"Catherine, baby, don't worry," her agent breezed over the line. "Chances are it was a fluke that the burglar entered while you were there. No thief wants to be caught in the act. He won't return, I promise you," he said, his voice booming so loud she had to hold the receiver away from her ear. "Listen, baby, I talked to the studio. You'll have the script in your hands by the first of the month. The walk-throughs will begin two weeks after that. So, that gives you six weeks before you have to show up at the studio. You'll have time to rest up. You looked exhausted this morning. Make those circles disappear, Kitty, or we won't have a snowball's chance in hell of convincing them you're gonna make a great movie star. And, call me if you need anything." Without a goodbye or so long, he hung up the phone.
Catherine cradled the receiver and stared into her drink. She refused to allow the tears that stung her eyes to fall. Her hands still shook, her body was cold. What was the matter with her? Was she so exhausted that she saw old ghosts where there were none, imagined hurts and feelings where none existed? Was she insane or was she so mixed up that she should be stretched out on some therapist's couch, mumbling about her childhood? No! No! Never!
She had scratched and fought to make it this far in life by herself, and she could damn well travel the rest of the road alone, too!
This new venture had to work. No one, not even her agent had to impress that fact upon her. She couldn't stand the pace of being on the road doing concerts and making recordings three weeks out of the month, then home to an empty apartment for one week. Besides, that small place she called home looked like anyone could have lived there for all the personality it held. After Noah had left her, she had fallen apart and almost ruined what career she still had. Then, after barely pulling herself together, she had spent four of the most hectic years of her life… on the road. No. She needed this new career. She needed to prove, both to herself and to others, that she was capable of acting. And she needed roots. Sometimes it felt as if she had been running all her life. She was without roots to hold her down and make her feel as if she belonged. A new career in the movies would give her those roots. She could stay in one place and never have to hit the road again. Well, almost never. Although she would have to do publicity tours, they would be shorter and not half as often. There wouldn't be any more of those lonely nights in a hundred different cities.
Reaching into her purse, she extracted her credit card, waved to the waitress and waited for the bill. She had run in fear all her life, and now was no exception. She wasn't going to cower in some corner like a scared mouse. She wasn't!
Before long she was behind the wheel of her rented BMW and on the canyon road to the house she was to call home for the next six months. Better to be there in the afternoon and watch the sunset, than to enter in the dark and not know who or what lurked in the corners of the rooms. Or in the corners of her mind.
The road was steep in spots, twisting and turning. The BMW handled it competently, and slowly Catherine felt as if she were in control again. She passed several entrances to other elite homes, then turned into the driveway marked Castaways.
The house was a huge, golden-colored, two-story adobe with a sweeping veranda that ran across the front, from where she could sit and watch the glorious sunset. White wicker chairs were grouped around small wicker and glass tables, making cozy conversation areas for entertaining. The rooms inside were spacious with good, but functional, furniture placed to make those who entered feel comfortable. It was a house built for a family to live in—a family with children and happiness running through the wide, white halls.
She took out her key and unlocked the large double wooden doors, then walked in to stand in the entryway and listen for sounds. Only the hum of the air conditioner could be heard. Her backbone relaxed. Her hands were still clenched.
She took a deep breath. This was silly. She was a grown woman of twenty-six. She was too old to let childish fears rule her life.
She fixed a bologna sandwich, her favorite, munching away as she walked through the rooms. She didn't know what she was checking for until she realized that she had been unconsciously staring at each lock on the windows. They were all secure.
Finally, curling up on the couch, she allowed her eyes to close and drifted into a sleep that was polka-dotted with snatches of dreams and unspoken thoughts that made her restless. But she was too exhausted to waken.
It was dark both outside and in when she shot up from her curled position in the corner of the couch. She had heard a loud bang, she was sure of it. Her heart beat a fast-paced tattoo in her throat and her ears rang with the silence as she tried to listen for something else: another sound, footsteps, anything.
Slowly, very slowly, she leaned over and reached for her purse, fumbling with the clasp in her effort to find the small spray can of mace she carried everywhere. The gun was in her room under a ton of lingerie, where she had first put it when her agent had handed it to her. Someone else could play with guns, but not her, she'd probably shoot her foot off.
Once the mace was in the moist palm of her hand, she stood. She stepped into the large hallway, her eyes darting here and there. Her breath caught in her throat as she slowly walked toward the kitchen. She was sure the noise had come from the first level of the house.
She flipped on lights as she proceeded along the hallway, her eyes skimming every corner of each room she passed. By the time she reached the kitchen she was sure that whoever had made the noise was in there, waiting in the dark to pounce on her. They'd kill her, she knew it. Sweat dampened her brow and palms, making her skin itch.
With a trembling hand, she slowly pushed the swinging door wide. The light switch was on the wall to the left of her. Once the door was open, she flipped the light and brought the entire room into the brilliance of it. Out of the corner of her eye she saw something on the counter move, and she turned quickly, aiming the spray can in that direction.
"Stop!" she screamed, her finger pushing the button on the weapon.
Taut reflexes made the mace shoot forth even though she saw the mouse immediately. The rodent squealed, a high pitched sound that scraped her eardrums, then jumped and disappeared under the pantry door. Relief flooded Catherine's body, leaving her limp and damp. Suddenly a giggle rose to her throat. A mouse! The giggle turned into laughter and the laughter slowly dissolved into tears. She had tried to mace a tiny mouse!
The phone on the wall rang, a sharp piercing noise that still didn't quite register in her mind. It rang and rang. Finally the noise penetrated Catherine's crying, and with a great effort she straightened. It took all her energy to pull herself together enough to find her voice and answer.
"Hello?" Her voice was husky, breaking with the saltiness of her tears.
"Miss Sinclair? This is Sam Lewis. Are you all right?"
"No. Yes! I mean I'll be all right in a minute," she stammered, trying to gather her scattered composure. After taking a deep breath, she attempted to clear her throat. She was still staring at the tiny oil slick on the floor. The mace had hit its mark, but some had overshot and fallen like droplets to the tile below. Her eyes couldn't register the fact to her brain that she had really been trying to maim a mouse.
"Catherine? Talk to me! What's happened?" he demanded.
"I tried to mace a burglar, but it turned out to be a mouse in the pantry. I guess I thought he might be dangerous," she choked out with a sound that was a cross between laughter and tears, her voice almost as clouded as her story was. "But I'll be all right as soon as I check the upstairs and make sure there aren't any more mouses, or mice, running around."
"Give me your address," Sam said, his voice quiet but authoritative.
She did, enunciating slowly so that she could concentrate on the words. Her throat was still constricted, her nerves strung to breaking. But Sam Lewis was on the other end of the phone, making her feel that she wasn't alone anymore. He was her link to the real world, where menacing burglars and tiny mice didn't frighten her into an almost catatonic s
tate.
"I'll be right there." And he hung up the phone with a definite click.
Catherine did the same, only more slowly, reluctant to lose the connection with another human. She was so alone. So very alone. And so very tired.
All her life she had been alone and fought for whatever she had gotten in the world. Now, when she was almost in reach of her goal, she was tired of fighting, of scrapping for every single toehold she had achieved. She was too tired to move from her place in the kitchen. She was almost too tired to breathe.
Think of something else, her mind told her, and she obeyed. Help was on the way. What was his name? Oh, yes, Sam. Sam Lewis. She had entered his office expecting to find a paunchy, middle-aged man, slightly balding, with a "little lady" and "my dear" vocabulary. After all, with the exception of Thomas Hannover, every lawyer she had ever had contact with, and who had made a name for himself in the field, was that way.
But not Sam. He had been taller than she expected, perhaps an inch or two over six feet. Dark-brown hair and soft tobacco-brown eyes that touched her with a gentleness when they gazed at her. His frame was long and lean. No one would exclaim over his broad shoulders, for they weren't that broad, just average. His waist was thin, his hips trim. He looked like the type who had played basketball in school and had been branded with the nickname "stringbean." Only now, in his thirties she would guess, he had filled out. Very nicely.
But it was his eyes that had given her hope. His eyes were tender, understanding, caring. At least she thought they were until he had firmly explained that she had to see someone else, go through the agony of explanations again.
Slowly Catherine slid to the floor to sit, her back against the kitchen doorframe. Her legs were like rubber, her arms had no feeling. She was too tired to walk to a chair, too exhausted to do anything lately. She leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes, her hand resting on her knee, the can of mace dangling from her limp fingers.
No, Sam Lewis was like all the rest of male mankind. He was taken with her beauty and talent, intrigued by her reputation, and not capable of seeing beyond that to the woman who was struggling to survive just below the surface. And it was just as well. No one saw that woman. They assumed that because she had been a mistress to a wealthy man, she must be hard, she must be without morals, she must be grasping. The public didn't want her to be lonely, in love, frightened or have a conscience. They wanted her to play the role of the other woman to the hilt, and she had obliged them, building upon that role to reach the position she was in today. She had been typecast before she had even had a choice of roles.
Oh, well… her agent was fond of saying that any publicity was good publicity.
The doorbell rang, and slowly she opened her eyes to stare at the ceiling. Sam. Sam Lewis. With great effort she pulled herself up and walked down the hall, the buzzer continuing to fill the house with its loud raucous sound.
When she opened the door, she was absently surprised at the look of deep concern on Sam's face, but too tired to think of why. Her emotions had been put in deep freeze and she was thankfully feeling nothing but exhaustion. She weaved slightly, holding on to the door for balance.
"My God, what happened to you?" His hands held her small shoulders, barely keeping her from falling. "What on earth is going on here!"
"Nothing. I'm just tired, that's all," she said as she pushed a stray lock of blond hair away from her eyes and stared up at him quizzically. "Here." She held out the mace she had been dangling from numb fingers.
Sam took it, muttering an expletive under his breath as he laid it on the hall table and turned her toward the living room. "Sit down before you fall down," he ordered gruffly and she did what she was told.
His eyes narrowed as he stared at her. "What's the matter with you? Have you taken something? Some drug?"
She smiled, but it never reached her eyes. "No, I don't 'do' drugs. I'm exhausted, that's all. I haven't slept in the past forty-eight hours."
"Why?"
She took a weary breath and with great effort began to explain. "I gave a late concert in Chicago, then boarded an early-morning flight. By the time the meeting with my agent was over, I had to go to that damn party. Then I came home and my necklace was stolen. The police didn't leave here until four in the morning. By then it was too late to sleep." Catherine closed her eyes, reciting the events of her days like a child reciting a poem in school.
Again, Sam muttered something under his breath, his eyes darting to the now visible lines of strain around her eyes and mouth. Even with them, she was perfection. The tailored, blue silk shirt she wore was the perfect foil for her sapphire-blue eyes and the blond hair that tumbled across her shoulders in delightful disarray.
Without saying another word, Sam sat down beside her on the couch. His dark-brown eyes searched her face, seeing a vulnerability there that stunned him. This was no man-eating shark. This was a woman at the end of her tether, trying to hold on for what it was worth.
"I couldn't sleep alone," she managed to whisper as she leaned back and closed her eyes again. But her hand found his and held on with a grip that surprised him. "Please don't leave me. I'm so tired."
"I won't." His gaze was drawn to the stark loneliness and depression that seemed to be etched on her face.
She opened her eyes and stared up at him. They were wide, blue and so very vulnerable. "And don't be mad at me, Sam," she whispered. She didn't even realize she had called him by his first name, like an old friend.
"I'm not." He barely got the words out before she closed her eyes again.
"Mmm." Her head touched his shoulder as she gave a deep sigh, completely relaxing.
Sam leaned back and brought her into the security of his arms so that they were both more comfortable. He was a fool for being here. He never should have called from April and Jace's house. He should have minded his own business and stayed out of hers.
He rested his head on the back of the couch and closed his eyes. He might as well relax. It looked as if he was going to be here awhile.
2
The sun slatted a line of brilliance across Catherine's face, and she stirred. There was a heavy, pressing feeling on her breast, and her back was against something firm but cushioned. With great effort she opened her eyes only to realize she was sleeping in the living room. Her body rocked forward and backward rhythmically once, testing. Instead of feeling the couch, she felt something else…Tilting her head, she glanced behind her and gazed directly into Sam's sleeping face. He looked totally relaxed and a little boyish. His firm, full mouth had taken on a slight smile in sleep.
The numbness of slumber slowly left her body as she became aware of another, firmer pressure. Then she looked down. His broad, tanned hand was clasped to her breast. He had held her tenderly in his arms, toboggan fashion, all night.
Tears filled her eyes, but she willed them not to fall. Sam Lewis was the first man ever to spend the night with her and not try to make love. He hadn't even made a pass. He hadn't even made the effort. She discounted the hand on her breast. That was merely an unconscious action.
Not that she had slept with many men. There was only one she had given herself to. Noah. Contrary to the press's opinion, she had never had affairs, liaisons or lovers. Unless Noah was classified as a lover. He had also been her business partner and her love. But the fact that she had been constant to Noah hadn't mattered to the press. They continued to link her with every male she had ever spoken to, and frankly, at the time, she had treated it like a joke, going along with them because she had known better. It didn't matter what anyone else had thought, as long as she had known the real story. Now, suddenly, the stories bothered her.
Catherine pushed it from her mind and snuggled back into Sam's arms. She felt too nice and safe and warm to leave yet. She would get up in just a minute and make them both some breakfast. In just a minute. Her eyes closed and she relaxed against him once more.
When Catherine opened her eyes again, the sun was blaz
ing into the room, practically melting her. She sat up and pushed back her hair, glancing around.
Sam was gone.
Her shoulders slumped, her head bowed. An unknown anticipation seeped from her like air from a leaky balloon. She should have known he'd leave as quickly as possible. After all, she wasn't even a client of his. It was kind of him to stay the night with her, more kind than he would probably ever know, for her sleepless nights far outweighed the calm, restful ones.
He hadn't even said goodbye.
So what? She was a big girl and had been on her own for a long time. Almost too long. No, that wasn't true. She was smart, independent, beautiful. She didn't need any man to tell her goodbye.
"Morning." Sam stood in the doorway, a steaming mug of coffee in either hand as he watched her blue eyes grow wide with surprise. Her hand darted up to her hair, shoving it behind one ear as she stared at him, her wariness evident in her taut posture.
"Good morning," she answered huskily. "I thought you'd already left."
Sam raised one brow. "Without saying goodbye?"
Catherine shrugged, quickly looking down at the Oriental carpet that graced the white plush carpet beneath.
"I assure you, I've never left a lady without saying goodbye before, and I'm certainly not going to start now," he said dryly, walking into the room and setting the mug of hot coffee on the table in front of her.
"One never knows," she said flippantly, resorting to her woman-of-the-world act. It was a defense mechanism, much as her sharp tongue was. It kept her from being vulnerable. It kept others from being able to hurt.
"Well, this 'one' knows that I don't do that." His voice was rough, and his brown eyes, usually so soft, snapped with irritation. "I'm not looking for thanks, but I do expect courtesy."
"What kind of courtesy?" Did he expect her to be so grateful that she would go to bed with him? Not him, too. Please… not him, she prayed.
A Woman's Choice Page 2