Catherine stood unnaturally still, her focus riveted on the lake.
She turned and spoke sharply, the next instant shucking sandals, robe, hat and glasses, then running toward the pier. Slim and sleek in a one-piece black swimsuit, she hit the boards at full stride and never slowed down. Stunned, he watched her launch herself from the pier in a flat racing dive and cut through the water with powerful strokes.
And at last he noticed the dock about fifty yards from the pier. The one where two teenage boys were diving and disappearing for long stretches at a time, then surfacing and diving again.
Oh-no-oh-no-oh-no-oh-no.
T
HE LAKE WAS COLD
and foreign—completely unlike her heated lap pool. Time was her enemy. She felt it ticking with each stroke of her arm. Building with the fatigue of her muscles. She kicked harder, faster, and reached the dock.
One boy surfaced, his ragged breath mixed with sobs. Another head bobbed up beside him. “Mark’s gone, Danny. Oh, shit, he’s gone.”
No time to comfort them. No time for fear. She swam around the floating platform, took a deep breath and dove.
Murky, not clear. She shuddered and searched for the boy’s unconscious body. Would he sink straight down or drift? She didn’t know. Her lungs hurt. It was deep, dammit. She used precious energy driving for the bottom. Yuck! Silt and slime and prickly plants. She swept it with her arm and pushed up for the surface, her lungs burning. Panic. A frantic last surge.
Air! So sweet. Yet something the boy didn’t have. She drew in a deep breath and dove.
The current swayed the reeds. There! A shadow—no, a school of small fish. Another sweep of the bottom, and another.
Ouch!
She clutched her finger and kicked to the surface.
Air! Sweeter than before. She glanced at the cut slicing her finger, drew a ragged breath and dove.
Where are you, Mark? You are
not
gone. You are
not
going to die. She swept the bottom three times, converting her fear to anger. If she’d come face-to-face with the shark from
Jaws
just then, she would have drawn first blood. Oh, God, her lungs were on fire. She wasn’t going to make it.
She broke the surface, dragging in great gasping gulps of air. Dizzy, trembling with exhaustion, she cursed the lake, the boy, the fate that Joe believed would prevail. The fate she would
by God
have a hand in forming. She took a deep shuddering breath. And dove.
She was swimming blind now, past the point of focusing. Her ears roared. Her oxygen-deprived body screamed in agony. She hadn’t known you could cry while holding your breath underwater. Poor Mark. He didn’t deserve this. She swept her arm over the lake bottom and bumped something solid… slick…
human.
Groping over the boy’s skin, she clutched a handful of hair and pushed awkwardly off the bottom. So weak. So far away. Reaching inside herself, she tapped a hidden reservoir of strength and kicked desperately toward the surface.
They spewed into fresh air and gasped. No, she gasped. The boy was completely still. A thin red cut on his forehead told its own story. Her strength gave out. She felt him slipping from her arms. She grabbed frantically for a handhold.
“I’ve got him, Catherine. Let go.”
Joe.
She sagged in relief, swallowed water and coughed violently. Through blurry vision, she saw Joe swim to the floating platform and hoist the boy, then himself, up onto it. She heard him ask the two hovering friends if they knew CPR. His curse sent Catherine sidestroking to the platform.
“Help me up,” she said hoarsely.
Strong hands grabbed her wrists and plucked her from the water. The boy lay stretched on his back. He
looked pale. Asleep. Dead. Kneeling down, she gently turned him over and sent up a prayer. When the trickle of water from his mouth stopped, she rolled him face up, tilted back his head and listened for breathing. Nothing, dammit.
She lowered her mouth to his. Two quick breaths, then she walked her fingers down his chest, braced her overlapping hands against cold flesh and pushed for fifteen simulated heartbeats.
“Help’s coming,” she thought she heard Joe say.
She ignored him, her concentration on the boy.
Stop to see his reaction. Breathe into his mouth. Push-push-push-push…The nightmare continued. Worse than before, because the sun was shining, the oxygen was there for his taking. She worked rhythmically, robotically, hearing the sound of quiet crying but unable to waste her precious energy on emotion.
The crying grew louder. A siren wailed in the distance. She worked steadily. Push-push-push-push. Stop to see his reaction. Breathe into his mouth. Push-push-push-push…
You are not going to die.
Stop to see his reaction.
You are going to live.
Breathe into his mouth.
You are going to sit up and wave to Allie.
Push-push-push-push—Oh!
The boy made a gurgling sound. Water erupted from his mouth in a beautiful purging vomit. She turned him gently on his side and let God and nature take over. He retched and gasped and coughed and
breathed,
and suddenly Catherine was sobbing while the others broke into cheers.
Joe’s arms came around her then. Hard and strong and sheltering. She buried her face in his soggy shirt and sobbed harder.
“Shh, Catherine. Honey. He’s going to be all right. You saved his life.” He held her and stroked her hair while the paramedics paddled out to the floating dock and treated the boy, then cleaned and bandaged her finger.
“Does your cut hurt so much?” Joe asked her, looking worried and frustrated when that prompted fresh tears.
He didn’t understand her need to cry, but he let her do it in the safety of his arms. Then he tucked her in a blanket, lifted her into a canoe and held her close while one of the boys paddled them to shore. When her legs wouldn’t support her, he scooped her up, carried her a quarter mile to the parked Bronco and settled her inside. And after he buckled her seat belt, after he told Allie to hop in and Carl to follow in his car, he gently kissed the top of Catherine’s head.
No, he didn’t understand. And because he didn’t— yet comforted her, anyway—nothing would ever be the same.
S
OMETHING HAD CHANGED
.
Joe had ignored it while heating a can of soup in the kitchen of the garage apartment, then sending Allie to the main house with a tray. He’d suppressed it when Carl’s luxury car had remained parked in the driveway until seventeen minutes past nine o’clock and the lights in the distant upstairs windows had blinked off promptly at ten-thirty. He’d even managed to ignore it while hustling Allie into her bedtime
routine and reading the newest
Sports Illustrated
before switching off the lamp.
But now, staring at the ceiling from his sofa bed, he couldn’t hold back the images crowding his mind. They marched forward one by one and demanded to be seen.
Catherine, the snobbish socialite, elbowing into The Pig’s Gut crowd and beating the reigning pool champ.
Catherine, the pompous shrink, recognizing Norman’s pain and starting his healing process.
Catherine, the uptight prude, melting at Joe’s touch with a responsiveness that heated his blood.
Catherine, the hothouse flower, saving a boy’s life with gritty courage and amazing stamina, yet downplaying her role to a television news reporter who was early on the scene.
With each vivid memory another preconception bit the dust. The woman that emerged firm in his mind was an intriguing blend of strength and vulnerability, passion and caution. When she’d cried in his arms earlier today…God. He’d only felt that fiercely protective of one other female. Yet his awareness of Catherine’s sleek body was a long way from fatherly affection.
Of all the stinking luck, he was attracted to a woman who was engaged to marry someone richer, someone handsomer, someone more responsible. Someone else. As Allie would say, it sucked big-time. He knew damn well he would be a better lover for Catherine than Pretty Boy. But a husband? Not in this lifetime.
And there was the answer he’d been searching for, the “something” that had “changed.”
Three weeks ago he would’ve shown Catherine exactly how sexy he thought she was, to hell with what happened later. After all, “later” was just another word for “fate.” But now…
Now he wondered about her future with Carl. The guy was from her world. He could give her everything—including the counseling practice she wanted. And anyone with half a brain could see her talents were wasted doing research.
Suddenly Allie stirred in her sleep on the roll-away bed across the room. Romeo meowed once in protest from his usual sleeping spot at her feet. The tomcat adored Allie and barely tolerated Joe’s presence. The feeling was mutual. Give him a true-blue Fido any day.
A jet shadow leapt from the darkness onto Joe’s bed. Juliet walked daintily up his sheet-covered body to settle Sphinx-like on his chest. She broke into a rumbling purr and began kneading.
“Okay, okay. You’re the exception,” Joe murmured, absently rubbing her ears.
Her purring was hypnotic. On a rising tide of drowsiness, his mind drifted, snagging a sensation here, an image there. Smooth wet skin. Fiery green eyes. Sleek curves in a T-back swim suit.
I picked a helluva time to develop a conscience.
It was his last clear thought before sleep took him under.
C
ATHERINE OPENED
her eyes Sunday morning to bright sunlight and nagging pain. She started to stretch and gasped. When had a Mack truck driven over her bed? It hurt even to squint.
Reaching for her second pillow, she plopped it over her face. Better. No, just darker. She couldn’t breathe. Flinging the pillow to the floor, she waited for her heartbeat to slow. Obviously sore muscles weren’t the only side effects from yesterday’s rescue. She wouldn’t be taking up scuba diving anytime soon.
Despite her physical and mental trauma, she felt oddly content. A little less…hollow than usual.
It was all that attention, of course. A Channel 13 live-action reporter had taped interviews with her and Mark’s teenage friends, who’d called her “awesome.” The story had made the six and ten-o’clock news. The boy’s parents had also phoned last night to thank her profusely. Then Carl had stayed and talked until she’d pleaded exhaustion and gone upstairs.
His parting kiss had been heated and tender. No doubt that was where this warm feeling came from. Probably. Maybe.
Maybe not.
She sat up and met her rueful gaze in the dresser mirror. “All right, Doctor, you’re attracted to Joe. He offered you comfort and you took it. Period. Keep
things professional and you’ll have nothing to be ashamed of.”
Her eyes darkened in memory. Of shaggy wet hair dripping into short thick lashes, muscular arms lifting her with ease, a hard masculine jaw inches away from her lips—No!
Saying the word aloud, she threw back her covers and headed for a hot shower. She’d devoted her entire life to becoming what her mother was not. Well educated. Refined. Restrained. A source of pride to Lawrence Hamilton and the family name. She had no intention of adding “a good time for Joe Tucker” to the list.
These restless stirrings Joe produced were the result of freedom from her father’s critical eye, she assured herself. If she cut herself some slack—within reason—her disturbing dissatisfaction would pass. Of course it would.
Ten minutes later, her sore muscles and conscience eased, she rummaged through her wardrobe. Too dark, too old, too boring—Ah! She smiled and pulled out a sleeveless mock turtleneck in vivid cherry red, pairing it with fitted white shorts and flat white sandals. Another fifteen minutes went toward painting her toenails to match the clinging knit. Her terminally straight black hair was always a problem, but she dragged on a tortoiseshell headband and hoped for the best.
“Mirror, mirror, on the wall,” she murmured, turning for a last look at her reflection.
Not Snow White by any means. But not bad, either. Maybe she’d been wrong to think loose clothing made her look less skinny. The form-fitting turtleneck and shorts revealed what curves she did
have, and even she had to admit her legs weren’t terrible. Daily laps in the pool had really paid off.
She hummed all the way to the kitchen and was pouring a bowl of stale cereal when a knock set her pulse leaping.
Professionalism,
she reminded herself, smoothing her shorts before opening the door wide. Her initial disappointment dissolved into genuine pleasure.
“Hi,” Allie said, her gaze anxious and appealing. She held a foil-wrapped plate in her hands. “How are you feeling?”
“A little sore. But other than that, just fine. Come on in.” Smiling, Catherine stepped aside and caught a whiff of bacon as the girl passed. Her mouth watered. “Is that what I think it is?”
Allie set the plate on the kitchen table and peeled back the foil, exposing scrambled eggs, bacon and toast. “I hope you haven’t eaten yet. I made a huge breakfast—too much for us to finish—so I kept this warm until Joe finally saw you moving around down here. Are you hungry?”
Joe had seen her moving around? He’d watched and
waited
for her to move around?
“Catherine?”
“Hmm? Oh…yes! I’m starving. And that looks ten times better than the cold cereal I was going to have.”
Allie smiled shyly. “You looked so tired last night I didn’t think you’d feel much like cooking this morning. Are you sure you’re okay?”
Catherine realized her own post-rescue behavior must have seemed almost as frightening as the accident itself. “I feel great. Really. Especially with a hot breakfast to dig into. This is one of the nicest things
anyone has ever done for me.” First the soup and now this. “Thank you, honey.”
She opened her arms and Allie stepped into them eagerly. A cup-runneth-over emotion swelled Catherine’s chest, even stronger than the day before. She rested her chin on top of the girl’s silky dark hair and thought,
This is what I’ve been missing in life. This is what I want.
“Joe made the bacon,” Allie confessed, her voice both muffled and sheepish.
Chuckling, Catherine squeezed tight, then pulled back. “Is that a warning?”
“Well, he didn’t burn nearly as many pieces as he usually does, and we ate all of those. We saved the good ones for you.”
In Catherine’s whole life, nobody had ever saved the good pieces for her. The pressure in her chest increased. Blinking rapidly, she turned to gather utensils and pour two glasses of orange juice. When everything was on the table, she motioned for Allie to join her.
“Be sure and thank your dad for me,” Catherine said once they were both seated.
“You can thank him yourself. I mean, I hope you can. Later, at my fund-raising carnival.”
Catherine stopped chewing. Fund-raising carnival?
“My fall softball league has a carnival every summer to raise money. The principal of Washington Elementary has a kid in the league, so we get to use a school building this year, instead of a softball field. I’m working at the Face Painting booth.”
Ah. Catherine swallowed her eggs and smiled. “You paint a pretty mean teddy bear—so your dad told me,” she added at Allie’s curious look.
“Yeah, well, he told
me
I shouldn’t ask you to go with us because you need to rest. But you don’t look tired. And you said you feel fine.” Her big brown eyes pleaded for Catherine to accept the convoluted invitation.
Lord, it would be hard enough to maintain a professional attitude during her regular lessons with Joe. Spending time with him outside the boundaries of necessity would be extremely foolish.
She sighed. “Allie—”
“Hey, no problem. Most of the booths there will be stupid anyway. You know, little-kid stuff. I wouldn’t go, either, if I didn’t have to.” Allie’s quick gulp of orange juice wasn’t quite fast enough to hide the tremble of her bottom lip. She lowered her glass and grew fascinated with the refrigerator.
Catherine put down her fork. “What time should I be ready?”
Allie’s head whipped around. Wary hope lit her eyes. “It’s no big deal. Really. You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”
“Honey, I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than spend the afternoon with you. Really.”
Allie broke into an irrepressible grin. “Cool.”
Catherine hoped so. But considering the heat Joe generated in her lately, she had her doubts.
J
OE PAUSED
beside the Beanbag Toss and checked his watch. Only fifteen minutes left in Allie and Catherine’s shift. He might as well head back to the cafeteria. He started forward just as his internal radar
bleeped.
Hel-lo.
From the strength of the signal, she had to be close…
There. Behind the Lollipop Tree. A redhead on the low side of thirty, he guessed.
“Want some candy, little boy?” she asked, raising her voice above the shrieks, giggles and chatter of a zillion kids. Her blue eyes gleamed with more than mischief.
Apparently the prizes hidden in lollipop wrappers weren’t the only enticements she offered. He looked her over with a practiced eye. Very attractive. Very built. Very willing. A combination sure to warm the interest of any breathing male.
“Sorry, doll. Gotta watch my weight.” He patted his belly for emphasis.
“Mm-mm-mm,” she murmured, all but smacking her lips as she eyed his stomach and every other part of his anatomy. “You look fine to me. Sure there’s nothing here you want?”
He shook his head with false regret. If his smile was a little forced, he didn’t think she noticed.
Just then two little girls ran up to the Lollipop Tree. When the redhead turned to help them, Joe moved into the passing flow of hall traffic and didn’t stop until he turned a corner. Flipping off his Astros cap, he squeezed the bridge of his nose.
He’d just met a centerfold lookalike and been turned off. It didn’t take a nuclear physicist to figure out why. The reason was simple. Dumb-jock simple.
He resettled his cap and swallowed a curse. Maybe if Catherine hadn’t opened her front door earlier wearing those shorts and tight turtleneck…
His traitorous memory conjured up every incredible detail. Perfect palm-size breasts, a waist he could
span with both hands—and Lord have mercy—those legs! He’d seen them yesterday, of course, but crisis and Catherine’s need for comfort had overridden his normal lechery. No such luck today.
He’d damn near stepped on his tongue following those legs out to the Bronco. Long and shapely and alabaster smooth, they were the gams Snow White hid beneath her velvet skirts from horny little dwarfs.
The next couple of weeks were going to be pure hell.
Moving back into the carnival traffic, Joe passed the Cakewalk, Ring Toss and Fishing Pond before regaining a semblance of calm. He’d gotten through worse things in his life than frustrated lust. All he had to do was follow Catherine’s cue and be a perfect gentleman. Then after the party she’d marry her Pretty Boy, he’d pursue his broadcasting career and buxom redheads, and they’d both live happily ever after. Piece of cake.
Feeling a little better, he noted several painted chubby cheeks bobbing past. A butterfly. Two dancing teddy bears. A gruesome puckered scar—he whirled around and glimpsed the back of a tall boy’s head. What the…?
Shrugging, he continued toward the cafeteria, checking out face paintings as he went. A bright rainbow. A cheerful daisy. The name “Laurie” with a smiley face dotting the letter
i.
A hideous wound dripping blood—he reached out and grabbed the passing boy’s arm.
The kid’s hair was buzzed close except for a thatch of three-foot-long ponytail at his nape. One earlobe bristled with metal.
“Who painted your face?” Joe asked.
“Let go’a me, man.”
Joe held the kid’s gaze until his pimply sneer faded.
“The b-babe in the Face Painting booth.”
“Which babe?”
“The older one.”
The older one, huh? Releasing the teenager’s arm, Joe moved off at a fast clip.
Word had spread about the new attraction at the Face Painting booth. The line of customers stretched clear out the cafeteria door. Slouching teen boys shuffled right along next to their younger siblings. Trust Catherine to bring the two natural enemies together.
Pushing his way into the cafeteria, Joe leaned against a back wall where he had a clear view of the artists over the Bake Sale table. Allie was handling the cutesy stuff while Catherine specialized in gross-out. Their techniques were as different as their designs.
Catherine mixed and painted with confidence. Allie’s movements were deliberate, her shoulders hunched and tense. Watching his daughter’s oh-so-careful brush strokes, he felt a familiar constriction in his chest. She was always so damn serious.
It scared him, this need of hers to do things well, to please others. To please him. As if he would love her more, would be what she needed him to be if only she could please him
enough.
Allie’s mother, Vicky, had been like that, too.
Joe stiffened and pushed off from the wall, searching for…he didn’t know what. Allie’s coach maybe. Someone who could take her and Catherine home after the carnival. He made it all the way out the door before what Catherine had told him at the art gallery came back to taunt him.
Running away is easy for you, isn’t it?
He stopped and blew out a breath.
Why dig in your heels and tough it out when you can avoid conflict altogether?
Damn, things had been simpler before he’d met Catherine! Rubbing his neck, he turned around and walked back into the cafeteria.
Allie was painting the finishing touches on a red teddy bear as he approached the rear of the Face Painting booth. Neither she nor Catherine noticed him, since they both sat facing the opposite direction.
His daughter applied a last dab, cocked her head, then tweaked her canvas’s freckled nose. “There you go, Megan. Try not to touch your cheek’ for a few minutes. It’s still a little wet.”
“Can I th’ee it now?” the gap-toothed youngster pleaded.
“Sure you can.” Allie picked up a hand mirror and faced it toward the child. “But whatever you do, don’t smile. Oh, no—too late!” She pointed in mock dismay to the little girl’s right dimple. “See what you did? You gave him a belly button.”
Megan giggled, her dimple giving the painted bear a perfect “innie.” Joe found himself thinking what a wonderful big sister Allie would’ve made if things had been different. Without analyzing why, he turned to Catherine.
He had a good view of the back of her head and her customer’s face. Like the kid he’d grabbed earlier, this boy’s hair was buzzed close except for a single lock of hair—located not at his nape—but just above his forehead. Army-boot knockoffs, strategically
ripped jeans and a black T-shirt completed the nineties’ version of tough-guy chic.
Styles might’ve changed over the years, but one thing hadn’t and never would. The kid’s eyes were groping everything they touched.
“I’m almost finished, Travis,” Catherine said, grasping the teenager’s chin and leaning close to add a dribble of blood down his cheek. “Hold still now. There!” She leaned back and dropped her brush into a jar of water. “I think that’s my best one yet.”
Travis stared at her and blinked. Having experienced that same lobotomy stupor himself, Joe figured Catherine must be smiling.
She began cleaning her brush for the next customer. “Thanks for donating to the fund. And be sure to tell your friends to stop by our booth.”