His 1-800 Wife

by Shirley Hailstock

  Going back to her side, she climbed onto the bed again. She didn't intend to go to sleep. She was serious about not spending the day in bed, but watching him sleep seemed like a good way to pass the time. Jarrod had said he wondered why they didn't share a room, but it was really the bed he wanted to share. This was as close as she could come. She looked at his relaxed face. He'd been worried about her. He'd stayed awake all last night, checking on her.

  She inched closer to him, putting her right arm around him and sliding down under the covers.

  They were sharing, she thought.

  ***

  Jarrod was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming. He could smell the rose fragrance from Catherine's bath. And he had her in his arms. She felt real and warm. He gathered her closer, burying his face in her hair. He had to be dreaming. He opened his eyes. Blinked. She was real. He'd fallen asleep in her bed. And he had his arms around her.

  "Jarrod?" Catherine looked up at him. "You fell asleep."

  Her voice was the sexy, bedroom voice that woke the blood inside him, draining it from his brain and pooling it between his legs. Her eyes were dark. She licked her lips, making them wet and shiny and beg­ging to be kissed.

  Jarrod threaded his fingers through her hair, smoothing it off her face. He heard her breath catch in her throat. Dark eyes, fringed with long lashes, stared up at him. He'd kissed her briefly at the con­struction site yesterday, but he hadn't touched her in weeks. It felt like months. He needed daily doses of her; he knew that now. He moved closer to her, shadowing her face with his own. Parts of her face blurred, but they were printed on his brain. He con­centrated on her mouth. His eyes saw her lips, the small pouting movement as her head raised to meet his.

  "Catherine, I know this is against the rules, but it'll take two jumbo jets to stop me."

  He kissed her, tenderly gathering her close to him, his arms completely around the part of her not cov­ered by the blankets. Her one arm closed around him. She opened her mouth, and Jarrod's tongue mated with hers. He held her gently, as if she was precious. She was precious, more than she knew, more than he had ever told her. He was telling her now, holding her like a mountain flower, one that appears rarely and then recedes for decades. Cather­ine was his mountain flower, his beautiful, blooming bud. She needed his care to survive and he needed her to breathe, to go on living. He needed her softness to contrast the hardness in him. He needed her sooth­ing bud of warmth to counter the winter in him. She was his opposite and his equal. Where he stopped, she started. Where he ended, she began.

  Jarrod had to stop. His body was hot and erect. He wanted Catherine, more than he'd ever wanted anyone. It wouldn't take much. He was already hold­ing her. She was ready for him too. Her arms squeezed him, her body pressed against his, even through the covers. If he didn't stop soon, he'd pull those covers away from her and join his body with hers.

  "Catherine," he breathed, biting at her lower lip. He could still call her Catherine. He wasn't over the hill yet, but he was almost to the top of it. "We need to stop."

  Catherine groaned, continuing to kiss him. He heard the sounds in her throat. His body strained against his clothes. Then Catherine rolled over on top of him. The covers still separated them, but the pleasure that shot through him as her body settled onto his had him reeling. Jarrod reached up and cupped her face. He pushed her hair back and ran his hands over her shoulders.

  He stopped. He remembered. Catherine hadn't shown any sign of pain, but Jarrod knew he could hurt her. He'd done it yesterday to save her life, but today it would be willful. Like falling suddenly into a cold lake, Jarrod stopped. He laid her down on the bed.

  "Catherine, your shoulder."

  "My shoulder is fine," she said. To prove it, she put her arms around his neck.

  Jarrod wanted to pull her close. He wanted to bury himself inside her, find the release that only she could provide, but the outcome would be further hurt, both physically and mentally. He wouldn't do it again.

  He pulled her hands from his neck and leveled himself off the bed.

  "I want you, Catherine; I can't tell you how much. But you're hurt and it's my hand that caused it."

  "Jarrod—"

  "However unintentional." He cut her off. "You need to heal first."

  She stared at him. The dark promise in her eyes nearly killed him. For a long moment neither spoke. The room was noisy with silence. Electricity snapped as loudly as unspoken vows.

  "Will you stay and hold me?" she asked.

  It was impossible, Jarrod thought. She was asking the impossible. She stared at him with her hair falling over her shoulders, her eyes pleading, her body hot and her mouth swollen from shared kisses. Jarrod stifled a groan of surrender. He was a man, not a machine, and not a god. His stomach curled into knots, nerves screaming for release, his mind conjur­ing images of them joined, bewitched by sexual need, making love so fulfilling, so satisfying that he'd never experienced anything like it before. Yet he acted on none of these images.

  He moved back to the bed, gathered Catherine to him and lay down. He put his arms around her and prayed for the strength of Superman.

  ***

  Rain pelted the windows. It had showered off and on for the past hour. The sky was dark, and its gloom cast no shadows in the room. Catherine slept comfort­ably beside him. Jarrod listened to her breathing. The medication made her drowsy, and she'd fallen asleep shortly after she'd settled in his arms. Catherine said she wasn't going to spend the day in bed, but that was exactly where she and Jarrod were, and although they were together, they really weren't together.

  She stirred. Jarrod saw the pain on her face and knew the medication was wearing off. She was about to wake up. He got up and went into the bathroom to find the pills the doctor had given her. He didn't find them in the obvious place. The medicine cabinet had aspirin and cold tablets, but no prescription med­icine. He opened one drawer on the right of the sink. Inside was a curling iron, hairpins and other paraphernalia for grooming the hair.

  He opened the left-side drawer and his heart stopped, then started again with a thud. the pink and white box with Accuracy Pregnancy Kit written on it jumped out at him like a sleeping snake. Catherine had a home pregnancy test kit. Why? He picked up the box and stared at it. His heart pounded, but he forced himself to calm down. She could have had the kit for months, he rationalized. Because he found it didn't mean she'd bought it recently. Looking down, he spied the slip of paper lying in the bottom of the drawer. It was a receipt. He looked at the date. She hadn't had it for months, only a few weeks. She'd bought it the day after they returned from Montana, the day after they'd made love. Was Catherine preg­nant? Why hadn't she told him?

  He heard something and turned around. Catherine stood in the doorway. She looked from his face to the box in his hand and back.

  "Are you pregnant?" he asked. His voice was calm, controlled, in no way betraying the turmoil that raged inside him. She looked frightened.

  "No."

  The single word was all she offered. "But you thought you were?" He shoved the box toward her.

  "Yes." She didn't look down, but bore his stare.

  "Were you going to tell me?"

  "I hadn't decided."

  "What were you going to do? Have an abortion and keep everything to yourself?"

  "I would never do that!" The anger flashing in her eyes was genuine.

  "How would I know that?" he shouted. Yet, Jarrod thanked God she wouldn't have aborted the preg­nancy. He let out a sigh. Suddenly the small bathroom was too confining. He needed something large and open. Some place he could breathe.

  He pushed the box into Catherine's hand and passed her. "I'm going out," he said.

  "Jarrod, we need to talk."

  "Yes, we do, but we should have talked when you bought that kit. It's a little late now."

  He slammed the bedroom door on his way out. Jarrod was angry, beyond angry. He had to leave the house to be alone, and he dared not drive. He left, walking e
ast toward the end of the island, toward the Atlantic and England, six thousand miles away. If he could, he'd surely keep walking, past all the rock walls, through the sand, onto the cliffs and over the water until he was far enough away from Newport that his anger would subside. He estimated that would be somewhere over London's Tower Bridge.

  He walked past the new homes on the point, places built with the same style and architecture of the other houses on the island. They appeared to have sat there since the first East India Company ship arrived from England in 1670. Yet they were as new as last year and those under construction, this year.

  The rain coated his clothes, falling like a mist to shroud him and distort his view, but Jarrod kept walk­ing. He knew this place well. He could identify it as a surveyor, knowing the line and tilt of the earth. The sky darkened, rolling over the blue areas of the heavens like a giant caterpillar leveling the earth. In seconds, he was soaked to the skin. He didn't care. He pushed forward into the night, a ship taking no heed to the dangers of a rocky coast. Catherine thought she was pregnant and she hadn't mentioned it. In all the nights she'd sat curled in the chair across from him, she'd kept this secret to herself.

  Jarrod could see the child in his mind. He walked faster, trying to outrun the image, but it moved with him, slowed when he slowed, ran when he ran.

  That was his problem. He stopped, staring at the dark sky, not feeling the rain pounding against his skin. He wanted a child.

  With Catherine.

  ***

  "Jarrod!" Catherine shouted. The wind took her voice. She saw him, but he wasn't looking at her. He walked across the grass, heading toward the ocean, head bowed and hands in the pockets of his jacket. The area was deserted and dark in the storm. She got out of the car. Rain drenched her.

  "Jarrod." It was no good trying to call him over the wind and the ocean. Everything was against her. Not telling him was a mistake. She had been afraid, and she'd wanted to be sure. There was no reason to say anything before she knew the truth. Her reasons sounded like weak excuses now, as if she'd tried to cover up some terrible secret and, like all cover-ups, the disclosure pointed at much more guilt than was true or intended.

  Catherine ran across the marshy grass, holding her dress, which had caught between her legs and tried to trip her. She called Jarrod's name, but he didn't hear her until she got close to him.

  "Jarrod, stop."

  "What are you doing here?" He turned around to face her.

  "I need to talk to you."

  "It can wait, Catherine."

  She caught his arm as he turned to walk away. "I don't understand why you're so angry."

  He stopped walking."

  You should be glad. This marriage is tempo­rary, remember? A baby would complicate our lives. And I haven't done anything that any wife wouldn't do, any real wife."

  He stared at her.

  She didn't know if he believed her, so she rushed on. "Every wife wants to make sure before she tells her husband." She took a deep breath. "Jarrod, I was so scared."

  They stood as the rain drenched them further. Jarrod said nothing, but she thought she was reaching him.

  "When did you find out you weren't pregnant?"

  "Yesterday, in the hospital." Her shoulders dropped in defeat.

  '' But you told the nurse you weren't pregnant when she asked."

  "I know. You were sitting right next to me. I was too afraid to tell her there was a possibility. When they took me to the X-ray room, I told them. That's why the X-ray took so long. We had to wait for the pregnancy test results."

  Jarrod turned away from her. He took a few steps. Catherine thought he didn't believe her.

  "Jarrod, it's the truth. You have to believe me."

  "I do believe you." He turned back.

  "Then why are you so angry?"

  He grabbed her arms and looked her straight in the eye. "I'm angry, Catherine, because I'm in love with you."

  Catherine backed out of his grasp. No, she thought. Her mind screamed it. He couldn't be.

  "I see the feeling isn't mutual."

  "Can we talk about this in the car, Jarrod? There's no need for us to catch pneumonia."

  He came to her. Catherine stood her ground, even though she wanted to run. She couldn't run. When she left the house, chasing Jarrod, she hadn't taken her pills. She could feel the pain in her shoulder returning, and the cold rain wasn't helping. Catherine turned toward the car. She'd only taken a few steps before Jarrod noticed her limping. It wasn't from the accident; a pebble lodged in her shoe when she'd tried to catch up with him. He scooped her up in his arms. She buried her face in his neck and he tightened his arms around her.

  Jarrod stood in the middle of the marsh, holding her. The rain beat at them, stinging like needles. He whispered something she couldn't hear, but she didn't need to understand him to recognize his mouth seeking hers. She turned her head and met his kiss. She could feel his desperation. This was noth­ing like the gentleness of that morning's kiss. Jarrod's mouth was fierce, hungry with need and raw with anger. He wanted her, and Catherine wanted him too. She embraced him, drawing him as close as she could get while he held her. He let her legs fall to the ground, but his arms kept her against him. His hands went to her head, threading through the strands plastered to her head, holding her mouth to his as he kissed her lips, her eyes, her cheeks and returned to the paradise of her mouth. Catherine had been kissed before, had kissed Jarrod before, but this was different; these were love kisses. Everything about them screamed I love you.

  Catherine's heart pounded, above the sound of the rain, over the roar of the sea, hammering with a beat so strong that it drowned out all other sound except that of Jarrod's heart, which was beating the same drum as hers.

  Jarrod raised his head and stared into her eyes. He said nothing. Words weren't necessary. Then he lowered his mouth and kissed her again. A sorcerer couldn't have summoned more magic than the drums beating through them. Catherine heard it, felt it, understood it as only love could explain.

  The wind howled about them, tearing at them, trying to separate them, as if the forces swirling in the heavens had gained intelligence, banded together to pull them apart. Catherine didn't know which of them moved first, but her hands were under Jarrod's soaked sweater. She felt his skin, hot even with the rain. She pushed her hands under the soggy garment, heavy with wetness, until she reached his back. Smooth, silky skin, subtle and warm. Her fingers tin­gled as she moved them across it. Jarrod groaned in her mouth when her fingers moved around to touch his nipples. She ran the tips over him, bringing the flat nipples to life and enjoying the way Jarrod moved back and forth against her.

  He stepped back and ripped the sweater over his head as if it had just come fluffy and light from a drier and had none of the water weighing it down. Catherine gasped at the sheer virility of him. His muscles were defined, his chest carved in dark con­tours. The water sluiced over him, designating paths for her hands to follow.

  "You're beautiful," she said, more to herself than to him.

  "I love you, Catherine," Jarrod said. "I've loved you since you were sixteen years old."

  He pulled her to him and kissed her again. She felt the zipper of her dress being dragged down, the coldness of the rain trickling down her back, along with Jarrod's fingers caressing her spinal column. She shuddered, not from the cold, but from anticipation. She wanted the dress gone. She wanted to feel Jarrod's naked skin against her own. He peeled the dress away from her body, defying the rain, which fought him for possession. It fell to her hips. He eased it down and dropped it. Jarrod kissed across her shoulder, holding her tenderly as he remembered her accident. Catherine wasn't thinking of her shoulder. She could only concentrate on the hot kisses Jarrod's open mouth rained over her skin.

  She closed her eyes as ecstasy gained a foothold. Jarrod kissed the column of her neck and continued down until he came to the swell of her breasts. He reached around her and unhooked her bra. Immediately his mouth closed ove
r her already sensitive nip­ple. Delight fissured through her at the sensations that rioted inside her. Like stars shooting through her, Catherine felt her body coming apart. She raked her fingers down his back until she reached his jeans. Moving around him, she fumbled for the fastening, then unsnapped it.

  Jarrod shrugged out of them, forcing them over his wet skin. Catherine pushed her panties to the ground. The two stood naked in the dark day, with the wind whipping at them and the rain pelting them. She stepped forward first. She clamped her mouth to Jarrod's and pulled him down to the ground. She didn't care that it was wet, that it was grassy, or that she was lying on her caftan, its colors bleeding a sea of pink and brown.

  He covered her with his body, gently spreading her legs. Catherine should have remembered the sensa­tions, remembered the burst of pleasure that shot through her when Jarrod entered her.

  But she didn't.

  It was as if they had never before made love. They hadn't, not like this, not with this new intensity. Jarrod's hands slid under her, lifting her slightly as he drove himself into her. Catherine felt each thrust with greater pleasure, each rise and fall with greater fury. The wind bellowed about them, tearing at them, unleashing the forces of nature but unable to match the gale-force frenzy with which they competed. Cath­erine's breath was ripped from her. She fought for more, dragging it into her lungs as Jarrod forced it out of her in powerful, measured strokes. She cried out with each virile thrust.

  There was no lightning, no thunder opening the heavens. It was all inside her. She felt the raging storm, the electrical monster coiled and ready to spring, snapping and releasing its power over the land and sea. She felt the tear in her universe, knew the cry of rapture that gripped her, the long shudder of passion that burst open and shot into her as a final wave of uncontrollable emotion. Rapture flourished inside her; riptides overwhelmed her, lifting her to the eye of the internal storm and holding her there. Her body changed, morphed into a single unqualified pleasure vessel. She clung to the place, held on to Jarrod while suspended over the abyss. Balancing on the edge of forever, she felt the exhilaration of life, the onslaught of temptation, the fulfillment of fantasy and the explosion of ecstasy that burst inside her with a power so strong she couldn't contain it. The scream tore from her body, loud enough to reach the heav­ens, to cross the seas and to rival the storm that raged around them. The pleasure was uncontrollable, wash­ing through her like the rushing waves that crashed against the cliffs. She crashed too. Jarrod came with her.