Nick also showered her with jewelry. Almost every week, something new would be sitting beside her dinner plate in a velvet box. At first she'd protested.
"Nick. You've already given me this magnificent ring." She held up her hand to wave her engagement ring at him. "And the pearls." She fingered the warm stones at her throat. "And the diamond necklace and bracelet and earrings. That's enough for any woman."
"Nonsense. I've only just started." His eyes, deep as the ocean and just as blue, rested softly on her face.
Her jewelry box, which had soon overflowed and been supplemented by the wall safe in their bedroom, now contained an exquisite emerald ring surrounded by diamonds, an enormous ruby ring with a matching pendant and earrings, a starburst ring with tiny sapphires on each point and a matching starburst pendant, an evening watch studded with diamonds and pearls, a long rope of black pearls and matching earrings, several thick gold necklaces, a half dozen gold bracelets, a diamond tennis bracelet, and dozens of gold earrings, both big and small.
The array was at first bewildering, but Claire found it didn't take her long to get used to receiving the gifts. In fact, she was a little disgusted with herself because she loved being given all these beautiful things. She could see how money could corrupt a person, because its power was seductive.
Money, she had discovered, could ease almost anything. Make any difficult chore simple. Reduce any problem to the manageable. Soothe disturbances and smooth a path that was rocky. Married to Nick, the tempo of her life had gone from uneven and uncertain to smooth and sheltered. She gardened, she shopped, she read, she visited the children at Buffalo Children's Home—taking special pleasure in her growing closeness to Brigitte, the enchanting teenager she'd met the first day, and she spent hours at Pinehaven with Kitty.
An hour later, as she sat at the children's home and talked to Brigitte, her thoughts once more turned to Nick. Being around the children always reminded her of why Nick had married her.
And later, as she drove home again, she was still thinking about him. She knew he watched the calendar as closely as she did, and she knew there would be a question in his eyes tonight. And once more, he would be disappointed.
* * *
Nick tried not to let his disappointment show, but he felt it like a body blow. Why? he asked himself. What's wrong with us? Surely, after four months of lovemaking, they should have been able to conceive a baby.
But he could see Claire's eyes were cloudy with her own disappointment, so he forced himself to laugh lightly and draw her into his arms. They were in the tower room, her favorite place, where she waited for him each evening. They had fallen into the habit of sharing a drink before dinner, and he would tell her about his day, loosening his tie and kicking off his shoes. She would be curled up on one end of the couch, turned toward him, and she would listen quietly and he would feel all the cares of the day slipping from his shoulders.
Now he gently removed the glass she was holding from her fingers and set it on the coffee table in front of them, then he kissed her, feeling her immediate response. He closed his eyes, inhaling her scent, and deepened the kiss. She felt so good in his arms. He liked holding her. He loved kissing her. He loved . . . He broke off the thought.
The half-formed thought shook his equilibrium, and he reluctantly broke the kiss. But he couldn't resist comforting her, and he smoothed his palms over her satiny cheeks, rubbing his thumbs over the corners of her soft mouth. "Don't worry, Claire. It'll happen when it's meant to happen. We have a lot of time." He smiled to show her he meant what he'd just said. And he did. They
did
have a lot of time. Years, in, fact. Men had fathered children into their sixties, even their seventies. Forty-two wasn't
that
old.
Something heavy knotted inside him as he thought about the years he had ahead of him. Years of making love to Claire. Years of touching her, holding her, sharing those shattering peaks of pleasure with her. Years of talking to her, watching her, protecting her. Years of giving her presents, of seeing her eyes light up, of making her happy.
He took her hands in his, held them firmly, and forced a lighthearted tone into his voice. "We'll just have to keep trying until we get it right."
And then he kissed her again.
* * *
She should always wear green, Nick decided as he watched Claire get ready Saturday night. Her dress was a long column of jade silk, slit up the back to give a tantalizing view of slim, elegant legs. Its cummerbund was made of the same material, gathered into tight folds and studded with tiny winking rhinestones. Her hair, long and thick, was swept back from her ears by diamond-studded combs, and she wore matching diamond earrings. She was made to wear jewels, he thought with satisfaction.
She smiled as she turned from her mirror.
She was incredibly beautiful, he thought.
Later, as they sat with their guests over coffee and lemon tarts, Nick watched the play of candlelight across her delicate features. She seemed to shimmer tonight, obviously enjoying herself and the company of their friends. Peachey, a woman Nick had liked from the first moment he'd met her, looked striking in fire-engine red, her dark, dramatic beauty a perfect complement to Claire's fair incandescence.
And Tim. Nick's attention settled on his friend. Tim had certainly changed his attitude toward Claire. Nick watched him now as he basked in Claire's smiling attention. He said something to her, something low that Nick didn't catch because Peachey was talking to him and he was listening to her while watching Tim, and Nick saw the way Claire tilted her head up and laughed—the sound full-throated and rich.
He saw the way Tim watched her, and something tightened in his gut as he saw Tim's reaction to Claire's amusement, the way his mouth tipped up at the corners, the warmth in his eyes, the faint flush on his face, the almost possessive way he leaned toward her. Nick could feel his muscles tensing, and all thought was wiped out of his mind except one.
Tim was in love with Claire.
Nick knew it, knew it as surely as he knew his own name. Anger and something else, something hot and painful, constricted his chest. Damn it all. His best friend, the man he counted on, the one person he thought he could trust, was in love with his wife!
* * *
Nick had been so quiet for the past hour. Claire watched him covertly and wondered why. He had seemed to be having a good time for most of the evening, and then, suddenly, when they were just finishing their dessert, his whole demeanor had changed. He had become silent and brooding, his blue eyes darkening, his mouth tightening.
Claire, who had been having such a good time, began to count the minutes until Peachey and Tim would go home. But neither of them seemed inclined to go. Neither of them even seemed to notice Nick's withdrawal. They laughed and talked, drawing her into the conversation and ignoring Nick's black mood. But Claire was all too aware of him sitting there, eyes darkened to indigo, hands cradling his brandy glass.
Finally Peachey stood up. "Gotta go, sugar," she said.
"Yes," Tim agreed. "It's late."
Claire and Nick walked them to the front door, and the two women hugged. Then Tim took her hands and smiled. "Thank you, Claire. It was a lovely evening."
"I'm glad you could come," she said, smiling up into his warm brown eyes. He bent to kiss her cheek, and over his shoulder she saw the scowl on Nick's face. Her heart bumped painfully when she realized he was very angry. But why? she wondered. What had happened to make him so furious? Had she done something?
When they were finally alone, Claire walked into the dining room. She leaned over the table to blow out the candles. Silently, Nick came up behind her. He gripped her upper arm, turned her around.
The look in his eyes disturbed her, but she didn't intend to let him know it. "I thought I'd just clear these dishes away."
"Leave them." His voice was edged with steel.
"But—"
"That's what Lucille and Mrs. Stone get paid to do." His eyes glittered in the semi-darkness, and Claire swallowed. "Come to bed."
Why? Because that's what I get paid to do?
Claire was ashamed of the thought, but it hammered at the back of her mind. His hand was not gentle as he tugged her along behind him, up the wide staircase to the second floor, down the long hallway into their private wing, where he shut the double doors that closed off the wing firmly behind him.
He began to undress, his mouth, his entire body set in stern, uncompromising lines.
Silently, Claire removed her earrings, then her other jewelry. As she walked unhurriedly to the dressing area, she unfastened her cummerbund. While she continued undressing, she heard him moving about the bedroom, then the half dozen speakers spread throughout their private wing came alive with sound.
Nick always played music at night. Claire had come to expect it and enjoy it, knowing exactly what his mood was by his selection.
She shivered. Tonight Beethoven's "Fifth Symphony" vibrated through the rooms, its power and strength heightening her tension. Drawing on a teal satin nightgown, she delayed the moment when she'd have to walk out into the bedroom and face him.
But finally she could delay no longer.
Wearing only the bottoms of dark silk pajamas, Nick stood in the middle of the room, legs slightly spread apart, eyes narrowed as they swept her from head to foot.
Breathing faster than she'd have liked, Claire attempted a casual smile. "It was a nice evening, wasn't it?"
"I'm sure
you
enjoyed it," he said tightly.
Claire frowned. "What's that remark supposed to mean?"
One eyebrow lifted. "Don't play dumb, Claire. It doesn't suit you."
Honestly bewildered, she moved toward him, touched his arm. "Please, Nick. Don't play games with me. I really have no earthly idea what you're talking about."
"I'm talking about the way you flirted with Tim tonight, the way you've been leading him on. That's what I'm talking about."
Astonishment and disbelief collided in Claire's mind. Her mouth dropped open. For a moment, she was so stunned, she couldn't think of a single thing to say.
He walked stiffly to the bed, removed his pajama bottoms, letting them slide to the floor, then naked, slipped between the sheets and leaned back against the headboard. Chest taut, eyes darkly gleaming, the music swelling around them, he said, "Take that nightgown off and come here."
Trembling with a combination of anger and fear and the growing realization that he was jealous, jealous of Tim, jealous of Tim's attentions to her, and the bewildering array of emotions that knowledge stirred, Claire did as she was told.
When she joined him in the bed, he moved over her, and just before he took her mouth, he said, "You belong to me, Claire. Don't ever forget that. And I don't share what belongs to me."
Then, with the drums and horns and strings thundering around them, he took the rest of her.
* * *
October came and went, and still Claire wasn't pregnant. She put off going to the doctor. She was afraid the doctor would find something wrong with her, and like an ostrich, she preferred to bury her head in the sand.
But when, just after Thanksgiving, her period rolled around again, she knew she could put off her visit no longer. So she called Dr. Ardale and made an appointment for the following week.
Her relationship with Nick had changed after the night he'd been so angry with her over Tim. He was still considerate, still generous, but the closeness she had felt them beginning to share had disappeared. Once more, he was holding himself back from her, but this time it wasn't in the form of his lovemaking.
No, Claire thought, shivering as she remembered the fiery quality of his lovemaking the past five weeks. Nick was not holding back there. He was fierce and demanding and dominating. He was everything Claire had ever hoped he would be, but all the tenderness was gone.
Claire didn't know how to cope with this new side of him. She wished she could believe he was acting like this because he loved her, but unfortunately, she didn't think love was the reason. She thought he was simply showing her that she was his possession, and that he would always be the one to set the rules. She thought he had really meant what he'd said when he told her she belonged to him, that he didn't share what was his.
In other words, she was bought and paid for.
On some level, Claire understood his feelings, even if it hurt to have him behave this way. On another level, she was confused and unhappy, wondering if this unnatural bargain of theirs would work after all.
If only she could give him a child. Maybe then he could let go of his mistrust. Maybe then he could let himself believe in her. Believe in them. Maybe then he could love her.
* * *
"Mrs. Callahan, there is not one thing wrong with you," Dr. Ardale declared kindly, blue eyes twinkling behind thick glasses. "You are healthy, normal, and fertile, as far as I can tell. All your tests are fine. There's no reason you shouldn't have as many children as you want."
Relief washed over Claire. Thank God, she thought.
"Perhaps you're trying too hard. I've seen the same phenomena in many patients. Once they relax, they conceive. Forget about getting pregnant. That's my best advice."
That night, when she told Nick what the doctor had said, he had a thoughtful look in his eyes. He didn't come up to bed when she did, either. He stayed in his study until very late. Claire knew what time he eventually did come to bed. It was after two. But she pretended to be asleep. It was obvious he didn't want to make love to her.
The next day he told her he had to go to Boston on business. "I'll be back in three or four days. I'll call you."
While he was gone she spent more time with Kitty.
She was a little worried about her mother, who seemed rundown and listless. On the last afternoon before Nick's return, Claire went to the nursing home and found her mother in bed. Her mother hated being in bed, and Claire knew if she were there, she must really be feeling ill. Kitty's face looked flushed and her eyes were glazed.