“You, on the other hand, look like hell,” she said bluntly, studying him with concern.
“Bad week?”
“Lousy weeks,” he said, emphasizing the plural.
She was astounded and admittedly a little hurt that he hadn’t shared his problems with her. “But you didn’t let on when we talked.”
“The last thing I wanted to discuss on the phone was business,” he murmured. “God, it feels good to hold you again.”
Catherine was struck by a sudden brainstorm. It was late. Dillon was beat. Why should they drive all the way to Hilton Head when she had this wonderful apartment right here? “Let’s get out of here and go someplace where you can hold me properly,” she suggested.
“Improperly was more what I had in mind.”
She grinned at him. “Me, too,” she said with heartfelt enthusiasm.
In the car, Dillon’s eyes drifted closed at once. Glancing over at him, she watched his struggle to keep them open. He stared out the window, then frowned.
“This isn’t the way,” he protested when she turned onto the highway into downtown Savannah.
“I know,” she said, her eyes directed straight ahead.
The silence that greeted her response was so long, she finally glanced in his direction. He was wide-awake and regarding her curiously. “What do you have in mind, Catherine Devlin?”
“You’ll see,” she said, thoroughly enjoying the unexpected chance to be mysterious.
When she pulled up in front of a stately old house facing one of Savannah’s many squares, Dillon’s curiosity turned to obvious dismay. “Catherine, please. I’m too tired to go visiting.”
“We’re not going visiting.”
“What is this, then? One of those bed-and-breakfast places? I hate that. There’s not enough privacy.”
“Have a little faith, mister. Grab your bag and follow me.”
After a lengthy pause in which he seemed to be considering her rare display of bossy teasing, he gave a resigned shrug and took his suitcase out of the back seat. Catherine led the way through a yard filled with the heavy scent of roses in full bloom. A side path, lit by old-fashioned gas lamps, wound around to the back, where the old brick carriage house sat at the end of an overgrown cobbled drive.
“Who lives here?” Dillon asked, regarding the building with a critical eye.
“Do you like it?”
“It has a lot of charm. Whose is it?”
“Mine,” she said, watching his eyes. They widened in surprise as they met hers.
“Ours,” she said hesitantly. “That is, if you want it to be. I mean for whenever we can meet here. What do you think? Dillon, say something.”
A slow smile began to play about his lips. “You bought this place?”
She shook her head. “I rented it. It was cheap. It’s been fixed up some, but there’s still work to be done. They agreed to keep the rent down, if I’d do some of the restoration. The college sent me over.”
Suddenly his arms were around her again and he was swinging her in the air. “You enrolled!”
Laughing, she nodded. For the first time the decision seemed real. For the first time she allowed her excitement to show. Once she began telling him, the words spilled out. “I start classes this fall. I’ll probably only stay here during the week. I’ll need to get back to Atlanta on the weekends to make sure the house there is kept up and to do all the family things. I’ve cut back on my committees, but there were a few I was committed to helping. I can catch up on all that on weekends, too. What do you think?”
“I think you’re wonderful. I am so proud of you.”
The expression in his eyes wiped away the last traces of doubt. She lifted her hand and touched the tired lines on his face, lines that had almost, but not quite vanished in his enthusiasm for her decision. “Want to stay here with me this weekend?” she whispered. “There’s food in the house. We wouldn’t have that long drive. It would be like really living together, even if it is just for a few days. This will be the first place that will be ours together.”
“You haven’t stayed here?”
“Not yet. I was waiting for you. I wanted to share my first night here with you.”
His eyes darkened with some emotion she couldn’t identify. Pleasure. Passion. A vague hint of laughter. “You weren’t planning to go to Hilton Head at all, were you?”
“Of course I was,” she insisted indignantly, then wondered herself if that was the truth. “I just thought maybe we could stop here on the way back. I didn’t get the idea for staying until I saw how exhausted you looked. What do you think?”
“I think we never will get that weekend in Hilton Head.” He took her hand. “Let’s go inside, so I can greet you properly.”
She shook her head as she clasped his hand more tightly. “You promised me improper. I’m going to hold you to it.”
* * *
Catherine was finally in her element. Dillon could tell as he watched her at work in the tiny kitchen. Wonderful aromas were emanating from the oven. She was humming under her breath. Though the apartment was furnished haphazardly, every piece of furniture in it gleamed. A bowl filled with roses sat in the middle of the tiny dining room table. Awed by her knack at creating a homey ambiance so quickly, he wondered briefly if he’d been wrong to push her to return to school. Still, she seemed happy about her decision. For the moment, he’d have to take her enthusiasm at face value.
He came up behind her and slid his arms around her waist.
“I’d rather have you than dinner,” he said, nibbling on her ear. She smelled of lavender, a scent far more subtle than what she usually wore and twice as enchanting.
She squirmed against him in a half-hearted attempt to get away. The movement was maddeningly provocative.
“When was the last time you ate a proper dinner?”
“About as long ago as the last time I had you in my arms.”
“Food first,” she said staunchly, though he could tell from the shiver that ran through her that she was just as hungry as he was to experience that rare joy they had found together in Los Angeles.
When dinner was on the table, she watched every bite he put in his mouth. The close attention began to nag at him.
“More green beans?” she offered.
“No.”
“How about more chicken?”
He shook his head. “If I eat any more chicken, I’ll start clucking.” He reached over and took her hand. “Sweetheart, you don’t need to fuss over me. I’m all grown up.”
Though his reproach had been mild, she looked as if he’d slapped her. Dillon felt like a heel. That quick flash of hurt in her eyes wiped away his impatience. “Catherine, I didn’t mean that I don’t appreciate what you’ve done. The dinner was wonderful.”
“What’s so wrong about my wanting to fix you a nice meal for a change?” she said stiffly.
“Nothing. I’m just not used to anyone worrying about me. And I’m definitely cranky. Everyone at work is ready to quit if I don’t come back in a better mood. Don’t you turn tail and run out on me, too.”
She sighed and that awful look in her eyes began to fade away. “I’m not about to run out on you,” she said finally. “But, Dillon, the last thing I want to do is smother you.”
“You’re not smothering me. I really am sorry if I sounded as if you were. Now come around here. I’ve eaten my vegetables and I’d very much like dessert.”
“I baked an apple pie.”
“It’ll keep. I have something much healthier in mind.”
Catherine came around to sit in his lap. Though her arms were around his shoulders, she was holding herself so rigidly that Dillon knew at once that she was still hurting from his unthinking criticism. He’d waited weeks for this moment, weeks longer than he’d anticipated and he ached from the loneliness of it. Though he’d worked harder than ever during their separation, for once his career hadn’t blocked all other thoughts from his mind. Always there had been the memory
of Catherine taunting him. Now he’d spoiled their reunion by taking his lousy mood out on her.
“Forgive me,” he whispered in her ear. A sigh shuddered through her. She nodded finally and her arms tightened around him.
“Then show me,” he pleaded. “I’ve missed you so much. I haven’t been able to concentrate on anything. And at night, after we’d talk, I’d lie awake for hours wishing you were there with me, so I could touch you. Here.” His fingers stroked the fullness of her lips. “And here.” He circled the tip of her breast, thrilling as it responded to his touch.
“You’ve missed me, too?”
“I thought I’d die from loneliness,” she admitted, her fingers already at work on the buttons of his shirt. Her lips found the hard-throbbing pulse at the base of his neck, lingering, teasing his flesh with her tongue, then leaving it to cool it the sultry air.
Dillon’s arousal was swift and urgent. His breath snagged as her hands began to stroke and caress his shoulders, then his back and finally his bared stomach. “Catherine, sweetheart,” he began, then moaned with pleasure. “Catherine!”
“Hmm?”
“Do you suppose, just this once, we could actually get as far as the bedroom?”
“How utterly boring,” she taunted, her blue eyes smoky with passion. “But if you insist….”
He lifted her into his arms. “I’m afraid I do. If we make love on the dining room floor, that is where I’m very likely to spend the night. Tomorrow I’ll have aches and pains in muscles I’d forgotten existed.”
“I’d be happy to massage them for you,” she said generously.
“I’m tempted,” he admitted, noting the wicked gleam in her eyes. “But all things considered, I’m opting for bed. I promise to try very hard to keep it from being boring for you….”
“Where did you learn that?” she asked a few minutes later, gasping for breath.
Dillon grinned. “Unless you’ve been married to a man for forty years, I’m not sure it’s a good idea to ask him where he learned how to make love. Unless, of course, you’re really angling to discover his past sexual history. Did you want references for this?” he inquired as he stroked and teased in a way that left her writhing beneath him.
“No,” she whispered raggedly. “Just don’t stop.”
“Not even for this?” he taunted. “Or this?”
Catherine gasped again, then arched into his touch. Whispering his name, her eyes wide with surprise, she trembled beneath him. His own body aching for release, he watched as hers slowly began to relax again.
A tear slid down her cheek as she touched his face. “Why?” she asked.
“A gift,” he said. “I wanted you to know how much I love you.”
A second tear clung to her dark lashes, then rolled down her cheek. “Oh, Dillon,” she whispered, her hands tangling in the hairs on his chest. “I love you, too. You’ve already given me so much. You’ve given me back my self-confidence. I’ll never forget that.”
She moved until her long, shapely leg was draped over his thigh and they were laying hip to hip. Her heat was as alluring as any flame and he found himself seeking it, reaching for the hottest center. There was little finesse to her movements, just an instinctive sharing, an overwhelming desire to enhance his excitement. She asked with anxious eyes and then she gave, urging him higher than he’d ever been before, crying out with him when they reached the top. It was a cry of exultation, of joy and of love.
* * *
When Catherine finally woke up in the morning, Dillon’s place in bed was cold and empty. She glanced at the bedside clock. It was barely seven-thirty. For a moment, she panicked, wondering if he’d left, wondering if she hadn’t been forgiven for last night’s tension after all. Then she smelled the aroma of coffee brewing and heard the pop-up sound of the toaster. After several minutes, when there was still no sign of Dillon, she got up and pulled on her robe before padding barefooted into the kitchen.
She found Dillon seated at the kitchen table, papers spread all over, a cup of coffee and a plate of partially eaten toast beside him. He was wearing jeans, but no shirt or shoes. He looked impossibly sexy and every bit as tired as he had the previous night. She wanted to yell at him, to tell him he was killing himself, but had learned a bitter lesson the night before. He wouldn’t appreciate it. She bit her tongue and simply dropped a kiss on his forehead as she passed by on her way to the coffeepot.
“Good morning,” he murmured distractedly. “You’re up early.”
“I missed you. What time did you get up?”
“About six, I guess. My mind started turning over all this work I have to do, so I figured I might as well get started.”
“I thought this was a holiday.”
“It is. I’m not in the office.”
“That’s a lousy definition of a holiday,” she said, struggling to keep her tone bantering.
“Want some breakfast?”
“I had coffee and toast.”
“No eggs? Bacon? Maybe French toast?”
“Nothing, really. I won’t be able to relax until I get this done.” His smile was apologetic, but his eyes were distracted.
Catherine nodded finally. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”
“Thanks,” he murmured, but he was already absorbed again by what he was doing.
Catherine took a shower, then dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. She stood in the doorway of the kitchen and announced, “I’m going for a walk. Can I bring you anything?”
He glanced up, his gaze lingering appreciatively on her bare legs. “I wish I were going with you.”
“Then come. It might relax you. You’ll get even more done when you get back.”
For an instant, he looked tempted, but then that familiar determined look came into his eyes and he shook his head. “Sorry, sweetheart. Not now. Maybe after dinner.”
“Fine,” she said, once again choking off her concern. How long could he continue with this sort of demanding pace? She had been able to delude herself on their past meetings that though Dillon was a self-avowed workaholic, he did permit himself some moments of release. Now she wondered. Had their previous meetings really been all that carefree? For the most part they’d been hurried. Only in Los Angeles had he seemed to relax once their meeting with Ruben Prunelli was over. Was her ability to distract him fading already or was it simply that Dillon was so compulsive about his work that no woman could ever compete for long? Certainly it had cost him his marriage. He’d already admitted that much.
Feeling every bit as lonely as she had during the weeks when Dillon had been in New York, Catherine walked until well past lunchtime. Only when she was practically starving did she return to the apartment. Dillon’s papers were still strewn over the table, but he was on the sofa, a dictating machine in his hand, a thick report on his stomach. He was sound asleep, snoring softly, the tired lines in his face finally relaxed.
Catherine bent over him and smoothed his brow. “Oh, Dillon, how is this ever going to work? We’re not even together when we’re in the same room.”
He sighed at the sound of her voice and stirred slightly, then settled more comfortably on the sofa. Catherine left him to sleep, while she ate her lunch. Then she began fixing dinner. She chose one of her favorite recipes, a complicated one which required endless chopping and mincing and stirring. It kept her hands busy, but unfortunately not her mind. The thoughts that tumbled about like colors in a kaleidoscope weren’t nearly so pretty.
By the time Dillon awoke she knew that they were going to have to talk about the way he was working himself to death and, just as important, the way he was shutting her out. When he came into the kitchen, though, sleepy-eyed and contrite and loving, her doubts and criticisms slid away.
It became the pattern for the rest of the weekend: enchanting evenings, tumultuous lovemaking and then long empty hours of mental, if not physical, separation. It was their final morning together before she found the courage to confront him.
“Dillon,
how do you feel about this weekend?”
He regarded her blankly. “It was wonderful. I loved being here with you.”
“That’s just it. You weren’t with me. For all the time we really spent together, you might must as well have been in your office in New York.”
“But I wasn’t. I was here, even though it probably would have made more sense for me to stay up there. I came because I missed you, because I wanted to be with you. Why are you just bringing this up now? We’ve had the whole weekend and you haven’t complained once. I thought you understood. Now, just when I’m ready to leave for the airport, you tell me that you’ve been miserable.”
“I know. I should have said something sooner. I was trying to understand, but the truth of the matter is that I don’t. Or maybe I do. Maybe you’re more like Matthew than I thought. Maybe you like having a woman around for convenience, but don’t want to make the effort necessary to keep the relationship alive.”
His jaw tightened at the reference to Matthew. “I am not your ex-husband and I do not regard you as a convenience. I love you,” he said angrily, yanking up the phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling a cab.”
“I’ll take you to the airport.”
“I think not. I think it would be better if you stayed here and thought about what a real relationship is like.”
“And you?” she countered furiously. “What are you going to be thinking about? Work?”
“Yes, dammit. I’m going to think about work. It gives me enough money to go where I want and to be with a woman I love, a woman I thought was starting to love me.” He stomped through the front door, leaving Catherine to stare after him, openmouthed and trembling.
It was only after her fury had died down, after the loneliness had set in worse than ever, that she began to think about what he’d said. Never once all weekend had she asked him what he was working on. Never once had she wondered if there was some serious problem that demanded all of his energy. She’d been far too concerned with her own sense of loss, her own conviction that once again she was involved with a man with whom she’d come second.
It was going to be three or four endless hours before she could call Dillon in New York, an eternity before she could try to talk this out without anger and recriminations. She turned on the news which featured several holiday features. Labor Day. She lifted her glass of wine in a solemn toast to the occasion.
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