by Cherry Adair
Cat sighed. “Luke. How old am I?”
“You’re...twenty-three?”
“Try twenty-six, I’ve always been seven years younger than you. How come you never remember?” She shifted back in his chair, clearly uncomfortable under his close scrutiny. She’d always been a prickly little thing. “Life was passing me by. I want to stretch my wings a bit.”
“I know, honey.” He reached out and covered her hand. Cat had nursed his father for the five years preceding his death eight months ago. Luke had frequently envied Cat and his father’s close relationship. Now Luke was all Cat had left. Her flaky mother didn’t count.
She flushed and withdrew her hand. “I didn’t sacrifice anything. We were father and daughter by choice, not chance, and I loved him. Don’t go all big brother on me. It took longer than I thought to get his affairs tied up. I contacted a real estate agent and put the house on the market—” She put up a hand to forestall his usual rhetoric about the estate. “No, Luke, I’m not keeping the house. Besides, my moth—Faith is between husbands at the moment, and she’s been broadly hinting she might like to come ‘home to rest’ for a little while.”
“She’s run out of money.” It wasn’t a question. If Faith was between husbands or lovers, it was a given.
Cat’s smile broke his heart. “That, too.”
He’d like to wring Faith’s beautiful neck. “You should buy a nice condo with the money Dad left you.”
Those expressive tiger eyes of hers darkened. Ah, hell.
“It’s invested. If you don’t want me here,” she said stiffly, slender shoulders hunched, “just say so. I’ll go and stay with Nick.”
Nick. Their mutual friend, partner, fellow architect and ladies’ man? No way. “Does Nick know about this?”
“Not yet.”
At least she’d come to Luke first.
He and Nick had been next-door neighbors, and best friends, when Luke still had a matched set of parents. After the divorce, and his father’s remarriage, Nick and Cat had become friends. Luke wasn’t jealous of their close relationship anymore, but he was inordinately pleased she’d chosen to come to him instead of going to Nick.
“Hey! Mi casa es su casa. Finding an apartment in San Francisco is almost impossible. I was planning to keep the condo for the nights I work late. You might as well live here. In a few months the house should be finished, and I’ll be moving out of the city, anyway. Until then we can figure out who gets the bed and who gets the sofa.”
Her eyes clouded briefly. “Sure?”
He knew this particular insecurity well, and said casually, “Positive. But on one condition. This time unpack and spread out. Last time you came you kept your stuff in your suitcase stuck in the closet for two weeks. If you’re going to live here, live here. Okay?”
“Okay. Thanks.” Her shoulders relaxed. “The house is that close to being finished, huh?”
“Yeah, it’s coming along great. You can come and help me tomorrow, if you like.” He noticed her sleepy eyes and smiled. “Since you had the bed last, why don’t you finish the night there? I’ll take the sofa. We can work out our sleeping arrangements tomorrow.”
“I’m not sleepy. How about hot chocolate?”
“I don’t have any.”
“Yes, you do. I bought groceries on my way here.” She unfurled her long, long legs and stood. Luke rose at the same time, and they came nose-to-nose, inches apart.
He’d forgotten how tall she was. Her mouth was almost on a level with his.
If he bent his knees...
If Cat stood on her toes...
If she had been any other desirable woman, he would have slipped his arms about her slender waist, drawn her against his chest and kissed that soft succulent mouth until they were both gasping for air. He quickly shook off the thought.
He trailed her into his chrome-and-black-glass kitchen, observing the way her hips moved as she padded on bare feet. She had a loose-jointed walk that made Playboy centerfolds look like windup toys.
Luke settled at the small table under the window as Cat heated milk and made their drinks. She knew where everything was because she’d put it there when he’d moved in two years ago.
“Thanks.” Luke took the brimming mug she offered. Chocolate-scented steam tantalized his taste buds. He waited until she slid into the other chair before he spoke. “You were stifled in that house with Dad all those years, Cat. I understand you wanting to try something new and exciting. And San Francisco certainly is that. But don’t you think it might be a culture shock?”
She’d taken a tentative sip and already wore a chocolate milk mustache. She watched him over the rim of her mug. Transfixed, he watched her pink tongue come out and lick the creamy film off her upper lip. He was going to drop dead from a heart attack at age thirty-three.
Her eyes flickered away, then back again.
“Okay, Cat. What are you up to?”
“Me?” She was all wide-eyed innocence. “Nothing.”
“The first time you gave me that look was when you said you weren’t running away to join the circus, remember? We found you in the park two blocks away, panhandling for bus fare.”
Cat grinned. “I promise, I don’t want to join the circus.”
The chocolate must have burned the hell out of her throat, but she chugged it down, then cradled the empty mug. She had pretty hands. Slender, no-nonsense, with short, unpolished nails. He wanted them on him.
Luke’s heart took up an unexpected arrhythmic beat as he watched her. Despite her mother’s influence, Cat had always been a sensible woman. Somehow she’d remained refreshingly innocent. She was what was known as a “good girl.” More than likely the last of a dying breed. In spite of her lush, curvy body, she was wholesome. Natural.
Cat gave him a level, serious look. “I came because you’re the only man I trust, Luke. I have a problem.”
He felt sick. “Do you want him to marry you, or do you want me to punch him out?”
Cat looked at him blankly. “Marry? Punch? Who?”
“Cat, for God’s sake! The man who got you pregnant!”
She stared at him as though he’d lost his mind. “I’m a virgin, Luke.”
“Well, hell, what does that have to do with anyth—What?”
“Virgin? Unmarried woman? Untouched? Pure?”
“Jesus.” His breath gusted out, and it took several moments to get his heartbeat back to comfortable. He scraped his fingers through his hair, feeling ridiculously as if he’d stood perilously close to the edge of an abyss and survived. “Sorry, I tend to get a little carried away,” he admitted gruffly.
“I’ve noticed.” Cat’s voice was dry. Her mouth wore a small, tentative smile, but her eyes still looked as if she were about to tell him something he didn’t want to hear. He’d anticipated the worst and rallied. Relaxing, he leaned back in his chair.
“What do you need help with? Want to come and work out of our office? No problem, I told you we’ll find a spot for you—”
She watched him with big, serious eyes. “I don’t want you to find me office space, Luke. I want you to find me a husband.”
CHAPTER TWO
“WELL, SAY SOMETHING.” Catherine tried not to let her nerves show as he sat there gaping.
Even while she’d agonized over doing this, she’d hoped she’d have to go no further than to ask Luke for his help. It would have made life a whole bunch easier if he’d just cut to the chase and declared his undying love for her at the onset.
The Plan hadn’t gotten much beyond that. She wanted more, but with Luke’s attitude toward permanence, she was realistic enough to know she wasn’t going to get it.
Her biggest leap of faith had been to burn her bridges, and take the chance that he wouldn’t reject her outright. Again.
> Ten years was a long time, she kept reminding herself. They’d both grown up since. She wasn’t that naive, impulsive kid anymore. She knew Luke better now. For her plan to work, this seduction was going to have to be his idea. Unfortunately, he was still staring at her, slack-jawed.
“Well?” she said with a shaky breath. “Say something.”
“I’m speechless.”
“Could you hurry up and get over it?” Catherine pulled a yellow scratch pad and a pen out of the canvas bag she’d slung over the finial of her chair earlier. She concentrated on writing “Prospective Husbands” at the top of the page in neat block letters, more to give Luke time to assimilate what she’d said than the need to make a list. She glanced up. His eyes were squinty.
“What?” she asked innocently.
“What do you mean, you want me to find you a husband? You have a phobic aversion to marriage!”
“No. That’s you.” Keep it casual, Catherine. “I have a phobic aversion to my mother’s marriages. What if poor marital judgment is hereditary? My apple might have fallen closer to my mother’s tree than I’d like. I just don’t trust my own judgment.”
“And you’d trust mine? I don’t believe in marriage, remember?”
How could she forget? “You’ll meet someone someday.”
“No,” he said unequivocally. “I won’t. And frankly, Cat, considering we’ve both seen your mother in action, I’m surprised that you’d want to make the same mistakes.”
“With your help, I won’t.”
“I don’t get it. Why?”
“Because I need someone to take care of, Luke. After Dad died I realized I liked taking care of someone. I love being a homemaker. I know it’s politically incorrect not to want a career, but I don’t. I enjoy trading stocks on the market, and as long as I have my computer and a phone line, I can do that anywhere. But if I had to stop that tomorrow, I wouldn’t care. I guess I’m a throwback, what can I say? I want a husband to love, and to be loved by. Eventually kids. I want a couple of dogs, and a house with a big yard. Is that too much to ask—where are you going?”
“To make more hot chocolate.”
“There’s still some. Here.” She handed him her mug and waited while he poured hot chocolate haphazardly from the pan. Catherine observed the motion of muscles flexing beneath his green sweater. She drew in a deep breath, then held it until her stomach behaved itself. Luke had never made any bones about his intention to remain a bachelor. She remembered him telling her just that, right after his own mother remarried for the third time. Luke didn’t believe in promises any more than Catherine did. The difference was she was willing to take the chance. Luke wasn’t.
He yanked open a cabinet and grabbed a bottle of something hideously expensive, using more force than necessary. She perked up. Wrenching the cap off, he sloshed liquor into his mug, then slammed the bottle onto the black granite countertop. Even better.
“Are we celebrating?” she asked as he placed both mugs on the table. She plucked napkins out of the holder to mop up the chocolate milk he’d sloshed onto the tabletop.
“What do you think, Catherine?” He strode back to retrieve the liquor bottle, which he slam-dunked onto the table between them. Then, scowling, he threw himself into his chair and raked his fingers through his hair until it stood up like a shark fin.
“Well, I think a celebration is a little premature right now...but sure.” She reached out to take the bottle. Luke removed it gently from her grasp. Which was fine with her. If it tasted anything like it smelled, she’d gag. Come on, Luke, she silently urged, let’s hear it.
“Are you out of your mind, Cat?” A vein throbbed in his temple. His eyes had turned a smoky green. “If you have this burning need to take care of something, get a poodle.”
“Not quite the same thing, Luke.”
Even with that look of total exasperation on his face he was the sexiest man she’d ever laid eyes on. Too sexy for plain Catherine Harris. But she wanted him anyway. Her and about a billion other women. Luke Van Buren was Mr. Confirmed Bachelor Playboy himself. He’d never had to look for female companionship. Anything female would spot him from a hundred feet away and be charmed. He loved women. He treated his girlfriends with care and consideration, and adored them.
As long as he was with them.
Lucas Van Buren epitomized the expression “out of sight, out of mind.” Over the years she’d witnessed the ebb and flow of Luke’s lady friends. None of the relationships lasted very long. Which didn’t bode well for her own future. But if she didn’t try, how would she ever know?
Luke was a freewheeling playboy. She valued security and stability above all else. He was a daredevil who considered variety the spice of life. She wanted marriage. He wanted affairs.
She wanted him. He didn’t want her.
When she’d first decided to come to San Francisco she’d considered asking Luke to find her a lover, not a husband. Since he wasn’t husband material, that would have been closer to the truth. But she’d immediately dismissed that idea. Luke would have choked out a resounding and unequivocal “N.O.”
“Did being stuck in that house with just Dad for company turn your gray matter into oatmeal?”
“Not that I know of. Look, this is quite simple, Luke. You must know a gazillion single guys. Lots of cultures have marriage brokers. Which, if you think about it, makes perfect sense. Look at the divorce rate when people find mates by random selection. It’s up to sixty percent. Our mothers probably had a lot to do with that figure rising.”
He splashed more amber liquid into his mug. His knuckles glowed white where he gripped the bottle. He hadn’t said a word in minutes.
“You’re intelligent. You know me, you care about me. You’ll make a perfect marriage broker. Pick a few friends you think would make good husband material and I’ll do the rest.”
Catherine grabbed the pen, ignored the thud of her heartbeat right under her breastbone, and gave him a perky smile. She set the tip of the pen in the left margin and wrote a large number one. “Any interesting prospects in your address book under A?”
* * *
HE’D DONE SOMETHING really bad in another life and God was punishing him, Luke thought as he silently opened the bedroom door several sleepless hours later. To get to the bathroom and a cold shower, he had to traverse the bedroom where Cat slept. He’d spent a miserable night on the sofa thinking about her—and her harebrained scheme.
The world was her oyster. She should be enjoying the bliss of singlehood. Besides, how could a woman whose mother had been married, at last count, eight times even consider marriage?
Variety was the spice of life. Why would anyone put all their emotional eggs in one basket? How could one person be everything to another person? It wasn’t logical. It wasn’t smart. And Cat was usually so sensible, so predictable, so...sane.
Last night she’d been too tired to listen to reason. He’d talk some sense into her today, he decided, as he sneaked into his own sun-washed bedroom on Sunday morning, averting his gaze from the bed—for half a heartbeat.
Sleeping the sleep of the innocent and still wearing his sweatshirt, Cat sprawled diagonally across his California King mattress, sunlight streaming across her smooth bare legs. His fingers itched to slide up the satiny expanse. He wanted to follow his hands with his mouth and taste those freckles.
He sped into the bathroom, closed the door and wilted against it in his relief to have made it this far unscathed.
An icy shower went a long way to making him feel halfway human. When he opened the bathroom door again the first thing he saw was Cat’s smiling face. His heart did a ridiculous and wholly inappropriate double axel as she sat up in bed, his bed, to smile at him.
“Good morning.” She yawned, stretching like a cat.
“Get your lazy butt out of bed, woman,�
�� he told her sternly, digging through the chaos of his drawers for clean underwear while he held on to the towel around his waist with the other hand. “We have things to do and places to go.” He’d have to knuckle down and do laundry soon. He looked over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow at her. “Are you awake in there?”
Cat shook her head as if to clear it, then scrambled over the edge of the bed. “You betcha, Bubba. Give me ten minutes and I’m all yours.” She shuffled into the bathroom. The door snicked behind her. He dropped the towel, dragged on underwear over damp skin and waited for the click of the lock.
He waited in vain.
The shower turned on.
He struggled to zip his jeans.
The bedroom smelled like Cat. Soft. Flowery. Permanent. He searched the upper shelves for a sweatshirt. Finding one he’d stuffed in there months ago, he held it up. Not too wrinkled. So he put it on.
“Hey, Luke?” she shouted over the noise of pounding water.
He closed his eyes. “What?”
“Did you come up with some names for me?” The shower turned off. “Hey. What happened to the towe—never mind, found them.”
People showered naked every day of the week. He wished to hell Cat wasn’t one of them. “We’ll talk about it.”
“What? I can’t hear... That’s better.” A billow of Cat-scented steam preceded her as she opened the door. “Well, did you?”
“I said...” He clenched his teeth, bending down to tie the laces on his boots. They were on the wrong feet. He removed, then switched them, before tackling the laces. “...we’ll talk about it.”
She came out of the bathroom wearing one towel around her body, another wrapped turban style about her head. Her face was scrubbed shiny, her skin like fresh cream sprinkled with cinnamon. Her legs went on forever. In his fantasies he joined the dots.