He sighed heavily. “But I love you anyway. Let’s see now…the next poem…”

  The wooing continued that day. And the next day, and the next. The nights were filled with the kind of loving most women don’t even dare to dream of, covering the entire spectrum from gentle tenderness to lusty desire. C.J. never knew whether she would be softly wooed and coaxed like a reluctant virgin or attacked by a lusty Indian brave and ravished delightfully.

  She woke one morning to find that her brave of the night before had transformed himself into a troubadour…or something. He was sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed in glorious nudity and strumming a guitar that had come from heaven only knew where. And singing love songs.

  Not even his sleep-mussed hair and morning stubble could detract from his smooth baritone, and C.J. listened with sleepy pleasure. Until he began to sing a sailor’s ditty which would have made the poet and his wife blush; then she hit him with a p
illow.

  He got back at her later that day by challenging her to a game of chess and then whispering sweet nothings to her across the table until she could barely concentrate.

  “Stop that. You’re distracting me,” she said, moving a pawn decisively.

  “And you’re distractingly beautiful,” he replied softly, moving a knight almost absently.

  “Ha!” She moved another piece quickly. “What do you think of that, Maestro?”

  He smiled at her across the small table. “I think that was a bad move, love.” With only a glance at the board, he made his own move. “Checkmate.”

  “Damn!”

  “Want to try again?”

  “Only if I can gag you!”

  “Temper, temper…”

  She challenged him to a game of strip poker later that night in the privacy of the room they now shared, confident in her ability to win the game her uncle had taught her. But once again, Fate proved that it wasn’t wise to bank on anything where he was concerned.

  Wearing only a blanket and a glare, C.J. flung down her final hand. “Three aces!”

  “Sorry, sweetheart.” He didn’t sound it, and certainly didn’t look it as he showed her the flush in his own hands. “The blanket has to go.”

  “It’s all I’ve got left!”

  “The blanket.”

  “You wouldn’t want me to catch a cold.”

  “The blanket.”

  “I think you cheated on that last hand.”

  “I’ve decked men for less. The blanket.”

  “Have you really? Decked men, I mean?”

  “I’m a basically violent man. The blanket.”

  “You’re a basically crazy man.”

  “The blanket.”

  She threw it at him. Of course, she had to be punished for that. And one thing naturally led to another. The Indian brave was back, and C.J. thoroughly enjoyed the visit.

  How the remainder of the magic circle spent the last days of their vacation, C.J. didn’t know. Nor did she particularly care. If they were smart, she decided, then husbands and wives would be together and sharing the kind of closeness that she had discovered with Fate. But that was certainly their affair.

  Day by day—literally hour by hour—C.J. found herself falling more deeply in love. She felt that she had known Fate forever, and that he knew her better than anyone ever had before. There was something very seductive in that—and something that was also frightening.