She had him.
He lost himself, shattering at the same time he rejoiced as he felt the ripple and shudder of Natalie’s climax around him.
Natalie didn’t sleep.
There was no time. She needed every moment in his embrace to store up memories that would have to last her a lifetime. She nuzzled her nose against the crisp softness of his hair. She trailed her fingers lightly along the rough stubble of his jaw. And she smiled at the half-moons of incredibly long dark lashes that Christo had no idea were so sexy.
He was funny that way. When she’d first met him, she’d been dazzled by his drop-dead good looks, his strong bones, his engaging grin, and those thick dark lashes that he often regarded you from beneath, making you wonder what he was thinking.
It was, one of the office girls once said, a male version of the come-hither look. And certainly every unattached woman at the firm would have followed him wherever he asked.
A goodly number of his women clients—even ones determined to swear off men after their divorces—would do the same. Natalie had seen it in their faces.
Christo was unaware of it. He didn’t flirt. Not intentionally, at least. He was comfortable in his skin, but he didn’t use his looks to manipulate. He didn’t deliberately enchant. It was purely unintentional, and all the more effective for being so.
He was such a good man. Such a strong man. Such a kind man. She’d had inklings of it three years ago. She’d seen him in action at work and with Jamii—and now just this past week.
He’d given of himself so much this week.
For a man who didn’t do family, he had put himself out day after day. He’d made the arrangements his father couldn’t be bothered to make. He’d been there, stable and steady and caring, when she knew he didn’t want to be here at all.
Except for his grandmother.
He loved her.
Natalie did, too, now. And felt almighty guilty for deceiving her. She would live with that guilt the rest of her life, no doubt. Part of the penalty for loving where her heart should not have loved.
She burrowed closer to him, as if she might be able simply to absorb him into her being the way she held him in her heart. He sighed and, still sleeping, wrapped her more tightly in his embrace.
Yes, Natalie thought. Oh, yes. Please.
But she knew it was only for the moment. Not even the whole night.
He would wake and he would leave her alone here, just as he had every other time they’d shared a bed. She tried not to move, tried to hang on as long as she could.
But then he sighed and shifted. His eyes opened and met hers in the moonlit night. His face was grave. There was no smile now. No wry humor. And Natalie expected the misery to begin now.
He leaned in to close the distance between their lips. His warm mouth touched hers, lingered and then slowly pulled away. And Natalie steeled herself not to cling. In fact, she even deliberately rolled away before he did.
She was shocked when she didn’t feel the mattress shift as Christo left the bed. He didn’t leave. Instead he moved closer, spooned himself around her and drew her back against his chest.
Her body tensed with surprise. Then she held her breath and waited for him to pull away again. His breath was warm on the nape of her neck. It stirred the tendrils of her hair. He shifted. Settled.
“Christo?” She barely breathed his name.
“Mmm.” It wasn’t an answer so much as a sigh. Of contentment?
She didn’t dare hope. All she did was clutch his fingers in hers against her breasts and hang on as if she could hold him there forever.
She couldn’t, of course. She knew that. It was pretence. It was undoubtedly folly. But it was all she had.
And when the tears leaked from the corners of her eyes and slid down to dampen the pillow, she made certain he never knew.
His grandmother was waiting when he came to the house the next morning. She made coffee and put a cup in front of him wordlessly, then sat down at the table opposite before she spoke.
What she said did not make the morning any easier.
“It is good, Christo.” She had one of her grave gentle smiles on her face. “You and Natalie are good.”
Good liars, he thought grimly. But they were almost out of it now. Their plane left early this evening. The charade would be over soon.
He would have liked to turn and take his coffee out on the deck, but he knew he was expected to stay. So he sat where he was and tried not to fidget, though he felt the way he used to when he’d done something wrong—broken a window, sassed the gardener—and was afraid she’d find out.
Avó nodded now and regarded him over the top of her coffee cup. “You have chosen well.” Her gaze rested on him with deep love. Then she added with a nod of approval, “I knew you would.”
Which effectively made him feel even worse. She liked Natalie—which he’d known she would—and he was taking advantage of how well he knew her to pull the wool over her eyes.
He forced a smile. “I’m glad you approve.”
She reached across the table to touch his hand. “I do.”
Her touch was dry and warm, and her fingers seemed to tremble a bit. He thought she looked frail this morning, as if the wedding had taken everything out of her, as if she’d been holding herself together for it, and now that it was past, she could let go.
Don’t let go, he wanted to beg her. You can’t. He couldn’t imagine a world without her calm steadying presence. His throat felt thick and tight. He swallowed hard.
“Your father will be happy, I think,” she said with a faint smile and he knew she was comparing Xanti’s choice to his own. “But they will throw things.”
Christo’s mouth curved at one corner. “You think?”
Avó nodded. “Oh, sim. Katia? She will be a challenge for Xanti. Like your mother was.”
Christo’s brows lifted. He didn’t know his grandmother had ever even met his mother. She’d never talked about her.
She smiled again, but it was a sad, wry smile. “They were a pair, Xanti and Aurora. Mad and young and far too stubborn for their own good. They each wanted the other—and their lives so different—and neither would give an inch.”
Christo stared at her, then shook his head. “I didn’t know. I thought they—”
But he didn’t want to say what he’d thought. He’d always assumed they had been barely more than ships passing in the night. Each of them a one-night stand for the other until Xanti had come back.
Now he steepled his fingers. “No one ever said.”
Avó lifted bony shoulders. “They argued. They battled. They slammed doors. And in the end Aurora stamped out. Went home to America. She didn’t tell him about you. When he went to see her, it was a shock to find you. And of course, he must marry her because that is the sort of man Xanti is.”
“Impractical,” Christo said.
“Idealistic. Stubborn. And your mother the same. They married. But neither would change. Not then.” She spread her hands. “People are who they are.”
“Yes.” He could agree with that.
“They must make their own decisions. Be true to themselves.”
“Yes.”
“But not shortchange themselves. It is good that Xanti has finally realized this.”
“Yes.”
Her gaze dropped and she contemplated her coffee cup for a long moment, then she lifted it again and met his. “I am happy for him. Happy to go seeing him happy.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Christo protested.
“I am,” Avó told him. “I am old. I am sick. I am ready.”
“I’m not!”
She laughed softly. “Things are not always the way we want them to be. You have given me great joy, Christo. You have made my life so much better. When Xanti told me about you, he thought I would be angry, that I would not want to see this child he had made. I was angry that he would not be a better father. But never with you, Christo meu. Things might not have been the
way I wanted them, but they were good. And you only brought happiness when you came.”
“I didn’t come often enough,” he told her urgently. He had hold of her hand now, was turning it over in his, chaffing it between his fingers as if he could rub more life—more years—into her. “I’ll stay.”
She shook her head. “No. You have a life to go back to. You came now, when it was important.”
“For Xanti! I’ll stay for you.”
“Go home,” Avó said firmly. She lifted his fingers to her lips and kissed them. “You will take me with you in your heart.”
He had been gone when she woke up, of course.
Natalie knew he would be. She let her mind reflect on the memories she had made and, thank God, they were vivid. She went through the motions of packing and, at the same time, trying to make more memories of the house, of the garden, of the way the winter sun slanted through the blinds. She picked up the pillow on which Christo had lain his head and she pressed it to her face to draw in his scent. To keep it and hold it. To hang onto every tiny morsel of this moment.
She could see him on the deck across the garden. He was helping his grandmother into a chair and settling her in. There was such gentleness in him. She remembered him with Toby in the office, how strong, how supportive. She remembered him with Jamii in the ocean, how protective, how careful with her, at the same time he’d urged her to believe in her own abilities. He gave and he gave.
And he would take nothing for himself.
Because he didn’t want anything, she reminded herself.
No, not quite true. He’d wanted her last night. Sex he would take. It was love and commitment he didn’t trust.
“Oh, Christo,” she murmured aloud, hugging his pillow against her breasts, rocking back and forth, tears springing to her eyes again. But he wouldn’t want her crying over him.
“Be tough,” he’d told Jamii. “Do what you need to do.”
And Jamii had. And so would she.
But it was hard.
And she could only bow her head when, as they were leaving, while Christo was putting the suitcases in the trunk of a rental car, Avó took her hand urgently.
“You love my Christo,” she said, her dark eyes glittering with strong emotion. It was an affirmation, not a question.
Natalie was glad because she couldn’t have lied, and Christo would have heard the truth in her voice if she’d had to answer. She smiled and squeezed his grandmother’s fingers lightly.
But Avó wasn’t done.
“You love him forever.” His grandmother’s tone was urgent now, and this time her words weren’t a statement so much as a command. Her fingers crushed Natalie’s. Their gazes met, clung.
Promise me, the old woman’s eyes seemed to demand.
And Natalie nodded numbly. I will, she said the words in her heart.
It was nothing but the truth.
CHAPTER TEN
HARD work, Natalie’s grandfather used to say, cured all ills.
“What about stubbed toes?” she’d asked him doubtfully. “What about migraines?”
“Ah well, you’ll see,” he had said, smiling at her over the top of his trifocals with the wisdom of his eighty years.
And now she did.
Stubbed toes were nothing. Even migraines didn’t hurt like this did. She was alone. Christo didn’t call. Christo didn’t come by. To Christo, no doubt, she had ceased to exist.
And so she threw herself into her work. She got up at five—what point was there to staying in bed when she almost never slept?—and she did all the bookkeeping and invoicing and paperwork that needed to be done before Sophy ever appeared at the office.
“It’s the time change,” she explained before Sophy could even ask.
“It’s two hours,” Sophy said archly.
Natalie shrugged irritably. “I can’t help it. I’m awake.”
“Apparently. But it isn’t the time change keeping you up,” Sophy said with a look that defied her to dispute it.
As she couldn’t, Natalie focused determinedly on the computer screen.
“Have you heard from him?”
Natalie debated pretending that she had no idea what Sophy was driving at and deliberately didn’t look up. But even as she stared at the screen, she knew there was no point in denying it.
“I haven’t,” she said, trying to keep her tone even. “I don’t expect to.”
She could feel Sophy’s gaze so intent on her that it was almost like a physical touch. But she didn’t lift her eyes to meet it. There was a long silence, and then Sophy said quietly, “Maybe you will.”
There was an even longer silence before Natalie replied. “Maybe.”
But she wasn’t holding out hope.
“I’ve come to bring you some peaches,” Laura said, setting a mammoth bag on the countertop in Natalie’s kitchen.
It was an unannounced visit—and one that Natalie was sure owed only part of its purpose to the unloading of excess fruit from the tree in the small garden. It had been ten days since she’d returned from Brazil, and she hadn’t seen her mother yet.
She’d spoken with her, of course. She’d rung her the night they’d got back, and Laura had been all curiosity and eager speculative questions—questions which Natalie knew she couldn’t answer, didn’t want to try.
She could not have lied any more by that time if her life had depended on it.
“We’ll talk later,” she’d promised her mother. “I’m really tired.”
She’d been playing the “tired” card and the “heavy work load” card ever since. And clearly Laura’s patience had worn thin.
“Christo said you had a lovely time in Brazil,” her mother reported, bright eyes sparkling as she watched Natalie chop vegetables for the stir fry she was making. The subtext, Natalie had no trouble understanding was You, on the other hand, haven’t told me a thing.
“We did,” she said. There was a God, she decided, because it was an onion she was chopping and the tears already streaming down her face made the conversation a whole lot easier.
“Not that you’ve told me anything about it,” Laura added with a slightly indignant huff.
“I’ve been busy. I left Sophy to do everything for a week. I need to put in my time now. Besides, you’ve obviously talked to Christo.”
Her mother made a despairing sound. “He’s a man. Men don’t talk.”
Or if they did, they didn’t say the words you wanted to hear, Natalie thought. She concentrated on the onion.
“He says the wedding went very well.” Laura added. It was too much to hope that she would leave the peaches and go without an attempt at the third degree. Indeed, even as Natalie thought it, her mother reached around her and put on the kettle for tea. “And his grandmother liked you.”
“Yes.” Chop, chop.
Laura took down two mugs from the cupboard and added a tea bag to each. “I was so surprised he did that. And then I…well, I hoped…” her mother added, giving her a speculative look.
“Don’t,” Natalie said firmly. “You know it was business. A favor. Of sorts. Actually, I’m surprised you approved.”
“Of the subterfuge, you mean? It wasn’t my place to approve or disapprove,” Laura said, surprising her. “I’ve learned over the years not to expect things will always be the way I want them to be.”
Natalie nodded. She was learning that, too.
“Was it…all right then?” her mother asked gently.
Natalie swallowed. She didn’t want understanding right now. She was too close to the edge. She didn’t need sympathy, either. Didn’t want her mother to notice how her hands were suddenly shaking.
“It was fine,” she said softly.
There was a long silence, and she wondered if her mother would challenge her. But she didn’t. She settled into one of the kitchen chairs and said, “What was the best part?”
Natalie wondered if it might be a tactic—an oblique probe. Get her daughter to talk, then lead the disc
ussion where she wanted it to go. Or maybe it was just small talk to ease the situation. Her mother could do that, too.
And so could she. “The flowers,” Natalie said.
“Flowers?”
“So many. So colorful. So different from what we’re used to.” Natalie dumped the chopped onion onto the plate with the other vegetables, then turned to give her mother a bright smile.
Laura looked surprised, but only a bit doubtful. “I’d like to see them sometime.”
“Maybe next time there’s a family wedding Christo will take you,” Natalie said with all the cheer she could muster.
Laura shook her head. “I don’t think it will be a wedding he’ll be going back for.”
At her mother’s tone, Natalie stopped and looked up. “What do you mean?” she said with a hard cold lump of something dreadful settling in her stomach.
Laura sighed. “His grandmother has been very ill.”
Natalie wanted to protest. But the words caught in her throat. She took a careful breath. “I know. She was ill when we were there. But she didn’t want to admit it. She’s worse?”
“Yes.”
Natalie was sure that his grandmother’s illness had been the reason Christo had been so remote and silent on the plane all the way home. He’d barely said a dozen words the whole trip. She had wanted to comfort him. To say something to make him feel better. But there was nothing to say, nothing that would help.
The only thing she’d dared to do was reach for his hand on the armrest, curve her fingers around his and hold on.
She half expected he’d give her a quick squeeze and deliberately let go. But instead he had turned his hand over and wrapped his fingers around hers. They’d tightened in a gentle squeeze, but when the pressure eased, he didn’t let go.
He didn’t speak, though. For nearly the entire journey he had stared out the window, silent as a stone.
Only when they’d arrived back at her house did he say more than three words at a time. Then he’d said gravely, almost formally, “Thank you, Natalie. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
One Night Mistress...Convenient Wife Page 14