His 1-800 Wife

by Shirley Hailstock

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  His 1-800 Wife

  By Shirley Hailstock

  Copyright: Shirley T. Hailstock

  ISBN: 978-1-939214-16-4

  January 2015

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher: Shirley T. Hailstock PO Box 513, Plainsboro, NJ 08536-0513.

  Photo Credit: freeimages.com

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  His 1-800 Wife

  Jarrod's knuckles touched her sweater's collar. Catherine jerked, as if he'd shocked her. He looked into her eyes. Dark as midnight, they smoldered. Jarrod grew warm, his body tightening in places that felt good. Cathy made him feel good.

  He pulled on her collar and her head moved closer to his. Jarrod felt her breath on his mouth. He smelled the light fragrance she often wore—that underlying scent that made him want to growl—along with the champagne. He saw her eyelids droop, then close. Barely an inch separated them. He moved to eliminate the separation.

  "No," Catherine said, turning away.

  Jarrod took a deep breath and let it out in a whoosh that emptied his lungs. She was in his arms, her head on his shoulder, his arms around her. He could feel her body vibrating. He should let her go, but he didn't want to. This was what she did to him. She'd bring him to the brink and then set a limit.

  Dedication

  To Jim and Nikoo McGoldrick for their friendship

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To Jim and Nikoo McGoldrick, who write as May McGoldrick and Jan Coffey. They once lived in Newport, Rhode Island. While on my research trip to this wonderful play­ground of the rich and the super-rich, they kept in contact with me daily through e-mails, telling me places I must see and restaurants that had the most delicious food on earth. Thank you.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  Dear Reader

  Books by Shirley Hailstock

  Chapter 1

  1-800-WIFE. Catherine listened to her disguised voice on the special line she'd had installed when she came up with the plan. Are your parents constantly pushing you to get married? "Of course they are," she said out loud. "I'm not the only one this happens to." She applied mascara to her eyes as she dressed for another of her sister Audrey's parties. Sometimes she thought Audrey only gave these parties to set her up on another blind date. Does every conversation with them begin and end with examples of the joys of marriage'? "You guessed it, honey." Well, so do mine. So if you're interested in details about ending that conversation, tell me about yourself. And don't forget to leave your phone number. I'll get back to you.

  She heard the beep. The caller hung up. Catherine went to the machine and pressed the PLAY button. Frankly, it surprised her, the number of calls she received on the newly installed line. The first message started as she returned to her dressing routine. He hung up. The second did the same. The third caller started speaking. "Uh, my name's, uh. . ."

  Catherine stared at her reflection in the mirror. It was an afternoon party; more than a picnic, less than a reception. All camouflage, she thought. She picked up the blush brush and added a few strokes to her cheeks, blending the color in an upward sweep.

  The message ended, and a beep indicated another. Catherine had become adept at screening calls from the sound of a man's voice and the message he left about himself. She'd placed one ad in the PERSONALS section of the newspaper, and the phone rang at all times of the day and night.

  She chose a land-line phone instead of a cell because she didn't want it ringing when she was out and other people, like her mother and sister, could hear it. They'd want to know why she wasn't answering. And there was something exciting about having a phone in your bedroom that people left marriage messages on, some of them erotic. Listening to those in polite company could make her ears burn, not to mention color her face a bright hue.

  A few crank calls came across the line, but most calls were genuine, men looking for meaningful relationships. That told her a lot about the state of marriage in America, or at least in Rhode Island, but she wasn't researching a graduate school thesis, and a life mate wasn't on her agenda either. She'd tried that route once. It hadn't worked. This idea was better.

  She'd risked her heart on one undeserving man. She would never do it again. She wanted six months, nothing more, nothing less.

  Another male voice stammered for a start, inter­rupting her thoughts. Catherine usually rejected the stammers. She wanted a man who was sure of him­self; someone she could present to her family and have them believe him and their charade. She lis­tened as he went into his story, which she knew would last longer than the tape allowed. As a rule, the stammers didn't call back to finish the call or leave a number where they could be reached. Of course, her caller-id would tell her the number.

  Catherine stepped into a tight black dress, pull­ing it up from the floor. The fabric hugged her skin, clinging to it like a thick coat of paint. Stopping six inches above her knees, it would surely surprise her sister. Her married sister, she reminded herself. Flat shoes would be perfect, but Catherine put on her heels anyway. They added height and made the dress look even shorter. Man-hunter, she thought as she smiled into the full-length mirror. She donned the hat that only a character from Hello, Dotty should wear and started for the bedroom door when she heard the last beep.

  "Catherine Carson." She froze. Her heart lodged in her throat. "It's wonderful to hear your voice, disguised as it is." Someone knew her name. "I thought you said you would never marry?" The voice had a smile in it, a mischievous sound that said he was well acquainted with her. She whipped around and stared at the machine. Who was he? His voice had a slight accent that didn't fit New England. She kept staring at the machine, unable to move, wanting him to continue so she could discover his identity, but also wanting it to end. She was anonymous. No one could know who she really was. The final long beep came, signaling that was the last message.

  Catherine's throat was as dry as parchment. She wanted more. Who was that? She recognized the voice. Closing her eyes, she tried to place it. Quickly she crossed the room and hit the REWIND button. She stopped the machine at the last message and played it again. This was someone she knew, someone who knew her. Why couldn't she remember? Again, she closed her eyes and tried to picture every man she knew with a rough, sexy voice that reminded her of sunrise and mist on the summer ocean after a long sex-filled night.

  Catherine suddenly shook herself. What was wrong with her? She hadn't had feelings like that since—she stopped. She wasn't going there. The engagement had been years ago. He was married now, and even if he wasn't, Catherine wasn't in the market for a man with no foundation for commitmen
t. She looked at the caller-id. It was blank, erased, yet she hadn't erased it.

  Fifteen minutes later, as she entered what she called her sister's palatial mansion, she was still thinking about that voice.

  Audrey, two years younger than Catherine, had married her high school sweetheart, but not right out of school. Not until he'd made a fortune that could keep her in the princess style she wanted. She had it now—a fifteen-room house with a large yard, a pool, a tennis court, a solarium, and an outdoor Jacuzzi. Like their mother, Audrey thought every woman should be married. Catherine felt betrayed by her sibling.

  She didn't immediately see Audrey, so she went through the house toward the solarium. The huge open room brought the outdoors inside, especially in winter. The walls were completely made of glass. Panes six feet high and six feet wide extended upward twenty feet, allowing light to nourish the jungle of plants that hung, sat, and decorated the room with many varieties and colors. The wall in front of her was movable, folding open like an accordion. Audrey had insisted they install it when she took the house. Beyond it was the veranda and sprawling yard. Tables with blue cloths and white napkins dotted the yard. Between and around them people stood in ridiculous hats talking and laughing. Catherine scanned the crowd.

  "There you are." She turned to find her sister behind her. Audrey looked her up and down. Cather­ine turned completely around, parading up and down several feet, as if she were a runway model showing off the latest fashion. Audrey shook her head. "Mom's going to have a fit, but the hat's nice." They both made faces. "I've got someone for you to meet."

  Catherine groaned. "Not already," she com­plained. "I just got here. You can't be pushing me toward a man before I've had a drink."

  "Catherine, you don't drink."

  "Today's a good day to start."

  Audrey dragged her along. At the solarium door she stopped. "Look who's here."

  Catherine stared across the lawn. The last man she expected to see stood smiling down at Emily Colter, Julianna Stone, Meredith Windsor, and Terry Burditt. Jarrod Greene had been her mortal enemy since she could remember. He'd spent the last five years in England. An architect by profession, he'd grown up next door to her, often playing practical jokes on Catherine, embarrassing her when she tried to impress someone, especially if that someone was male, and showing up at the most inopportune times, like now!

  "What's he doing here?" She frowned.

  "He got back three days ago."

  "Three whole days, Audrey." Catherine raised an eyebrow and cut her eyes accusingly at her sister. "And he's already at one of your parties. That's got to be a record."

  "Catherine." Audrey used their mother's tone. "I know you and Jarrod always fought, but he's a differ­ent man now."

  Catherine interpreted that as meaning he was single. She doubted that he was a different man. Leopards never changed their spots. And she had no doubt that Jarrod was a leopard, one that attracted the opposite sex.

  Judging by the harem sur­rounding him, he probably couldn't walk down the street without people leaving their houses to have a word with him. Women followed him around like dogs in heat. Why should she think anything had changed?

  She looked at Julianna Stone. The expression on her face was priceless, rapture under a flapper's hat. Terry Burditt fluttered her eyelashes so often, Cather­ine thought she had something in her eye. Emily and Meredith had the same ridiculous looks on their faces. Catherine swore she'd never look at him as if honey dripped from his lips and she was there to lap it up.

  "I suppose he's still single?" Catherine crossed her arms as she turned to her sister, putting Jarrod Greene's gorgeous body out of her line of sight

  "Isn't that wonderful?" Audrey's surprised expres­sion could rival that of someone discovering the cure for cancer. "Why don't you go over and reacquaint yourself?"

  "I'd rather eat spiders," Catherine said dryly. She took a step, intent on returning to the house, when his voice stopped her.

  "Catherine Carson. It's wonderful to hear your voice again."

  It was him! The voice from her answering machine. The one she'd recognized but couldn't place. Jarrod's voice, that odd English accent underlying his own, was unmistakable. Catherine felt frozen to the spot. He knew. Oh, God! She clenched her teeth. Knowing Jarrod, he'd never let her live it down. He knew about her, about her search for a husband. How? He'd only been back in Rhode Island for three days and already he'd discovered her secret. She turned back slowly, her smile fixed, ready for that razor-sharp tongue of his to announce to all within hearing range that she was the woman behind 1-800-WIFE.

  "Jarrod, what a surprise. It's good to see you again.''

  "I like the hat, he said, giving it a cursory glance."

  Catherine couldn't help looking up at the wide brim. She frowned, knowing she could use the hat as an umbrella if it rained. It wasn't her kind of hat. She'd chosen it for that reason, but she wouldn't have if she'd known Jarrod was going to be here. She was sure he'd find something to say to embarrass her. But Audrey had themes to her parties, and today's was the Mad Hatter. The hat was part of her statement, although Audrey seemed to take it as a joke. Standing before Jarrod, she wanted to hide under it.

  "Excuse me, Jarrod. Welcome home. I'm sorry I can't stay longer. I have another engagement and I really have to go."

  "Catherine, you've just arrived," Audrey said.

  "And we haven't had time to fight yet," Jarrod added.

  She threw him a look that could freeze water. "Jarrod, I don't want to fight with you."

  "Ah," he said, "If we don't fight, marriage would be our only other option."

  Her whole body went cold, then immediately after­ward blood rushed through her system, generating a furnace of heat. She could hear his voice on her answering machine. He was baiting her.

  "That would be a real disaster." Catherine turned and walked away. For some reason Jarrod brought out the worst in her. She needed to escape. She was almost at the door before Jarrod caught her.

  "Don't leave on account of me."

  Catherine turned back. She raised her eyes slowly and took all of him in. "Still at it, aren't you, Jarrod?"

  "Still at what?"

  "Still here to bait me, belittle me, embarrass me. Don't you want to trip me as I pass the dessert table so I can fall into the cake?"

  "Catherine, that was an accident. I didn't know you were behind me."

  "Sure you didn't." It was Amanda Fedders's four­teenth birthday party. Catherine had spent half the day dressing for it. She wanted to impress Gregory Lewis, who had spoken to her only three times the entire school year. He was the best looking boy at Grace Rodgers High School. Catherine had just arrived. She carried a huge box with Amanda's present inside it, one of the large stuffed bears they were all collecting that year. Jarrod and Billy Fedders came running around the table just as she reached it. His foot caught hers, and into the table she went, pushing it over and going over with it. Her dress flew up, she crushed the box, icing covered her face and hands, and Greg­ory Lewis stood laughing at her with the rest of the party. She never spoke to him again. And she should never have spoken to Jarrod either.

  That memory still made her face burn. She swung around and headed for the door.

  Jarrod caught her arm. Catherine stopped, her eyes darting from the place his hand touched her arm to his face. He dropped his hand. It had been warm on her flesh. She felt coldness take the place where he'd touched her. A sudden feeling she couldn't identify washed up her arm. Catherine wanted to put her hand over it. It wasn't unpleasant, as she would have thought. It was the first time Jarrod had touched her and caused something other than pain. Well, the second time, she thought, remembering one other instance. She was unsure why this unfamiliar sensation, both prickly and soft, should result from his hand around her arm.

  "If you leave, I'll feel I drove you away."

  "It's not you, Jarrod. Despite what my sister may have told you. . ." Catherine glanced through the room to wh
ere Audrey stood in her version of the Jacqueline Kennedy pillbox hat. "I do have a life."

  "Just not the one your family wants you to have."

  "Is anybody's?" she mumbled, to herself more than to him. She didn't mistake the opening he was giving her, but she wouldn't take it.

  "I guess not," he answered.

  Catherine threw a look at him that said he couldn't possibly understand. No one was constantly trying to marry him off. Then she went on through the door. Jarrod followed her. "Where are you going?"

  "Away from here." She pulled the hat from her head. A full sheath of ebony hair fell to her shoulders. "I've seen what Audrey invited me to see."

  "Still hotheaded and impulsive," Jarrod character­ized. "I thought in the last five years you'd have grown up."

  Catherine stopped. Her arms were at her sides, her entire body stiff. She turned slowly, as if gathering strength. "What would you know about it anyway? I can see you haven't learned any more about being an adult during your absence. You're still the selfish teenager out to make my life miserable."

  "That was never my intention," he said.

  Catherine looked at him. His eyes were serious. They burned into her as if he could see what she was thinking.

  "Don't leave angry," he said.

  "Why not? I always have in the past."

  He took her arm. "It's time we changed the rou­tine." Jarrod slipped her arm through his and led her around the far side of the yard, away from the party. They walked around the east wing, as Audrey liked to refer to it. It was shady on this side, and devoid of people. A small veranda jutted out from the French doors. Patio furniture with colorful cushions made the arrangement lively and cheerful. Audrey often had breakfast here. Jarrod passed the veranda and headed for the stand-alone swing that gleamed with fresh white paint. Catherine stepped inside. He tightened his grip on her arm to keep her balanced as the apparatus started to sway.