Stephen walked Catherine to her door. Her bedroom door. It seemed silly and unnecessary and sweet all at once. Something fluttered insider her. Anticipation? Nerves?

Suspicion?

Derek’s words echoed in her head. She pushed them aside, but her hammering heart was not so easily ignored.

“I had a good time tonight,” he said.

“You sound surprised.”

“Those things usually aren’t very entertaining.”

“Must have been the company,” she replied.

His smile came slowly. “Must have been.”

No one was present to fool, but he sounded so sincere. Suddenly she needed to know.

“Did you send me the note?”

“Note?”

“On my wedding day. At the church. Did you send me the note to meet Derek in the loft?”

His eyebrows lifted in…surprise? Dismay? But his voice held neither when he replied, “I did.”

Her heart twisted. “Why?”

He ran a hand through his hair, nearly turned away. But then he leveled that intense gaze at her instead. “I thought you should know. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen Derek with someone else. While you were dating there were…others.”

“Others?” Now it was her stomach that felt knotted. “But why didn’t you tell me then, or after Derek proposed? Why did you wait until my wedding day?”

His gaze remained intense, but some other indecipherable emotion seemed to cloud his dark eyes. “It wasn’t any of my business. But you seemed nice and, well, I overheard him tell the wedding planner to meet him in the loft. I thought you could assess the situation for yourself, make your own decision.”

It seemed to make sense, not quite chivalrous, but close, and in keeping with Stephen’s aloof nature. Still, doubts nibbled at her.

“You didn’t know about the codicil then, though? Right?”

“Why the sudden questions?”

“I’m wondering, that’s all.”

“That’s not all. You could have asked these questions at any time. Why now? Did Derek say something to you tonight that has you suspicious of my motives?”

“No, nothing.” She waved a hand, hoping to dispel the tension that had crept between them. Derek’s doing, she realized, and hated herself for handing him so easy a victory.

“He must have said something.”

“He just mentioned the note and said he thought you’d sent it. He said…It doesn’t matter.”

“Clearly it does.”

He seemed irritated and cold once again, not at all the man who had danced with her in the ballroom and stolen her breath with a kiss.

“He just made sure to remind me that you had a lot to gain if he didn’t get married that day.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t know that, but he did. And he’s right. I had a lot to gain. I had even more to gain when I married you. You knew that, and yet you still proposed. Remember that, Catherine. You popped the question, not me.”

“Yes. I’m sorry. Let’s forget about this. It doesn’t matter. Derek is only trying to make trouble.”

He shook his head, resignation edging his tone when he said, “I thought you would have figured it out by now. That’s Derek’s specialty. Goodnight, Catherine.”

He turned away before she could say another word. At the other end of the long hallway she heard his bedroom door snap shut. With a heavy heart, she closed her own.

Chapter Seven

GIVEN his growing attraction to her, Stephen found living with Catherine a test of his will-power. Still, he rather enjoyed discovering her quirky habits and surprising interests. She was a good cook, better than he’d imagined a woman who grew up in a household where there was a hired professional to prepare the meals would be. He’d bet his last buck her mother didn’t know how to boil water and had not encouraged Catherine’s interest in the culinary arts.

And while she cooked she liked to sing. He found it amazing that a woman who looked like Catherine could be so tone deaf. He was surprised his Lab didn’t start howling whenever she tried to hit a high note. Of course, the dog wasn’t willing to bite that hand that fed him. And Catherine did a whole lot more than feed Degas. She’d barely been in the house a week when Stephen discovered his fickle hound camped outside her door. Now Degas was sharing her bed.

Lucky dog.

Stephen and Catherine had found some surprising common ground: old movies. He had long been a fan of black and white flicks. The genre didn’t matter, although he was partial to Alfred Hitchcock and anything that starred Humphrey Bogart. They had that in common, except for her it was Cary Grant. She could recite entire scenes from An Affair to Remember. For him, it was Rear Window and The Maltese Falcon.

A few times a week they would spend a couple of hours in one another’s company, suitably chaperoned by the work of some legendary Hollywood filmmaker. Then they would walk up the stairs together as the house grew dark and quiet around them, offer one another a stilted goodnight and turn their separate ways. Long afterward he’d lie awake on the cool sheets of his big bed, wondering if the same need that hummed through his blood was depriving her of sleep as well.

Most weekends they spent following their own pursuits. This weekend, however, they were expected at a tribute dinner Saturday night that the fire department was putting on to raise funds for the families of three firefighters who had died battling a warehouse blaze earlier in the year. The invitation had come to the house, addressed to the both of them, marking the first time they were invited to an event as Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Danbury. Stephen didn’t really want to go. The gossip and speculation about their marriage had yet to quiet down. But he was just old-fashioned enough to believe that where his wife went he went, despite the particulars of their marriage.

Catherine plucked the square of ivory vellum off her bureau and tucked it into the small beaded clutch that was the same shade of emerald as the full-length gown she wore. The gown was new, a flirty Versace that left one shoulder bare and required her to skimp on dinner to wear it to its best possible advantage.

She was checking her reflection in the mirror a second time when Stephen tapped on her door.

“Catherine, we’re already fashionably late,” he called.

Even so, she reapplied her lipstick and fussed with her hair, which she’d left loose again, before opening the door, and was satisfied to see him suck in a breath.

“You do Versace proud,” Stephen said. He took her by the hand, forcing her to turn a full three-hundred-and-sixty degrees.

“Thank you. And Armani looks good on you.” She adjusted his bow tie, which was perfectly knotted, and used their close proximity as an excuse to brush non-existent lint from the lapels of his tuxedo jacket. “Have I ever told you that you wear clothes well?”

She was flirting, but she couldn’t resist. He looked so handsome, so…interested.

“I can’t say that you have.” He leaned in, bringing with him the crisp scents of soap and aftershave. “Let’s make this an early night.”

She held her breath and tried not think about the double entendre when she replied, “Oh, is there something you want to do?”

Dark eyes seemed to smolder.

“As a matter of fact, there is.”

The evening dragged, perhaps because the enigmatic answer Stephen had given before they left the house lingered in her mind, tantalizing her with its possible interpretations. It didn’t help that as they ate, danced, or shared small talk with acquaintances she would look up to find him studying her in that intense way of his. She was in the middle of a conversation with the Mayor, pitching hard for more funds for youth activities, when he joined her.

“Ah, Stephen, I was just enjoying a conversation with your lovely wife,” the Mayor said, offering a hand.

The two men shook, and it was obvious this was not a first meeting.

“Has she muscled some more money out of you yet?” he asked. There was pride in his voice, warmth in his smile, and heat in the hand he rested on the small of her back.

“The city’s budget being what it is, not quite. But she’s very persuasive.”

“She is that. I’m afraid I’m going to have to steal her away now. We have another engagement.”

She glanced at him in surprise and resisted the urge to ask what that engagement was.

“Of course. I understand. Newlyweds have all sorts of engagements,” the Mayor remarked with a wink.

Stephen hustled Catherine out the door in record time, tipping the valet extra to bring his car around in a hurry. The teen took Stephen at his word, squealing the tires of his Jaguar as he maneuvered the sleek automobile over from the parking lot.

A lot of men would have gone into coronary arrest, right after committing brutal, cold-blooded murder. Stephen surprised her by merely shaking his head and saying in a dry tone, “That’s what I get for telling a kid to step on it when he’s got the keys to my Jag.”

Then he squealed the tires himself as the sleek sports coupé shot away from the curb and into night traffic. She figured out right away that they weren’t going home, but he remained tight-lipped beside her, saying only, “You’ll see,” when she asked him their destination.

Then she saw the marquee and knew. Charade with Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn was playing at an old theater that showed only vintage films, including the accompanying trailers and newsreels.

“We’re going to the movies?” she asked needlessly, as he swerved to the curb and into a lucky parking space half a block from the theater. He hopped out, came around to her side of the car and all but yanked her to her feet.

“Yeah. Can you run in those heels?”

He didn’t wait for her answer, but grabbed her by the hand and started off at a trot.

“Movie starts in less than a minute and I want to get popcorn.” He sounded almost like a kid when he added, “They use real butter here. You like butter, right?”

Again, he didn’t wait for her answer, but she didn’t mind. She’d never seen Stephen like this, rushing as if his life depended on seeing a movie he’d probably already watched a dozen times. In fact, she didn’t doubt he owned a copy of it, either on video or DVD. Perhaps both.

They were the only ones in the theater decked out in formal wear, but he didn’t seem to mind the double-takes, raised eyebrows and whispers. He sent her to the concession stand while he purchased the tickets, and met her there just in time to pay for the king-sized bucket of buttered popcorn, beverages and Milk Duds he’d asked her to purchase.

The photograph caught her attention the moment he opened his wallet. It was of the two of them, standing side by side in the I Do Chapel. She’d forgotten about the pictures that had come with their deluxe wedding package. Apparently Stephen had not. He’d kept them, cut one down to fit the plastic protector in his wallet and carried it with him. She was ridiculously touched.

“I didn’t know you had these.” She pointed to the photograph.

He seemed uncomfortable when he replied, “Most married men carry pictures of their wives.”

“So, it’s for effect?” she asked.

He didn’t answer her question, instead he said, “You looked beautiful that day.” Dark eyes studied her for a moment. Then he handed her one of the drinks and a paper-covered straw. “You look beautiful every day.”

Before she could respond, he hoisted the tub of popcorn into his arms and grabbed the other drink. “Don’t forget the Milk Duds.”

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” she whispered as they took their seats in the back of the theater.

“You have to admit it beats another two hours of small talk with the movers and shakers of Greater Chicago.”

She dipped her hand into the tub and feasted on a mouthful of popcorn. When she was done she said, “I won’t argue with a man when he’s right. Do you have the napkins?”

“No, I thought you had them.”

“Nope. Can I use your handkerchief, then.”

“I have a better idea.” As Cary Grant flirted with Audrey Hepburn on the screen, Stephen lifted Catherine’s hand and one by one slowly licked the butter from her fingers.

He wasn’t sure why’d he’d done it, although from the way she sucked in a breath and leaned toward him he didn’t think Catherine minded. He rubbed his own buttery hands on his tuxedo pants, unmindful of the obscene price he’d paid for them. Then there was only the small matter of setting aside the popcorn tub so that he could take her face in his hands, bring it forward for the kiss. She tasted salty and incredibly sweet.

They were in the rear of a sparsely crowded theater, but they could have been front and center at a sold-out performance of a Broadway play and he doubted it would have kept him from trailing a hand down the slim column of her neck and then following it with his lips. He stopped at her collarbone and the cloth that covered it, and prayed for some sanity to return. He’d never wanted a woman the way he wanted Catherine.

“Sorry. I got carried away.”

“I’ll say,” she whispered back.

But when he started to straighten she wound her arms around his neck. “Do you think you could get carried away again?”

His smile came slowly, despite his charging heart. “I’ll see what I can do.”

This time he was determined not to be deterred by clothing. He took Catherine’s sexy little sigh as consent. His fingers were just starting to dip beneath the fabric of the gown’s bodice when a beam of light all but blinded him. He kicked over the tub of popcorn in his haste to sit upright.

“Sir.” It came out as squawk, so the teenager wielding the flashlight cleared his throat and tried again. “Sir, um, ma’am, we don’t, um, you know, allow that kind of stuff in here. If you, like, keep it up, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

When he was gone Catherine succumbed to a fit of laughter, and Stephen couldn’t help but think that many of their acquaintances would have found it hard to reconcile this irrepressible and incredibly responsive woman with the overly regimented and cool image she often projected.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said.

“But the movie’s not over. Don’t you want to find out how it ends?”

He kissed her hard and let her go. “Oh, yeah. I want to find out how it ends.”

They ran on the way back to his car, too.

On the way home they held hands, and it struck Stephen as absurd that he was essentially dating his own wife and wondering with all the hopeful anticipation of a teenager if the evening would end as well as he was imagining. He parked the Jag in the garage, but they didn’t get out immediately. Both seemed to know that once they went inside everything would change.

“We’re home,” Catherine said needlessly after the silence had dragged and the light on the automatic garage door opener had gone dim.

“Yes.” He opened the car door and the interior light popped on, haloing them in soft gold. “Shall we go inside?”

Catherine laid a hand on his arm. “Before we do, I need to know what’s going on between us.”

“I think it’s this.”

He leaned over and kissed her, and felt the jolt of that surprising attraction. His world had been careening and threatening to crash around him, but Catherine had saved him. And in the midst of chaos he’d found something special, something precious. He’d found…He rejected the thought before it was fully formed.

But it was she who ended the kiss.

“We shouldn’t be doing this.”

He couldn’t help but smile. “We have more right than most. We are married.”

“We’re not really married.” She straightened her clothing.

“Oh?” He arched an eyebrow. “I have a piece of paper that says otherwise.”

“You know what I mean, Stephen. This isn’t a love match.”

“No, but I like you. I respect you. I think it’s fairly obvious I’m incredibly attracted to you.”

“I settled for attraction once,” she whispered. “It’s not enough. I like and respect you as well. And that’s why I don’t want to complicate things between us. My God, aren’t they complicated enough?”

Much as he hated to admit it, she was right, but he wondered how long what was growing between them could be denied.

Once again he walked her to her bedroom door, leaving her there with Degas. The walk to his own room seemed as long and lonely as a walk to the gallows.

The next couple of weeks went by in a blur. Catherine didn’t need to pretend to keep herself busy. Fall was always a hectic time for charities as they geared up for the holiday season, and long before she’d exchanged vows with Stephen she had committed to attend various events and fund-raisers.

She’d figured her full schedule would allow her and Stephen to give one another a wide berth, perhaps put some of their awkwardness behind them. But, to her utter amazement, Stephen always insisted on coming with her. He was a perfect gentleman, a perfect escort, with his impeccable manners and gorgeous dark looks. And, even though things remained strained between them, he never let it show when they were out in public. He would pull her close to dance, touch her shoulders a bit longer than necessary when he removed her wrap, tuck her hand into the crook of his elbow as they entered a room, and all evening he would watch her with those sizzling, sexy eyes that held too many secrets for her comfort.

Was it all just for show? Catherine didn’t want to believe it was, but at home the byplay between them was limited to polite, if not awkward conversation. He’d told her that he liked and respected her. Was it possible that he could someday feel something more where she was concerned? For she feared that she was beginning to feel something much deeper for him.

She arrived home on Saturday, two grocery bags in tow, determined to try her hand at an Italian dish she’d seen in the gourmet cooking magazine to which she subscribed. When she opened the door from the garage, however, her eardrums were assaulted by Bob Seger’s gritty voice. Stephen was apparently already home, even though it was barely four o’clock and he usually worked until six, even at weekends.

She followed the music until she found him. He was in a back room that he’d had converted to a weight room. Assorted sizes of dumbbells and free weights lined the walls. Stephen reclined on the slim bench, stripped to the waist in a pair of nylon shorts and pumping some serious iron. He didn’t see her, so Catherine allowed herself a moment of pure ogling, and the hunger she felt had nothing to do with the fact she had skipped lunch.

So this was where he got the biceps she’d admired, not to mention the delts and pecs that did his tailored shirts proud. Oh, she would suffer some incredibly detailed fantasies in the future—and she did mean suffer—but it was worth it to be able to openly watch her handsome husband.

He stopped his reps and sat up, blotting the perspiration from his face with a towel he’d draped over the end of the bench. And then he saw her. He stood, switched off the blaring rock and faced her.

“Something I can help you with?”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt.” She motioned toward the bench. “Are you finished?”

“For now.”

“They say that working out is a good way to relieve tension,” she said, when he just continued to stare at her.

He stalked forward until he stood just in front of her, more than six feet of sweaty and seemingly angry male.

“I can think of better ways to relieve this kind of tension, Catherine.”

He stepped around her and then he was gone.

Catherine burned dinner, but it didn’t matter. Stephen had gone out shortly after their confrontation in the weight room. It was nearly midnight when Degas whined and she heard Stephen’s muffled footsteps on the stairs. Again, she wondered where he’d been and whom he’d been with.

Catherine stumbled into the kitchen early the next morning, her system in need of some serious caffeine before she tackled the job of cleaning up the mess she’d made the night before. She’d been in no mood to scrub pots and pans after her disastrous dinner.

To her surprise, Stephen was already seated in the nook, dressed in casual tan pants and a cotton navy crewneck, munching on a slice of toast.

“You’re up early today.”

“I’ve decided to take La Libertad out for one last sail before dry-docking her for the winter.”

“Hmm.” She glanced toward the window and the patch of blue visible through it. “Should be a good day for it,”

Sipping his coffee, he nodded. “If the weather forecast is to be believed it’s going to be sunny and unseasonably warm.”

She’d hoped for an invitation, but wasn’t terribly surprised when one didn’t come. If the man found it difficult to spend time with her in a six-thousand-square-foot house, surely a thirty-eight-foot sailboat would be sheer torture.

“Well, have a good time.”

She turned and walked to the counter to pour herself a cup of coffee, and then nearly scalded her hand when he asked, “Is it going to take you long to get ready?”

“You want me to go with you?”

“I want you…to go.” He hesitated just long enough between the words to shroud his exact meaning.

“Stephen—”

He interrupted, his tone sounding sincere when he said, “I want to spend the day with you, Catherine. Just the two of us.”

“I’d like that, too.”

“I figured we’d swing by a deli first, have a picnic lunch packed. We can make an entire day of it, if that suits you.”

An entire day aboard his sailboat, miles from shore, with no chaperones. Nothing good could come from it, her practical mind warned. Yet she found herself smiling with excitement, her blood humming with anticipation.

“It suits me.”

Chapter Eight

LAKE MICHIGAN proved a gentle hostess, her waters a calm and vibrant blue that reminded Catherine of satin. The sun warmed her face and allowed her to remain comfortable in the sweater and jeans she’d worn. And the breeze co-operated as well. It ruffled the sails and tugged the boat out to where the tall buildings on the shoreline looked so small they could be covered with one’s thumb.

“Are you enjoying your sail?”

With her face turned to the sun, eyes closed, she smiled. “Very much. Thank you for asking me.”

“I almost didn’t.”

She opened her eyes and turned to look at him, but said nothing.

“I remember what happened the last time we were aboard La Libertad.”

She’d been sure he was going to mention the night at the movie theater, when needs and desires had beckoned…threatened to overtake them. His reference to that summer evening perplexed her.

“I don’t understand. Nothing happened.”

“Something happened. And it wasn’t the first time. I’ve been attracted to you for a long time, even when I didn’t want to be.”

“When I was engaged to Derek?”

“Before that.”

She sat upright. “But you never said a word.”

“What was I going to say? I thought it would pass, especially after you became involved with my cousin. I thought I was just attracted to the pretty packaging. You’re a very beautiful woman.”

And so he had told her, on more than one occasion. Derek had told her that as well, which made the compliment seem hollow, almost an insult.

“I’d like to think I’m more than that.”

“You are. That’s what makes you so dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” She laughed, sure he was joking, but his gaze remained intense, his mouth a taut line. “I’m not dangerous, Stephen. What you see is what you get.”

“Oh, no, Catherine. You’re much more than what one sees or what you choose to let people see. Why is that?”

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