The Great American Bachelor

by Adrienne Staff

  “We’re both a little crazy, Mr. Winters.” Cathy took a deep breath and looked out over the ocean, the blue, deep, unknown, and unexplored ocean, and smiled a secret little smile. “Well, okay, I’ll do it! One last adventure. And then Cinderella needs to collect herself and go back to more normal means of transportation.”

  “Cinderella, I like that.” Michael’s fingers brushed the soft skin on her neck. “Does that make me the prince?”

  “Just for today,” she said.

  “And what a fine pumpkin we have waiting for us.”

  “A fine pumpkin, indeed.” Cathy nodded, the sunlight shining warm on the top of her head. She could almost feel her feet leaving the ground, her body and soul rising higher and higher into some only-imagined fairyland. She almost hated to speak, to chance shattering the mood. Finally she tilted her head back and looked up at him. “When? When would we leave?”

  “Now,” Michael said, “I think now will be just fine.”

  Six

  Once Gap had bought a car without careful thought. She had simply walked into Herb Allen’s place on Third Street with her bills stuffed in her purse, and walked out with a 1957 Chevy. It was the most spontaneous thing ever done in the history of the Stephenson family and was faithfully committed to memory by every living relative so the story could be retold at family gatherings, and thereby be assured its rightful place in history.

  But this … this yacht-borrowing, island-selling stuff was something else, and although she was trying to be composed, Cathy was having trouble dealing with it. She looked out over the magnificent expanse of brilliant green water and tried to shake away the fuzziness of unreality. It was really happening, it was. It wasn’t an old Cary Grant movie or a wild dream. It was real.

  It had been ninety minutes since the steward had relayed the sheikh’s offer to Michael, and in that amount of time, the same amount it usually took Cathy to clean out her closet, they had boarded a boat, left the picture-perfect cays behind, and were moving out into open water. The yacht had a crew, a chef, staterooms with flowers and baskets of fruit, closets filled with clothes.

  And Cathy and Michael.

  Cathy and Michael!

  Cathy sighed and gripped the polished railing.

  When Michael had excused himself earlier and gone to check on beam lengths, draft, and cruising range—terms as unfamiliar to Cathy as those in astrophysics—she had been almost relieved. It was so difficult to think with him at her side, so difficult to process all the things happening to her.

  “How will I ever readjust to my ordinary life?” Cathy asked a passing sea gull.

  The gull, his wings flashing silver in the brilliant blue sky, did not offer an answer; he simply soared on over the water, dipping down now and then to tease a fish and hunt for dinner.

  Cathy grinned at the bird’s antics. It so perfectly entertained her that she was tempted to think the gulls had been specially trained to follow the yacht around and perform on cue. It would certainly fit into this whole crazy world in which she was cavorting.

  “Do you need for anything, ma’am?”

  Cathy looked up into the serious brown face of a steward.

  “Need?” she echoed. “I have more at my fingertips than anyone could possibly need. Look at this!” She pointed out across the water at the sunstreaked waves and colorful sailboats. “This is a paradise, more than any one person might have or see in a lifetime.”

  “Ma’am?” The young man’s face contorted into a giant question mark. “English not so good,” he finally managed to explain.

  “It’s okay,” she said, charming him with a brilliant smile until his face relaxed. “I don’t need anything. I’m fine, everything’s fine,” she assured him. And then, before she could confuse him further, she walked down to the yacht’s elegant salon.

  It was at the far end of the ship, a room suffused with golden light and filled with soft leather sofas inviting her to sit and relax and forget about worries.

  “A drink, Ms. Stephenson?”

  Cathy jumped. The steward stood smiling over her. “Diet Coke?” she asked, regaining her bearings.

  He was back in a minute, carefully placed a lead crystal glass on the coffee table, and then on silent cushioned soles, he disappeared.

  Cathy curled herself up into the corner of the sofa. The enormous vase of fresh flowers on the coffee table filled the room with the delicious fragrance of the cays. She drew a deep comforting breath, counted to five, and then picked up the top magazine from the pile the sheikh had left behind. Her heart thudded to a stop.

  There he was, as big as life, looking up at her. It was Michael Winters, The Great American Bachelor, giving the camera a relaxed stare, his own eyes unreadable, his thoughts hidden. But in the careless pose was enough energy to warm half of America’s female population. Cathy shivered. She had glanced at the article on the flight down to Orlando, when Michael was as remote and unknown to her as the Pope. And now …

  Quickly she turned the pages to the lengthy article that detailed Michael’s financial successes and handball scores with equal attention.

  She scanned the pages to refresh her memory, but now that she knew him, she realized just how little he had been willing to reveal. There were the obligatory facts: born in Massachusetts, graduated second in his class from Harvard Business School and headed WINTEX, a New York–based international real estate development empire worth a hundred million or so. And that was it.

  Nothing to sneeze at! Cathy grinned, but where was the real Michael?

  Oh, she could just imagine the frustrated reporter who had pried and prodded and come up empty. Michael had given them the portrait required: the elusive, successful bachelor … but nothing else.

  The magazine slipped to her lap. Resting her head against the back of the couch, she closed her eyes. Truth be told, she didn’t really know Michael either, so who was she to pass judgment? But already she knew far more than the article said. She knew about the kindness behind his mesmerizing glance; she knew about a laugh that was deep and rich and not used nearly often enough; yes, and she knew about a man who would risk his life to save an Indiana nobody; she knew about that broad, tanned chest and the warm feel of his flesh, the taste of his mouth.…

  Cathy sighed and her breathing became slower and deeper. She felt light and dreamy. Yes, ordinary ol’ Cathy Stephenson knew more about The Great American Bachelor than millions of readers nationwide. Wasn’t that amazing? Huge Technicolor images flashed behind her closed eyelids: porpoises and yachts and sports cars and the wide blue sea. There was Cathy, tossed on top of a majestic wave, and there was Michael, waiting to catch her in one glorious movement of his muscled arms.…

  Michael stood at the door of the salon and watched Cathy sleep.

  Funny, he had been away from her for less than an hour and yet he had somehow felt the time, felt the length of her absence.

  Fading sunlight cast lazy shadows across her face and he was drawn closer. In sleep she lost her effervescent sparkle, but something else, something equally lovely and heartstopping, had taken its place. It was a kind of peace, a repose that was totally foreign to Michael. Repose was something you achieved when you died, he had always thought. Yet on Cathy’s innocent face it was magical, something coveted, something he knew he could make a million on if he could put it on the New York Stock Exchange. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his white pants and walked across the thick carpeting to where she slept.

  The magazine was still there, opened to the last page of an article and balanced on the curve of her legs. Michael picked it up.

  Cathy shifted slightly on the couch but did not awaken, not even when Michael sat down at the edge of the cushion. He watched her for a few minutes longer, then glanced at the article.

  Damn, of all the things she could be reading, why this? What could she possibly think it had to tell her? It was nonsense, one of those image enhancers that seemed to be a required part of his life. He couldn’t even remember
agreeing to it in the first place. Most likely it was the result of careful maneuvering by his business advisers, something they thought would contribute to the bounty. The bachelor stuff was simply a fact, but for reasons beyond his comprehension, the media found that fascinating. He still found it odd that the topic could merit time on talk shows and expensive space in a magazine, when to him it was far more intriguing that people chose to marry.

  Now, there was the mystery! To Michael’s highly tuned, analytical mind, there was no good reason for getting married. Not if one weighed possible loss versus possible gain. Not if one relied on statistics. Not if he were to judge by his own past experiences with women on how many continents? None of it added up to a good reason to get married. And he was an expert at knowing when to be wary, if the venture was to be worthwhile.

  Then he glanced back at Cathy.

  Michael swallowed hard.

  What was going on here? The last thing he needed was complications, especially with an uncomplicated, vulnerable young woman. He did not want a relationship. He did not even want an affair, dammit. He did not have the time. Company in bed was good enough, especially when the woman was as busy and preoccupied as he was. He liked conversation that went: “Good view. Good body. Good time. Good-bye.” What did he know from grandmothers named Gap and rocking chairs and apple pies and shelling walnuts and working your way up to assistant editor in Orlando, Florida? And then there were puppies, kittens, kids, bottles and PTAs and …

  Damn, he knew he needed a scotch when all that was starting to sound good just because of the way a woman looked asleep on a couch, her lips parted, lashes resting on her flushed cheeks. And besides, her hair was too curly!

  Scowling, he stalked silently outside, signaled a drink from a steward, and stationed himself at the rail, hoping for a good storm to take his mind off his desire.

  When Cathy found him standing there an hour later, his shirt and face wet from the relentless cold spray of the ocean, the embers were only beginning to cool.

  “Hi!” she said. “Gorgeous evening, isn’t it?”

  She looked radiant, refreshed by her nap, relaxed, and totally at ease with herself.

  Michael wanted to jump overboard—or throw her down on the deck right then and there. He gripped the rail so hard his knuckles showed white. “Lovely evening,” he agreed with a groan.

  “Anything wrong?” The breeze lifted her curls into a fuzzy brown halo.

  “Not a thing.”

  Cathy shrugged. There was no understanding this man. He had everything in the world, and yet he always seemed uptight and irritable. “So, what’s on for tonight?”

  Again a groan gathered in his throat. Michael clenched his jaw, closed his eyes, and gripped the rail. Then, without looking at her, he shrugged. “Whatever you like. There’s a private screening room and an entire library of classic films. Or we could have a late dinner poolside and a swim. Or”—he wiped his brow—“we could gamble a bit. There’s a small casino, Vegas rules, a few slots … we’d have it all to ourselves. You do gamble?”

  “Bingo at the VFW,” she admitted with a shrug of her narrow shoulders.

  From the look of pain that flashed across his handsome face, she could tell it was somehow the answer he had feared.

  “Sorry.” She offered a little laugh of apology.

  “No problem,” he said. “How about this? Shall we dress for dinner, formal”—he decided wisely the more clothes between them the better off he’d be—“and I’ll teach you a little blackjack and roulette?” A large, well-lit room sounded far more prudent than a moon-washed deck!

  “Sounds great!”

  Her eyes sparkled like stars, like flecks of gold dust in a miner’s hands. A treasure. The real thing.

  “Fine,” he said quickly, some bizarre pain shooting through his chest. “I’m going to go work off this scotch in the exercise room. I’ll knock on your cabin door about eight? Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

  And he was gone.

  Cathy looked after him with a little smile. She had felt his desire, seen the line of sweat along his upper lip. And now she was feeling, well, more than a little flattered, and sort of pleased with herself. After all, she had been raised in Indiana, not a convent!

  And this was the stuff that fairy tales were made of!

  Later that night, wearing an off-the-shoulder confection of apricot silk that she found hanging in her closet, they played blackjack in their own private casino. She beat him. Twice.

  “Here you are,” she said solemnly, counting chips into the palm of his hand. “Here’s the twenty dollars you staked me to. And one more for interest … I insist! And now I’m on my own, right?” She pocketed the rest.

  “You don’t have to pay me back, Cathy.” He laughed, leaning over her to catch another breath of her sweet smell of soap and perfume. “Maybe I want you in my debt.”

  “ ‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be,’ ” she quipped back, drunk on the elegance of the room and the desire in his eyes. “Now teach me to play roulette!” She slipped an arm through his and led him toward the roulette table.

  Their reflection in the mirror made her pause. There they were, the handsomest man she’d ever seen, in a tuxedo and a white, starched, ruffled shirt, black satin bow tie, and cummerbund, tall and powerfully built, broad shoulders and lean hard hips … and a beautiful woman. With a toss of her head she gave a little laugh and squeezed his arm. “Michael, they would not believe this in Indiana!”

  At first she didn’t trust the roulette wheel.

  “How do I know he spins that little ball the same way every time?” she said behind one hand, lifting one brow toward the stone-faced Arab behind the table.

  “Why would he want to fix it?” Michael whispered back.

  “Fix it?” she asked aloud.

  “Never mind. Trust me. Put a chip on a lucky number, or the corner of two or four numbers, or out here—” He pointed as he explained the rules, the odds, the strategy. Then he folded his arms across his chest. “Okay, ready to bet?”

  “What are you going to bet?” she asked softly, eyeing the wheel with increased mistrust.

  “Fifty on nine. Fifty on thirty-six. Fifty on double zero.”

  “Okay.” She nodded. “I’ll put five on number … three.” She plunked it down with great enthusiasm.

  Nine won.

  “Oh.” She gave a sigh, nibbled at one corner of her mouth. “Okay, here’s five on number eighteen, and … five on three. I like that number!”

  She lost.

  And lost.

  And lost again.

  “Let me loan you a few,” Michael insisted, pushing a tall tower of chips toward her across the green felt.

  “No.” She shook her head, pushing them back. She fished her last two chips out of her jeweled evening bag and held them in her closed hand. Her heart was pounding. Her throat hurt. This was fun?

  “Okay,” she whispered, “one on eighteen, and one … on three.”

  Three won.

  “What? Really? Oh, I knew it. That’s Gap’s birthday, May third! Oh, how much is that?” she crowed as the dealer pushed the stack of chips in front of her.

  “Three hundred and fifty dollars.”

  “What? That’s incredible! Is this for real, or do we have to pay him back at the end of the night?”

  Michael gave a great shout of laughter. “No, dear one, it’s for real.”

  “Then I want to cash it in. Right now! Hurry—”

  “Why? Let’s keep playing for a while—”

  “And lose it? Never!”

  “Then put yours away and play with my chips.” He held out a handful.

  “I couldn’t,” she said honestly. “It’s a lot of money. I wouldn’t feel comfortable.”

  Without waiting for him, she hurried over to the cashier’s cage. When she came back, her face was flushed, her eyes shining. “Here I am. Now what?”

  “You tell me,” he answered, shoving his hands deep into his pocket
s. “Some people have been known to gamble into the wee hours of the morning; so far we have been here thirty minutes.”

  “Then let’s! Though I can’t figure out why you like it—you especially. For a man who likes everything well-planned and under control, this seems very chancy.”

  “It’s called a calculated risk; it makes life exciting.”

  “Fine,” she said, “go on and take the risk. You play, and I’ll watch. I’ll even blow on your dice, or whatever ‘some people’ do for luck.” She winked.

  “But I wanted you to enjoy yourself.” He stood there stubbornly, his eyes dark and slightly annoyed.

  Cathy had to laugh. I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t … she thought to herself, but she couldn’t help it. Her amusement came bubbling out like warm, shaken soda pop. “You just don’t like having your plans changed on you, Mr. Winters.”

  Michael placed both hands on his hips and leaned over her. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Come on!” She grinned, looping her arm tightly through one of his. “Come take me for a stroll on deck. I feel wonderful, and lucky and rich … and beautiful, and I want to be outside under a star-studded sky.”

  And suddenly all the emotions he had balanced on top of his desire tumbled like a house of cards, and he was left with this gut-wrenching, burning ache of passion. “Yes”—he grabbed her hand—“come on.”

  They climbed the stairway hand in hand. Michael held the door open and Cathy stepped past, her arm, shoulder, dress brushing against him. Through his clothes his skin burned. She walked to the rail, heels clicking on the teak deck, and he followed her, stood behind her, pushed his face into her hair.

  “Michael! I thought we were strolling.”

  “Later. A little later.” His breath slid down her scalp like fingers. “I want you.”

  “What?”

  He swallowed hard. “I want you … to see the stars. I thought you wanted stars.”

  “Yes,” she whispered, leaning her curly brown head back against his shoulder. “Tell me about them.”

  For the first time in his life Michael Winters could not come up with an easy reply. There was a knot of longing tying up his throat; his tongue was thick; his chest hurt. Right there, the whole length of his chest and belly, he could feel the delicate knobs of her spine, the innocent thrust of her hips, the curve of her buttocks. She fit against him so perfectly, so sweetly, as if she were part of him, connected to him, a slim young branch grafted to the trunk of his tree.