His 1-800 Wife

by Shirley Hailstock

  "Are you awake?" he asked.

  "How could anyone sleep with what you're doing to me?" Catherine turned over, her arm and leg crossing his, her body finding the juncture of his that threatened his sanity.

  He pulled her into full contact. Sensation raced through him. His erection was quick and fast.

  "Do you know what time it is?"

  She shook her head. "Ask me if I care." Her voice was sleepy. He loved the low growl of it, as if she were dragging it over silk and straight through his emotions.

  Jarrod ran his hand over her hair, pushing it off her face, staring down into dark, dreamy eyes.

  "How could I have ever thought of you as a sister?" He lifted her chin and lightly kissed her. Her hand ran down his back, tracing his spine with a single finger.

  She held her breath. "I don't have a brotherly feeling in my body."

  He kissed her again. Her mouth was sweet and wet and Jarrod wanted to feast on it, plunge his tongue inside and let go, but he forced himself to hold back. He kissed lightly over her cheeks, her pert nose, her intelligent forehead and sensuous mouth, listening to the dark sounds, the hushed vibrations that came from her throat and went intravenously into his body.

  The night was clear. Moonlight streaked through the windows, slanting across the carpet on opposite sides of the immense bed. Jarrod could see the con­trast of their skin against the sheets. He pushed them away, exposing her. He kissed her shoulder, moving across her luscious body, drop­ping tender kisses on her collarbone and the quiv­ering depression between it and her neck. His fingers brushed over her breasts. She moaned thickly, arch­ing against him, communicating her pleasure in timeless jungle sounds. Jarrod found it difficult, almost impossible, to hold himself in check. His body was tight, his erection extended and hard, his mind crav­ing her.

  Catherine was like fire in his arms—too hot to hold, but he couldn't let go. She commanded him, like some strange drug that overtook his mind and sensi­tized his nerves. Jarrod pushed her back onto the mattress and covered her with his body. His mouth covered hers. This time he wasn't as gentle. Sensation raced through him. Her hands wrapped around his head. He could feel each of her fingers individually, each separate pad making contact with his skin, heat­ing it, sinking into him, taking a hold on his mind as well as his body.

  She writhed, under him, each movement of her slim frame driving him further and further toward the edge. Jarrod kneed her legs apart. He gathered her hips in his two hands and lifted her. As he slipped inside her, he found heaven. Excitement, as electric as lightning, shot through his veins, streaking them with light, boiling his blood. He filled her with him­self, hearing her moans of pleasure mingle with his own. His heart hammered as he slid farther into her. He rocked. She rocked with him. The pace quick­ened. He couldn't stop. He could feel the wave of pleasure overtaking him, raising the quotient they'd set impossibly high. His hands moved to hers, straight­ening her fingers, pushing her arms above her head as the two of them raced inside the rapture wheel, increasing the revolutions, burning the gauge that measured their passion as surely as the two of them were burning.

  Jarrod was crazy. He had to be. It wasn't possible to be sane and feel this good. It wasn't possible to have a woman this wonderful in his arms and around his body, holding him, moving with him, making love to him.

  Jarrod heard his own groans as his body throbbed into hers, thrusting hard time and time again, answer­ing her need, her wanton invitation for more and still more. Jarrod had never made love like this. He'd never lost such complete control. He'd never thought this possible, yet Catherine was showing it to him, doing it to him, driving him over the edge.

  He heard the cry, heard the shout, felt the surge in his loins burst with strength. Lights exploded in his head, flooded his chest, extended down his arms, through his fingers, into his legs, and with a huge shout to the heavens he emptied into Catherine.

  ***

  Calendars! Why were there so many? Catherine couldn't turn in any direction without being con­fronted by the day and date. She whirled around in the study. Jarrod slept soundly upstairs. After show­ering and dressing she'd come downstairs in search of food, but the sun shining through the windows of the study caught her attention and she'd gone in there, turning her face up to look at the gorgeous day.

  The windows were open and a soft fragrant breeze blew in, shifting the curtains and teasing the papers on the small bulletin board where she'd tacked several notes. There she saw the calendar. Jarrod, their wed­ding date, last night's love making crowded in on her like the heavy hand of logic squeezing her brain.

  The calendars were everywhere. All of them staring at her as if they had eyes. They scared her like a fetish or phobia involving dates. Numbers loomed at her, mocking her with their curls and symbols. Smiley faces, full moons, half moons, red letter days, they all looked at her with malevolence, as if they knew a secret she could only guess at.

  Today's date jumped out at her as if the thirty-one squares all had the same number in them. Catherine blinked, clearing her head and banishing the confu­sion. She was scared though. Her hands were sud­denly cold and her heart pounded.

  Closing her eyes she took a deep breath and pulled herself together. She was all right, she told herself. Everything was all right. Her last menstrual period had come a week before the wedding. There was no red mark on the calendar. She'd long since passed the point of needing to make small red hearts on her calendar to keep track of the wretched blood-flow days. Her cycle was as regular as the phases of the moon.

  A week away from home, she calculated, and last night—"Oh, God!" Catherine jumped, saying the words out loud. The truth hit her. It couldn't be right. Quickly she grabbed the desk calendar, dragging it forward. She started counting. As if playing Monop­oly, her fingertip ended on the GO TO JAIL square.

  She was pregnant!

  At least there was a strong possibility she could be. She counted again. No matter what, she hit fourteen or fifteen days from the start of her menstrual cycle. "Ovulation is at its peak on these days." Catherine could almost hear her health teacher repeating it over and over. "Girls need to be prepared, and knowl­edge is the best way," she used to say. Catherine had the knowledge, but what good was it? She hadn't used it. She and Jarrod had made love—twice. No matter how she counted, both their lovemaking and her ovulation came together on night fifteen.

  He wore no condom and she took no birth control. Birth control hadn't been necessary, she thought There was no man in her life since she'd split with Jeff, and they'd always used condoms. And she wasn't going to have sex with Jarrod—But she had. And now she could be pregnant

  Maybe she should go to the drugstore and get a home pregnancy kit. Was it possible to tell this fast? She pushed the calendar away as if it had metamorphosed into a snake ready to strike.

  She didn't want to know. If it was true—it wasn't true, she denied. She couldn't be pregnant. She couldn't be tied to Jarrod for the rest of her life. He wanted children. He'd told her. She'd never thought of actually being someone's mother. The idea fright­ened her. It was impossible.

  Why had she let him touch her? Why didn't her mind warn her of the consequences? In Montana she'd managed to maintain her sanity, but last night, in her own home, where had her sanity been?

  That was it, she thought. She hadn't been sane. It was no excuse, she knew that. Sane or not, she could still be pregnant now.

  Catherine had to know. Her body had all the signs of ovulation. Her breasts were tender. She'd thought that was due to Jarrod and the tantalizing way he'd rubbed her nipples, then lathed them with his tongue. She started to tingle, finding him in an erotic memory zone she hadn't guessed was there. Immediately she sat up straight in her chair and stopped her thoughts. She could rationalize the tenderness in her breasts, but what about the accompanying feeling that she weighed a ton, and the overwhelming need, an almost hysterical craving, for a chocolate sundae? She didn't need any further clues. She was ovulating, t
he only time during the twenty-eight day cycle when preg­nancy could occur. And they'd made love on that night.

  Catherine was rationalizing if she didn't think more than just lovemaking had happened last night. She knew these feelings, knew them as monthly reminders of what was to come. Would they arrive on time this month or was a more permanent reminder in store nine months from last night?

  ***

  Jarrod knew he was alone. His arms closed over air as he sought Catherine. Opening his eyes, he searched the bed. She was gone. The room was too quiet for her to be in it. The bathroom door stood open and he could smell the faint scent of roses permeating the air. He couldn't determine how long she'd been gone.

  Turning on his back, Jarrod stared at the ceiling. Last night replayed in his mind like a movie in slow motion. He smiled, thinking of how dark Catherine's eyes were when she was aroused. Her skin glowed in the golden light of the lamp they hadn't bothered to turn off until sleep claimed them. He remembered her aggressiveness. He felt his own arousal at the memory of how she felt against him.

  Where was she? Jarrod asked himself, throwing the comforter aside and sitting up. He didn't like waking up without her next to him. Her soft, warm body pressed into his was as natural as breathing. He wanted to hold her, feel her come awake next to him and turn her into his arms. He wanted to make love to her again.

  His stomach clenched when he thought of them making love. Jarrod had no memory of anything that affected him more than Catherine had last night. His world seemed to have begun with her.

  Pushing himself up, Jarrod headed for the shower. His bikini briefs lay on the floor where Catherine had dropped them. Jarrod whistled as he scooped them up. Today was a perfect day for leopard skin, he thought.

  And growled.

  ***

  For more years than anyone alive could remember, the waters had come in against the rocks of the island. Catherine ran along the jagged coast. She'd changed into her jogging clothes after work and left the office. She needed to work off some of the steam that she'd awakened with. Throughout the day it had increased until she felt as if she was in a giant pressure cooker, its gauges dipping into the danger zone.

  She'd endured the office teasing about a honey­moon full of constant and incredible sex. If Catherine included the previous night, it was only one night, but it had been incredible. She'd never imagined making love could be mind-blowing. She'd read about it in novels, movies portrayed it, but Catherine knew how orchestrated those scenes were. They looked per­fect on the screen, but they weren't real. Last night had been real. She'd never had anything comparable happen to her.

  And it couldn't happen again!

  There were rules. They'd agreed to them—she and Jarrod. She couldn't totally fault Jarrod. She'd been more than a willing participant in the sexual dance. And it had begun over a pair of leopard skin briefs.

  Her feet pounded harder, keeping tempo with her heart as she ran. What had happened? Why hadn't she just let go when Jarrod reached for them? And now. . .The houses along the route disappeared, taking on the aspect of pages of a calendar. Now she could be pregnant. Why didn't Jarrod have a condom? If they were going to make love, why didn't one of them think of the consequences?

  Catherine stopped. She knew why they didn't think of it. Her muscles seemed weak, as weak as they had been the night before, when he looked at her with eyes that were so dark and sexy and tinged with a spark of something fathomless and mesmerizing. She couldn't look away, not even if she wanted to, and at that moment, she hadn't.

  Catherine started running again, pushing herself, forcing her feet to move. Her jog turned into a run. The run went faster, as if it were a race. She was racing herself or running away from herself, running from the truth.

  What was the truth? That she felt more for Jarrod than she'd admitted? That she'd wanted him to make love to her last night? And not only last night, but nights before that. That if the two of them contin­ued this farce of a marriage, she would be the one to lose. Her defenses were already weakening. She wondered what Jarrod was feeling. Did he have defenses too that she had breached in some way?

  The thought made her run faster. Her breath dried in her throat. By the time she stopped, the gates leading to Audrey's house loomed before her. The black iron gates had been recently painted. Gold fleur-de-lis gleamed at the top in the waning light. Subconsciously she had probably been heading there from the beginning. She was tired and thirsty. The small sign indicating PRIVATE PROPERTY stood by the driveway entrance. Catherine passed it unheeded. The permanent residents of the island all had signs to tell the tourist this was not one of the Preservation Authority houses on the public tour.

  Catherine was drenched in sweat when she rang the doorbell. Audrey saw her through the ornate iron­work and heavy glass door. Her sister rushed over, a huge smile on her face.

  "Welcome home!" Gung-ho Audrey pulled her into her arms as she let go of the door. Catherine's arms hung at her sides, stiff like a doll's. Audrey pushed her away and searched her eyes. "What's wrong? You and Jarrod haven't had a fight already, have you?"

  Catherine moved out of her sister's reach and walked farther into the room. "It's not Jarrod and me. It's you and me." She and Jarrod were a different story, and Catherine would have to deal with that later.

  Audrey smiled. "You mean the maid. I knew you'd be a little upset about me taking her to your house, but you have to admit she and Christian are godsends."

  "Audrey, I don't want them."

  Audrey's smile froze. "Come on in," she said, seem­ing to hear the concern Catherine felt. They went into the solarium. The windows were open to the ocean breeze. The cool air washed over Catherine. A slight shiver accompanied the sudden change in her body temperature. Passing a maid, Audrey ordered orange juice for them to drink. "Lots of it," she said.

  Catherine calmed herself as she took a seat. "Audrey," she started. "It's not that I don't appreci­ate the gesture. It was really nice of you and Christian, but Jarrod and I need our privacy."

  Audrey's smile was knowing. Catherine found her face turning warm. She hadn't meant that the way it sounded. She and Jarrod had made one mistake. They wouldn't make it again. But she didn't have time for that now. She had to deal with Audrey.

  The maid returned with two glasses and a pitcher of orange juice. She poured the juice into the glasses and handed them to Catherine and her sister. The maid left them as Catherine drained her glass and poured herself another. She often jogged with a water bottle, but today she'd left the office and forgotten it. She needed to replace the sugar and salt her body had lost. And in the back of her mind health risks to an unborn child nagged at her.

  "I'm sure Jenny and Christian won't be intrusive. They are very discreet," Audrey said.

  "I know that." Catherine drank, taking the chance to formulate what she planned to say. "This is a big house, Audrey." She looked at the ceiling, indicating the vastness of the house. "Mine isn't nearly this size. We don't need a maid."

  "Catherine, you have no idea how much adjust­ment is needed the first year."

  "But—"

  "Jenny and Christian will be able to do all the housework and shopping for you." She interrupted as if she weren't about to listen to Catherine. "You and Jarrod both work. With them helping you, you can spend time together instead of dusting furniture and washing clothes."

  Audrey said it as if those were tasks she performed. Catherine would bet she hadn't seen a washing machine since Dwayne carried her across the thresh­old of this enormous house.

  "I can do the work," Catherine said. "We both can. Maybe it will bring us closer together if we have to cook and do dishes."

  "You hate doing dishes," Audrey reminded her. “And sending Jenny and Christian away will hurt their feelings. You wouldn't want to do that?"

  "Of course I wouldn't. They can return here and everything will be fine."

  "No, it won't." Audrey stalled her. "I've already replaced them with a lovely couple who are here fr
om Ethiopia. It was perfect timing. They'll be here for a year, and when I heard about them, I thought sending Jenny and Christian would be a wonderful surprise for you."

  Audrey's enthusiasm was nauseating. Why couldn't she mind her own business? And why didn't she lis­ten? Since they were children, Audrey had been a con­trol freak. She had to be in charge of something or she'd drive everyone mad. Even when she was in charge, she drove people crazy. She was on the debate team, president of the creative writing club and head of the decoration committee for every dance the school had while she was there. In Catherine's junior year in high school, she got a part in the school play. Audrey was the stage manager. Audrey would volun­teer to sew costumes or paint scenery, anything as long as she had control of it.

  Audrey should have joined the Navy, Catherine thought. Then she'd have a ship full of captive souls to order around. It was probably a good thing she didn't have children. Catherine chastised herself for the last thought. Audrey wanted kids.

  Catherine knew anything she said would be useless. Audrey rarely heard anything she didn't want to.

  "They'll only be there during the day," Audrey continued. "After dinner the two of you will have the house to yourselves." She stood up. "And speaking of dinner," she went on, "I have to go check on ours. Would you like to stay?"

  Catherine shook her head. She'd been gone long enough. She had one more confrontation tonight. She might as well get it over. Hopefully, the outcome with the second would be better than the first.

  "I'll call Christian to pick you up. You can't jog or walk home now."

  Audrey left her. Catherine poured another glass of orange juice and drained it.

  Christian arrived within minutes, as if he knew he would be needed.

  Silently he drove through the streets of Newport. A light rain started. Catherine watched the droplets appear on the windows as the wipers quickly slapped them aside. Lamplights turned to glowing circles, reminding her of the superstitious blood moon, its precognition of future events. Through the hazy light, she saw the word DRUGSTORE materialize.