Lovers Only. Christine Pacheco
move.
Actions like that weren’t his style. Cool. Controlled. Calculated. Those were his style.
But holding her in his arms had stamped his resolve into the ground.
It’d been so long.... Still calling himself a dozen different words for fool, he turned to her, extended his hand, palm up. “I’m sorry.”
Catherine was shoving her blouse tails into the rigid skirt, her hands shaking like his own.
“Let me.” The words surprised even him, but once spoken, they couldn’t be called back.
She froze. Then looked at him. Her eyes had been the first thing that had captured Clay all those years ago.
He’d been on a construction site, as a foreman. She’d walked by, wearing a tight, oh so tight, skirt. The small slit up the back accentuated her shapely hips and a waist small enough to wrap his hands around. Light brown hair flirted with her shoulders, lifted by the wind. His men had whistled lewdly. He’d thought nothing of it. After all, she was an attractive woman.
But the next day he’d been taking a break. His shirt had lain on a nearby fence post, sweat had beaded his brow, and he’d been slugging down an iced tea.
The guys had started the catcalls.
She’d glanced at him. He’d read anxiety, realized it made her hazel eyes darken into drownable depths. Man, he’d decided he’d rather drown than swim. The blush that had painted her cheeks tied the conspiracy together. He’d been lost.
Sunk. Snared.
The next day he’d made sure he was dressed and had intentionally hopped the fence, getting in her way. He would deck the next guy who dared whistle at the woman Clay had declared his.
She’d fallen for him as surely as he’d fallen for her. And the memories of their honeymoon were still seared into his mind.
Hesitant in the beginning...he’d been her first.
They’d moved quickly, until his love for her had encouraged them both to learn together.
Life had seemed great. He’d gotten the girl. Within months, Landon Construction had scraped its way out of the barrel.
But, even though his company was on its way up, his marriage had gone down. And he still wasn’t doing a heck of a job of rescuing it.
Hell, who’d have thought it would come to this? He’d blackmailed his wife into giving him a reprieve. Blackmailed, for chrissake. Then damn near jumped her bones before the door was even shut.
If she was keeping score, he didn’t stand a chance.
Scary thing was, he would do the first all over again. Hell, he would probably blackmail her a second time, too—not that he was proud of it—such was his desperation to get her back.
Clay captured Cat’s hands. He wrapped her wrists with one of his hands, leaving the other free.
“Clay...”
“Trust me,” he said, hoping he could trust himself. Gulping a huge breath of air to clear the fog that seeped into his brain every time she was near, he snared the bra strap and moved it back onto her shoulder. “Wish you wouldn’t wear one of these torture traps.”
“Clay.”
He heard the undercurrent of warning, even though her breaths were constricted. Instead of ignoring the words, he heeded them. He would woo her. Win her.
With restrained gentleness he kissed the hollow of her neck, relishing the way she instinctively swayed toward him. Before he could give in a second time and lavish the love he was desperate to, he slid the white silk blouse back into place.
Reluctantly he fastened the buttons she’d missed, taking care not to skim her skin, though not doing so made him swallow hard in order to retain control.
“Thanks,” she managed to say, tucking the tails in the rest of the way.
He didn’t respond...that would be hypocritical.
Clay pivoted and crossed to the fireplace, resting his elbow on the mantel. “You hungry?” It sounded stupid. Inane. But common pleasantries might distract him from other, more pleasant thoughts.
“I haven’t eaten all day,” Catherine confessed.
“I’ve got a cooler in the trunk. How about some grilled burgers?”
“Sounds fine.”
Two strangers couldn’t have done a better job.
But then, two strangers hadn’t nearly succumbed to the temptations both knew waited for them beyond the bedroom door.
Clay nodded, then walked past her, going to the car and making three trips with luggage and groceries. She didn’t offer help; he was relieved. He needed some distance—and physical exertion, no matter how minor.
“Your room is down the hall,” he said, after closing the door a final time. He grabbed her duffel bags and started toward the bedrooms.
Her high-heeled shoes clicked as she followed him down the hall, unenthusiastically, if the cadence was anything to judge by.
Clay turned the knob, then stepped aside, allowing her to enter. Not being an idiot, though, he didn’t back out of her way.
Their bodies had to brush.
He heard the sharp intake of her breath. But she walked past him, her shoulder rubbing against his flannel shirt.
Once inside, she stopped and turned. Eyes wide, she asked, “You did this for me?”
He’d remembered Cat sharing one of her dreams, two days before they were married.
She’d lain on her back, looking at the clouds, imagining their shape. He’d been propped on an elbow, imagining her shape.
One of three girls, she’d never had a place all her own. And she wanted one. Somewhere to escape and daydream. Feminine and soft. Pastels and lace. Pillows and sachets. Until a month ago he hadn’t known what the hell a sachet was.
Thank God he had a secretary to help him take care of the details. She’d found a magazine, cut out the pictures, directed Clay to the right store, even found him a shopper to help put it all together.
“You did this?” Catherine asked again.
“Mostly.”
Her eyes narrowed, but a genuine smile curved her lips. Ah, what a paradox, this woman he loved. The woman he hoped would soon invite him into the ridiculously froufrou queen-size bed...barely big enough for two.
“Mostly?”
“Jean gave me pictures,” he admitted.
“Go on.”
“And sent me to a store at the mall.”
Catherine’s jaw dropped in the most unladylike manner. “And you did the rest yourself?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“A shopper helped me pick it all out.”
“And you did the rest yourself?”
He nodded.
She frowned. “You arranged all these pillows?”
“And the sachet.”
“Sachet,” she corrected. “The T is silent.”
So was he.
He waited in agony for her to say something. Anything. He’d never done anything like this before. He shifted. Already he was starting to regret it.
The deep throw rug absorbed the sound of her heels as she walked toward him.
She stopped, barely a foot away.
Jeez.