Lovers Only

He went to the kitchen, popped the top on a beer, put a bottle of chardonnay in the refrigerator to chill. Didn’t matter that they were having red meat. Catherine liked her chard.

Clay frowned. At least he thought she still liked that kind of wine.

As he lit the grill and unpacked the groceries, Clay realized he was fooling himself if he thought getting Catherine to capitulate—agree to stay married till death do us part—would be an easy matter.

She had made him the gift of her love once. He hadn’t cherished it, as promised in front of their friends and family, in front of God. She probably had no intention of succumbing with her heart, even if she did with her body.

Which made his job twice as difficult.

Sex was great, likely that hadn’t changed.

It was the emotional angle that needed work.

But until the instant he’d lost Catherine, Clay hadn’t realized he was an emotional man.

“Smells good.”

At the sound of the melodic tone weaving through her voice, Clay turned. And immediately he was struck by her loveliness. She’d left her hair loose, and it floated around her shoulders, just the way it had on their wedding day. Blue jeans snuggled her hips and thighs, and a sweatshirt showed the gentle swell of her breasts.

The uptight businesswoman was gone.

In its place resided the Catherine he’d once known.

Maybe he did have a chance.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said.

“You didn’t,” he lied.

She entered the kitchen far enough to lean against a counter. “Anything I can do to help?”

“You can grab the silverware and plates.”

Having her in his kitchen seemed so natural. So right. He went back to the salad, pleased by his triumph. This morning he’d gambled. Bluffed. If she’d called it, he had no doubt he’d be staring at the bottom of a glass through glazed eyes, instead of chopping tomatoes.

“Uh, Clay?”

He stopped.

“Where do you keep the silverware?”

Reality hit him with a thud. She didn’t know. Damn it all. “Top drawer in the island.” Concentrating on dinner instead of the sudden pain, he scooped tomatoes on top of the shredded lettuce and asked, “Something to drink?”

She glanced up from where she folded napkins. Her hair curtained her expression. “White zinfandel, thanks.”

He cursed silently. Strike two. “I’ve got chardonnay chilled.”

With her fingers, she tucked her hair behind her ears. She grinned. “In that case, chardonnay is fine.”

He recognized the impish tilt to her mouth. She’d got him. He carried the salad bowl to the table. “Just for that, I should tell you I only have beer.”

“Makes me sick.” She wrinkled her nose. “But if that’s how you want to spend our month together...”

Not wanting to follow her unspoken words, but rather to take the truce, he said, “I’ll grab the corkscrew.”

Dinner was awkward, neither said much, both tiptoed, ignoring her earlier question of what went wrong. And both scrupulously avoided touching the other.

“You didn’t eat much,” he said.

“Sherlock Holmes had nothing on you.”

“Making conversation,” he. admitted with a slight shrug.

“Me, too.”

They looked at each other. He saw regret in her eyes. Regret for what failed? Or regret that she hadn’t gone her separate way this morning?

Damn it, dancing around important issues like two strangers didn’t suit him one bit.

She stood and gathered their plates. “You cooked, I’ll clean.”

“We both ate,” he said. “I’ll help.”

It wasn’t until she gave him a wide berth near the dishwasher that he realized she was trying to avoid anything that might resemble intimacy.

Finally, dishes rinsed and loaded in the machine, counters wiped, he offered, “Refill on your wine?”

At her nod, he poured her another, then grabbed a second beer for himself.

She followed him into the living room with the huge bank of windows.

After turning on a couple of lights and sliding a New-Age favorite of hers into the CD player, Clay took a seat with his back to the window, leaving her little option but to sit across from him.

Confront him.

Catherine sank into the couch, curling her legs beneath her.

How many times had he imagined a similar scene as he’d worked to make the cabin into someplace Catherine would want to be? In his mind, though, their being together hadn’t been shrouded with distrust...nor had it been dampened by Cat’s reluctance to be near him.

For a few minutes he asked questions about her antique store and the recent pieces she’d acquired. Then he surprised them both. “Tell me what I have to do to get you to stay married to me.”

Her mouth fell open a fraction of an inch. She sipped from her glass.

And he waited.

Clay reached for the cold aluminum can and held it with one hand, grateful for the iciness seeping into him. At least it distracted him from complete concentration on the length of time her response was taking.

“It’s not an easy question to answer.” She rolled the crystal stem between her fingers. “Our relationship started falling apart a long time ago—years ago. And it’s not one specific thing, it’s lots of things.”

“So tell me.”

A ghost of a smile feathered her lips. “That’s the bottom-line businessman in you speaking.”

He took a couple of long drags from his beer. “And that’s not what you want.”

“No.” She looked at him levelly. Her glass stilled. “I want the man I met and married.”

He bit out a four-letter oath. “We’ve both changed, Cat.”

“Yes.” She twirled her glass, then directed her gaze to the window, not looking at Clay at all. “You’re right. I guess we have.”

“Damn it, Catherine, you’re not even looking at me.”

Slowly she turned her attention to him.

The ache in her eyes transcended the distance and time separating them. Made him understand how far he had to go. Made him wonder if it was possible.

“Do you even want to try and save it?” The instant the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to snatch them back. There was a huge possibility he wouldn’t like her answer.

Seconds dragged into a minute. Catherine bravely held his gaze the entire time. Maybe twenty seconds later, she lowered her eyelashes. The unnaturally long lashes shaded the magnificent hazel from his view. When she glanced up again, she resumed looking out the windows, into the starless night Dark as it was, maybe she just stared at a reflection of the room.

Unable to stand the suspense any longer, Clay shoved his drink on the coffee table, then stood. “Dumb question,” he conceded. He paced in front of the stereo, not finding her music spiritually healing in the least. “If you wanted our marriage to work, you wouldn’t have filed for a divorce.”

“You didn’t leave me much choice.”

A wisp of mountain breeze could have knocked him to his butt. They looked at each other intently.

“I didn’t give you much choice?” he demanded. “If I remember right, I got home from work one night and you weren’t there.”

His lip curled into a sneer, despite his best efforts to woo and win her. A saner part of his mind told him to knock off the irrational thoughts, tamp down the emotion. But, damn it all, he hurt, too. “You barely had the courtesy to leave me a note.”

Catherine pulled her knees to her chest, looking lost in the huge couch. “You had no clue it was coming?” she asked incredulously.

“None.”

“I’d moved out of our bedroom.”

“Hell, Catherine, I thought I was giving you the space you wanted. The space you insisted you had to have.” He paused. “I thought I was doing it for you.”

She shook her head. Strands of hair fell forward. And a single tear began to trace a solitary path down her right cheek.

Damn it. He’d never felt more an idiot. Or more alone.

“You’re wrong, Clay. So very wrong.”

He sat on the coffee table, thrummed his fingers on the wooden surface. As quickly as it descended, his anger evaporated. Hollowness remained. He held his hand still. Searching to figure out where to go, what to do, he said, “Tell me, then. Help me to understand.”

“It wasn’t freedom I wanted.” Catherine made no attempt to hide the pain he’d unintentionally inflicted on her.

He winced.

“It was never freedom,” Catherine whispered.

He frowned.

“It was you, Clay.” She swallowed deeply.

Clay sought to find understanding, knowing how important it was.

Both her eyes were now frosted with fragile tears. “I wanted you.”

Four

Clay cursed.

Catherine turned away from him, wrapping her arms across her chest at the same time.

Damn it, he wanted honesty, believed they could sort through their problems, but these vague answers were no answers at all. “Look at me.”

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.

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