by Nadia Lee
“Anyway I guess you won’t be coming in tomorrow?” Janey said.
“No. Why?”
“Rick wanted to thank you in person.”
“He doesn’t need to do that. And I’m sure we’ll have other opportunities to run into each other before I leave town.”
* * *
Blaine stood in front of the Blue House the next morning with a bag full of groceries. There was no sign of the white Ford that Irene drove. Catherine’s silver Aston Martin was shiny and spotless, though he was certain she hadn’t had it washed after the bar closed the night before. Maybe something about the woman made her car stay extra clean.
What was he doing there anyway? He’d stayed away from her as much as he could, since that was what she seemed to want. But then when he’d overheard her talking about leaving Cooter’s Bluff, he’d felt compelled to come over.
She probably hadn’t meant she was leaving soon, but what did he know? For reasons he couldn’t figure out, he didn’t want her to just…leave.
Soon after he rang, the door opened and Catherine peered at him. She looked fresh and young in a thick bathrobe and minimal makeup on her face. Her hair had been dried but not styled. He liked this relaxed, approachable side of her.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I was in the neighborhood. Figured I’d stop by.” Thoughts flashed through her unblinking eyes. He hefted the paper bag with a disarming grin. “I come bearing gifts.”
Her lips curved slightly. “Well, in that case. Come on in.” She moved aside and let him through the door.
Blaine had never been inside the Blue House before. The townsfolk sometimes gossiped about it. Unlike every other house in town it was owned by a corporation instead of an actual human being, and there was something suspicious about a name that ended in LLC. People wanted first and last names, where the owner was from, how long they’d been around—in generations, not years—and how many branches of the family lived in the surrounding area. They couldn’t even call it so-and-so’s place…just the Blue House.
Despite the neighborly middle-class exterior, the interior felt like money. The furniture was solid mahogany and gorgeously crafted, and couches and love seats were made of real leather that you could just tell would feel as soft as warm chocolate. Expensive-looking rugs covered the hardwood flooring, and a few fancy landscape paintings hung on the pastel blue and cream walls.
“Nice place. Like the art,” Blaine said.
She wrinkled her nose. “You do?”
“You don’t like them?” He gestured at the framed oil paintings.
“They’re…okay.”
“Huh.” Maybe rich people saw something he didn’t. But if they were just okay, why hang them in the living room?
“You want some coffee? It’s not as good as what you serve, but I think it’ll do,” she said, pouring a cup.
“Yes, thanks.” Her coffee wasn’t bad at all, if slightly girly. It was a little milder than the bar’s version, with hints of hazelnut and vanilla.
“So. What’s in the bag?”
“Breakfast. Irene’s a meat-and-potatoes woman, I’m sure she stocked the fridge with a bunch of stuff that you wouldn’t normally eat.”
“Unless you brought yogurt, I doubt there’s anything I can eat in the bag.”
“Ta-da.” He fished out a cup of yogurt and handed it to her. “But if you wait, I’ll whip up a bowl of fruit salad and some eggs.”
“I don’t eat eggs.”
He gave her a look. “Everyone eats eggs.”
“Too fattening. But thanks for the offer…and the yogurt.” She raised the plastic cup and spooned out the low-fat dairy. “And I’ll take you up on the fruit salad.”
“Okay then.” He washed and chopped apples, pears, kiwis and strawberries while his eggs cooked. If Catherine had wanted some, he would’ve made a complicated omelet, but since she didn’t he settled for a couple of fried eggs, sunny side up. She offered to help, but he waved her off. There was something very satisfying about making a meal for her, even if it was something as simple as fruit salad. He added a dash of fresh mint to the mix and handed her a small bowl. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.” As she took it, her wedding ring flashed in the morning sun.
What kind of a man married a woman like Catherine and then let her go to some small town where she had no friends or family and spend time bartending? Or was she in hiding?
“When is he joining you?” Blaine asked, trying for a casual tone.
“Who?”
“Your husband.”
The softness in her expression vanished, replaced with something hard and cold, and it immediately reminded Blaine of Ceinlys. Something inside him twisted, and he wished he hadn’t asked. He took the eggs off the stove and slid them onto a plate.
Why did he care about Catherine’s marital problems? Whose business was it but her own?
Except they’d kissed. And a part of him felt guilty and annoyed about it, that he’d stooped so low that he’d want a woman who was already taken. After his experience with Zoe, he’d sworn he’d never get involved with a woman who had a significant other, no matter what the woman said. Zoe had claimed her boyfriend was abusive and often hurt her in order to gain Blaine’s sympathy. Except she’d lied about everything. She’d just wanted to use sex to gain an ally, one who could hurt her boyfriend because they’d fought over some stupid stuff nobody remembered anymore. Then she’d ended up marrying the guy after high school graduation.
And then there was Ceinlys. Who was obviously cut from the same social cloth as Catherine, and who had shown up out of the blue after Blaine’s mother had died, visited her grave and then gotten drunk and frisky. She had actually tried to seduce Blaine before he told her who he was. That ended real well, Blaine thought sourly as he recalled the incident.
“I don’t have a husband.” Catherine’s harsh whisper startled him.
His gaze fell on her left hand. “But you have a ring.”
She looked at her finger. “I do have a ring,” she agreed. “It’s a reminder not to repeat the mistake.” She looked him directly in the eye. “I’ve been extremely naïve and foolish.”
* * *
Catherine noted the skepticism in Blaine’s eyes, like he didn’t quite believe her. Why wouldn’t he? Did he think she’d lie about something like this? “I was married until a few months ago,” she began, then stopped. Why was she explaining herself anyway? But when Blaine’s gaze focused on her, she couldn’t stop herself. She wanted to tell her side of the story, the one that nobody bothered to listen to, not even her own mother. “I…” Where should she begin?
“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” he said.
“But I do. Everyone’s heard everyone else’s point of view but mine. It’s about time I told my side.” She speared a big strawberry piece from her bowl. “I married this guy, thinking he loved me. He told me he did even though he knew I was with his younger brother at that time. His brother wasn’t bad or anything. He was just kind of…cold and emotionally distant. We would’ve been materially comfortable, but otherwise disconnected and unhappy with each other. So when the older brother approached so sweetly and promised me the world, I couldn’t help myself. I became infatuated, then fell in love with him.” She paused and gave a long soft sigh. “Our marriage was perfect for about a year. Then things slowly started to fall apart. We wanted to have children, but it turned out we…couldn’t. He became busier at work. I sometimes wonder how many nights away from home were spent working and how many were at strip joints and…other places.”
“He wasn’t faithful?”
She shrugged, then steeled herself for the dull pain to come. “Probably not. Not that I ever found out for sure. It was better not to know. That way I wouldn’t have to do something about it. I didn’t want our marriage to fall apart. We were a perfect couple in public, and I had my pride. But at home we were like strangers, barely talking to each other. T
hen his wife showed up.”
Blaine’s fork stopped in mid-air. “What?”
“He had—has—another wife. He married her first, so she’s actually his real wife, not me. I found out last year. Then his family discovered the family business he’d been managing was in big trouble. Some money’s missing, and things look very bad.”
“Jesus.”
“And they blame me.”
“Why?”
“I was on the board of directors.”
“So? Were you making all the decisions?”
“No. I let my husband do whatever he wanted. I had no reason to think he wouldn’t know what to do. He’s smart. Has an Ivy League degree.” Every one of her in-laws knew this, but somehow they blamed her. As if stupid Catherine, the one her teachers had thought was so slow and dim-witted, would somehow know how to embezzle money even if she had the chance.
She hadn’t been able to do anything right in her life, and acknowledging it hurt.
“So what are you doing here? Aren’t you going to fight them?” Blaine asked.
The notion stunned her. “Fight them?”
“What they’re doing to you is messed up. If you haven’t done anything wrong, you should fight back.”
She tilted her head. “With what? I have no resources, and I’m basically…nothing. His family has private investigators, forensic accountants and an army of lawyers on retainer. They have enough money to finance a civil war in some third world country. How am I supposed to fight people like that?”
“I don’t know.” He frowned. “But I can’t help but feel there’s gotta be something you can do to make them back off.”
The sentiment was sweet. But she knew better; there was no justice in the world for people who couldn’t afford it.
“And what about your folks? Aren’t they helping you?” he asked.
“My father passed away years ago, and my mother thinks I’m to blame for my marriage falling apart.”
“What the hell?”
“Yeah, she thinks that I should have somehow known that my husband was already married…and hiding it from me. But that’s Olivia for you. She is what she is. I just need to take a deep breath and do what I can to minimize the damage.”
“That’s messed up. And unfair.”
She shrugged. “Life’s always unfair. My in-laws are determined to protect my faux-husband, so they’re gathering evidence to use against me. They also have lots of influential friends, and people tend to stick with who they know.”
“Haven’t you met anyone over the years who can defend you?”
“Plenty of people. But most of them are also close to my in-laws. And my cousins…well, they don’t like me much, so that’s that. I’ve never been the nicest person.” She’d always been too scared to be nice. If anybody got too close, they might have realized that her whole act was a sham—a pretty façade without anything else to offer. When her youth faded away, she’d be nothing. Less than nothing. Pitiable, even.
And she couldn’t stand the thought of it. Catherine Scarlett Fairchild was not pitiable. Contemptible, perhaps, but never pitiable.
But right now, looking into Blaine’s soft gaze, she knew she’d screwed up. She’d said too much, and now he’d think she was some pathetic washout from life. Damn it. She’d wanted him to see her differently, not as some spoiled bitch like so many others thought. If he was astute, though, he would realize she was too stupid to be saved and had too short a shelf life left to be of value.
For some time she’d regretted wasting so many of her best years on Jacob…but she’d never regretted it more than now.
* * *
Blaine’s heart ached for Catherine. It didn’t matter if you weren’t the nicest person. Who was perfect? Nobody deserved to have their life destroyed that way. He couldn’t understand how people didn’t stand by her, not even her own mother.
His mother had been uneducated and probably backward to many—she hadn’t even finished high school—but she’d always put her family first. She would never have kicked him, verbally or otherwise, when he was down. How could anybody function without a supportive family?
Then he remembered how furious Catherine had been about the stolen purse. She’d probably expected things to be made right since she was the victim. Nobody in town could deny it; everyone knew about Willie Rae’s sticky fingers. It must’ve been a kick in the gut to be told the sheriff wasn’t going to act on her behalf.
A sense of shame curdled like bad milk in Blaine’s belly. He hadn’t spoken up for her. He’d just thought she was making too big a deal out of the purse when she’d been assured it’d be returned to her eventually.
“Anyway, that’s enough. A sob story is no way to start the morning.” Her lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, and she finished her fruit salad.
Except it wasn’t a sob story. She hadn’t said it to get his sympathy or play him the way Zoe had. Catherine had been intent on telling her story, not gauging his reactions so she could adjust her words for maximum sympathy. “I don’t mind,” he said.
“Don’t you?” She rose from her seat and put her dishes into the sink. She paused there for a moment, gazing out the window toward the hills in the distance, then turned and padded toward him, the edges of the robe swirling around her ankles. Her pink-tipped finger hit his chest then traveled slowly down his torso. “Do you know what I’d like?”
She seemed to leave a trail of fire on his chest. His breath caught at the intimate tone of her voice. “Tell me,” he murmured.
“I like show better than tell.” She brushed her lips over his, the touch light and delicate.
Chapter Nine
Blaine stayed still, but she could feel the energy in his body change. Catherine smiled to herself. This was one way to yank his mind away from her pathetic story, so he wouldn’t have the time or focus left to put things together.
She ran her tongue over his lips, and thrilled at his sharp intake of breath. But a part of her was wound tight with hesitation and nerves.
It’d been two years since she’d been with a man. Jacob hadn’t wanted to touch her once he’d realized she couldn’t get pregnant naturally. “Why bother?” he’d said. “Might as well hump a mannequin.”
She was almost sure he hadn’t gone without sex, but she’d pretended everything was fine. It was better than having a PI tailing him until she had proof of his infidelity. Then she wouldn’t have been able to pretend her marriage was still perfect.
If she could just prove to herself she wasn’t some worthless thing, but a desirable woman who deserved tenderness and passion…
She shook herself mentally. She didn’t want to use Blaine, no matter how willing and available he was, to just prove Jacob wrong and assuage her wounded psyche. That would make her no better than her bigamist husband.
Apparently tired of waiting for her to make the next move, Blaine wrapped a hand around the back of her neck. She gasped at the shocking heat. He pulled her down until she was straddling him.
“I liked what you were doing earlier,” he murmured against her ear.
His erection prodded against her. Her vocal cords no longer worked.
“Do you really want this?” he asked.
Did she ever. If she let him make the move, then it wouldn’t be like she was using him, would it? It’d be like she was—what? Just…participating. Just going with the flow, right?
She was so scared she was not only a pretty shell with nothing inside like Jacob had said but also a horrible, arrogant human being like so many in her life had implied. She wanted to believe she wasn’t like that, and that she didn’t deserve any of what had happened to her.
“Catherine?” Blaine brushed his thumb along her jaw line. “If you don’t want to do this, tell me now and I’ll stop.”
She raised her gaze to meet his. “I want this. I want you.” The last word came out like a sigh.
His blue eyes deepened, and he kissed her.
And oh what a
kiss it was. His lips felt just as amazing as the first night she’d bartended. They moved firmly and surely against hers. His tongue tasted her gently, like he was afraid to spook her. She shoved her hands into his warm, silky hair. Everything about the moment was perfect as he drew her closer to the fire he was building, the promise of pleasure to come.
She trembled as her sex grew slick with heat. This felt so different and new, almost like it was her first time. She had never chosen a lover out of pure need. When she’d dated it was because her dates could make up for what she didn’t have and offer her protection or care or something. But with Blaine, she wanted the man, not a quid pro quo.
Her shoulders tingled as his hand pushed away her robe. He studied the curves of her bared breasts, tracing them with his fingertips as he continued to kiss her. She opened her mouth wider, sucked his tongue like it was his cock and fitted her body better against his, cradling his erection between her legs. His chest rumbled with a moan, and she put her hands on his torso, feeling his heart pump furiously underneath her palm.
She was the center of his focus, his desire. The female side of her that had been long neglected gloried in it.
She unbuttoned his shirt and found a chest covered with brown hair. He was so big and solid, and she loved everything about his male body. The strength in his arms must have been ten times hers, but she felt utterly safe. It was as though a part of her recognized he’d never do anything to hurt her.
“Bedroom,” he whispered raggedly. “We’re not doing this in your kitchen.”
“Upstairs,” she said. “Last door, end of the hall.”
He lifted her and carried her effortlessly up the staircase. She felt like Scarlett in Gone with the Wind, about to be ravished, and clenched her thighs in anticipation.
Yes, yes, yes!
He shouldered the door open and laid her carefully on the giant bed. The sheet felt cool against her heated skin, and she gasped at the sensation. He pulled the robe off her like he was unwrapping a precious gift. There was so much focus in his eyes, and he drank her in like he would memorize every pore, every curve.
