“I told you I came close once, with one woman who mattered to me. But I couldn’t get there. I couldn’t because it was you, Cate. It was always you.”
He set down the beer. “And I’m tired of keeping my distance. That food’ll stay warm enough for later.”
She smiled, expecting him to grab her into a kiss as frustrated as he looked. Instead, he scooped her up as he’d done their first night together.
“Oh. That much later.”
“That’s right.”
“God, I’ve missed this.” She set her teeth on the side of his neck. “I really don’t think I have those boots anymore. It was years ago.”
“That’s a damn shame,” he said as he carried her upstairs.
“But I’m a certified expert at shopping for boots.”
“Black, up above the knee.”
He dropped her on the bed, looked down at her as the light from the sinking sun spread gold over her.
She crooked a finger at him when he dragged off his shoes. When he lay over her, sent her shimmering with the first kiss, she chained her arms around him.
“I love you, Caitlyn.”
So much spilled into her she didn’t know how to hold it. “Give me time to say it back. It may be crazy or superstitious, or both, but I really do believe when I say it, when I mean it, it’s forever.”
“Since I want forever, and forever’s what I’m going to have, take your time.”
“That kind of confidence could be annoying.”
“Be annoyed later.”
He took her mouth again, but tenderly. So tenderly now. Offering love, she knew, and how could she resist it?
She opened herself to it, the simple and stunning gift of it. And opening, taking it in, she felt it smooth over old scars, ease away old doubts.
Take the gift, she thought, take it and give it back. If she couldn’t yet say the words, she could give him what beat in her heart.
She could show him in the language of touch and taste that needed no voice. She could show him by the way she unbuttoned his shirt to skim her fingers over his chest, over those hard-ridged muscles of his back as she peeled the shirt away.
How she rose to him when he drew hers aside, followed the reveal of bare skin with his lips.
The golden light smoldered toward red as they undressed each other. The blue of the sea surging to and from the beach below deepened with it. And he felt her give, and give.
She had so much to give. More than she knew or believed. He’d seen it in her from the very first moment, and in all the moments he’d had with her since. When she trusted herself, trusted them, she’d give him the words.
For now, he’d simply love her, and know the heart beating under his lips held him in it.
When she rose over him, shook back her hair in the last pulsing lights of the sun, he knew he’d love her every minute of every day for the rest of his life.
She brought his hands to her lips, held them there as she took him in, slowly, slowly, slowly took him in. And when her head fell back from the pleasure of it, as her sigh shuddered out, she glided his hands down to her breasts.
Easy movement, slow again, and long and deep. Wave after wave of that pleasure, more pleasure, with the rise, the fall, the fall and the rise.
The light softened like a pearled mist, held and held there as she held him. And as night crept closer, as the first stars waited to wake, he lifted to her, wrapped around her to take them both over.
She dropped her head to his shoulder, let her body melt to his.
“I’ve never felt for anyone what I feel for you.”
He stroked a hand down her back. “I know.”
Melting or not, she laughed. “Confidence. Heading toward annoying.”
“I know because it’s the same for me. It’s just fact I’m what you want and need. I can wait until you get there. It’s not going to take much longer anyway.”
“I’m seeing a new side of you.” She eased back, tried to see his expression in the encroaching dark. “And it’s leaning heavily toward arrogance.”
“It’s not arrogance to know what you know. No one’s ever going to love you like I do, Cate. It’s going to be hard for you to hold out against that.” He gave her a quick kiss. “I’m starving. I’d say you are, too.”
“I could definitely eat.”
“See? I know what I know.”
While Cate ate fajitas with Dillon in candle-and starlight, Charlotte stormed around her bedroom suite. She’d just had it redone, in gold, gold, and more gold, with emerald and sapphire accents.
She’d demanded opulent, and the decorator delivered with miles of fabric, acres of glittering crystals, including the seven-tiered chandelier imported from Italy.
Under its light she could—and did—lie in a bed draped in gold silk to admire the ceiling mural. Images of Charlotte as Eve, as Juliet, as Lady Godiva, as queens and goddesses gazed down to wish her pleasant dreams.
She had it all to herself now that Conrad occupied his own suite. The poor old thing had sleep apnea, required that awful mask at night. Poor ancient thing, she corrected.
Sleep apnea, two heart attacks, a bout of pneumonia over the winter, prostate issues, skin cancer that had required surgery and reconstruction of his left ear.
And he just kept ticking.
When would he just die, quietly, painlessly, of course, and free her to take a decent lover? The prenup—ironclad—left her nothing if she had even a tiny, little affair.
Which hadn’t been a problem, or not much of one, up until the last few years. No, ancient Conrad could barely get it up now, and sure as hell couldn’t keep it up.
She’d never expected him to live this long. Surely not long enough he had to use a cane to walk across the damn room, not so long his body went from robust to flabby, and she had to at least pretend to care about the pharmacy of drugs he needed to stay alive.
But at least she didn’t have to pretend to want sex with him anymore. And he was sweetly grateful she “understood” he wasn’t capable any longer—and remained his loving, devoted wife.
All the money in the world, and she couldn’t afford to get a decent lay.
That wasn’t the worst of it, oh, no, not nearly.
Having the cops come to her door—that trumped all. She hadn’t spoken to them, of course. And damn well wouldn’t. Her lawyers crafted a statement, her lawyers handled the idiotic police.
Imagine wanting to question her about murders and attacks that had nothing to do with her. About people she didn’t give one good damn about.
Good riddance to that asshole Denby. And so what about Scarpetti, who hadn’t been smart enough to keep her out of prison? Her only regret about that bastard hick cop? He hadn’t plunged to his death. She hoped whoever had arranged it tried again, and did a better job.
And Grant? She wished he’d died choking on his own blood!
She paused to draw a finger down the gold silk drapes her maid had already pulled for the night.
No, she didn’t. Not really. She still had a little, tiny soft spot for Grant Sparks.
She wondered if he’d kept that body in prison, if he’d kept his looks.
He’d be out in a couple of years, and if Conrad finally died, she might just have him brought to her. She’d even pay him to bang her brains out.
Just thinking about it, about the sex she’d had with him, made her hot and itchy.
She’d have the maid come back, draw her a bath, lots of oils. And she’d take care of the itch herself.
She paused to study herself in one of her dressing room mirrors. Thanks to implants, her hair remained lush and full. Regular tuneups kept her face taut, smooth.
Admiring herself, she undressed, turned naked this way and that. Breasts full and high, ass high and tight. Implants and tucks worked wonders. She smoothed a hand over her belly—flat thanks to her last tummy tuck.
Smooth thighs, no wagging under the arms. The wonders of modern medicine—and the money to aff
ord it, she thought with a slow smile.
She wouldn’t have to pay Grant Sparks or anyone to get into her bed. To her eyes, she barely looked thirty-five, and with a perfect body. No one looking at her would believe she had a daughter over . . . how old was the bitch again? Who could remember? But no one would believe she had an adult daughter.
Maybe time to remind them, she considered as she reached for a white satin robe. Squeeze a little more juice out of that lemon. She’d get her publicist on that in the morning, but now, she wanted that bath, that self-release.
Then she’d take a pill, call it an early night.
She had a photo shoot the next day, had to look her best while she did the spread. Then a dinner party after where she could complain about exhausting herself for her art.
Really a perfect day, she decided as she rang for the maid.
The only thing that could make it better would be if poor old Conrad died in his sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Relationships, Cate discovered, could offer a steady, satisfying kind of routine. Because she barely surfaced, if at all, when Dillon left each morning, she woke alone, took her time clearing her brain with coffee and the view.
Depending on her workload, she might put in an hour in the studio before walking up to the main house to nag her grandfather into the gym.
Better, as June hinted at summer, she nagged him into the pool.
She’d researched water aerobics.
“Swimming’s supposed to be relaxing.”
“It will be, when you finish those squats and biceps curls.”
Standing in the shallow end, she did them with him.
“Whoever invented pool weights deserves to be shot.” Sunlight beamed off his sunglasses as he curled the bright blue weights up through the water. “Then run over by a train. Then shot again.”
“Consuela’s making a frittata for breakfast.” She squatted, curled, admitted a secret desire for that bullet and train. “But you have to earn it. Fagfaimid! Two more, Sullivan!”
“Now she throws Irish at me. I love my granddaughter, but my personal trainer’s a pain in the ass.”
“One more, and . . . done.”
She laughed when he sank, Ray-Bans, sun hat, and all, under the water.
“Let’s stretch it out,” she said when he surfaced. “You’re getting shredded there, Handsome Hugh.”
He gripped the side, did the calf stretches, the hamstring, the quads. “A man my age should be allowed to get creaky and flabby.”
“Not when he’s my grandpa.”
“Are you going to nag Lily into all this when she gets back next week?”
“That’s the plan.”
Hugh took off his hat, wrung it out, plopped it back on. “Might be worth it then.”
Smiling, she pushed off to do a lazy reward lap, to float, to bask.
“Since Dad’s due back from London soon, he’ll come up for a while, and I’ll get him in on this, too. We can work out a synchronized routine. Take that show on the road.”
“The Swimming Sullivans.”
On another laugh, she did a surface dive, skimmed along the bottom and to the ladder. Pulling herself out, she toweled off while watching boats ply the sea.
“Look.” She pointed. “It’s a blue whale. The first I’ve seen this season.”
He stepped beside her in time to see the tail flip up, disappear.
“I remember watching whales sound from here when I was younger than you. And still, it never fails to pull me in. When my mother decided to move to Ireland, she asked which I wanted. The house here or in Beverly Hills.
“It was always this one. Always. Even when weeks, even months passed until I could be here and hope to see a whale sound, it was always this one.”
“We’re lucky, Grandpa, in our ancestors.”
“That we are.”
She hooked the towel on before dragging her hair back with her hands. “One problem with the location? Stylist. When Lily gets back, we’re going to join forces and get Gino up here for hair. He’d come to Big Sur for Lily.”
“You have beautiful hair.”
She squeezed water out of it. “It needs something. A good, professional whack. There are only two people I trust to whack at it. Gino, and the woman I found in New York after many sad and failed attempts.”
She turned, fluttered her eyelashes. “After all, I have a boyfriend now.”
“You couldn’t have chosen better.” Hugh put on a white terry cloth robe.
“Sometimes I think fate did the choosing, but either way.” She circled around to join him, hooked a floral sarong around her waist. “Come to dinner tonight.”
“I’m not horning in on your time together.”
“It’s not horning in if I’m asking you.”
As always, Consuela had already set the table for breakfast. A carafe of juice nestled in an ice bucket, an insulated pot of coffee stood ready.
Cate poured two servings of both.
“I’ll ask Dillon to bring steaks—and your favorite fingerling potatoes if they have any. I could attempt my second soufflé.”
On a happy sigh, Hugh sat. “You had me at ‘steak.’ ”
“Good. He can bring the dogs, and we’ll have ourselves a party.”
“And what are you doing today besides making me dinner?”
“Singing for most of it. You guest starred on that series Caper a couple seasons ago, didn’t you?”
“I did. Retired thief called back into action to help a friend. It’s a solid ensemble show, cleverly done.”
“And they’re doing a kind of musical episode, but it turns out the lead actress can’t carry a tune. Seriously can’t. They’d planned to play that for laughs, but don’t feel it worked. So I’m dubbing her songs. Two solos, a duet, and an ensemble.”
“You’ll have fun with it.”
“I already am. And here comes breakfast.”
Cate’s smile faded when she saw Consuela’s tight-lipped, hard-eyed expression.
“Is everything all right?”
“I don’t want to tell you.” With sharp movements, Consuela set down the tray. Lips compressed, she put two bowls of fruit and yogurt on the table, then the frittata. “But I must tell you.”
Hugh rose, pulled out a chair. “Sit down, Consuela.”
“I can’t sit. I’m too angry to sit.” On a rapid stream of Spanish, she threw up her hands, marched away and back again.
“That was too fast for me,” Hugh admitted, “except for the curse words. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard Consuela use those words.”
“It’s about Charlotte. On TV this morning. It’s all right. It won’t matter.”
That brought another spate of furious Spanish. But this time at the end of it, Consuela crossed her hands over her heart, closed her eyes, took several breaths.
“I’m sorry. I will calm. That woman, she was on my morning show with her lies and sad looks, and her pretending to be a good person. She says—announces,” Consuela corrected, “she is—has—established a big—much money—foundation. Her husband’s money because she is a . . .”
Stopping herself, she shook her head. “I will not say the word she is. She makes this for—ah, I’m too upset for English.”
“She’s established a charitable foundation.” Cate translated for Hugh as Consuela spewed in Spanish. “To help women, mothers, who are in or have been released from prison. To help them connect or reconnect with their child or children. Education programs, counseling, drug and alcohol rehabilitation, housing assistance, job training and placement. She’s calling it A Mother’s Heart.
“Yes, Consuela, I understand.”
“But, niña mío, she says how her heart is broken because her daughter has never forgiven her. How this breaks the heart of all mothers. And she hopes to help heal the hearts of mothers who have made mistakes as she did.
“She has tears.” Consuela tapped a finger to her cheek. “Lying tears that would burn her hear
t if she had one. She has no heart to burn, no heart to break.”
“No, she doesn’t.” Rising, she put her arms around the furious housekeeper. “But you do. You are a mother to me, always. A mother in my heart,” she murmured, kissing Consuela’s cheek. “She’s nothing to us.”
“Te amo.”
“Te amo,” Cate echoed, and kissed her other cheek.
“Your breakfast gets cold. You eat. Both eat. I have work.”
“She’ll clean something within an inch of its life,” Cate commented as Consuela marched off. “That’s what she does when she’s pissed off or upset.”
When she sat, started to put a serving of the frittata on Hugh’s plate, he covered her hand with his. “And you?”
“Me? I’m going to enjoy this excellent breakfast. The hell with her, Grandpa. Just the hell with her. And who knows? If she actually follows through with this, she may—inadvertently—help some women who need help.”
“She’ll make the rounds on this, milk some press out of it.”
“I’m sure she will. I’m sure that’s the point.” She shrugged as she dished up the frittata. “I could do the same thing. I won’t,” she added when she caught Hugh’s stare. “Because I think more of myself and my family than milking cheap publicity. But I’ve thought of it a few times over the years.”
“If you wanted to make a statement—”
“I don’t,” she interrupted. “I made that decision a long time ago, and haven’t changed my mind. And I have thought about it, considered it, weighed the upside of it. The downside, for me, is still heavier. I like the life I’ve built, Grandpa, the one I’m still building. I’m happy in it. And there’s still enough in me to get real satisfaction from knowing she’s not happy, not really, in the life she built.”
“There’s no revenge sweeter than a happy life.”
“I bet she’s not sitting by the pool on this gorgeous morning, with miles of sea and sky all around, smelling the flowers, feeling the ocean breeze. And eating the best frittata in California with someone she loves.”
Cate went to work, miserably botched the first dubbing, and had to walk away, order her head to clear.
Bad enough, she thought, the timing on this song, the actress’s lip movements, posed a challenge without letting Charlotte in.
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