I DO, BUT HERE'S THE CATCH

by Pamela Burford

  And no one had to tell him that last night had been her first club experience. Her wide-eyed fascination was almost comical. By then Grant's nagging conscience had kicked in and he'd decided he owed her a good time. He'd bet anything she wasn't accustomed to going out on the town, and he'd done his best to put her at ease, to make this date everything she expected a proper date to be, right down to the good-night kiss.

  Grant frowned, recalling that kiss. He'd initiated it because he'd known she'd expected it, or at least hoped for it. Didn't every real date end with a kiss? What had started out as a friendly peck had turned into another surprise.

  Instead of the awkward stiffness he'd anticipated, she'd been soft and warm and shyly responsive—a result of the sake she'd consumed, no doubt, but at that moment he hadn't stopped to reason it out. Masculine instinct had taken over and he'd let his lips tarry, savoring the moment and the thrill of awareness, as fleeting as it was unexpected.

  On retrospect, the kiss had been a mistake. Grant didn't make a habit of planting false expectations.

  He hoped Charli wouldn't be too disappointed when she didn't hear from him again.

  Grant grabbed his sand wedge and shuffled into the downward-sloping sand trap. Though he was used to it by now, he hated having his opponent cool his heels while he extricated his ball from whatever unfortunate location it had found its way to. He especially hated it when he was playing against a senior partner or an important client. In this case it was just Sam Kauffman, a junior partner he'd gotten chummy with over the past five years, but it still rankled. He'd never beaten Sam.

  Although the hypnosis sessions with Raven had been helping Grant focus on his game, today was shaping up as a washout. He felt distracted. His first ball had ended up in a water hazard. His fourth had landed in the rough, and he'd had a hell of a time hitting it out of the dense shrubbery.

  "Dig your feet into the sand," Sam called down to him.

  Twelve more holes to go, and Grant found he was no longer looking forward to them. He ground his shoes into the sand and calculated what it would take to pop the ball up to the green, which was at shoulder height. Focusing intently, he swung, hit with a spray of sand, started to smile—

  And watched the damn thing plop into the opposite sand trap. He cursed.

  Sam turned back to him. "You should've hit behind the ball."

  What the hell do you think I was trying to do? Grant made his way out of the sand trap and across the fringe to the other one.

  "Slow down on your backswing," Sam advised. He squinted toward the green, where his own ball waited for him, not five yards from the hole. Grant saw him sneak a peek at his Breitling sport watch.

  Charli had caught Grant doing the same thing last night, and he found he didn't like it any better than she had. Only she hadn't gotten irritated—not that he could tell, anyway. She'd held her chin high and pretended she was as eager to end the date as he was.

  He hadn't expected that, for some reason—that balky pride. It wasn't the first time some guy had cut the evening short, he'd realized then. She was all too used to it.

  She may have been used to it, but the pain was there, lurking behind those inky-dark eyes. That was when he'd blurted that out about taking her to Bunny's. Which had been part of his original plan, of course, before he'd set eyes on his mousy blind date, at which point those plans had abruptly changed.

  In the end, he'd practically had to hog-tie Charli to get her to that club, once she'd made up her mind to help him burn her off.

  Grant had the feeling he'd met his match in the stubborn-pride department.

  Concentrate. He eyeballed the height of the green, the position of the ball. He consciously paused—the hell with Sam, let him wait—while he replayed Raven's words in his mind, her techniques for mentally zooming in on a task, to the exclusion of all else. He took a slow, deep breath, focused on the ball and on his body, as if they were somehow connected. He felt it gel, come together just right.

  He knew the shot was good even before he watched the ball bounce once and stop ten feet from the hole. He took a few moments to smooth the sand traps with the rake kept there for that purpose. His shoes were filled with sand; it littered both sides of the green, a testament to his skill level.

  Sam dropped his fifteen-foot birdie putt effortlessly. Grant was already one over par, and he only made it worse when he skirted the hole on his first putt, putting the ball four feet past it.

  "Son of a bitch," he muttered under his breath. Sam must have sensed his mood, because for once he held his tongue. Grant forced himself to relax and concentrate. A double bogey was bad enough; he had no intention of making it worse.

  He tapped the ball and it rolled slowly toward the hole, flirted with the rim—Grant held his breath—and finally teetered into it.

  "Your problem," Sam said, "is those women you date."

  Grant retrieved his ball. "I thought you were going to say it's my backswing."

  "You go for these outspoken, independent types. They're no more ready to tie the knot than you are. And even if they were, they're not the kind of wife you need. What you need is some sweet, sheltered young thing with a strong regard for family. What?" Sam asked, studying Grant's expression "You know someone like that?"

  "Sure." Grant slid his putter into his golf bag. "I took her out just last night."

  "Yeah, right," Sam scoffed. "I'm serious, Grant. Women like that still exist—you just have to know where to look for them."

  "In a convent?" They took off together toward the seventh tee.

  "You need a dependable woman with traditional values," Sam said. "A woman who doesn't feel she has to always put herself first."

  "Mother Teresa is no longer with us, Sam."

  "Would you get off this nun thing? I'm talking about a woman who knows how to be a team player."

  "The 'Grant Sterling for Partner' team."

  "Okay, yes! Because it's to her benefit as much as yours if you make partner. Teamwork. You see what I'm getting at?"

  "This paragon should be quiet and unassuming, I take it. One might even say mousy. The kind of woman who, at thirty years of age, still lives with her folks."

  "Go ahead, joke. It's your career."

  "It would help, of course," Grant continued, "if she possessed impeccable housekeeping and organizational skills. And if she were adept at entertaining my business colleagues. The kind of woman who would think nothing of, say, whipping up a five-course dinner for eighty. Plus a cake."

  Sam gave a disgusted sigh. "Forget I said anything."

  I wish I could.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  «^»

  "Charli, how are you? It's Grant."

  Something snagged hard in Charli's chest, knocking her off balance. She slid into a kitchen chair, keeping a death grip on the receiver of the wall phone.

  He wasn't going to call; she'd reconciled herself to it. Her friends had tried to prepare her—

  "You there?" he asked.

  "Oh, I'm sorry, I … hi."

  Mama screeched down the stairs, "Who is it, Carlotta?"

  Charli covered the mouthpiece and called, "It's—it's for me."

  "Tell her not to call so late!" Mama hollered, obviously assuming the caller was one of Charli's female friends.

  "Did I call too late?" Grant asked.

  "No, no. Don't worry about it. Mama goes to bed early, but she lies there watching the Weather Channel for a couple of hours. She just doesn't believe anyone else should have a life after 9:00 p.m."

  Grant's rich chuckle brought a smile to Charli's face. "I wanted you to know how much I enjoyed last night," he said.

  Her smile spread into a moronic grin. That funny feeling in her chest turned into a swelling warmth. "Me, too. I had a wonderful time, Grant."

  "I was hoping we could do it again soon. Actually, I had something a little different in mind. The opening of an exhibit at a photo gallery in SoHo."

  "Another client?"

>   "The daughter of one of the partners at my firm. She's an accomplished photographer. I think you'll enjoy her work."

  "I'd love to."

  "Are you free Wednesday night?"

  A wave of embarrassment washed over Charli. She'd accepted without even knowing what day he was talking about. "Yes, I… Wednesday's good."

  "Terrific!" he said, as if he really meant it. "I'll pick you up at seven, if that's okay. We'll get a bite to eat after." An impish tone infected his voice as he added, "You can choose the restaurant this time."

  "Oh, wherever you want to go is fine!" she blurted.

  "You know what I'd really like? A good Italian meal. I'll bet you know your way around Little Italy."

  "Oh, I know a wonderful restaurant in Little Italy! The best ossobuco in the city."

  "I can't wait. See you Wednesday. Good night, Charli."

  "Good night."

  Charli replaced the receiver on the wall phone, then snatched it up immediately and dialed Raven's number.

  * * *

  "Is this a new piece?" Charli examined the antique metal weather vane, in the shape of a galleon under full sail. It occupied a space on Grant's white fireplace mantel between a painted wooden statue of a black-and-white pony that dated from the 1830s, and a primitive painting of a New England farm scene.

  "I found that at a flea market on Saturday. It was made in the late eighteen hundreds." Grant reclined in the corner of his L-shaped beige suede sofa, with one leg stretched out on the cushions and both arms thrown over the sofa back. Lazily he lifted one hand and beckoned to Charli.

  She recognized that inviting smile, and answered it with a shy one of her own. During the two weeks they'd been seeing each other, she'd come to relish Grant's kisses and warm caresses, although she was careful to hide her eagerness. She didn't want him to think she was, well, eager. Brazen. A wanton woman. She'd die of shame if he thought of her like that.

  Charli crossed the wide oak floorboards, partially covered by a painted canvas floor covering in an oak-leaf pattern that reflected the warm autumn tones Grant favored. Like the rest of his three-story waterfront house on Long Island's North Shore, the living room was sophisticated yet cozy, home to the eclectic assortment of American folk art he'd collected over the years.

  The stone-and-shingle exterior, too, was a pleasing study in contrasts. The brown and gray granite blocks of the first floor were set off by white Tuscan-style columns, while towering granite chimneys bisected the cedar-clad gables flanking the recessed front entrance.

  During the day the living room's sprawling bay window gave a breathtaking view of Long Island Sound. It was now around nine at night, and Roman shades of a soft cream-and-beige fabric draped the windows. A table lamp with an amber-colored mica shade cast soft light over Grant, who watched her approach and sit next to him, close but not touching.

  His fingers slipped under her hair to lightly stroke her neck. Charli shivered at the pleasurable sensation. He exerted gentle pressure, urging her to lean against him, and she did. She'd never felt this with any of the handful of men she'd dated, this easy companionship, as if the two of them "fit" somehow.

  "Do you mind that we didn't do more this evening?" he asked.

  "No, of course not! Sometimes it's nice to just … cuddle," she admitted, settling more fully against him as his arm draped over her shoulder.

  After work he'd changed into a wine-colored polo shirt and khaki slacks, and picked her up for a casual dinner at a deli-style restaurant that had been a fixture in her neighborhood since before she was born. They'd bought dessert—gourmet ice-cream bars—on the way to his house.

  Charli and Grant had seen each other nearly every day for the past two weeks. She'd even invited him to Easter dinner yesterday, expecting him to politely decline. After all, for a man to willingly spend time with a girlfriend's family, he had to be pretty serious about her, or so she'd been told.

  Not only had Grant shown up, but he'd brought Mama a hostess gift of potted lilies, plus a bottle of good Italian wine. He'd complimented the food and flattered Grandma Rossi, and after dinner, while the women had tidied the kitchen, he'd sat in the living room with Papa, tossing back sambuca and speculating on the Yankees' chances of bringing home the pennant this year.

  Tonight Charli had pulled back the top and sides of her hair with a white bow barrette fastened in back. The hardware poked her scalp where Grant's shoulder cradled her head, prompting her to unfasten the barrette and set it on the hammered-copper coffee table. Tossing her hair off her face, she snuggled back against him, only to have him tip up her head and stare at her.

  She brought her hand to her face. "What?"

  He brushed his fingertips through her loosened hair, slowly.

  "Oh, I'm a mess," Charli said, wishing she'd left the barrette in place.

  "No, you look lovely this way." His gaze took in her hair, her eyes, her mouth. "Natural."

  "I'm not lovely." Charli tried to pull back, but he wouldn't let her. "You don't have to say things like that, Grant. I know I'm not… You don't have to say things like that."

  He searched her eyes, and Charli got that uncomfortable feeling again, that he saw more than she wanted him to.

  Finally he said, "There's nothing wrong with the way you look, Charli."

  She forced a chuckle. "Nothing that a nose job wouldn't fix. For starters."

  His brows quirked as if he couldn't decide whether she was joking. "What's wrong with your nose?"

  She let her snort of laughter answer him.

  He held her chin, studying her. "It's not a tiny little turned-up nose, I'll give you that."

  "Your powers of observation are exemplary."

  He turned her head for the full profile. "But it's no beak, either. Does it really bother you?"

  "Grant, it's…" She touched the nose she'd always thought of as, yes, a beak. "It—it overpowers my face."

  "It's a strong nose, and I like it." He made her face him, his gaze as candid as she'd ever seen it "Your nose suits you, Charli, and it doesn't overpower your face. I wouldn't say it if it weren't true."

  He wasn't calling her ravishing, he wasn't comparing her to the world's great beauties—she never would have bought that nonsense for a second. He was simply telling her he liked her nose, and his unblinking sincerity brought grateful tears to her eyes. She tucked her head into his shoulder and struggled for composure.

  Tenderly he held her, kissed the top of her head. After a few moments he added, "But as for these Dumbo ears…" and he tugged on her earlobe.

  Charli laughed. Her ears were perfectly formed, the only part of her she had no problem with. His gaze homed in on her mouth, and she knew he was going to kiss her. Her heart sprinted as he lowered his head and touched his lips to hers.

  As always, it was a little shock, the pleasure of it, and she nearly groaned aloud. It was as if his mouth were making love to hers—not that she had experience in that area, but she had an imagination, and her imagination filled in the blanks. He kissed her with increasing fervor, and by the time his tongue stroked her lips and slipped past them, she welcomed the bold invasion.

  Grant had kissed Charli like this before, and it excited her, but she always restrained the impulse to respond in kind, unsure what he expected of her, wary of being labeled a certain kind of woman. Without warning, he lifted her onto his lap, gentling her with whispered endearments when she tensed. He pulled her legs up onto the cushions and leaned her comfortably against the plush sofa back, the two of them now tucked cozily into the corner.

  He nuzzled her throat above the V-collar of her pink-and-white awning-striped blouse. "What kind of perfume is that? You always smell so good."

  "Dove soap," she said, and felt him smile against her neck.

  "I'll buy you a case." He kissed the patch of skin showing under the hollow of her throat, and claimed her lips again as his hand slid over her breast.

  He'd tried to touch her like that a couple of times before, and thos
e times she'd silently blocked his hand. Now, however, she sat still as stone, and after a couple of moments, his long fingers began to move.

  Grant lifted his head and watched her face as he gently kneaded her breast, right through her blouse and bra. She turned her head aside, unable to look him in the eye, afraid to let him see how his touch affected her. Every nerve in her body hummed. She'd fantasized during the past two weeks, wondering how it would feel to have him touch her there, and other places as well. If this was how it felt over her clothes—this delicious tingling warmth—how would it feel on bare skin?

  Charli had always been self-conscious about her breasts, which she considered a bit too large for her short frame, though she'd learned how to dress to minimize them. Now, as Grant stroked and caressed them, that insecurity came rushing to the fore. Suddenly, despite the raw pleasure of his touch, she wanted him to stop.

  He must have sensed it, because his hand moved from there to her side, and then lower, skimming her waist, settling on her hip. He pulled her closer, kissed her with an intensity that stole her wits. He stroked her hip and thigh through her navy twill skirt, and Charli ached to touch him, too, to cling to him, to give in to the mounting urge to move against him—but she didn't dare. These feelings were so new, at once welcome and unnerving, and she didn't trust herself to respond in the appropriate manner—whatever could be considered "appropriate" when you were perched on a man's lap letting him touch you where you'd never been touched!

  Grant broke the kiss. He let his gaze travel down her form and up again, as if appreciating the way she looked sprawled on his lap. Her hair was now thoroughly disheveled, and she wished for a comb, until she noticed the heated look in his eyes.

  "If you'd looked like this when I picked you up," he said, as he arranged the tousled strands around her face, "I would've brought you back here right away, and to hell with dinner."