Interior Designs

by Pamela Browning

  Their banquette in the elegant cocktail lounge overlooking the ocean was strewn with soft cushions, Turkish style, and Cathryn sank into them gratefully. Her common sense told her to be wary of this man who she was convinced could cause her much hurt, but her emotions had the upper hand now. She was curious about him. What's more, she felt comfortable with Drew smiling at her so pleasantly across the table and looking not at all threatening.

  The waitress delivered their drinks, and the sweet, mellow sound of the vibraphone in the band drifted across the wide dance floor. Drew leaned closer so that they could talk over the sound of the music.

  "Fill me in on the years in between high school and now," Drew coaxed. "Your biography in the reunion booklet tells me that you went to Florida State and after that to Parsons School of Design. What then?"

  "So you've already looked me up?" The booklets had been handed out at the door.

  "Well, sure." He didn't seem abashed, only amused.

  Cathryn shrugged, wondering how her history could possibly be of interest to Drew Sedgwick. "I worked in New York City for a while, felt cramped. The urban environment wasn't right for me—I needed sun and sky and space the way I remembered them from growing up in West Palm Beach." She sipped her drink reflectively.

  "I accepted a great job with a well-known firm in California, and just when I was really getting into it, my father died, and within months, so did my mother. I came home and saw what exciting new directions Palm Beach was taking. The population was growing as people flocked from the North to find a place in the sun, and suddenly I knew I'd come home for good."

  "But how did you get started in your career?"

  "I plunged right in. Started a business, worked out of a little warehouse near the railroad tracks in West Palm Beach, met some people who loved my work, eventually ended up in my studio on the Via Parigi in Palm Beach. Actually, I've made it sound too easy. It was really hard, if you want to know the truth." She laughed, and he liked watching her sparkle. Even cold crystal sparkled if you beamed light on it in just the right way.

  "There's something about your interiors," he told her, because he knew her work well. Whenever he went into a home in Palm Beach, he knew instantly if the interior was a Cathryn Mulqueen design. It was the same flair that had made her wear yarn woven through her braids in high school. Her personal offbeat style seemed to have been put to good use in her career. It was clear to him that Cathryn knew how to free space from the boxy confines of a room and how to use color so that it shaped space and light into new dimensions.

  "Your interiors, well, they're fantastic," he said, unable to think of words that could adequately convey his enthusiasm for her work. "It's about time someone got rid of the heavy Spanish furniture that's been customary in Palm Beach for too long, and you did it. You've also done away with all those thick wool rugs covering up perfectly beautiful tile floors, a fact for which I'm truly grateful. In fact, sometime I wish you'd design something for me."

  She smiled. "Drop by my boutique," she told him with a merry glint in her eyes. "It's at Sedgwick's at the Caloosa Mall. They'll set up an appointment for you."

  "Is that all I have to do to get an appointment? I thought it would be more difficult."

  Her smile faded. "Drew, you're very nice. But I'm very busy. I—"

  "So many 'verys,'" he said softly, his hand closing over hers where it rested on the seat of the banquette. "Let me add one. I'm very attracted to you."

  "This isn't the way it was supposed to go," she said shakily, withdrawing her hand and closing it around the stem of her glass, which felt chilly after the warmth of Drew's fingers. She took another fortifying sip of her drink, and then another. Maybe the alcohol would anesthetize her against his charms.

  "Things don't always go the way they're supposed to go," he said thoughtfully. "I think that's one thing we've gleaned from this reunion. Tria wasn't supposed to dye her hair red. Elbert wasn't supposed to transform himself into Bert and end up being the best-looking guy in the class. Chuck wasn't supposed to go prematurely bald. You weren't supposed to become a dedicated career woman who won't even accept a date, and I wasn't supposed to—" But here, after inciting her interest, he stopped in mid-sentence and gazed out the window. A freighter slipped across the invisible horizon, a line of lights suspended in black space.

  "You weren't supposed to what?" she asked in spite of herself. Their reflections stared back at them from the window, and his revealed the brooding lines in his face.

  "Do you want to know my story?" he asked softly.

  When she nodded mutely, pulling her eyes away from their reflections in the dark window, Drew said carefully, "I was married and had a child, and I worked very hard to build a secure future for the three of us. That's how I thought of all the time I put in, all the hours away from home. I was working for our future. Then my wife left and took my daughter, and my future went with them."

  Something tightened in her chest, and inadvertently her eyes flashed to his hand curved around his glass. The ring finger, with its revealing white line, brought back memories she'd prefer to forget.

  Terry Ballard's ring finger had sported such a line. Terry had surfaced in her life at a time when she was vulnerable. Her parents were gone, her secure job in California left behind for the uncertainties of starting a business. Terry was a landscape architect with a prominent firm, and Cathryn had hired him to work out a landscaping concept for a house with an atrium. She'd been lonely, unsure of herself, and open to new relationships. Terry was not only handsome but affable and interested in her work.

  His wife, he'd confided, didn't understand him. Why did she fall for that old line? Because he hadn't said it quite that way, not at first anyhow. He was lonely, he'd told her, and his wife was busy with civic responsibilities. A month or so after he met Cathryn, he filed for divorce. She had scrupulously remained uninvolved until the divorce was final a couple of months later.

  They began meeting for lunch, for dinner, for late-night drinks. He rushed her with a passion that could only mean he loved her. He told her that often enough, and she was flattered.

  And the boys, his darling little boys. Cathryn liked them a lot. They had been three and five years old—round, chubby kids with pink cheeks and pudgy limbs. She'd fallen for them the way she'd fallen for Terry: hard.

  She'd swallowed Terry Ballard's hook and gobbled up his fish story. She'd listened, sympathized, and shored up Terry's precious ego. She'd loved him.

  And then Terry called her three days after their last date to tell her he'd just married a woman he'd met at the dog track two weeks before. He'd acted hurt when Cathryn was too speechless to offer congratulations.

  Cathryn had a hard time getting over Terry, but it had been just as hard to get over the boys. She still remembered the way Dante's quick smile had captured her heart and how Jayden's sticky fingers felt so trusting when they were clasped around her thumb.

  Well, she'd been stupid, and she'd been stung. But she would never be that dumb again. In the process of the break-up, she'd also gotten smart. She stayed away from men who were trying to get over past relationships.

  Yet, she realized with misgivings, here she was, doing what she had promised herself she would never do again. She was listening to the anguished words of yet another man whose marriage had failed. And his story made her sad, which was not a good sign.

  But as her spirits were doing a nosedive, Drew's were lifting. He'd managed to tell her the worst thing that had happened in his life, and it hadn't been so bad. Always before, he had felt guilty whenever he told someone, as though it were his never being home that made his wife leave him, even though he knew better. He'd always felt the silent accusations, though, believing that if he'd been a better husband, he'd still have his wife and his daughter.

  Now, with Cathryn, he didn't feel the accusations, just her sadness. Sadness—for him? But there was more than one emotion in her expression. He detected a drawing away, and he didn't know why.
<
br />   Just then a flash from a camera popped in their eyes and they both snapped to attention. When the haze of whirling blue dots faded, Cathryn saw a well-known society photographer loping out the door, camera in hand.

  "Ziff Bucholz strikes again," said Drew ruefully, staring after the retreating photographer. "I suppose we can look forward to our photos being splashed across the pages of Palm Beach Parade. I hope you don't mind." He regarded her anxiously.

  Palm Beach Parade was the local scandal sheet, better known to Palm Beachers as "The Yellow Pages."

  "It's all right," she replied, thinking that for once the pesky Bucholz, who found her photogenic and had annoyed her often enough in the past, had interrupted at exactly the right moment. She drained the last drops in her glass. "We'd better get back to the party," she said.

  "I don't want to go back to the reunion," he said slowly, letting his eyes linger on her lips for the briefest moment before meeting her gaze. "Let's sneak away and go somewhere else. Just the two of us, so we can talk."

  "My friend Susannah drove me here tonight," she said slowly, wishing her heart wouldn't beat so erratically under his scrutiny. He was looking her over in a leisurely fashion, but not as a predator would; his eyes were lonely. In spite of herself, she wanted to melt. She would have liked to leave with him although all her instincts warned her against it.

  "I'm going to go home with Susannah," she continued with effort, aching with it, yearning for him, wanting his fingers to linger upon hers again. Did her words sound as firm as she intended?

  Drew laughed under his breath. "Susannah Fagan Atherton Smalley LaMotte is currently surrounded by men who are competing to take her home. If you're counting on her for a ride, you'll be calling a cab." All seriousness gone, his tone was lazy, amused. He lifted smooth eyebrows, and his eyes twinkled. "On the other hand, if you go home with me, I'll deliver you right to your door. What more could you ask?"

  Cathryn summoned every ounce of resolve in her body. "Thanks, but I'll pass," she said firmly. She stood up and waited for him to toss a few bills onto the table, then hurried ahead of him to the door.

  She didn't slow her pace until they were outside and headed back toward the beach club through a fine spray of salt. When they reached the shielding seawall, Drew stopped her by putting an arm around her and turning her so that she faced him. Her thoughts were suspended when she saw the emotion unloosed in his eyes, the precise curve of his lips sculpted by moonlight. Clouds skimmed their mist through his pupils, wide now.

  "Cathryn Mulqueen," he breathed, his voice no more than a whisper, and her name on his lips became a harp song, rippling through to her very soul.

  He's going to kiss me, she thought, and she couldn't move. She stood caught in time and in a web of his weaving, waiting for him to close the gap between them. She trained her eyes on his lips, avoiding his eyes—but, no, she had to meet his look. The message she read there told her that he wasn't kissing her casually and that he'd want more, much more than she cared to give.

  Slowly, he lowered his lips to hers, and she received their warmth with a sigh that became his breath, and then her breath, until their mouths were one. One of his arms curved around her waist, pressing her belly to his taut abdomen, while his other hand traced its way up the smooth line of her back to her neck. He cupped her nape gently before threading his fingers through her abundant hair, cushioning her head as his lips deepened their caress.

  His touch was reverent and respectful. Drew Sedgwick was no plunderer of womanhood. But he wanted her tonight, desiring her as he had no woman but his wife. Cathryn was a gorgeous woman who seemed to have no idea how sensuous she was. The way she responded told him that she felt the chemistry between them, and that was no surprise. He'd felt it from the first moment he set eyes on her from behind the pillar in Sedgwick's.

  He stopped kissing her and drew her head against his shoulder, cradling it as he tried to think. He stroked the back of her neck gently, wondering if he should make a move now. He longed to let his fingers stray to her breast, now straining against his shirtfront. But if she really didn't want it, he would offend her. He couldn't risk that, not now. He wanted something long-term and real, not a shallow and superficial hook-up. He'd had that, too much of it, since his divorce. With Cathryn Mulqueen he wanted much more.

  And then he felt her begin to pull away.

  "Not yet, dear Cat," he whispered, holding her close. "Just a few more moments like this. It feels so good to hold you."

  "Please," she said, and her voice trembled. Where had the wind gone, and the moon? No seabird dared the silence that encompassed them, and the mist was not real.

  "I don't want you to be uncomfortable about this," he said. He kissed her temple, and her eyes drifted closed at the touch of his lips. "I don't want to rush things." His voice was gentle against her hair.

  "That's good," she said evenly, tilting her body away and imposing inches between them. "Because I don't either." She'd grasped control once more and firmed her resolve into action.

  He didn't like it, the way she knew how to freeze at will. His hands fell into emptiness, but not touching her was better than feeling the frost beneath his fingers.

  "When can I see you again?" He wanted to sound tender, but instead the words were desperate. What he wanted was a meeting of two like minds before they proceeded, and her rejection stung.

  "I don't think that would be a good idea," she replied primly, drawing the armor of aloofness around her. Avoiding his eyes, she slipped into the crowded beach club, leaving Drew stricken as he stared after her. For a moment he wished she'd been a figment of his imagination rather than a vital, breathing woman whose flesh had come to life against his, and who, for no reason that he could think of, had quickly turned and run away.

  Damn, he thought, watching the fragment of a moon disappear beneath an enveloping cloud. He could have sworn he'd touched a chord in Cathryn and that they'd shared something special, even if it had only been for a few moments. He sensed a potential in her and a depth that he'd found in no other woman since his divorce. Having found it, he wanted more than anything in the world to explore it. Why was Cathryn Mulqueen so hard to reach? What did she have against him, anyway?

  Inside, alone in the ladies' lounge, staring at her windblown reflection in the mirror and wondering if the wild-eyed and voluptuous creature gazing back at her was her prim and proper well-behaved self, Cathryn fairly gasped with the effort of pulling herself away from Drew. The attraction—she'd never felt such a magnetic pull with anyone, anywhere.

  She'd known her share of shallow men, and she wanted no more of them. But, oh, the complexities, the structure of this man's mind, the shifting colors she sensed inside him. Now, in the aftermath, she thought perhaps she should have let him take her home—to talk with him until the pearl-gray of the sky heralded sunrise, to inhabit the space of him for a few hours or even more. He would stop his pursuit of her now. She was sure that she had lost her chance.

  She had also lost her ride. The unreliable Susannah was nowhere to be found. She'd probably decamped with Burl Cosworth, her steady boyfriend in eleventh grade. He'd been following her around the room before Cathryn left to go outside.

  Cathryn did see Drew once more before she left the reunion. He waved at her jauntily from his bronze Porsche as she was maneuvering her full and flimsy skirt into the taxi.

  Chapter 3

  "His name is Avery Clark, and actually, it's pretty serious, I guess," said Susannah, nibbling at a morsel of Florida lobster dripping with butter. She paused dramatically. "We might get married." She lowered turquoise-painted eyelids.

  "But what about Burl? You've seen seeing him every night since the reunion," said Cathryn. The two of them were indulging themselves at a farewell lunch for Susannah.

  "Oh, Burl." Susannah dismissed him with a careless wave of her hand. "He hasn't changed a bit. He's still a sloppy kisser."

  "Susannah!"

  "Good heavens, Cathryn, don't act so
shocked. For an intelligent woman, you seem awfully out of it sometimes. Surely you can't be as conservative as all that. After all, you've been playing the field all your adult life, haven't you?" Susannah frowned impatiently and, seizing the bottle of white wine she'd ordered, splashed some into her glass. "More wine?"

  "No," said Cathryn, waving the bottle away. "Wine only makes me sleepy if I drink it in the daytime. And I have to get back to work."

  Susannah cocked her head. "Judy was right. You do work all the time. I couldn't stand it. Fortunately, since one of my husbands left me so well-to-do, I don't have to support myself." She frowned. "It was either number two or number three. Can't recall just which."

  Cathryn sighed. "Then what do you do all day?" She couldn't imagine not having a mission and a purpose.

  "I shop, play computer games, visit my friends, and look for available men. The good ones get scarcer every year, have you noticed? That's why Avery is such a prize. He's got black hair with these wings of silver at the sides, just like that guy with the winged hat in the Roman myths, Jupiter or somebody."

  "It was Mercury," Cathryn said patiently.

  "Okay, Mercury. And Avery has only been married once, and his kids are grown, which suits me fine because, you know, I can't picture myself being a stepmommy again, especially after my eye-opening experience with number two's little princess. Heather Marie. Lord, what a rotten kid she was. Insisted on sleeping at the foot of our bed on our honeymoon, and he let her, can you imagine? That's when I knew it wouldn't last."

  "You were telling me about Avery."

  "Avery has a house in Connecticut. A mausoleum, actually. It looks like his ex-wife, all dusty brocades and heavy furniture right out of King Arthur's court. If we get married, Cathryn, promise you'll come redecorate it for me."

  "Sure," said Cathryn, figuring that the chances of ever actually redesigning the interior of the Connecticut mausoleum were nil. By next week, in all probability, Susannah would have found someone else.