"I like everything about you." A tremor ran down her back. She stood up straight. Catherine told herself she had to stop reacting to Jarrod's comments this way. She was speechless, her throat as dry as the Sahara Desert, her body as hot as hell. If he got up and touched her, she'd dissolve. Had she always felt like this about Jarrod? Had their antics as teenagers been covering up their true feelings? Why had she picked him, over all the other men who called the 1-800 number? Why had Jarrod been the one she thought of as the best candidate? Catherine waited as he stared, wondering now as he looked at her with something in his eyes that held her to the spot as surely as if she were tied to a stake. What was it about him that took her ability to think clearly away?
Jarrod got up from his crouched position. He took her hand and they turned toward the central area where construction was at its height. He spoke to many of the men, sometimes unrolling large pieces of blue paper with white lines on it. There were notes on some of the pages. She could see Jarrod's handwriting and understand only a little of the jargon used exclusively by architects and builders. At the boat yard they had architects too, mostly men who'd been in the navy. Boats were also architecturally designed and plans had to be drawn for them. Catherine could interpret some of them, but these were much more complicated.
Jarrod introduced her to several of the men and the few women with whom he spoke. He kept close tabs on her if she wandered away from him. She presumed it was to keep her out of danger. She loved the fact that he looked at her often. Trucks drove in and out of the yard along rutted tracks in the ground. The constant beeping of backup horns indicated that people should take care. Cranes lifted steel beams into the air and men, balancing on surfaces the width of high-wires, guided them into place. She could hear the burst of battery-operated screwdrivers as they drove screws the size of her hand into the metal fittings. Behind her a dump truck left the yard. The wake of wind following it blew dust in her face, and she shaded her eyes with her hand. Her hat wobbled forward.
A shopping center didn't go up one store at a time, Catherine discovered. They built the structure first, much like an office building, a metal skeleton rising from the ground. What Catherine saw was an open framework that had a curvature to one side. She could tell the finished building would have several areas that were gargantuan arcs bound together and running the length of one side. At the end of them, the beams would support straight walls. Girders soared into the air, and she had to hold her hat on her head as she looked up. It reminded her of being on the back side of a Hollywood set, where only support beams and anchor poles propped up a painted facade.
Men worked on all areas of the site. Catherine couldn't tell how large it would be. She could estimate the amount of warehouse space needed to construct a yacht, taking in the storage capacity for materials and waste to within three feet, but she couldn't determine the dimensions of this building standing in its shadow.
Catherine kept moving, stepping and sidestepping one hazard after another, saying, "excuse me" over and over as people went about their duties. Jarrod saw her and came over. Putting his arm around her waist, he led her back to the group of men, a lamb being returned to the fold. Jarrod went back to the discussion, only removing his arm from her waist when he had to point out something on the blue and white plans. Then his arm was back around her.
He could be doing it for show, or to communicate possession. They had an audience of hard bodies who eyed her without shyness. She didn't care what Jarrod's reasons were. She enjoyed being attached to him.
The meeting went on for several minutes. Finally, the men smiled, shook hands with Jarrod, nodded at her, then moved away, leaving the two of them alone. Jarrod rolled up his plans and stuffed them back in his leather case.
"You look like Alice," he said.
"I think I am." Catherine had left her sunglasses in her car. She squinted at the bright sun reflecting off the skeletal structure. "This looks fascinating, like a huge erector set."
"You can't say you've never seen a building going up before."
She shook her head. "I've seen them, but often from a distance, while driving my car or sitting in another high-rise. I've never been this close to hundred-foot cranes, pneumatic drills, concrete by the pallet and dynamite. "Her voice rose on the last word and she took a step closer to Jarrod.
"Only designated people can handle that." They were looking at a truck with EXPLOSIVES written on the sides.
"Why do you need dynamite?"
"It doesn't take much time when you're digging to hit solid rock. We need to blast the stone to break it up and remove it."
"I see." She paused. "Why are you still involved? I thought an architect was done when the plans were accepted and a builder was hired."
They began walking back the way they had come.
"An architect's job isn't over until the building is done, all the electricity and plumbing are in place and the basic walls and floors have been finished."
Catherine stopped, staring up again, her hand on the crown of her hat. "You mean you're responsible until the place is leased?"
"Not to the stores that rent space. I'm responsible until the planned interior walls and floors are finished and everything is cleaned away, making the building ready for an interior decorator and the land ready for the landscape architect."
"You haven't been back that long." They started walking again. "Why is this project yours?"
"I inherited it when Mike Thomas left. It was already in progress. That isn't unusual."
Catherine knew Mike Thomas. He'd recently retired and moved to Arizona, where his daughter and his grandson lived.
"It takes about a year to eighteen months to complete a project of this size. Someone had to pick it up. I was the new guy on the block."
"You weren't new. You're a partner in that firm." She saw the smile on his face.
"I volunteered for this one. Mike did a great job on the blueprints, and I've worked with this builder before."
They'd nearly reached the Jeep when someone called Jarrod's name. He turned back. A man waved him over, and Jarrod left her to see what he wanted. Catherine watched them, fascinated by the way Jarrod moved. He had always been athletic, and his years in England hadn't added an ounce of fat to him. They walked more in England, he'd told her, and he'd been fortunate enough to have a swimming pool at his disposal. The thought of his nearly naked body assaulted her nerves. She turned away, but not before heat flooded into her bloodstream.
She promised herself she would get some control. Yet she didn't seem to have the capacity to do it. Anything could have her imagining him naked, the two of them making love or the remembered feel of his heavy body on top of hers.
Catherine concentrated on controlling her thoughts. She didn't hear the sounds around her any longer. They blended together into a cacophony of white noise that disappeared as surely as the incessant pounding of the ocean and appeared soothing and safe. She didn't see the truck backing up in her path or hear the warning beeps. She didn't notice the truck coming forward from the opposite direction or the small incline that showed the deeper wear of tire marks. She didn't hear the shouts of the men on the rising building, hollering and waving for her to move. She heard nothing until Jarrod's voice penetrated the bubble that encased her. Then, like a deaf person who suddenly regains her hearing during the climax of a symphony, everything crashed into focus. Trucks from opposite directions bore down on her. Her brain told her feet to move, but it didn't seem as if she had time to get out of the way. Jarrod ran toward her, a slow-motion figure, his face contorted, cutting through air as thick as jelly.
Catherine looked at one truck, then the other. She turned to move. Jarrod launched himself toward her, crashing into her like a football player trying to stop a touchdown. His arms closed around her, lifting her off the ground. Together they were propelled through the liquid air. She landed on her back, her shoulder digging out a crater in the ground, Jarrod on top of her. Breath was forced out of her
lungs. Catherine squeezed her eyes shut, clamping her teeth on her lower lip to hold in the scream accompanying the sudden impact. Pain shot through her shoulder. Unbidden tears sprang to her eyes. She lay there holding herself stiffly, willing the pain to subside, waiting during the long, agonizing seconds that felt like hours for the burning pain to abate.
The crunch of metal from the two trucks colliding made her open her eyes and look up. Then she buried her head in Jarrod's shoulder.
"Are you all right?" he whispered, his voice parched and breathless.
"I think so," she responded, not wanting to tell him how badly her shoulder hurt. In seconds there was a crowd around them. Several voices asked questions. Catherine was embarrassed at so many prying eyes. She'd been thinking of Jarrod instead of paying attention. This was a building site. She worked at a place where they built boats. She knew the safety rules. She knew better than to lose track of her surroundings, especially with all the movement going on around her.
"Better get her to the infirmary," someone said.
"Can you stand up?" Jarrod asked. Paleness she wouldn't have thought possible underlined his face. Catherine hugged him with her right arm. Her left was still pinned to the ground.
She nodded.
"I'm sorry, miss. I kept blowing the horn for you to move." This must be one of the truck drivers, she thought. "I thought for sure you'd hear it."
"It's not your fault," Catherine admitted.
Jarrod got to his feet. The crowd moved back a little. He took both her hands to help her up. The moment the extension reached her shoulder. She screamed. A fresh batch of tears sprang to her eyes and spilled down her face. Jarrod was immediately beside her.
"Get a stretcher." Catherine recognized the voice as the builder's, whom Jarrod had spoken to earlier.
"What's wrong, Catherine?"
"I fell on my shoulder. It's a little sore. I'm all right, really." She tried to make light of it.
"We'll wait for the stretcher."
It was there almost before he finished the sentence. A petite blonde nurse in a white uniform who looked so out of place among these beefy men bent toward her. She didn't bother giving her name. The small identification tag on her uniform read IRENE.
With her fingers, she lifted Catherine's eyelids and looked in her eyes. She checked her pulse and her fingernails, and pressed her thumbs into Catherine's palms.
"Where are you hurt?"
"Her shoulder," Jarrod answered for her.
"The left one," Catherine supplied. The nurse moved to her side. Jarrod was forced to let her have room. Gingerly, she touched Catherine's shoulder. Catherine tried not to wince, but the pain was immediate. The concern on Jarrod's face alarmed her. He'd just told her that he was responsible for everything that happened here. That meant he was responsible for safety too. But this was her fault.
The nurse prodded and probed for several minutes, then said she should be lifted onto the stretcher and taken to the infirmary. Jarrod and the builder lifted her, taking care not to jar her shoulder. When the detail of men carrying her stretcher started across the yard, she heard the builder say, "Come on, you two. We've got plenty of paperwork to fill out."
"Jarrod, I'm so sorry," she told him.
He took her hand. "Don't worry about it. Just tell me you're all right."
They spent the afternoon in the emergency room of Providence Memorial Hospital. Jarrod refused to leave her side or to let go of her hand for anything except the X-ray.
"She's going to be sore for a few days," the doctor told them when all the test results were in. "There's nothing broken, but there will be swelling and bruising, mainly from the fall. I've given her a prescription for the pain. She should be fine in a couple of days."
The emergency room doctor released her, telling her to see her regular doctor when she returned home. They left the hospital looking like two chimney sweeps, dirty and walking slowly, but all right. Some of the color was back in Jarrod's face, and his eyes, still filled with concern, no longer appeared forlorn.
"Do you want to lie down in the back?" Jarrod asked when they reached the car.
"I can sit. The medication is working. I'm not in nearly as much pain as I was when we fell."
Jarrod opened the door on the passenger side. She slid into the seat, moving gingerly. He took her good arm. "I should never have asked you to come. This wouldn't have happened."
"Jarrod, it was an accident. I wasn't paying attention, and I know better than to daydream at a construction site." She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. "Please don't blame anyone. It was an accident and nothing serious happened."
"Enough about this." He put his arm around her waist. "Why don't we just get a room and spend the night here? We can head home in the morning when you're feeling better."
"That sounds good." Catherine shook her head as she spoke. She stopped when a twinge of pain reminded her of her fragile state. She would like nothing better than to go to a room and lie down for a while. "But Audrey invited us to dinner tonight. I told her I'd check with you, but she didn't give me a choice. You know my sister. I called to tell you." She paused, remembering their conversation, and the underlying lace of it, as if it was thin layers ready to savor. "Things got complicated. We ended up here and I forgot." Her finish was weak in relation to the high-tension images that raced through her mind from their morning conversation.
"I rather enjoyed this morning too," he said, smiling for the first time in hours. Catherine knew he meant the phone call. It was playful and sexy. She liked it too.
Jarrod leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth. She gripped the car door tightly, ignoring any pain in her shoulder. Then he walked around the car and got in beside her.
"We'll call Audrey as soon as we're home and cancel dinner."
"No," Catherine said. Turning around was a problem, but she did it without wincing. "We'd have to explain why we weren't coming, and then Audrey would call my mother. My mother would call yours, and before we knew it, the entire family and a myriad of friends would descend on us to make sure my sore shoulder was all right. We'll go but excuse ourselves early."
“We'll talk about this when we get home. It depends on how much pain you're in. If necessary, I'll stand guard at your door to keep them out."
Catherine's smile was wavy as she thought of Jarrod, the Viking, protecting her from Audrey and her family.
***
They barely had time to wash the dust away before it was time to leave. It was plain from the driveway that ran fifty feet from the street that this was not just a meal with Catherine's sister and her husband. The entire society of Newport appeared to have dropped in tonight. Jarrod recognized his parents' Lexus, his best friend Robert's Corvette and Catherine's parents' Lincoln. There were also BMWs, Jaguars, a Rolls and a vintage Lotus. This could be the lot for previously owned luxury cars or the house of the owners of castoffs from the rich. Or the parking lot of one of Robert's dealerships.
Jarrod parked his Jeep on the street. It was covered in red dust from the trip to the building site and didn't fit in with the parking lot of fine vehicles.
"It looks like this is a command performance," Jarrod said when he felt Catherine's trembling hand take his arm. He put his hand over hers. "Keep your chin up and smile."
She offered him one of her best.
"Well, Alice," he teased, as they started to cross the street, "you're a little battered, but I guess it's time for the Mad Hatter's tea party."
"Stay close and don't leave my side."
"Are you in pain?" he asked.
"Only a twinge."
Jarrod thought differently. She had taken the medication, but he could tell she was stiff in places.
They went inside. The family waited in the reception room. In a normal-size house, Jarrod would have called this the family room, but in Audrey's house it was too large and held none of the computers, high-definition televisions and lounging chairs of a typical family. I
t had plenty of furniture arranged in small groupings. The inhabitants were mostly standing, talking to each other. They all seemed to quiet at once when Jarrod and Catherine walked in.
Jarrod had the feeling Audrey had asked everyone else to arrive half an hour earlier than she'd told Catherine. This way they'd made a grand entrance, and he felt like a cherry on a spit.
"Hello." Audrey came forward, her arms open wide.
He stepped in front of Catherine and hugged her.
"Thank you for the reception," Catherine murmured as Audrey hugged her too, though less fervently, since Jarrod had defused some of her strength. Catherine's voice was only loud enough for the three of them to hear.
"Oh, darling, we've all been dying to hear about your honeymoon. I hope you brought pictures."
She moved back. "Sorry, Sis," she said. "We thought we were here to eat, not be put on display."
In Audrey's usual fashion, she heard none of the censure in her sister's voice. Audrey continued to smile and, taking both their hands, she pulled them to the center of the room. Seeing they had no choice, they went about greeting everyone, accepting a before-dinner drink and talking. Catherine didn't drink her wine. She exchanged it for tonic water. Jarrod approved her choice since alcohol could mask her pain and interfere with the medication she'd taken.
Jarrod kept an eye on Catherine. She showed only small outward signs that anything was wrong. Only someone looking for it could tell she had a bruise down the left side of her body that went from her shoulder to her thighs. He'd nearly lost his mind when he saw her between the two trucks. The noise in the yard caught his attention and he looked around. She was between the trucks and unaware of the danger. He shouted her name, everyone in the yard called, but Catherine hadn't heard any of them until it was nearly too late.
He wondered what she'd been thinking. What could arrest her attention so thoroughly that she didn't hear the racket in the yard? Then he'd tackled her. It was his fault she'd been hurt. She took the full brunt of his weight, but he'd had no choice. It was him or the trucks.
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