As she worked she hummed an old song that had won her her first gold record. Funny how music came so quickly to mind when she was in Sam's kitchen. As soon as she thought about performing again, though, the music fled as if it were nothing but wisps of gray smoke. And it left nothing behind, no lyrics, no snatches of bridges. Only a tight lump in her throat. She had felt this way ever since her last concert. The doctors had told her it was exhaustion…
But today she wouldn't let the thought bother her. Today Sam was home and she felt safe. Happy. Loved. She knew, without him saying it, that he loved her deeply. It didn't matter that she didn't want him to. What mattered was he had found something in her to love. He reaffirmed her belief in herself that she wasn't a wicked woman, something to sneer or laugh at. She wasn't something to brush off the bottoms of boots. Sam was an honest, clear-thinking man and he knew the value of people. In his heart he had given her value, deserved or not.
After placing two cloth napkins in their rings, she picked up the tray and walked toward Sam's study. She heard the curtness of his voice, then the clink of the phone as it was placed back in the cradle. Business? She hoped not. Whether he knew it or not, he was as much in need of a vacation as she was.
"Sam? Care for some company?" she said brightly as she pushed open the door to see him sitting at his desk, the tight lines around his mouth proclaiming his agitation. But the moment he saw her, out came his boyish, heart-stopping smile to warm up her thoughts.
"I'd love some."
She smiled away the uneasiness. "Good, move those letters so I can put this darn thing down."
He snapped to, doing as he was told as if she were a general. She couldn't help the smile that graced her lips. Sam only did what he wanted to, unless it was in his best interests to do otherwise. He waited until she eased the tray in front of him, then circled her waist with his hands, pulling her down on his lap.
"Let's sit here and talk and see what comes up," he said, leering at her playfully.
Her brows drew together in a scowl although she could hardly keep her smile at bay. "Sam Lewis, that's the oldest and one of the crudest lines in history. Surely you're more original than that!"
"Lady, if you call that crude, you should have been in the military with me. They came up with lines that would have stripped the polish off your toenails."
She grinned, unable to keep a straight face. Her arms circled his neck as she tipped her head to one side. "Oh, yeah? Tell me some," she said in a throaty voice. She felt light and fun and sexy and happy, and it was all Sam's doing.
He whispered a couple of off-color lines in her ear, and she blushed. He chuckled, a deep hearty sound that reverberated in his large chest, and she responded to his chuckle with a giggle of her own.
Her eyes focused on his and slowly, very slowly, her smile disappeared. Their laughter was replaced by a tension that flowed between them like a current, gaining strength with every passing second. It was almost visible, pulling them together against their will, as if they had no choice in what they were doing.
His kiss was dark with need and brilliantly lit with love, and she responded in the same way. Her hands threaded through his hair, her lips seeking succor from his. Their breath mingled and was dispelled from their lungs as if it was too heady. They kissed deeply, each filling the need to touch the other's soul. Catherine felt herself slipping into another world where only Sam lived and where his hurts and thoughts and feelings were hers. They blended together in time until she didn't know whose hand was whose and where her lips began and his left off.
Finally he pulled away, his hand making sure that her head was resting on his shoulder. "Oh, Catherine," he said with a sigh. "What am I going to do? I can't seem to concentrate when you're around and I can't concentrate when you aren't around."
She kissed the side of his throat just above the pulse point. "Are you saying you can't concentrate, period, and want to blame something or someone, so you've decided to blame me?" Her tongue darted out to touch the very spot she kissed.
"Yes." His arms tightened around her waist and back, settling her more firmly against him. He wanted to feel her every muscle, every silken part of her.
"But why blame me? Why not blame yourself?" Her lips reached up to touch the underside of his jaw.
"Because it's hard to take the blame for the way I feel, since I've never felt this way before." He was being honest. He just wished she'd be the same. But instead of admitting her feelings, she kissed his jaw again. Exquisite agony was building up inside him, but he didn't stop her. Somewhere inside him was a need to be a masochist. He hadn't known he carried that need.
Her tongue reached out to tease him behind his ear. "Don't I get blamed for everything? Why should I take this, too?"
"What else do you take the blame for?" His voice was deep and gravelly. His temperature was rising and he knew it, but he was powerless to stop her. It felt too good, too right.
"Oh," she murmured before touching the outer shell of his ear. "Just about everything since I was three. I was the fault of the weather, the boss, the house, the men in my mother's life." Suddenly her foray stopped and she realized what secrets she had given away. The look on her face was one of amazement. Obviously she had never allowed her past to slip out accidentally before.
"And did you accept that awesome responsibility at the age of three? Or did you wait until later before you accepted it?" Sam's voice was light, but he silently prayed that she would answer him. He needed to know more about her. He loved her and wanted to know her inside out.
She hesitated only a moment before slowly answering, as if giving it all her consideration. "No, not at the age of three. I accepted it around the age of ten."
"How?"
"By trying to keep the bad weather out, praying for more money. Be keeping our small apartment as clean as I could. By staying out of the way."
"Did it work?"
Catherine smiled sadly. "No. There was always something else to be blamed for. So I found another route out. I used to take the bus into the wealthy sections of New Orleans. Then I'd sit on a bench and watch the rich kids at play. I mimicked them until I had their accents, knew their manners and could even dress like them, compliments of Goodwill."
He had to clear his throat before he could talk. "Chalk it all up to learning your craft at a young age." His arms tightened even more, as if he would never let her go.
"Oh, now it sounds a little soap operaish, but at the time it was the best teacher I could have had for getting along in the world. I learned my manners and how to win, bar nothing, from those rich people. They were more cutthroat in ways that the wharf kids could never have been. The rich ones did it with style, the poor were clumsy at knifing someone in the back."
"But you survived. That's something to be proud of. You survived and made something wonderful out of your own raw materials. You did it. With no one's help."
Catherine nodded her head, not trusting her voice. Sam was right. No matter what, she had escaped. That was something to be proud of. A frown marred her forehead. But now what? Where did she go from here? What would she do if the movie career didn't pan out? Make more records? Tour more cities? Work harder than she had? It all seemed so hopeless.
"When do I get the brass ring for all my efforts?" she wondered aloud.
"Now, baby. Right now." Sam stood, still holding her in his arms as he walked out of his study and toward the bedroom. "You deserve more than you've got only you don't know it. Let me give you back a little."
They made love with the blinds wide open and the sunlight streaming in. Her body was a glistening golden rainbow and he tenderly devoured each inch as though it were the last.
She writhed beneath him, wanting to share her feelings of joy but he wouldn't let her. He held her hands away from him, teasing her with lips and tongue. This was her time, her moment to enjoy, and because she enjoyed, then so would he.
With thoughts wrapped carefully in cotton batting and arms and limbs entwine
d, they slept. Coffee and cake could come later. They had just had the best dessert of all… each other.
The week had been the most unsatisfyingly satisfying week Sam had ever had. Catherine was within his grasp, within his heart and mind. She had become more necessary to him every day, yet he felt as if she were wary, drifting away from him on purpose sometimes. He couldn't put his finger on the reasons involved but he knew that she had told him more than she had ever told anyone about her past. At first she had seemed comforted by his response, then she had become aggravated. He didn't know what to do.
By the time Sunday rolled around, he was so used to walking in and finding her there, he couldn't conceive of her not being a part of his life and home. But he knew that time was coming. He knew, and it felt like a cold piece of lead in his stomach. She would leave him. It was only a matter of time.
Monday morning left Sam with a feeling of reluctance to work at all, let alone go to the office and leave Catherine by herself all day. But there was no choice. Against his own logic, fear of Catherine leaving him began to grow by the hour. Then, when he returned home to find her there, he couldn't believe he had been so frightened. Until the next morning, when the cycle began again.
Tuesday was no better.
Neither was Wednesday.
By day he would worry, but at night he would wonder how he could be so apprehensive about the sweet woman in his arms. She must feel something for him. Something fairly strong or she wouldn't be so pleased to see him when he walked in the door every evening.
When- he hit the office Thursday morning, he was chomping at the bit for the weekend to come. Then he wouldn't have to leave her for two whole days.
"Work is a pain in the neck," he muttered to Brenda as she gave him the day's mail.
"It may be, but I'll be darned if I've found a solution to lack of money that works as well as this." She grinned, an impish grin that lit her brown eyes with mischief. She was a very attractive woman in her own right, but she purposely played it down. He often wondered why, but he'd never asked.
Laying aside the letter in his hands, he stared up at her. "Brenda, why don't you let your hair down, instead of keeping it in that tight little bun? You're very attractive, but you try so hard not to show it."
"Oh, Lord, you noticed!" She gave a mock groan. "And after all my efforts to keep you at bay! Does this mean you're going to start chasing me around the desk every morning?"
He couldn't help teasing. "Do you want me to?"
"Well," she considered, tapping a nail against her cheek. "At least I'd get some daily exercise. As long as you promise not to catch me, that is."
"And if I did?"
"Then I'd have to hit you where it will hurt the most." It was a flat statement, no teasing involved.
Sam leaned back. "I'm crushed."
"Don't be. Even Burt Reynolds doesn't stand a chance with me. I've had enough of men to last me a lifetime, and certainly don't need any more guilt on my conscience."
"Is it that you don't like us as a group, or individually?" Now he was intrigued. Catherine was much the same way. What had made them take this path? How could he help Catherine? Perhaps if he understood Brenda, he would learn something about Catherine.
"Neither." She shrugged. "What is this? The Inquisition?"
"Curiosity."
Brenda peered at him intently. "Still holding your heart for Catherine Sinclair?" she asked.
He didn't answer. He nodded solemnly.
"Then let me tell you. The Catherine Sinclairs of this world are lucky. They have talent, beauty, money and men. And the men gravitate to them like seeds to watermelon. And sometimes, in their push to get to the best and the finest, they step on others. Usually other women—the ones in their way either by marriage or relationship. So, when a woman grows up and stops believing in fairy tales and handsome princes, she relies on herself and remembers that men don't beat paths to her door unless she's got something they can have immediately." She stared out the window a minute before continuing. "So I've decided that I'll never be used as a way station for some other woman's passenger. It's easier this way."
"My God," Sam muttered, staring in awe at Brenda. She had the same belief concerning Catherine that the press did. She thought she was "the girl who had everything," and Brenda couldn't see past another woman's facade because she was so busy building her own. Women were supposed to be a mystery to men, but obviously they were even a mystery to other women. It boggled his mind.
Brenda gave a nervous laugh as if to dispel the things she had just said. Sam could tell she was wishing that she had kept their conversation light and not given in to the impulse to bare her soul. "Well, maybe next time you won't ask." She smoothed the wrinkles from her black pin-striped skirt. "Maybe next time I won't talk so much."
"Brenda? What if I told you that you were wrong about Catherine?"
She smiled sadly. "Then I wouldn't say anything, but I would think that you're more naive than I am."
Sam sighed. "Okay, you win. Get Leo Coulter on the phone for me, would you? I'm supposed to make an appointment for lunch with him. Something about a divorce case that has all the makings of a huge trial."
"Are you sure he's a working attorney? Every time you two try to get together, he's got some kind of female getting in the way."
"He's one of the hardest working attorneys I know. But yes, he does like female company. It's probably because he's never been able to date much before. He was so poor he made me look like Rockefeller."
"Humph," Brenda said disbelievingly as she walked out the office door.
Sam grinned. What he really ought to do was get Brenda and Leo together. That would teach both of them a thing or two. Leo didn't believe that there was a woman who couldn't be bought with prestige or money, and Brenda… well, Sam now knew how Brenda felt.
He heard the phone buzz, then Brenda's head popped around the door. "Phone. The private investigator you hired."
His action was quick. He picked up the phone and barked a hello into it, anxious to hear what had been discovered.
"Mr. Lewis. It's her father."
A light film of sweat glistened on his forehead. "I thought you told me he was working in New York."
"Sorry. I meant her stepfather. He hitched up here from New Orleans. I think he means to see her again."
"Where is he now?"
"He's here at the house, but we've got to let him go unless you want to call the police and press charges. He's staying at a small motel off one of the main highways. He says he already pawned the stereo and TV, and all he has left is the necklace, and that it's in a safe place."
"Drive him back to the motel. Tell him his daughter's with me and to call me in the morning and we'll arrange a meeting." His voice was like hard concrete. "Tell him that I'll deal with him tomorrow."
"Right. By the way, he got her address from her agent. He pretended to be a male nurse from her mother's sanitarium."
"I'll take care of that."
Sam's hand was shaking by the time he hung up the phone. Could Catherine's stepfather hate her so much he would steal from her and—to top it all off—frighten her to death with stupid, crude messages left on every mirror? My God! What kind of animals raised her?
Suddenly he wanted to drag Brenda in here and tell her Catherine's story. He wanted Brenda to realize just how much a woman with beauty, brains, talent and money suffered… and at the hands of a man who hated her so much he would try to mess with her own shaky image of herself.
But Sam couldn't.
Coming home had become a ritual to Sam. Just slipping the key in the lock and opening the door to a host of delicious smells, anything from perfume to dessert, was a treat in itself. But the best treat was Catherine's greeting.
"Hi," she said, a big happy smile on her face as she walked down the hall toward him.
And he always said and did the same thing. "Hi," he murmured, opening his arms and waiting for her to step into them before they closed like a ne
t around her. He breathed in the fragrance of her hair, the soap she used. He felt the small-boned skeleton of her and treasured her all the more for it.
But tonight, he had news, only it would wait. He wasn't about to spoil his homecoming by giving her details of her very nasty relatives. He'd do it later. Perhaps even tomorrow.
Catherine reached on tiptoe to give a second kiss to the tip of his nose. "Hungry?"
"Starved." He grinned. "What do you have in mind?"
"Birds' feathers and horsehair in sand gravy." Trying to repress her smile was like trying to repress the sun. It peeped out and then brightened his whole being.
His arms rested around her slim waist, his fingers hooked together. "If you cooked it, I'll eat it."
Her perfectly etched brows rose. "Confident in my ability?"
"No, I just wouldn't notice what I was eating if you're across the table from me," he answered honestly, then saw the wariness flick in her eyes before she shooed it away.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk. You're too trusting. That's dangerous."
"Only with you, my dear." He played the part of the bad wolf, but she didn't buy it.
"How do you know I wouldn't harm you, Sam?" Her face was sad, yet earnest. It was almost as if she was afraid of hurting him, but knew it was inevitable.
"I don't. But it's my chance to take."
Then his lips claimed hers, and he shut out all troubled thoughts from her mind. And his.
Dinner was delicious. Dessert was baked apples with cinnamon and cream. It was one of those desserts Sam had always read about, but had never eaten. No one had ever taken the time to fix them for him before. Already in love with Catherine, he was now head over heels in love with her cooking. If he could keep her with him, he saw the future as one large feast after another… along with many more pounds than his body carried now.
After dinner they watched a made-for-TV movie that didn't quite follow the plot of the book they had both just read. They giggled their way through the dopey commercials. They ate popcorn and he drank white wine, the perfect combination as far as Sam was concerned.
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