I DO, BUT HERE'S THE CATCH

by Pamela Burford

  "You haven't disrupted anything."

  Charli laughed. "You haven't given me a chance!"

  "What have you wanted to do that I wouldn't let you? You haven't suggested any changes around here."

  "And if I had? Be honest."

  Grant wanted to refute what she was saying, but the words wouldn't come. Chagrined, he said, "Maybe I've been a little…"

  "Set in your ways?" At least she was smiling.

  Charli moved to his side of the table, eyeing the remaining balls.

  "You know, when we got engaged," she said, "and you told me that you were set in your ways, you acknowledged that perhaps I was, as well. Think I can sink the nine ball in the corner pocket?"

  "Uh, yeah. Put a little English on it. Hit it right there." He pointed to a spot on the side of the nine ball. "Listen, Charli, I know where you're going with this. You want me to let you make more decisions around here."

  "No."

  "What then?"

  "I don't want you to let me do anything," she said. "I shouldn't have to ask permission."

  "That's not what I meant."

  "You once told me our marriage was a partnership of equals." She leaned over the table, bridged her cue. "That's what I always thought marriage was supposed to be."

  "Our kind of marriage, yes."

  She looked up at him. "Any kind of marriage. It doesn't have to be some kind of dry business transaction for both spouses to be equal partners."

  "Is that how you see what we have? As a dry business transaction?"

  "Wasn't that your intention?" She took her shot, and missed. The nine ball ricocheted off the corner, skirting the pocket by a hair. When he failed to answer, she faced him squarely. "In an equal partnership, one partner doesn't control all the money and expenditures. In an equal partnership, one partner doesn't try to remold the other one into some kind of damn Stepford wife." She smiled. "Now do you see where I'm going with this?"

  Grant was stunned; he'd never heard Charli swear. "I told you before, I'm just trying to help you—"

  "Adjust. I know. Has it occurred to you that only one of us seems to be doing any adjusting around here?"

  Only one of us needs to do any adjusting, he wanted to say, but wisely held his tongue. He directed his attention to the pool table and the four ball, which called for a tricky bank shot.

  "If I needed so much adjustment," she continued, "why did you marry me? Oh, I remember now. I'm so modest and undemanding."

  Had he really described her that way? Grant felt a prickle of shame, recalling their conversation on their wedding night.

  "What are you doing here?" he'd demanded. "We talked about this … the kind of marriage this will be."

  Charli had sat on his bed in that sheer, sexy negligee, hunched miserably with her arms around her knees, as if trying to shield herself from her husband's view. Modest and undemanding, he had indeed called her. And good-natured. He could have been describing the perfect lapdog.

  Her attire tonight couldn't be called modest, although it was far from indecent. As for being undemanding—it would appear she'd gotten over it.

  Grant hit the cue ball, banking it off the rail. It rolled harmlessly a good two inches from the four ball. Charli stood very close to him now. The overhead chandelier molded her features in a dramatic play of light and shadow, making her cheekbones higher, her mouth fuller, more prominent. Her dark eyes glittered, and Grant couldn't help but observe that indignation looked good on Charli.

  He propped his cue against the table. "It would seem that first impressions can be deceiving." His fingertips brushed the bare skin above her neckline as he lifted her lustrous freshwater-pearl necklace, which matched her delicate drop earrings. Amanda had helped her choose these pieces, as well as the outfit she now wore, a couple of days earlier. This jewelry wasn't nearly as valuable as the emeralds and sapphires he'd given her, but it looked stunning against her olive complexion.

  Slowly he released the necklace, letting the backs of his fingers linger on her satiny skin. Charli watched him without expression, even as her heart fluttered under his knuckles. After a moment she stepped away and scanned the pool table; her gaze zeroed in on the four ball Grant had failed to sink. For the second time, he watched her skirt inch up her bare thighs and stretch taut over her fanny as she bent at the waist. He found himself silently slipping behind her, close but not touching, prey to the inescapable tug of pure male instinct.

  Sighting along her cue, Charli shifted her weight backward and bumped up against Grant. She started to recoil from the unexpected contact, but he seized her hips and leaned into her, pressing her to the table. She looked over her shoulder at him, and something in his expression made her eyes go wide.

  She dropped the cue and tried to lever herself up. He pushed on the back of her neck, pressing her flat to the table.

  "Grant…!"

  "You're doing it on purpose, aren't you?" He slid his free hand down her side and over her hip. "I thought no, it couldn't be, not Charli, not my timid, modest little bride."

  Something in his tone alarmed her. She struggled to rise, briefly, and collapsed onto the table, breathing hard. Her color was high under the glare of the chandelier, her cheek pressed to the green felt. He brushed her disheveled hair off her face. She tried to look at him, but his fingers tightened fractionally on her neck, thwarting her.

  "Grant," she said, breathless, "what are you doing?"

  "You've been deliberately teasing me. For days now," he accused, grinding slowly against her, forcing her to acknowledge the result of her actions. "Admit it."

  "Let me up."

  "Isn't this what you wanted?" He pried her legs apart with his own, making her skirt ride up even higher. "To push me over the edge? Make me lose control?"

  "No!" She attempted to wrench away from him, to close her legs. Every little movement sent darts of pleasure through him.

  "I don't believe you." He shoved her skirt up to her waist. She cried out, trying to buck him off of her. "These are new, aren't they?" he asked, fondling her sweet, round bottom through silver lace-and-satin bikini panties that matched the bra he'd glimpsed earlier.

  "Grant, stop it!" Charli reached behind her to pull her skirt down. He easily shackled both her wrists in one hand and held them at her waist.

  He'd seen the utilitarian undies his wife normally wore, folded in neat stacks in the laundry room: full-coverage white cotton underpants and bras.

  "Why did you buy these," he asked, "if you didn't want me to see them? Or did you have someone else in mind at the time?" Jealousy was a poison-tipped spear, jabbing at him. To his dismay, the idea of Charli trying to subvert their platonic marriage was preferable to her sharing herself with another man.

  Charli's eyes narrowed. "It's none of your damn business if I did."

  "Another 'damn.' That's twice in one night." He hooked his fingers over the top edge of the panties as if to pull them down.

  She gasped and went rigid. "Don't!"

  Grant stopped, trying to reconcile days' worth of come-hither cues with Charli's obvious distress now. He kneed her legs farther apart, drinking in the enticing spectacle before him, grappling with his rampant hunger. He pressed his hand directly between Charli's legs, over the flimsy panties. A strangled cry erupted from her. Her thighs quivered as she fought to close them. He tightened his grip on her wrists.

  Her heat penetrated his fingers; he stroked her slowly, exploring her intimate flesh through the thin barrier of satin. "I'm going to take you like this," he said. "A quickie on the pool table."

  "No." Her voice quavered. "Grant, don't."

  "Why not? It's what you want. Or do you get your kicks just teasing the hell out of me?" He continued to caress her, lightly, rhythmically. "Answer me, Charli."

  "This isn't what I wanted."

  "You didn't want sex?" He restated the question, using coarse language that made her flinch.

  "No." In a ragged whisper she added, "I wanted you to make love to me
."

  Grant cursed. "You have to put it up there on some lofty plane, don't you? Does that help you keep from feeling dirty about it? Pretending that it's more than hominess, more than a basic animal need?"

  "It is more. I couldn't do it otherwise."

  "How noble." And still he stroked her. "You're wet, Charli. That's not love, it's hormones."

  "Please…" she panted, obviously close to climax. "Not like this."

  "It can't be any other way." He released her wrists. The sound of his belt leather sliding free of the buckle galvanized her. She twisted away from him, sliding shakily off the pool table as she yanked her skirt down.

  Her voice was flat, final. "No." She gripped the edge of the table, her chest heaving.

  Frustration boiled within him. "I'm willing to finish what you started."

  "Do you love me?"

  Grant's entire body throbbed in time to his heartbeat. "This isn't about love. Damn it, Charli. If I'd known you'd do this…"

  Her chin rose. "You wouldn't have married me? It's okay, you don't have to answer. The fact is, I do love you, Grant. And I know you feel something for me."

  With jerky movements he refastened his belt.

  "Why are you so terrified of those feelings?" she asked. "Why do you push me away?"

  "It didn't have to be like this." He shook his head, wondering how he'd let things get so out of hand. "We could've stuck to the game plan. You could've stuck to the game plan. You've known from the beginning what the deal is."

  "What happened to you, Grant? What made you so afraid to let me close?" She followed him to the foot of the stairs. "Talk to me. Please. I love—"

  "No, you don't!" He raised his hands, as if to ward her off. "You've convinced yourself. Go out and get laid, Charli. That's all you need. Just don't tell me about it."

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  «^»

  "When are the serving people getting here?" Grant asked.

  "I told you, at seven." Charli saw him check his watch, for the umpteenth time, as she stuffed the last of several dozen mushroom caps with a mixture of sautéed shallots, prosciutto, béchamel sauce and freshly grated Parmesan cheese. "You're going to be a basket case by the time everyone gets here. Calm down, Grant. Everything's under control."

  He peered at the stuffed mushrooms arranged on a baking pan. "They're not uniform in size."

  "Close enough. And who cares, anyway? These funghi ripieni are delicious. I've never had a complaint. Oh, well, except that one time…" She chewed back a smile.

  Grant looked up in alarm. "What time? What happened?"

  Charli laughed; she couldn't help it. "Have you ever entertained before?" She wiped her hands on her bib apron and pulled a length of plastic wrap off the roll.

  "Of course I have. It's just that tonight is—"

  "Important. Yes. I believe you mentioned something about that." Charli knew she should be more sympathetic, but Grant had been driving her crazy the past few days, fixating on every little detail of tonight's dinner party, from her menu choices to the decor to the dishes and table linens. He'd insisted on splurging on a new set of Wedgwood bone china, ivory with a platinum rim, even though there was a nearly new set of Russian china in the sideboard. Charli and Grant both loved the Russian dishes, with their bold design in cobalt blue, but they weren't suitable for this crowd, he'd insisted. Better to play it safe with something more sedate, more conservative, more suitable to a partner of Farman, Van Cleave and Holm.

  Charli slid the mushrooms into the built-in, Sub-Zero refrigerator, clad in pale maple to blend in with the kitchen decor. She had to shove aside the Jerusalem artichoke and spinach salad to make room for them.

  "I'm still not sure about that stew," Grant said, dogging her steps as she pulled off the apron and tossed it onto the butcher-block work island. The first time Charli had laid eyes on this enormous, opulent kitchen, she could only gape in wonder. Thought the appliances, amenities and storage were state of the art, the room had a vintage 1940s look reminiscent of an old diner, with its subway-tile backsplashes, glass cabinet doors, seafoam-green granite countertops and lavish use of blond wood and stainless steel.

  The narrow, cramped kitchen in her parents' house looked vintage, too, but not on purpose. If avocado-colored appliances and fat-fruit wallpaper ever came back in style, her folks would be ready.

  Charli needed a nice relaxing bath. No, she needed a nice relaxing bubble bath. She deserved it. It was now midafternoon, and she'd been on her feet since the morning, cooking, laying out all the serving pieces they'd need, setting the dining table, arranging liquor and mixers on the bar in the den. Grant had hired a couple of people from a local agency to serve and clean up, but Charli had insisted on doing all the cooking herself.

  He followed her out of the kitchen to the curving staircase. "I said I'm still not sure about—"

  She wheeled on him. "It's spezzatino di vitello alla salvia—veal stew with sage and white wine, not some glop from a can, for heaven's sake."

  "I know that, but—"

  "It's delicious—you said so yourself."

  "It's incredible, but I'm just worried that it may be a little, ah, prosaic for this kind of affair. I mean, we're serving all these other elegant dishes, and then giving them stew for a main course?"

  Sighing, Charli trudged upstairs, with Grant right behind her. She knew he was anxious about this dinner, but her patience was wearing thin. "I told you, Grant, there's no main course. This is an Italian-style dinner. The veal stew is the second course, and I chose it because I could make it yesterday, and heat it up right before it's served. With everything else I'm making that has to be done at the last minute, it was the perfect choice. Tastes better the second day, anyway. Don't worry, I'll call it spezzatino," she said dryly. "We'll fool everyone."

  Charli was in her room now, grabbing her pink terry robe. She hadn't walked around in only a towel since Grant had nearly taken her virginity on the pool table, a week ago today. She had been teasing him, as he'd accused, deliberately trying to goad a response out of him. She'd put all the advice she'd gotten from her friends and Hunter to good use, and even let Amanda take her clothes shopping; the outfit she'd worn to dinner with the Mahons had received Amanda's seal of approval.

  For a week and a half, she'd flaunted her body in the privacy of their home, "accidentally" brushing up against her husband on numerous occasions, in an effort to force him to acknowledge his feelings for her. In the end, the only thing he'd been willing to acknowledge—to himself or to her—was a base sexual attraction. The encounter in the game room had careened out of control, leaving her shaken. During the week that had elapsed since then, they'd walked on eggs around each other, every interaction marked by a polite reserve that left her more heartsick and frustrated than ever.

  The day after the pool-table incident, Grant had presented her with a gold Movado watch—as some sort of apology, she assumed.

  He followed her to the spacious guest bathroom and watched as she ran water in the tub and poured in vanilla-scented bubble bath. "I just want everything to go off without a hitch."

  "It will."

  "I know there must be something we haven't thought of."

  "I'm sure there is." His expression told her it wasn't the answer he'd been hoping for. "Did it occur to you that you might actually try to relax and enjoy your own party?"

  "You're taking this whole thing so lightly."

  "Lightly? Grant, I've worked my tail off for this dinner. The planning, the shopping, the cooking—"

  "I know you have, and I really appreciate it. It's just that you don't seem to understand how much is riding on this, on the success of this evening."

  Vanilla-scented steam wafted from the tub, quickly filling with water and froth. Charli kicked off her moccasin-style flats. She pulled the hair tie off the end of her braid and finger-combed the strands. "You're going to be so uptight it'll rub off on our guests."

  "Did Sarah Holm solve her baby
-sitter problem?"

  "You only get to ask any question three times. After that, I ignore it." Charli started unbuttoning her blouse. "I'm going to take my bath now, so unless you'd care to scrub my back, this conversation is over."

  He had to know it was just her exasperation speaking; they'd scrupulously kept their distance from each other for the past week. Nevertheless, at that moment Grant looked tempted to take her up on the offer. Charli's heart did a drumroll. In the next instant he stepped out of the room and shut the door.

  Even then his fretting didn't stop. "I'm not sure about the music we chose," he called through the closed door. "I thought maybe I'd put a little more classical stuff into the mix. What do you think?"

  Charli finished shedding her clothes and deposited them in the hamper.

  "Charli?"

  She stepped into the steaming tub and lowered herself with a sigh of contentment.

  "Because I think we need to keep it more sedate," he said. "I've got that new Pachelbel CD."

  She saturated her bath sponge and drizzled warm water on her throat and chest.

  "Charli, are you going to answer me?"

  She sank lower in the water, smiling at the dark mutterings that drifted from the other side of the door. Finally there was blessed silence.

  * * *

  How did women get into these things? For five minutes Charli had struggled in vain to fasten her new bustier, a strapless corset with boning and underwire cups that ended just above her navel. It was made of some sheer taupe material embroidered with delicate ivory flowers. Matching ivory scallop trim adorned the edges of both the bustier and the matching high-cut panties. The panties, she'd had no trouble getting into. But the stupid bustier…!

  She tried to look over her shoulder in the full-length standing cheval mirror in the corner of her room, while contorting her arms behind her to attach the myriad tiny hook-and-eye closures that ran up the stretchy back. In the store's fitting room, Amanda had fastened it for her, in about two seconds. Charli hadn't considered that she wouldn't be able to get the darn thing on without a lady's maid!