A Woman's Choice

by Rita Clay Estrada

  They walked away from the crowds and toward the private homes scattered among the sand dunes. They collected seashells of various colors and sizes, Catherine washing them off carefully in the waves before wrapping them in the saran wrap that had held a part of their lunch. They slowly strolled along, holding hands and staring straight ahead as if they were simply friends.

  Just the way she wanted it.

  Sam broke the long, easy silence. "I wish I could say I'm sorry things didn't work out for you and Jace, but I'd be lying," he confessed haltingly. "April and Jace are too good together. Besides, then I wouldn't be walking along the beach with you."

  Catherine bent to pick up a shell. "But things did work out for Jace and me."

  Sam stopped. "I don't understand." A frown marred his brow.

  She smiled as if she were talking to a child. "He and I were good friends. We both made it in the profession of our choice, as they say, and we are both still friends. What more could we ask for?"

  His confused expression told Catherine more than anything he said. "But I thought, that is, when I spoke to you after the party…"

  The joy left her blue eyes momentarily. "You thought I was talking about Jace?"

  He nodded, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders as they stood, wrapped in their own world.

  "No." She shook her head slowly as if to emphasize her point. "It was someone else I was talking about. I thought you knew."

  A gull screamed overhead. Sam's expression changed from one of confusion to dawning comprehension. Noah Weston. "I do, now," he said softly.

  They began walking the beach again, hand in hand. "So you and Jace were just good friends?" he asked with what he hoped was a casual tone.

  Catherine chuckled, sending a delightful chill down his spine. "We were friends as only two people can be when they both feel they're in the same boat. Neither one of us were getting ahead in our chosen professions and didn't know what we were going to do about it. He was just beginning in movies and didn't really know what direction he wanted to go—director, actor, producer. And I was cleaning ashtrays in a recording studio and using the bands' leftover time to hone my craft."

  "Leftover time?"

  "Yes. Sometimes someone will pay for a set amount of studio time—one, two or three hours—to cut a tape of themselves. If they finish early, then they'll sell the rest of the band's time for a lower than usual rate. I used to save pennies to buy that time and cut my own tapes."

  "What did you do with the tapes?"

  "I sent them to every disc jockey in the country hoping one of them would play it on the air and say, 'That's a great new singer, folks! Run out and ask for her album'!"

  "And did that happen, Catherine?" His brown eyes stared down at her, showing the respect he had for her persistence.

  She grinned. "Never. But then a man came in to view the studio for investment purposes. When I heard about it I slipped into the control room and ran my tape through the P.A. system. He heard every song I ever taped in the space of three hours." She chuckled at her remembered audacity. "It was kind of like a Catherine Sinclair marathon."

  The papers had lauded her from state to state when she had her first hit song. The newspapers couldn't get enough information about her. One man was supposedly responsible for her success.

  "Noah Weston," Sam said quietly.

  "Yes." Her voice was as low as his.

  "So you were trying to become a singer before he met you, not because he met you."

  "Yes."

  Sam stopped, turning her toward him and grasping hold of both her hands. The surf gently rocked against the sand, making a soft shushing sound. A gull landed at their feet, picking away at crumbs others had left.

  "So the hype the newspapers built up wasn't exactly true."

  "No. Hardly any of it is true. But it made sensational copy, sold newspapers and magazines, and got my name in front of the public, so it worked." Her eyes locked with his. The force of his feelings were being transmitted through his hands. She could feel herself growing stronger, becoming more tense, wanting whatever he wanted…

  His eyes narrowed, making delightful crow's-feet at the corners. "Do you realize, you're probably the only person who knows who you really are?"

  He was hitting very close to home, but she couldn't resist teasing. She nodded her head. "And I'm not telling." She couldn't admit that even she wasn't sure of her own identity. Only with Sam did the two halves of her seem to come together peacefully.

  His brows rose, his hands tightened around hers, one thumb placing itself smack in the center of her palm and pressing just enough to let her know her own softness. "Not even to me? I'm supposed to be a friend."

  "A touchy friend," she put in.

  "All friends touch. You know what I mean. Stop with the puns."

  "Oh, ho, we're supposed to be serious, too? I thought this was my day at the beach to relax and enjoy, not go into therapy."

  He gave her hands a shake. "You're supposed to be straight with friends and lawyers. It's in the books."

  The ghost of a smile she had been wearing disappeared. "And you're supposed to believe that your client is innocent until proven guilty. But you had already judged me, hadn't you, Sam?"

  "Don't be silly! I knew from the beginning that you hadn't stolen that necklace!" Sam flipped his hair away from his forehead, impatience lacing his movements.

  "No, not about the necklace. About the type of woman I was supposed to be. You believed the publicity."

  "No." His voice was so soft it was almost carried away by the salt-scented breeze. "I never did."

  Catherine pulled her hands from his and turned to walk the shoreline again. Her bare feet scuffed at the wet sand, her head down to watch her steps. "Why, Sam? I can't make heads or tails out of you. You say you won't help, then you come to my rescue. You hold me all night without one sexy move. You have me move in with you, then you make love to me as if you hadn't seen a woman in years. Then you say you want to be friends and you act like a lover. What is it with you?" She stopped to face him, her eyes showing the deep confusion she felt. He had turned her life upside down. He had turned her upside down.

  Sam was lost in the blue of her eyes, falling down into heavens unknown to him until she'd walked into his life. His hands wanted to touch, to seek, to ensure she was real. But he couldn't reach out to her, and he knew it.

  "I don't know," he said slowly, his voice roughened by desire. "But I know that the way I behaved was what I needed to do or say at that moment. I can't explain it. I'm not even sure it makes sense to me."

  She continued to look directly at him, the honesty of her gaze making him tremble inside. "Can we be friends, Sam? Is it really possible?"

  Finally he reached out to touch her. His hand rested on her shoulder and turned her toward the ocean waves that lapped at their feet. He brought her back close to his chest so he could feel the softness of her as they both stared out at the vast emptiness of seascape. His lips grazed her temple in a whisper of a kiss. "I don't know, but I sure want to try."

  She gave a small sigh and her hair blew to caress his shoulder. "Then we'll try, Sam," she said slowly. "I could use a friend." She had finally admitted it, and the admission felt good… right.

  The sun blazed from a bright lemon color to a brilliant orange ball as Catherine and Sam walked hand in hand back to the pier where their blanket was. They kept silent, for it was companionable and easy, only Sam's mind was going one hundred miles an hour. Catherine needed more than a friend, but she didn't know it yet.

  Catherine needed him. For a long, long time.

  They ate dinner at a trendy little spot not far from the beach, where casual attire was the rule. Fishnets filled with an assortment of seashells hung from the rough-hewn rafters, while the tables were slick and clear and displayed a closer view of similar shells. The seafood was excellent, the wine and iced tea crisp and cold to the palate, and the conversation was light.

  Sam leaned back, sipping h
is wine in the hopes that it would calm the butterflies in his stomach. In a little while this magic interlude would be over, and they would head for home. Then they would be completely alone. Was she worried that he would ask her to his bed? Was he afraid she would refuse? Probably a "yes" for her and a definite "yes" for him.

  Catherine sipped her tea, closing her eyes in enjoyment. It had been a near-perfect day.

  "How was your first experience at the beach?" he asked in an easy tone.

  Her eyes opened to stare directly at him. "I loved it. Thank you."

  "For the beach? It's always been there, I had nothing to do with it."

  She smiled and his heart did a flip-flop. "For taking me."

  He dipped his head and smiled in return, unable to do anything else. "My pleasure. Anytime, my lady."

  Her eyes twinkled. "In that case, we'll go tomorrow and the next day, and the next day, and the—"

  He saw the error of his ways. "Anytime I can get away from work, which is usually a weekend," he corrected quickly.

  Her eyes grew wide in innocence. "Oh," she said as if it were a disappointment. His heart did another flip-flop. He wished he could give her her heart's desires, even though he knew better than to think it.

  Then he saw the twinkle in her eyes and his day lightened again. "In that case," she said in a teasing voice, "I'm buying that painting right above your head." She pointed to a seascape with an artist's card and amount in the bottom left-hand corner.

  Sam craned to see it. It wasn't bad as far as seascapes went, but it was a little on the commercial side. The price was definitely inflated. "I don't think it's worth the amount he's asking, Catherine."

  She stiffened right before his eyes. The enjoyment on her face had evaporated to show the strength of conviction of the woman underneath the feminine doll-like exterior. "Does it matter? I like it."

  He raised his hand in the air as if to stop her from saying anymore. "Hey, it's your money, lady, not mine. You can buy the Taj Mahal if it suits you."

  "Thank you."

  "But the dinner bill is mine," he muttered between clenched teeth. Leave it to him to fall in love with a women's libber! Brenda would say it was only justice, but he thought it was the pits.

  As if she could read his mind, she tried to mollify him. "I want to thank you for a delicious lunch and dinner," she said softly.

  His grin was reluctantly given. "You're welcome. Did you say that because you really enjoyed it, or because your mama taught you to be mannerly?"

  Again he lost her. The softness was gone. "My 'mama' didn't teach me a damn thing I could do in public… I learned it all on my own."

  Sam stared down at his wine, then back up at Catherine. He should have known better than to mention the very subject he knew would close her up. "One more strike and I'll be out of the ball park. I'm sorry, I was only joking."

  Catherine waved to the waitress to get her attention. "I wish I was," she clipped.

  They were ready to leave, bill paid and painting under Catherine's arm, in less than ten minutes. The tension was strung so tight it was almost visible.

  The drive home was the longest one Sam had ever taken, or so it seemed. Fifteen minutes ago had he really been contemplating about their making love when they got home? He must have been insane. Not only that, he must have rocks in his head for falling in love with a woman who changed from warm to chilling in less than a second.

  Damn Catherine Sinclair! He didn't need her, she needed him. He didn't need another thing—his life was nice and quiet and orderly without her. His days and nights were filled with a routine that he could count on…boring, repetitious. His spine stiffened. And that was the way it would be again, he promised himself. In another week or so the necklace business would be taken care of, and Catherine would be out of his life completely. He might be lonely at first, but he'd be a better man for it. Better for what, he wasn't sure, but at least it'd be better than this roller coaster his emotions had been riding since she entered his life. He hadn't been this befuddled since he had been a green recruit in the military, years ago! But he had made it through that and he would make it through this.

  Somehow that little pep talk made him feel better, even though he knew he was lying to himself.

  This too would pass, and he could chalk it up to one of life's learning experiences.

  By the time they had showered and readied for bed, both in their own separate bedrooms, Sam was more tense than he'd been in the restaurant. She was one thin wall away from him: thirty steps if he took the hallway. And he couldn't move off the bed to go to her. He fluffed and propped the pillows against the head-board and leaned back, his arms behind his head. Then he tried to bore a hole in the wall in front of him. He could almost see her moving around on the other side of the wall. The shower had stopped a few minutes ago. He could picture her pulling the towel off her body and slipping into a sheer, sexy nightgown. He heard her rummage through her suitcase and wondered what she was looking for. Panties? Hairbrush? Dainty slippers? He ruled out the panties—she hardly wore them when she was dressed so he doubted that she would wear them to bed. Slippers didn't fit either. She always seemed to wander around barefoot. It must be the hairbrush. She was probably running it through her light-blond hair right now. He counted the strokes and with each stroke his body tightened. Fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two…

  The coarse sand had acted as an abrasive against Catherine's skin. She applied a generous amount of lotion to her legs and began rubbing. Thoughts best left alone came forward to haunt her. Her hands became Sam's and she watched without watching as they stroked her skin so firmly but gently. He was only one thin wall away.

  Somehow she knew that Sam would not come to her. If anything were going to happen between them, it would have to be instigated by her. And she couldn't do that.

  She had never gone after any man. Even Noah had singled her out, not the other way around. And only when she thought she was in love with him had she lost inhibitions enough to damage both of them. Never again.

  She took another dollop of cream and began rubbing it into her arms. But the feelings she experienced with Sam were very different from those she'd had with Noah.

  Noah—a chapter in her life that was over, and she desperately wished the embarrassment would go with it. She had paid for that folly a thousand times, in both guilt and reputation. She had tried to hold on to him and to all he represented for too long, and had made a fool of herself in the bargain.

  But Sam…Sam was different. She not only felt safe and secure with him, she liked him. He was fun and witty and tender and boyish and… vulnerable.

  Her hand stopped massaging. Vulnerable, what an odd word, but it fit him. She felt unprotected, too, but she had built a wall that she didn't think anyone could ever knock down, while he allowed others to see his vulnerability. And in doing so, he had become an enigma to her.

  She wiped her hands on a towel and picked up her hairbrush. Stroke, stroke, stroke; she forgot to keep count as she stared at the painting propped on the dresser.

  Any other man would have offered to buy the seascape for her, but not Sam. If she wanted it, she could have it, but she had to pay for it. She grinned. She would have to be attached to a man who believed in women's lib!

  With a small sigh, she placed the brush on the night-stand and turned out the light. Slipping under the covers, she closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep.

  It was no use. She wanted Sam near her. She longed to feel the heat of his body radiating under the covers, his legs just inches away from hers. She wanted to rest her head on his broad chest and feel his arms around her, his heartbeat in her ear. She wanted her hand tucked into his for comfort.

  She wanted Sam. Now. Tonight. And hang the damn codes that expected her to wait for him to make the move! With her luck he would never ask her to his bed and she'd be lonely forever.

  What was that old expression? Oh, yes. Woman chooses the man who will choose her. That thought brought Catherine
to a sitting position. She'd always acted contrary to what was expected. But perhaps that expression was right, and she wanted Sam because he had so expertly chased her. No, that wasn't the reason. He was everything she had ever wanted in a man. He was her perfect choice for a partner…

  She knew what her thoughts-were telling her, but she hated to admit that she cared more than she promised herself she would.

  But as long as he didn't know how much she cared for him, would it hurt? Of course not.

  Her feet almost flew across the carpet toward the door. Her hand didn't hesitate on the knob; she opened the door swiftly and went out into the hall. She stopped just in front of his door.

  He was on the other side. Would he send her away? Would he be angry with her? Would he care one way or the other? "Cowardice gets you nothing, girl. Didn't you teach yourself that years ago?" she silently muttered. Then she stood straight. She was Catherine Sinclair, the singer, the beauty with the wild reputation. Any man would do cartwheels to go to bed with her! Sam couldn't be that different from other men! Courage!

  Sam's eyes were still glued to the wall when he heard the door to his room give a reluctant but loud squeak. He didn't move a muscle except to switch his eyes to the door. The view made his breathing stop even though his pulse quickened in hunger.

  Catherine stood in the darkened hallway, her shimmering pale-green nightgown doing crazy things to him. Her hair was down and straight, making her look like Alice in Wonderland, but her shapely body was definitely that of a grown woman. He waited for her to say something so he would know why she was here, how to respond, what to do. His usually computerlike mind refused to function without her input.

  Her hands came up only to fall helplessly at her sides, a graceful motion that resembled the soft movements of a butterfly.

  "Sam, I…"

  With blinding insight he knew exactly what to do.

  He held out his arms and she flew into them.

  9