Lovers Only

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Her shoulders began to shake.

“Damn it all, Cat, look at me.”

Slowly she turned to face him. He squeezed his eyes shut momentarily. Along with fragile tears, he saw regret and fear in her eyes. It hit him then. Hit him hard. He possessed the power to make her hurt.

And he’d used it.

The accusation aimed at him landed with stinging force. Suddenly he wanted to use that emotion to heal. Heal her. Heal them.

Trouble was, he didn’t have any experience in that field, didn’t know where to start. “I don’t understand,” he confessed. He heard the ragged drag on the syllables.

Catherine looked up at him.

“Help me, Cat?” he asked again. Had his gut ever been this wrenched? Even when she’d moved into her own room he’d mistakenly believed she would be back. Mistakenly believed he was doing the right thing, giving her the space she always said she wanted. Things weren’t that bad. Or so he’d convinced himself. Or rather, tried to convince himself.

But when she’d left the house... He couldn’t imagine anything worse. “Even if you don’t forgive me...” Clay gulped, wished for strength.

He always prided himself on his strength. But nothing—nothing—ever mattered this much. Love made him weak. And he knew he’d have to battle that before he won what was most important. “Even if you don’t forgive me, for God’s sake, give me the chance to try and understand what went wrong.”

Their gazes collided. Neither blinked, neither looked away. When she spoke it was with such softness, such hesitancy, he wasn’t certain he’d heard right.

“Okay, Clay.”

“What?” he asked quietly.

“Okay,” she said again. Slowly, with controlled precision, she unfolded her arms and allowed her hands to drop.

He recognized her capitulation. A breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding eased through his throat.

“I’ll warn you, though. You may not want to hear what I have to say.”

“I’ll take that chance.”

She nodded, then slipped off her shoes. Through the silky sheer stockings, he saw her toenails were painted red.

Red.

Jeez.

How little he knew about her. How much he wanted to know.

Catherine slipped one leg beneath her, allowing the other to drape across the couch. She looked natural—as if she belonged there. Here. With him. To him.

He forced himself to look away from the tantalizing tease of fire-engine red. It definitely didn’t fit with the uptight image she’d presented at the attorney’s office earlier. And it made him wonder if slow and soft had been the way she really wanted their kiss.

Maybe heated passion was more the way to reach her.

Instantly he dismissed the idea.

Sure he wanted her in his arms, in his bed. But in his life was more important. And he’d do anything—anything—to get her there again.

“Coffee?” he offered. She was fiddling with her hands. Truth to tell, he might need something to do with his hands, too...other than rediscover his wife.

“Do you know how to make it?”

“Lady, since you left, I’ve become a master of many things.”

“Maybe it was for the best that I—”

“Don’t say it,” he said, tone laced with impatience. Coming to his feet in a manifestation of that frustration, he strode to the kitchen and turned on the tap. He yanked the glass carafe from the coffee maker and thrust it under the running water, impatiently tapping his knuckles on the counter.