A Woman's Choice Read online

  "A simple thank-you for the coffee would be a start."

  "Thank you." Still she was tense, waiting to see what he would say next.

  "Do you feel better?" His voice was etched with concern as he studied the muted circles under her eyes.

  "Yes. Thank you, again."

  "You're welcome." He smiled and his entire face lit up with a warm teasing that forced a melting of something deep inside her. She watched his expression, mesmerized. Her first thought didn't please her: he must have women crawling all over him with that sensuous, little-boy smile.

  "Are you hungry?" she finally asked, clearing her throat. "I can make breakfast."

  He shook his head, obviously reluctant. "No, thanks. I'm already late for the office." He hesitated before continuing, "Is there anything I can do for you before I go?"

  Her coffee mug hit the table with a bang, her blue eyes suddenly shooting sparks at him. So much for prayers. "You mean like taking me to bed and relieving my 'frustrations'? Or helping me sleep? No, thanks!" She stood, hands on hips, breasts thrust out, as she breathed in shallow gulps of air. She had known it was coming. She had known! "And now I think it's time I said goodbye."

  "Wait a minute!" Sam practically shouted, shock at her words turning his eyes almost black. "What the hell do you think I am? A sex maniac? All I asked was a simple question and you go all huffy! What on earth is the matter with you?"

  "I know your type, Mr. Lewis." Her voice was filled with derision. "You think that just because you caught me at a low point you can climb in bed with me and I'll be eternally grateful for your attention. I'm supposed to be something of a 'nympho,' aren't I? Someone who has to go to bed with a man at least three times a day or I lose my equilibrium, to say nothing of my sanity. At least that's what the papers think. Why should you or any of your sex think any different?"

  "You're crazy, you know that?" he exclaimed, frustration showing by his hand combing his hair in irritation. "If I had wanted to make love to you, do you think I would have held you all night and not done anything?"

  "But you did!" she cried, then bit her lip.

  "What did I do?" He looked genuinely surprised and puzzled.

  "I woke up earlier and you were, you were holding…" She stopped, unable to tell him without looking like a fool.

  "Your breast?" he finished, trying not to let a smile dimple his cheeks. He remembered waking to find his hand there, too. She had been so soft and warm and cuddly… "If it was so repugnant, why didn't you remove my hand?"

  "Because you were asleep and I didn't want to waken you." Her defense was poor and she knew it. So did he.

  "That makes a great deal of sense," he answered dryly before turning to stare out the window, a deep frown marring his brow.

  Catherine waited a minute, then decided to ask the question that had bothered her all night. "Where do you live?"

  "Why?" He kept his back to her, taking a gulp from his mug.

  "I just wondered. You were here so quickly that you must live somewhere here in the canyons." She tried to keep her voice as indifferent as his was.

  "I was visiting my partner and her husband. They live about five miles from here. Before I left, I decided to give you a call and make sure that everything was all right."

  "I see."

  "By the way." He finally turned to face her, but she couldn't see his expression. The light shone into the room, making him a silhouette. "I threw away that mace. You sprayed a mouse with it. It died in the pantry. If it had been a man, you'd be in trouble. He'd have killed you."

  "But you told me to protect myself."

  "That was before I knew you were trigger-happy," he said grimly.

  "Oh, great. Now I get to stay in this house alone and wonder who's going to come steal me blind the next time! I have no mace, don't know the neighbors and have no attorney. Just great!" She stared up at the ceiling, willing away the tears her anger had brought forth.

  "Did you get hold of Leo?"

  "Not yet. His secretary said he was out of the office for the rest of the day."

  Sam recalled Leo's latest attraction, a tall willowy redhead with her eye on his ring finger. She knew all the right games to play with a man like his friend.

  "What about your agent? Can't he help you?"

  "Oh, yes. He found this place for me so I could recuperate in solitude. He told me the same thing you did: I'd do just fine, and no self-respecting burglar would return to the scene of the crime. He didn't know why he felt so sure, but being a man, he's as pigheaded as you are, I suppose."

  Silence filled the room as they each stared at the other, neither willing to disclose the more intimate but strained feelings that seemed to permeate the air.

  "What are you doing tonight?" Sam finally asked, as he placed his half-empty mug on the table beside hers.

  "Nothing."

  "Will you have dinner with me?"

  "Am I to be your latest charity case?"

  "No. Am I yours?"

  "No."

  "I won't ask again," Sam finally said in the silence.

  "I'll fix dinner here."

  "I was asking so you could get out of the house for a while." Again a boyish smile changed his face, and she slowly relaxed.

  "Getting out is something I always have to do. Cooking at home relaxes me. Will you join me?"

  "Yes, I'd like that."

  "About seven?" Her voice became throaty, her smile lit up her eyes. Now she had something to look forward to.

  "About seven," he said, nodding his head in agreement. Suddenly, instead of looking like a sexy kitten, Catherine reminded him of a small, vulnerable child who was so sadly afraid of believing in good things like Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny… His smile slowly matched hers and both stood grinning at each other.

  Reluctantly, Sam moved toward the door, reaching for his coat on the back of the chair as he did so. "See you then."

  "Till then," she answered, not wanting him to leave her to the emptiness of the house. She badly wanted to continue talking to him.

  A minute later he was gone.

  Catherine stared out the window, deep in thought. She was crazy to continue this tentative relationship with a man she barely knew. She was especially crazy to invite him to dinner after practically spending the night with him. Would he expect more from her? She didn't know, but she'd have to cross that bridge when she came to it. All she really wanted was to recoup some of her lost energy and enjoy a little company… sans the sexual play that usually accompanied her relationships with men. It was at their instigation but she had learned the game well; she just picked up her marbles and left when the playing words became serious actions. No affairs for Catherine. She'd had one, which had broken her heart, and that was all she'd needed for a lifetime. Besides, Sam Lewis had not made one overt move toward her. Perhaps she had found a man who knew the meaning of friend…and knew that it wasn't automatically synonymous with lover.

  A smile lifted her lips as she turned her thoughts to the day ahead. She had to plan a menu, do some grocery shopping and get ready for an evening of entertainment. She loved cooking, although she never had the time—or the kitchen—to do it properly very often. For the first time in a very long time, she had something besides work to look forward to.

  "That was delicious." Sam sighed as he leaned back in the upholstered chair and patted his trim stomach. "Where did you learn to cook like that?"

  "In New Orleans," she said with a smile, pronouncing the name as the natives did, almost all one word with a drawl in the center.

  "Is that where you're from?" he asked a little too casually.

  "Originally." She played with the remains of her New Orleans fish stew, wondering if he had noticed there was no wine with the meal. She decided not to ask. "Would you like coffee now?"

  "Please," he said, watching her every move as she stood and gathered their plates, then turned toward the kitchen. She was wearing a silky, teal blue jump suit reminiscent of the forties. The pants were gat
hered into delicate pleats at the waist, and the sweetheart neckline was emphasized by tiny shoulder pads. She looked like a small, very fragile doll. His eyes drifted once more to her hips, so slim but so feminine.

  "Thank you," she said smiling as she turned and caught his look.

  "For what?"

  "For not telling me what a great figure I have. For not making suggestive remarks. For admiring my outfit without fawning." And she disappeared into the kitchen.

  Sam sat with a smile on his face. He hadn't not given a compliment intentionally. He had just been afraid of her reaction to anything he might say. But the fact was that she was very, very female. Being male meant that he was bound to observe, whether he commented on it or not.

  When she walked in with the coffee, he was still smiling.

  "You look like a satisfied cat," she said, chuckling.

  "I feel like one. If you had a rag rug in front of a fire, I'd be curled up on it."

  She chuckled again, a deep throaty sound that played on his nerves. He could feel his stomach muscles tense deliciously. He liked the sound. In fact, he could probably get addicted to it…

  "Tell me about yourself," he finally said, reaching for the steaming cup and stirring a teaspoon of sugar in it.

  Suddenly her expression was closed, guarded. "What do you want to know? What's it like to be famous? Not very good. How did a nice girl like me get to the top of the business? The way everyone else does—I worked hard and clawed first. How many men are in my life? None of your business. Am I really as loose moraled as the newspapers write? Again, none of your business." Her voice was bitter, the sound cutting. Her eyes sparkled like blue steel.

  Sam's spoon continued stirring the sugar slowly into his coffee. His eyes were on her, not changing expression. "No, I mean what were you like as a child. What were your favorite subjects in school? Were you skinny or fat as a teenager? What do you think of the Los Angeles Dodgers?" He placed his spoon with studied casualness on his saucer. "I wasn't interviewing, just making conversation."

  Catherine's face turned a dull shade of pink. She couldn't keep her eyes focused on him. She glanced down at her hands, knotted on the table, then tilted her delightfully determined chin in the air and gave him the same steady stare he was giving her. "I'm sorry. I didn't understand."

  "Apparently." His tone was dry. So was his throat, and it had nothing to do with her words.

  Her eyes widened, catching his look and smiling in return. His eyes crinkled and laugh lines appeared around his beautifully soft brown eyes. She leaned back, suddenly more relaxed than she had been all week, all year. All her adult life.

  "I was short and skinny. Everyone always thought I would be a midget. I surprised them all when I reached my full height of five foot two and a half inches."

  His brows rose as if incredulous. "Five two and a half!" he repeated as if awed.

  "That half may not mean much to you, but it was accomplished the hard way, by stretching a lot," she said indignantly, but her eyes gave her away. They were laughing.

  "And what were your favorite subjects in school?"

  "No fair. You answer first," she said quickly, crossing her arms on the table and leaning forward as if she couldn't wait for his revelations. The action caused her breasts to be pushed upward and he could see the deep fold of her cleavage. Her skin was silky, almost velvet looking. Her breasts were soft, yet he knew they were firm to the touch…

  He leaned back again, taking a sip of his coffee. Was it a pose she struck often, to flatter the male ego or was it natural? With anyone else he would have said that it was posed, but he wasn't sure with Catherine. She had been sending mixed messages ever since he had met her. She turned him on, then brushed him off.

  "Well," he began, acting as if he were giving it much thought. "My favorite class was biology because Mary Lou Hanson was my partner and I could make her squeal when we dissected animals."

  "And you liked to make her squeal?"

  "No, I liked her to think I was macho, even though I had to swallow a lot to keep down my breakfast."

  Catherine chuckled, a deep throaty sound that rasped against Sam's already jangled nerves.

  "I didn't have any favorite subjects," she said with a smile, only the smile suddenly didn't seem to mean anything. It was empty and Sam could sense it.

  "Not even one?"

  She shook her head, her blond hair moving like molten gold as it touched her throat and shoulders.

  "What school did you graduate from?" Sam's voice was soft, his eyes showing that he had guessed she'd had a difficult time at school and felt sorry for her.

  Sorry! The blueness of her eyes almost turned black in anger. No one felt sorry for Catherine Sinclair! No one! "None of your damn business!"

  As if she hadn't spoken, Sam calmly gave a rundown on his life. "I ran away from home when I was sixteen. At eighteen I joined the Marines. I took a GED test and earned my high-school diploma shortly after that, then began taking college courses in the service. By the time I left the service, at the grand old age of twenty-six, I had finished college. Then, after kicking around several years, I entered law school on the G.I. bill. It took me six years to complete it. Four of those six years I was lucky enough to work in April's office. After I graduated, I became her partner." His voice had been calm as he spoke, as if she had not been rude, screaming at him. "I was lucky."

  Her eyes were wide, her lips vulnerable and parted. "Why are you telling me this?" she whispered.

  "Because I'm proud of the fact that I had such an awful beginning and still made it," he answered. "Aren't you?"

  "Proud of you?" Her lips twisted in derision. This was a new approach. Now she was supposed to be bowled over by his hard life.

  "No." His voice was soft. He smiled. "Proud of you."

  Her features froze. Her hands clasped her cup rigidly. "I think it's time I went to bed, Mr. Lewis. Last night was the first night I've had any sleep. I think I could use more."

  Without another word, Sam stood. She followed him out of the dining room and to the front door, her heels clicking on the parquet floor.

  He turned, his expression one of amusement with a playful animal he didn't have the time to train. "Well, I hate to eat and run, but I'm being punished for my wayward ways. It was a wonderful dinner, Catherine. Thank you for inviting me."

  "And thank you for staying with me last night. And for disposing of the mouse," she said stiltedly, obviously not accustomed to the proprieties.

  "You're welcome."

  Before she could move out of his way, Sam lowered his head and brushed his lips against hers in a searingly intimate fashion. Electricity filled the hallway, igniting something-deep down in the pit of Catherine's stomach, and almost forced her to raise her hands to his shoulders to keep herself from falling. It frightened her. She jerked back, her eyes wide with disbelief at the reaction his touch had created.

  Sam took a deep breath as if to say something, then changed his mind. "Goodbye, Catherine. I hope you sleep well."

  But it took a long time for Catherine to fall asleep that night. She fiddled around in the kitchen, cleaned up the dinner dishes, then prepared a coffee cake for breakfast in the morning. By the time she was finished and locked up, it was past twelve.

  The bathroom boasted one of the largest tubs she had ever seen. It also had the option of being used as a whirlpool. Knowing that it was another stall tactic to keep her from both the lonely bed and the old memories that always flooded her dreams, she used it anyway.

  By one-thirty she was in bed, staring at the polished brass fan attached to the ceiling. First she was hot, then cold, then hot again. Her mind was in a turmoil.

  How could she react so strongly to a kiss from a man she barely knew and had nothing in common with? She refused to admit their pasts were similar: that did not make a bond in the world of tomorrows, only in the memories of yesterday. And they weren't even shared memories. She hadn't told him anything about herself that he couldn't have
read in the newspapers. She had never told anyone, including Noah. What good would it have done? Noah would have probably hated her all the more for the person she really was, underneath all the looks and glamour. No. No one would ever know about her private past. It was better to be thought loose and immoral than it was to have the public know the truth. Hate she felt comfortable with, but pity was an emotion she couldn't handle.

  When she finally closed her eyes, the sunrise was just peeking through the window to stain the room with a soft blur of light.

  Her last thoughts were of Sam Lewis and the feeling of safety she had experienced in his arms. She might not like his prying, but she craved once more that feeling of total security…

  Sam reached his duplex in record time. The first thing he did was open a bottle of Scotch and pour himself a stiff drink, no ice, no water. The second thing he did was gulp it down, then pour himself another.

  His heartbeat finally slowed to a somewhat regular rate, and his head stopped throbbing.

  He plopped on his custom-built, extra-long couch, careful not to spill the liquor in his glass. He sloughed off his shoes and wiggled his toes, focusing his eyes on the hole that conspicuously showed his big toe. He grinned.

  Big-time attorney with his own practice and money to burn. And here he sits with a hole in his sock. If he hadn't been so damn tight most of his life, he would probably be able to throw them out with ease and buy another pair. But his Scottish ancestry called to him, telling him a needle and thread would cost less and last longer. He reminded himself to put the socks aside in the morning so that he could take care of it.

  He took another sip of his drink and leaned his head back, closing his eyes. Immediately and unbidden was the vision of Catherine Sinclair as she had sat across the table from him. Her eyes a wide soft blue, her smile relaxed and utterly charming. It was the first time he had glimpsed the real her without her being tense and poised, as if on stage. She was beautiful, there was no doubt of that, but she was also a secret code that he couldn't seem to break. What made her tick? Why, when the world had one picture of her, did he have another? And his was the antithesis of everyone else's. Was his the distortion and everyone else's correct? He had always been a good judge of character until now.