I DO, BUT HERE'S THE CATCH

by Pamela Burford

  He used to spend hours in his game room, solo, just kicking back, Grant thought sourly. He never used to need company.

  He opened the fly of his green khaki slacks and paused, listening. Music. Was Charli playing the radio?

  Then he remembered she didn't have a radio in her room. Zipping up his pants, he opened his door and heard the unmistakable sound of a flute. She'd told him she played several instruments passably, in her role as a high school music teacher and band conductor, but that the flute was her favorite.

  He padded barefoot to her door, which was cracked open a couple of inches. She played more than passably, he thought, surprised by the unusual syncopation and spirited tempo of the piece. This music was avant-garde, full of energy and feeling, with a Celtic flavor.

  He'd have expected his wife to favor sedate, conventional songs. This was closer to the style of Ian Anderson, who played flute for the rock group Jethro Tull.

  Grant edged closer and peeked into her room, dimly lit by a solitary bedside reading lamp. Charli stood at her window, staring out at the dark expanse of Long Island Sound. She wore summer pajamas made of some kind of thin T-shirt material in a pastel floral pattern—a sleeveless top over short shorts that barely covered what they were meant to. Especially now, with her body moving to the rhythm of the music, her hair swaying in a glossy dark curtain hallway down her back.

  The sight of her soft, round bottom so temptingly displayed reminded him of earlier in the evening, in John and Moira's kitchen, when she'd almost caught him ogling her. These skimpy pj's left little to his imagination—an imagination that hadn't done her justice, he now saw.

  Silently Grant pushed the door wider. She didn't know he was there. He knew he should make his presence known, or better yet, return to his own room. Instead he stood rooted to the spot, savoring the voyeuristic thrill of spying on his own wife in a private moment. It was a foolhardy thing to do. God knew he'd had enough trouble sleeping lately without adding this tantalizing image to the fantasies that tormented him. Yet he was helpless to move.

  The music wound down at last, ending on a trilling note that pulled at something deep within him. Slowly Charli lowered the flute, still staring into the darkness beyond her window.

  Grant didn't know he was going to speak until he heard his own voice. "Charli."

  She started, and turned to look at him, those beautiful eyes wide and fathomless in the half-light.

  He took a step into the room. "I never heard you play before. You're very good."

  "Thank you." She looked at the flute in her hands. "It relaxes me, playing."

  Why had he never heard his wife play her flute? Grant wondered. Why had he never asked her to play for him? He should have asked. He'd had no idea she had this in her—not just the talent, but the heart, the spirit.

  The passion.

  The very thing he'd made clear he didn't want from her.

  Grant crossed the room and took the flute from her. The gleaming metal retained the warmth of her hands. His fingers closed around it as his gaze moved up her body, lingering on her full breasts, obviously bare under the clingy pajama top. His nostrils flared as he inhaled her warm, soapy scent

  He looked her in the eye, expecting to see discomfort at his frank scrutiny, expecting—hoping—she'd mutter an embarrassed good-night and show him the door. Instead she stared back unblinkingly. Her breasts rose and fell faster under the thin material. Was she afraid of him? Or was it something else?

  Better that she feared him, he acknowledged bitterly. The something else could lead to nothing but grief. He had to stay focused on his goal, or the sweat and sacrifices of the last twenty-three years—not to mention the hell of his first sixteen—would have been for nothing.

  Grant broke eye contact first. "Hold next Wednesday open. We're going to the ballet with the Van Cleaves."

  "Next Wednesday? A week from today?" He nodded.

  "I can't make it."

  "What do you mean? Of course you can make it. I have tickets to the New York City Ballet."

  "I'm sorry, Grant, I have a symphonic band rehearsal that night."

  "Oh, is that all? Reschedule it." He set the flute on the dresser top and turned to leave.

  His wife's quiet "No" halted him in midstep. He faced her. Her chin inched up, just slightly.

  "Look, Charli, this isn't some kind of whim. It's politics. It's the Van Cleaves. Eileen Van Cleave is mad for the ballet." Charli knew how important Frank Van Cleave was to Grant's career. "Wear that new gray-and-ivory outfit. With the sapphire necklace I gave you."

  "The spring concert is next Thursday," she said. "I can't change the rehearsal dates—they were set months ago. And not just for my group. We're doing a piece with the concert choir. Everyone will be there that night. I wish you'd consulted me before you bought the tickets."

  "I don't see the problem." He tossed his hands up. "Get a substitute teacher!"

  His words straightened Charli's spine. For the first time, he saw genuine anger in her eyes, directed at him. As he tried to figure out why, she said, "I don't know what makes you think anyone else can sub for me, Grant. Especially for the last rehearsal before an important concert."

  "What, this is about your ego?" He hadn't thought she had one.

  "My ego?" She shook her head incredulously. "You have no idea what I do for a living, do you?"

  "Look, I'm not belittling—"

  "These kids are some of the finest young musicians on the Island. Symphonic band isn't some after-school activity, it's an honors course. As in five classes a week, plus private lessons and daily practice. They play the most advanced professional arrangements. Two of our seniors have gotten into Julliard, and one's going to Curtis next year. What am I supposed to do, get some … some—" she gestured angrily "—run-of-the-mill sub to come in and take my place because Frank Van Cleave's wife is crazy about the ballet?"

  Charli was quivering with indignation. Grant was so astounded by this unprecedented display of backbone, he was momentarily speechless. What had happened to his shy bride with the tractable nature?

  Charli said, "If my kids can make that kind of commitment, for four solid years, the least I can do is show up for the last rehearsal before a major concert."

  Grant rubbed a hand over his jaw. "What can I say? You're right I should've asked if you were free Wednesday." It wasn't what she'd expected to hear, he could tell. "I'll see if I can exchange the tickets. Is the Wednesday after good for you?"

  She nodded.

  "Otherwise," he said, "I'll go without you. I don't want to do that, though. I want to introduce you to Frank. He's anxious to meet you."

  And Grant was anxious to establish himself as a stable married man, prime partner material. He kept that part to himself, but something in his wife's watchful expression told him she'd read between the lines.

  "Listen," he said, "this concert of yours. It's next Thursday?"

  "That's right."

  "Because I'd like to be there."

  "You don't have to do that."

  Grant almost smiled. Before Charli, he'd never considered stubborn pride to be an appealing trait. "I want to," he said, surprised to discover it was true.

  Her gaze dropped to the cream carpet under her bare feet. "You usually have to work late."

  "Well, I'll make an exception."

  Charli looked up then, studying him. Finally she said, "I wouldn't want to hamper your social life."

  "What does my social life have to do with my workload?" As he watched her struggle for a response, the truth struck Grant "You think I'm lying to you? That when I say I'm working late, I'm seeing other women?"

  "Well, I … I didn't … I mean, I thought…"

  "I'm not going to lie to you, Charli. What made you think I would?"

  She took a deep breath. "I figured, since you hadn't mentioned any, um, dates…"

  "What do you expect me to do, report to you every time I—" He broke off with an exasperated sigh. Why did they have to ta
lk about this?

  Just when he expected a blushing retreat, she looked him square in the eye and said, "I'm not asking you to report to me, Grant I just don't want you to feel you have to cover up your … activities."

  He gave her a wry smile. "The errant husband, slipping around on the side, concocting excuses for his whereabouts? That's the kind of duplicitous nonsense I'd hoped to avoid when I proposed our arrangement."

  "So does that mean you haven't seen anyone else since the wedding? I mean, since you're so busy at the firm—"

  "My outside activities are not subject to discussion," he said imperiously, hoping to stifle this topic for good. "I told you, I'll be discreet. That's all you need to know."

  She returned his level stare for long, strained moments. At last she shrugged and said, "It's probably best that way." Grant started to breathe a sigh of relief until she added, "I have no desire to report every little thing to you, either."

  Charli lifted her flute and tucked it into the velvet-lined instrument case lying open on her bed. She closed and latched the case and carried it to her closet, where she slid it onto one of the high shelves.

  Grant watched this process in silence, as his fingers clenched and his pulse whooshed in his ears. Finally he said, "What do you mean?"

  His words brought her head around, as if she'd forgotten he was there. Another shrug. "Just that I agree with what you said."

  "No, I mean…" She couldn't have meant what it sounded like. Not Charli! She crossed to her dresser and picked up her hairbrush. Grant followed close behind. "I'm just, you know, curious about exactly what you meant by that."

  He met her dark gaze in the mirror over the dresser as she started to brush her hair, drawing the bristles through the lustrous strands slowly, almost sensually. Her movements caused her breasts to lift, and sway a little with each downstroke of the brush. Grant's mouth felt dry. He forced his eyes back to hers.

  She said, "Don't worry, Grant. You're not the only one who knows how to be discreet."

  That whooshing in his ears got louder. "Discreet about what?"

  Setting down the brush, she lifted her hair off her nape, letting it fall in a shimmering curtain down her back, enveloping him in her womanly fragrance.

  His voice was tight as he repeated, "Discreet about what, Charli?"

  "We'll do nothing to embarrass each other. Isn't that what we discussed? Keeping our private liaisons private?"

  What's this "we" stuff? his mind raged. At the time they'd discussed all this, he'd spoken only of himself, of his own actions. He'd simply assumed…

  Never assume. Some virtuoso lawyer, forgetting a basic rule like that.

  But this was Charli! Mr. and Mrs. Rossi's mousy, sexless daughter.

  He thought about her suspicions concerning his late hours at the office, where he often worked until eight or nine. Classes at the school where Charli taught ended a little after two-thirty in the afternoon. Most days she stayed an hour or so to meet with students or attend faculty meetings. That still left…

  A hell of a lot of time to be "discreet"!

  "Grant," she said, "you're crowding me."

  Unconsciously he'd pressed against her from behind. He stepped back. She glanced pointedly at her old-fashioned alarm dock. "I have to get up at six."

  When he made no move, she added, "You have to be up even earlier. We'd better turn in."

  His voice was a low, menacing rumble. "You're not seeing anyone else."

  She cocked her head, smiling at him in the mirror. "You see? I do know how to be discreet."

  Grant grabbed her shoulders and spun her to face him. He backed her against the dresser, rattling the bottles and hair things and that dilapidated old jewelry box she refused to let him replace.

  "Who?" he demanded.

  "Grant, what's gotten into you?" She tried to squirm out of his grasp, but he gripped her shoulders harder.

  "Answer me, damn it!" He gave her a little shake. "Who is he?"

  "We talked about our arrangement, remember? My outside activities are none of your business."

  "You're my wife!" he barked. "What you do and who you do it with sure as hell is my business!"

  She gaped at him. "Are you telling me you expect me to adhere to a double standard? As in, you're allowed to have outside relationships, but I'm not?"

  Grant shoved her away, breathing hard, wondering how much it hurt to put your fist through a mirror.

  "Because if that's what you had in mind," she continued, "you should've said so at the beginning. I'd never agree to a sexist arrangement like that."

  He groped for a way to rebut her words without coming off as the chauvinist troglodyte he was beginning to feel like. Charli crossed to the door and held it open for him. "It's late, Grant."

  He stalked to the door and slammed it shut, propelling her against it. "Just for the record," he growled. "I haven't touched another woman since I started seeing you, and if you think I'm going to let you sleep around behind my back, you'd damn well better think again!"

  Grant captured her mouth in a possessive, almost punishing kiss, pressing her hard into the door. Her pliant breasts, crushed against his bare chest, seemed to burn him right through her stretchy pajama top. His tongue breached her closed lips, forcing them open. Holding her head still, he ravished her mouth, thrusting in a blatantly sexual rhythm. Some primal part of him needed to claim her, penetrate her, put his stamp on her. She trembled; a small whimper escaped her.

  The rational part of his mind had almost managed to assert itself when he felt her hands on him, sliding up his sides. Then he was lost, his will subverted by the raw pleasure of her touch. Her mouth shifted under his, as, if seeking greater contact. Her tongue stroked his, tentatively at first, then with mounting hunger. The primal, animal part of him responded, kissing her with savage intensity.

  As if drawn by a magnet, Grant's hand moved to her breast. He kneaded the resilient fullness through the flimsy fabric, weighed the soft flesh in his palm. He'd only touched her through her blouse and bra before, and just that one brief time the night of their engagement. She'd been tense and unresponsive then, just tolerating his caress, or so he'd assumed. Now, as he gently plucked the erect tip, she gasped, wrenching her mouth from his. She grabbed his wrist, but didn't try to remove his hand.

  Grant stared down into Charli's slumberous eyes, which were glittering with sensual anticipation. There was no mistaking the desire he saw there. Her breathing quickened, causing her breast to nudge his palm with rhythmic insistence. Her fingers slid from his wrist to his fingers, pressing them closer, mutely urging him.

  He slipped both hands under her pajama top and stroked her bare breasts. Charli's head dropped back. Grant knew he'd never heard anything as erotic as her shuddering sigh. She arched into his caress, as if offering herself, and he was helpless to resist.

  He pushed her pajama top up to her shoulders. She was perfect, her breasts ample and beautifully shaped, the nipples dusky and inviting in the dim light. He bent his head and kissed one puckered tip. Charli gasped; her fingernails dug into his upper arms. He sucked the sweet, stiff peak into his mouth, and she cried out as if burned.

  She was exquisitely sensitive. He suckled her greedily, teased her with his tongue and teeth, delighting in her rhythmic moans. Breathless, she gasped his name. He was wrong before, he thought distractedly. This was the most erotic sound—his name on Charli's lips, uttered with a desperate urgency that had his own body clamoring for release.

  He claimed her other breast. She moved restlessly against him, prompting him to slide his hand down her back and under the elastic waist of her shorts. Her bottom was warm and silky under his exploring fingers, the muscles tightening as she squirmed against him with a soft exhalation. She clutched him, clung to him, and all he could think about was getting inside her.

  Charli became still. Her fingertips moved lightly over his back, and he knew she felt them. The scars.

  "Grant?"

  Slowly he strai
ghtened, grateful for the interruption and the chance to regain control of himself, though he didn't welcome the inevitable questions.

  Her eyes searched his. "Let me see." She tried to turn him, but he backed away.

  "It's nothing. An old injury."

  "Let me see," she repeated, stepping around him.

  She had to see sooner or later, he knew. This was his home; he couldn't stay covered up forever. He stood stiffly, feeling her breath tickle the skin of his back as she simply stared. Then he felt it once more, the brush of her fingers, as light as a wisp of down.

  Her voice was oddly tight. "How did this happen?"

  He could lie. He'd done it before, but the thought of lying to Charli made him feel dirty. Unworthy. "It's not important." He turned to face her, ending the inspection.

  "However you got those scars, I'll bet it seemed pretty important at the time."

  "Drop it, Charli."

  She scowled in frustration. "Why are you so secretive?" When he didn't answer, she said, "I'm your wife, Grant. We're supposed to share our past with each other, get to know what brought us to this point, what made us the way we are."

  He smiled grimly. "Sometimes people are the way they are despite their past, not because of it." He sighed. "Listen, I told you before, I'm not withholding anything significant. That should be good enough for you."

  The look on her face made him regret his words, reminding him that this entire marriage was an exercise in what was "good enough" for Charli Rossi Sterling. To his shame, that was pretty much how he'd seen it when he'd proposed. Other women held out for love, devotion and babies. But for the plain spinster schoolteacher with no other marriage prospects, just getting a prosperous, well-respected professional man's ring on her finger was "good enough." Improving her lifestyle was "good enough," more than adequate compensation for the role she was expected to play in helping him attain his goal.