For Services Rendered

by Patricia Kay

  But she lost her nerve when he firmly disengaged her hands and broke the embrace. He laughed a bit selfconsciously and said, "I've smeared your lipstick."

  "I don't care."

  "I do. I'm taking you someplace special tonight."

  And so Claire, wanting to please him, telling herself to stop wishing for the impossible, repaired her lipstick and put on the diamonds. At first their weight and coolness felt strange, but as she turned from side to side and looked at them, at the way they caught the light and how they glittered against her skin, she decided she could get used to wearing them.

  He took her to dinner at the Sheraton Palace Garden Court, and they drank champagne and listened to the string quartet and ate delicate scallops in the glass-roofed dining room. And Nick's eyes were filled with a look of pride.

  "You look incredible," he told her as they left the restaurant. "Every man in the room is jealous of me."

  And under the pleasure she felt at his obviously sincere compliment, Claire wondered if the pride of ownership was what he felt for her, if it was all he'd ever feel for her.

  Later, when they were sipping after dinner drinks at the Top of the Mark and looking out over the spectacular view of the city, Nick leaned close and pressed his lips to her temple. "Let's go back to our room," he whispered.

  And that night he made slow, very deliberate love to her, bringing her to the pinnacle of pleasure not once, but several times. And Claire fell asleep in his arms, telling herself it didn't matter that Nick was holding something back, that his lovemaking was as careful and planned as everything else he did.

  After San Francisco, they spent four days in a low-slung, glass and cypress house in Monterey. Each morning Claire woke to the view of dazzling blue water and cloudless skies and to the sound of the seals who gathered on the sun-kissed rocks that dotted the shore. Here the tempo of their days changed, and they spent long, lazy days lying in the sun, doing nothing. Every afternoon they took a nap together in the big master bedroom, with the shutters closed against the bright sunlight and the ceiling fan whirring overhead.

  And at night Nick devised a special pleasure for her. The house had a hot tub enclosed on the private deck in back and each night after they'd had a leisurely dinner, Nick would pour snifters of brandy for them and lead her onto the deck, where he'd slowly undress her, then himself.

  They would slip naked into the steaming water, and Claire's heart would begin to thump and she would feel decadent and incredibly sexy as the water swirled around them, lapping at their bodies. Nick would kiss her for a long time; then, knowing exactly how each touch would make her feel, he would pull her onto his lap, tight up against him, and his hands would slide slowly around, and he would stroke her, finding every sensitive spot, every hidden crevice. Claire, who couldn't fight the weakness and desire he so expertly aroused, would lay her head back and give herself up to the erotic combination of the touch of his hands on her fevered skin and the heat of the water foaming around them and the powerful needs building inside her.

  He seemed to delight in taking her as high as he could and keeping her there as long as possible. She would be weak with desire, trembling under his hands and mouth, and still he would withhold himself until she was almost incoherent with wanting him. And then he would take her, bringing her to a shuddering climax. Afterwards, he would stroke her gently until she was quiet. Then he would take her to bed and do it all over again.

  She wondered, but was afraid to ask, what he was thinking and feeling. Was all this attention, all this pleasure-giving, a subconscious wish to dominate her so completely she would never have any will of her own? Or were his motives simpler? Did he simply want to make sure she was pregnant before their honeymoon was over?

  After Monterey, they went up into the wine country and stayed at a beautiful inn near Calistoga. Claire loved the Napa Valley. She loved the sweet-smelling air and the sunshine and the rows and rows of grapes. She loved the verdant hills and the cloudless sky and the rustic feel to the towns and countryside. And she loved Nick. More and more each day. She felt drunk with her love and drunk with her sensual awareness of herself and her body and all the sensations and feelings Nick had evoked.

  One morning, shortly after sunrise, with mist hanging low over the valley like a silvery veil, they took a ride in a hot air balloon. As the balloon floated over the vineyards, Claire's eyes met Nick's, and just for a moment, she saw something that confused her. What was it? she wondered. Tenderness? Sadness? Yearning? What?

  But before she could identify it, the emotion, whatever it had been, disappeared, and afterwards, Claire wondered if she'd imagined it.

  On the last night before they would return to San Francisco, then fly back to Houston, they had dinner at the inn, sitting in front of the open fireplace, drinking two bottles of wine and eating excellent Chateaubriand. Afterwards, they danced close together to the music of a talented trio of musicians who played old love songs with romantic feeling, and Claire could feel Nick's heart beating heavily against hers.

  "Do you know the name of this song?" he murmured.

  "It's from The Umbrellas of Cherbourg." She hummed along. "I don't remember the exact words, only that they're beautiful. Something about a thousand summers." She smiled softly. "The name of the song is I Will Wait For You."

  He pulled her closer and a tremor tiptoed down Claire's spine. And when the lovely song ended, Nick clasped her firmly around the waist and led her toward the doorway and the elevator that would take them to their room. They were the only people in the elevator, and as soon as the doors slid shut, Nick's mouth covered hers. The kiss was hard and hungry and when the elevator dinged its arrival at the third floor, Claire's heart was filled with a wild, irrational hope. Because she'd seen something in Nick's eyes tonight—something primitive and untamed—something she'd never seen before.

  Maybe tonight he would forget his technique. Maybe tonight they would be equal, a man and a woman who wanted each other too much to remember to do everything by the book. Claire hoped with all her heart this was so.

  As soon as the door shut behind them, he was reaching behind her to unzip her dress, covering her face with restless kisses. Happiness began to build in Claire, along with the passion he was always able to arouse, as he forgot his finesse and his kisses became more fevered and demanding.

  Then, so suddenly it was as if Claire had been doused with cold water, he drew back, almost shaking himself. She could see him slip into his mask of control, as if it were something tangible he could put on, like clothing. His hands lost their roughness, and once again, as he'd done so many times before, he started his slow seduction of her senses.

  A sense of futility stole over Claire. Although she was not very experienced when it came to men, she knew instinctively that until Nick opened himself up, shared himself completely, allowed his feelings to rule rather than his brain, there was no hope that he would ever love her the way she wanted him to. The way she loved him.

  * * *

  Two weeks later, in the middle of a meeting with his division managers, Nick was thinking about Claire. He stirred restlessly, only half hearing the report Ken Boudreaux was making. His fingers toyed with his Cross pen as vivid images of his wife played through his mind. What was wrong with him? he wondered. Ever since they'd returned to Houston, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about her. To stay away from her. No matter how many times he told himself he would not yield to the desire pounding through him, that he would simply make love to her for one purpose—to make a baby—he knew he was lying to himself. Each time he touched her, his control slipped another notch.

  His fingers tightened around the pen. He couldn't afford these feelings. Hadn't counted on them. Didn't want them. Emotions like these disturbed the order of a person's life. Made them do irrational, stupid things. Made them weak. Made them vulnerable. I won't allow myself to need her.

  He would fight this weakness. He would fight his feelings for her. Because, above all, he would not
, could not, fall in love with her.

  * * *

  Something was wrong with Nick. He hadn't said anything, but in the weeks since they'd returned from San Francisco, Claire could sense a difference in him. At first, she'd hoped the difference meant he was falling in love with her, but she was afraid she'd been kidding herself.

  He was still kind. Still considerate. Still attentive.

  He continued to make love to her almost every night. But there was a wariness about him now, and she wasn't sure what had brought it about. Was he concerned because she wasn't pregnant yet? Was that it?

  Something else bothered her, too. Every Saturday afternoon he went out, and he didn't tell her where he was going. That bothered Claire. She knew that under the terms of their marriage, he wasn't obligated to tell her everything, but still, it disturbed her that he was secretive. Because she knew he would be gone, she began visiting her mother on Saturday afternoons and made a point of telling him where she'd be. She thought he would respond in kind. But he never did, just said, "Have a nice visit."

  Finally, one Saturday early in August, she confronted him. She was in the sunroom relaxing with a book when he walked in and casually said, "I'm going out for a few hours. I'll see you later."

  She laid her book down. He was dressed casually in white shorts, white athletic shoes, and a royal blue cotton shirt that matched his eyes. "Where are you going, Nick?"

  For a minute she thought he wasn't going to answer. A thoughtful look crossed his face, and his blue eyes studied her. "The Buffalo Children's Home."

  His answer was so entirely unexpected, Claire didn't say anything for a minute. Then she smiled. "Would you take me with you?"

  Buffalo Children's Home sat on the top of a gently sloped hill on the banks of Buffalo Bayou near downtown Houston. It had originally been the home of a man who had made a fortune in the oil fields of West Texas and had wanted a mansion to prove he was one of the elite. He had subsequently lost his fortune because of lousy judgment at the gaming tables and in his choice of women. A group of civic-minded citizens had banded together to buy the opulent home and turned it into a children's shelter. Through the years the home had become one of Houston's landmarks, both in real estate and as an instrument for raising social con-sciousness.

  As Claire walked beside Nick through the heavy oak doors and into the large marble-floored entryway with its twenty-foot ceiling graced by an ornate chandelier, she remembered all the stories she'd read about the home and wondered why she'd never visited before. The receptionist, a petite redhead, smiled as they approached.

  "Hello, Mr. Callahan."

  "Hello, Dawn." He put his arm loosely around Claire's waist. "This is my wife."

  The redhead grinned. A few minutes later, they were following her bouncy figure down a long hallway which led to the rear of the house and into an enormous room that was brightly lit from a solid wall of long windows filled with hanging baskets of ferns and flowers.

  A group of children ranging in age from about six to fourteen were laughing and talking, and when they saw Nick, they immediately surrounded him. Within minutes, he was sitting in the middle of the floor with the kids on all sides. His dark hair was no longer perfectly combed and a thick lock fell over his forehead, giving him a little-boy look that was completely at odds with the powerful, in-charge persona he usually wore.

  Nick looked at her and smiled. "This is Claire, guys. I told you about her. Claire, these are my buddies." He pointed to a good-looking boy of about ten with ink-black hair and large brown eyes. "This is Ricardo, the star pitcher of the softball team." Next came a girl with protruding teeth and a shy smile. "This is Sarah. She plays left field." One by one he pointed them out: Jeff, Jimmy, Shari, Doug, David, Allison, Elizabeth, Lisa, Joey, Beth, Erin, Jason. After each name, he added the position they played on the team. "And this young lady is Brigitte, our cheerleader," he finished with a grin and a wink.

  "Cheerleader?" Claire said, mind whirling from his rapid-fire introductions.

  "Somebody has to do it," said the tall, animated girl with long, golden-brown hair and dancing blue eyes. She was about thirteen and pretty enough to be a model. Claire warmed to her instantly.

  "Nick helps our coach," piped up a stocky-looking black boy with a scarred face and sweet smile. Claire couldn't remember his name. "When he can make it."

  "We're the Callahan's Commanders," boasted another boy.

  " 'Cause we're always in command," said one of the girls.

  "Like Nick," said the one he'd called Sarah, grinning at Nick with a gap-toothed smile.

  "That's enough bragging," Nick said, "let's hear the weekly report." Claire sat on a chair near the fringes of the group where she could watch.

  "Lisa got two demerits," said a skinny blond boy, " 'cause she sassed Mrs. Ford."

  Nick shook his head at Lisa, a small, dark girl who didn't look the least bit sorry for her lapse. "Got anything to say for yourself, Lisa?"

  "She made me mad," Lisa said.

  "That's what you always say," Nick said dryly. "What did I tell you about that?"

  Lisa shrugged her shoulders, and Claire wanted to laugh at the flash of defiance in her eyes. None of Nick Callahan's adversaries openly defied him, but here was this tiny girl of about twelve who didn't seem the least bit intimidated by him.

  "Didn't I tell you to count to ten and think before you answer back?" Nick persisted.

  "Yeah." Lisa rolled her eyes.

  "Then why don't you do it?"

  Another shrug. "I try, but she says such dumb things sometimes, and I . . . well, I can't stand it."

  Sympathy for Nick caused Claire to smother a smile. Obviously Lisa was not a child who would be easily molded into any pattern she didn't fit. "A kid after my own heart," he muttered under his breath, "who doesn't easily suffer fools."

  Claire watched in fascination as Nick talked to the kids about their week, praising them for their small victories and gently chiding them for their transgressions.

  He obviously knew the children well. It was evident that he came here often.

  Later, they moved upstairs to the nursery and Nick picked up a little redheaded boy of about eighteen months whose right arm was in a cast, putting him on his knee and cuddling him.

  A woman named Norma explained to Claire that Scotty, the name they'd given the boy, had been abandoned two weeks earlier, and that examinations had revealed long-term child abuse. Claire blinked back tears. How could anyone abuse a child? she wondered. When she and Nick had a child she'd cherish it and love it and thank God every day for giving it to her.

  After they once again returned to the first floor, Claire watched and listened as Nick talked to Paul Civic, the director of the home, and his wife, Gerri. The three of them went over the books and talked about the new roof the home needed. From Nick's questions Claire realized he was intimately aware of all aspects of the running of the home, from its financial situation to the day-to-day work involved in an undertaking of this magnitude.

  By the time she and Nick walked outside, Claire's concept of who and what her husband was had taken on another dimension. She'd always known about his aggressive side, the part of him that ruthlessly manipu-lated people—including her—using any and all weaknesses to his advantage. She'd also seen his softer side, one that was compassionate and caring, even though he exposed that side less often. And now today she'd seen something even deeper, a part of him that needed to give and receive love, a part of him that was vulnerable and lonely, a secret part of him that until now she had been afraid did not exist. Hope swelled her heart.

  "Aren't they great kids?" he asked, a smile lighting his eyes. They stood just outside the front door.

  There was a lump in Claire's throat as she nodded, suddenly assailed by longing as she remembered the feel of Scotty's soft skin when she'd kissed his cheek before they left. She wanted so much to give Nick a son like Scotty.

  "I'm glad you came today. I wanted to tell you about the kids, but b
efore we were married I was afraid you'd think I was trying to make myself look good. And afterwards, well, I wasn't sure how you'd feel."

  "I don't understand."

  "Let's go sit over there," he suggested, pointing to a bench on the front lawn.

  When they were seated side by side with his arm draped casually over the back of the bench, he stared off into the distance, where Claire could see the downtown skyline just beyond the banks of the bayou. A jet passed overhead, a small splash of silver against the blue sky. A few feet away, a cardinal sat perched on a low hanging branch of an ancient oak tree. The air was hot and still.

  "The first time I visited the home, it was with the intention of adopting one of the kids. But I changed my mind after I'd been here several times."

  "Why?"

  "Because by the time I knew the kids well enough to know which one I might want to adopt, I couldn't choose just one. So I decided to adopt them all. To come here as many times a week as I could manage."

  Claire's eyes misted. His voice had taken on a gruffness that told her how deeply he felt about the children.

  "I know what it's like to feel unwanted. I didn't want any of the kids to feel that way. At least not because of me."

  "Tell me about it," she said gently, knowing they were on the verge of something—a line, a barrier, something. She wasn't sure what it was; she only knew that if she could get him to cross it, things would be different between them.

  He turned and his eyes were incredibly blue in the sunlight. He studied her for a long time. "Not now. Maybe I'll tell you about it another time."