Lovers Only. Christine Pacheco
response was taking.
“It’s not an easy question to answer.” She rolled the crystal stem between her fingers. “Our relationship started falling apart a long time ago—years ago. And it’s not one specific thing, it’s lots of things.”
“So tell me.”
A ghost of a smile feathered her lips. “That’s the bottom-line businessman in you speaking.”
He took a couple of long drags from his beer. “And that’s not what you want.”
“No.” She looked at him levelly. Her glass stilled. “I want the man I met and married.”
He bit out a four-letter oath. “We’ve both changed, Cat.”
“Yes.” She twirled her glass, then directed her gaze to the window, not looking at Clay at all. “You’re right. I guess we have.”
“Damn it, Catherine, you’re not even looking at me.”
Slowly she turned her attention to him.
The ache in her eyes transcended the distance and time separating them. Made him understand how far he had to go. Made him wonder if it was possible.
“Do you even want to try and save it?” The instant the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to snatch them back. There was a huge possibility he wouldn’t like her answer.
Seconds dragged into a minute. Catherine bravely held his gaze the entire time. Maybe twenty seconds later, she lowered her eyelashes. The unnaturally long lashes shaded the magnificent hazel from his view. When she glanced up again, she resumed looking out the windows, into the starless night Dark as it was, maybe she just stared at a reflection of the room.
Unable to stand the suspense any longer, Clay shoved his drink on the coffee table, then stood. “Dumb question,” he conceded. He paced in front of the stereo, not finding her music spiritually healing in the least. “If you wanted our marriage to work, you wouldn’t have filed for a divorce.”
“You didn’t leave me much choice.”
A wisp of mountain breeze could have knocked him to his butt. They looked at each other intently.
“I didn’t give you much choice?” he demanded. “If I remember right, I got home from work one night and you weren’t there.”
His lip curled into a sneer, despite his best efforts to woo and win her. A saner part of his mind told him to knock off the irrational thoughts, tamp down the emotion. But, damn it all, he hurt, too. “You barely had the courtesy to leave me a note.”
Catherine pulled her knees to her chest, looking lost in the huge couch. “You had no clue it was coming?” she asked incredulously.
“None.”
“I’d moved out of our bedroom.”
“Hell, Catherine, I thought I was giving you the space you wanted. The space you insisted you had to have.” He paused. “I thought I was doing it for you.”
She shook her head. Strands of hair fell forward. And a single tear began to trace a solitary path down her right cheek.
Damn it. He’d never felt more an idiot. Or more alone.
“You’re wrong, Clay. So very wrong.”
He sat on the coffee table, thrummed his fingers on the wooden surface. As quickly as it descended, his anger evaporated. Hollowness remained. He held his hand still. Searching to figure out where to go, what to do, he said, “Tell me, then. Help me to understand.”
“It wasn’t freedom I wanted.” Catherine made no attempt to hide the pain he’d unintentionally inflicted on her.
He winced.
“It was never freedom,” Catherine whispered.
He frowned.
“It was you, Clay.” She swallowed deeply.
Clay sought to find understanding, knowing how important it was.
Both her eyes were now frosted with fragile tears. “I wanted you.”
Four
Clay cursed.
Catherine turned away from him, wrapping her arms across her chest at the same time.
Damn it, he wanted honesty, believed they could sort through their problems, but these vague answers were no answers at all. “Look at me.”
Her shoulders began to shake.
“Damn it all, Cat, look at me.”
Slowly she turned to face him. He squeezed his eyes shut momentarily. Along with fragile tears, he saw regret and fear in her eyes. It hit him then. Hit him hard. He possessed the power to make her hurt.
And he’d used it.
The accusation aimed at him landed with stinging force. Suddenly he wanted to use that emotion to heal. Heal her. Heal them.
Trouble was, he didn’t have any experience in that field, didn’t know where to start. “I don’t understand,” he confessed. He heard the ragged drag on the syllables.
Catherine looked up at him.
“Help me, Cat?” he asked again. Had his gut ever been this wrenched? Even when she’d moved into her own room he’d mistakenly believed she would be back. Mistakenly believed he was doing the right thing, giving her the space she always said she wanted. Things weren’t that bad. Or so he’d convinced himself. Or rather, tried to convince himself.
But when she’d left the house... He couldn’t imagine anything worse. “Even if you don’t forgive me...” Clay gulped, wished for strength.
He always prided himself on his strength. But nothing—nothing—ever mattered this much. Love made him weak. And he knew he’d have to battle that before he won what was most important. “Even if you don’t forgive me, for God’s sake, give me the chance to try and understand what went wrong.”
Their gazes collided. Neither blinked, neither looked away. When she spoke it was with such softness, such hesitancy, he wasn’t certain he’d heard right.
“Okay, Clay.”
“What?” he asked quietly.
“Okay,” she said again. Slowly, with controlled precision, she unfolded her arms and allowed her hands to drop.
He recognized her capitulation. A breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding eased through his throat.
“I’ll warn you, though. You may not want to hear what I have to say.”
“I’ll take that chance.”
She nodded, then slipped off her shoes. Through the silky sheer stockings, he saw her toenails were painted red.
Red.
Jeez.
How little he knew about her. How much he wanted to know.
Catherine slipped one leg beneath her, allowing the other to drape across the couch. She looked natural—as if she belonged there. Here. With him. To him.
He forced himself to look away from the tantalizing tease of fire-engine red. It definitely didn’t fit with the uptight image she’d presented at the attorney’s office earlier. And it made him wonder if slow and soft had been the way she really wanted their kiss.
Maybe heated passion was more the way to reach her.
Instantly he dismissed the idea.
Sure he wanted her in his arms, in his bed. But in his life was more important. And he’d do anything—anything—to get her there again.
“Coffee?” he offered. She was fiddling with her hands. Truth to tell, he might need something