Нора Робертс - Courting Catherine

“I'd like you to leave me alone.” Never in her life had she been more moved. Or more devastated. He had just opened up a door to some secret world, then slammed it again in her face.

“All right.” He had to stop himself from reaching out to touch her hair. He started back down the path toward the house. When he looked back, she was still standing as he had left her, staring into the shadows, with moonlight showering her.

His name is Christian. I have found myself walking along the cliffs again and again, hopingfor a few words with him. I tell myself it's because ofmy fascination with art, not the artist. It could be true. It must be true.

I am a married woman and mother of three. And though Fergus is not the romantic husband of my girlish dreams, he is a good provider, and sometimes kind. Perhaps there is some part of me, some small defiant part that wishes I had not bent to my parents' insistence that I make a good and proper marriage. But this is foolishness, for the deed has been done for more than four years.

It's disloyal to compare Fergus with a man I hardly know. Yet here, in my private journal, I must be allowed this indulgence. While Fergus thinks only of business, the next deal or dollar, Christian speaks of dreams and images andpoetry.

How my heart has yearnedforjust a little poetry.

While Fergus, with his cool and careless generosity, gave me the emeralds on the day ofEthan's birth, Christian once offered me a wildflower. I have kept it, pressing it here between these pages. How much lovelier I would feel wearing it than those cold and heavy gems.

We have spoken of nothing intimate, nothing that could be considered improper. Yet I know it is. The way he looks at me, smiles, speaks, is gloriously improper. The way I look for him on these bright summer afternoons while my babies nap is not the action ofa proper wife. The way my heart drums in my breast when I see him is disloyalty in itself.

Today I sat upon a rock and watched him wield his brush, bringing those pink and gray rocks, that blue, blue water to life on canvas. There was a boat gliding along, so free, so solitary. For a moment I pictured the two of us there, faces to the wind. I don't understand why I have these thoughts, but while they remained with me, clear as crystal, I asked his name.

“Christian, ” he said. “Christian Bradford. And you are Bianca. ''

The way he said my name—as if it had never been said before. I will never forget it. I toyed with the wild grass that pushed itself through the cracks in the rocks. With my eyes cast down, I asked him why his wife never came to watch him work.

'I have no wife, '' he told me. “And art is my only mistress. ''

It was wrong for my heart to swell so at his words. Wrong of me to smile, yet I smiled. And he in return. Iffate had dealt differently with me, if time and place could have been altered in some way, I could have loved him.

I think I would have had no choice but to love him.

As if we both knew this, we began to talk of inconsequential matters. But when I rose, knowing my time here was at an endfor the day, he bent over and plucked up a tiny spike of golden heather and slipped it into my hair. For a moment, his fingers hovered over my cheek and his eyes were on mine. Then he stepped away and bid me good day.

Now I sit with the lamp low as I write, listening to Fergus's voice rumble as he instructs his valet next door. He will not come to me tonight, and I find myselfgrateful. I have given him three children, two sons and a daughter. By providing him with an heir, I have done my duty, and he does not often find the need to come to my bed. I am, like the children, to exist to be well dressed and well mannered, and to be presented at the proper occasionslike a good claret—for his guests.

It is not much to ask, I suppose. It is a good life, one I should be content with. Perhaps I was content, until that day Ifirst walked along the cliffs.

So tonight, I will sleep alone in my bed, and dream of a man who is not my husband.

When you couldn't sleep, the best thing to do was get up. That's what C.C. told herself as she sat at the kitchen table, watching the sunrise and drinking her second cup of coffee.

She had a lot on her mind, that was all. Bills, the dyseptic Oldsmobile that was first on her schedule that morning, bills, an upcoming dentist appointment. More bills. Trenton St. James was far down on her list of concerns. Somewhere below a potential cavity and just ahead of a faulty exhaust system.

She certainly wasn't losing any sleep over him. And a kiss, that ridiculous—accident was the best term she could use to describe it—wasn't even worth a moment's thought.

Yet she had thought of little else throughout the long, sleepless night.

She was acting as though she'd never been kissed before, C.C. berated herself. And, of course, she had, starting with Denny Dinsmore, who had planted the first sloppy mouth-to-mouth on her after their eighth-grade Valentine's dance.

Naturally there had been no comparison between Denny's fumbling yet sincere attempt and the stunning expertise of Trent's. Which only proved, C.C. decided as she scowled into her coffee, that Trent had spent a large part of his life with his lips slapped up against some woman's. Lots of women's.

It had been a rotten thing to do, she thought now. Particularly in the middle of what had been becoming a very satisfactory argument. Men like Trent didn't know how to fight fair, with wit and words and good honest fury. They were taught how to dominate, by whatever manner worked.

Well, it had worked, she thought, running a fingertip over her lips. Damn him and the horse he rode in on. It had worked like a charm, because for one moment, one brief, trembling moment she had felt something fine and lovely—something more than the exciting press of his mouth on hers, more than the possessive grip of his hands.

It had been inside her, beneath the panic and the pleasure, beyond the whirl of sensation—a glow, warm and golden, like a lamp in the window on a stormy night.

Then he had turned off that lamp, with one quick, careless flick, leaving her in the dark again.

She could have hated him for that alone, C.C. thought miserably, if she

hadn't already had enough to hate him for.

“Hey, kid.” Lilah breezed through the doorway, tidy in her park service khakis. Her mass of hair was in a neat braid down her back. Swinging at each ear was a trio of amber crystal balls. “You're up early.”

“Me?” C.C. forgot her own mood long enough to stare. “Are you my sister or some clever imposter?”

“You be the judge.”

“Must be an imposter. Lilah Maeve Calhoun's never up before eight o'clock, which is exactly twenty minutes before she has to rush out of the house to be five minutes late for work.”

“God, I hate to be so predictable. My horoscope,” Lilah told her as she rooted through the refrigerator. “It said that I should rise early today and contemplate the sunrise.”

“So how was it?” C.C. asked as her sister brought a cold can of soda and a wicked slice of the Black Forest cake to the table.

“Pretty spectacular as sunrises go.” Lilah shoveled cake into her mouth. “What's your excuse?”

“Couldn't sleep.”

“Anything to do with the stranger at the end of the hall?”

C.C. wrinkled her nose and filched a cherry from Lilah's plate. “Guys like that don't bother me.”

“Guys like that were created to bother women, and thank God for it So...” Lilah stretched her legs out to rest her feet on an empty chair. The kitchen faucet was leaking again, but she liked the sound of it. “What's the story?”

“I didn't say there was a story.”

“You don't have to say, it's afl over your face.”

“I just don't like him being here, that's all.” Evading, C.C. rose to take her cup to the sink. “It's like we're already being pushed out of our own home. I know we've discussed selling, but it was all so vague and down some long, dark road.” She turned back to her sister. “Lilah, what are we going to do?”

“I don't know.” Lilah's eyes clouded. It was one of the few things she couldn't prevent herself from worrying about. Home and family, they were her weaknesses. “I guess we could sell some more of the crystal, and there's the silver.”

“It would break Aunt Coco's heart to sell the silver.”

“I know. But we may have to go piece by piece—or make the big move.” She scooped up some more cake. “As much as I hate to say it, we're going

to have to think hard, and practically, and seriously.” “But, Lilah, a hotel?”

Lilah merely shrugged. “I don't have any deep, moral problem with that. The house was built by crazy old Fergus to entertain platoons of guests, with all kinds of people racing around to serve meals and tidy linens. It seems to me that a hotel just about suits its original purpose.” She gave a long sigh at CC.'s expression. “You know I love the place as much as you do.”

“I know.”

What Lilah didn't add was that it would break her heart to have to sell it but that she was prepared to do what was best for the family.

“We'll give the gorgeous Mr. St. James a couple more days, then have a family meeting.” She offered C.C. a bolstering smile. “The four of us together can't go wrong.”

“I hope you're right.”

“Honey, I'm always right—that's my little cross to bear.” She took a swig of the sugar-ladened soft drink. “Now, why don't you tell me what kept you up all night?”

“I just did.”

“No.” Head cocked, she waved her fork at C.C. “Don't forget Lilah knows all and sees all—and what she doesn't she finds out. So spill it.”

“Aunt Coco made me take him out in the garden.”

“Yeah.” Lilah grinned. “She's a wily old devil. I figured she was plotting some romance. Moonlight, flowers, the distant lap of water on rocks. Did it work?”

“We had a fight.”

Lilah nodded, giving a go-ahead signal with her hand as she sipped. “That's a good start. About the house?”

“That...” C.C. began to pluck dried leaves from a withered philodendron. “And things.”

“Like?”

“Names of mistresses,” C.C. muttered. “Prominent Boston families. His shoes.”

“An eclectic argument. My favorite kind. And then?” C.C. jammed her hands into her pockets. “He kissed me.”

“Ah, the plot thickens.” She had Coco's love of gossip and, leaning

forward, cradled her chin on her hands. “So, how was it? He's got a terrific mouth—I noticed it right off.”

“So kiss him yourself.”

After thinking it over a moment, Lilah shook her head—not without some regret. “Nope, terrific mouth or not, he's not my type. Anyway, you've already locked lips with him, so tell me. Was he good?”

“Yeah,” C.C. said grudgingly. “I guess you could say that.” “Like on a scale of one to ten?”

The chuckle escaped before C.C. realized she was laughing. “I wasn't exactly thinking about a rating system at the time.”

“Better and better.” Lilah licked her fork clean. “So, he kissed you and it was pretty good. Then what?”

Humor vanished as C.C. blew out a long breath. “He apologized.” Lilah stared, then slowly, deliberately set down her fork. “He what?”

“Apologized—very properly for his inexcusable behavior, and promised it wouldn't happen again. The jerk.” C.C. crumbled the dead leaves in her hand. “What kind of a man thinks a woman wants an apology after she's been kissed boneless?”

Lilah only shook her head. “Well, the way I see it, there are three choices. He is a jerk, he's been trained to be overly polite, or he was incapable of thinking rationally.”

“I vote for jerk.”

“Hmm. I'm going to have to think about this.” She drummed her cerisetipped fingers on the table. “Maybe I should do his chart.”

“Whatever sign his moon is in, I still vote for jerk.” C.C. walked over to kiss Lilah's cheek. “Thanks. Gotta go.”

“C.C.” She waited until her sister turned back. “He has nice eyes. When he smiles, he has very nice eyes.”

Trent wasn't smiling when he finally managed to escape from The Towers that afternoon. Coco had insisted on giving him a tour of the cellars, every damp inch, then had trapped him with photo albums for two hours.

It had been amusing to look at baby pictures of C.C., to view, through snapshots, her growing up from toddler to woman. She had been incredibly

cute in pigtails and a missing tooth.